He frowned just thinking about it. The nights here weren’t peaceful. They were fucking alive... crawling, howling, hunting. The idea of Lyra walking out in that darkness, jar in hand, surrounded by who-knows-what... yeah, it didn’t sit right with him.
So, now that he could walk around calmly again, he decided to fetch water first.
He headed toward the back of the hut, stretching a little as he went. The morning air slapped him awake... cool and damp, with that earthy, heavy smell of wet soil and ash. The ground outside was uneven, a patchwork of trampled dirt, scattered bones, and drying herbs hanging from sticks.
A few clay jars sat stacked near the wall, lined up neatly under a bit of shade. His eyes landed on the smallest one.
It was old, chipped at the rim, handle half-cracked, but still good enough for water.
He crouched, grabbed it by the neck, and lifted... expecting it to weigh like a small planet
But... no, it was light, a bit too light for his good.
The jar came up smooth, almost light. He blinked, surprised.
The thing barely felt like anything.
"Huh," he muttered. "Either I’m on steroids, or this jar’s on a diet."
He tested again, bouncing it lightly in his hand. Nope. Still light.
He grinned, shaking his head. "Either I got jacked overnight, or the laws of physics are screwed, maybe gravity is on leave today."
He didn’t delve on it longer, anyways, no use trying to understand stuff like this for now, there’s plenty of time to explore later.
He slung the jar under his arm and stepped out.
The path to the river was carved into his memory...the old Sol’s memory. His feet moved on their own, tracing the same dirt trail through the uneven grass.
He took one last glance back at the hut...simple, small, held together by mud, straw, and effort... and stepped out toward the trail that led down to the river.
Their house sat near the edge of the village or settlement whatever it is. Not the "pretty" center area where the chief’s family and hunters lived, but closer to the outskirts... the side where the huts leaned a little more, the roofs were patched too many times, and the firelight from the village didn’t quite reach at night.
That’s what poverty looked like here. You lived close enough to count as part of the tribe, but far enough that if something came crawling out of the dark, you’d be the first to go missing.
He kicked a rock absently as he walked, muttering, "Perfect spot for the weak ones, huh? Poor and expendable, front-row seats for extinction."
He sighed, then smirked a little. "Guess that’s me now."
Still, part of him didn’t mind it. The edge of the village meant more peace, fewer eyes watching. He could move, think, plan without being under someone’s thumb.
He slowed down as he walked, seeing the surroundings properly for the first time.
The road wasn’t really a road. Just flattened earth, packed by countless bare feet. Huts of straw, wood, and bone lined either side.
The path stretched out ahead of him... a rough, beaten trail of dry earth, packed hard by countless bare feet. Every few steps, he saw faint prints in the dirt... human, animal, both.
It wasn’t a huge village, not compared to what he was used to, but it stretched wider than it looked from the hut.
Their home sat near the outer ring... "the poor people zone," if he had to name it. Houses here were simpler, smaller, built from woven reeds and mud instead of proper wooden beams. You could tell who had power by how much smoke rose from their roof.
Every few huts, he’d see someone... mostly women grinding something in stone bowls, or men squatting, scraping animal hides with sharpened bone tools. Kids ran around half-naked, kicking a round lump of stitched hide that barely counted as a ball.
Primitive, yeah, but not dirty like documentaries made it look. The air was clean, crisp, rich with smoke and wildflowers. People weren’t filthy either... their skin glowed from sun and oil, their clothes rough but clearly washed.
He realized how lazy modern humans had become. Out here, everything was done by hand, and everyone actually moved.
He passed by a few older men squatting by a fire pit, roasting something that smelled halfway between fish and snake. They nodded at him, murmuring softly in greeting.
He nodded back.
A few women by the huts smiled faintly, whispering to each other.
He caught bits of it —
"Lyra’s boy?"
"Didn’t he almost die?"
"Spirit must favor him..."
He pretended not to hear, just kept walking, muttering something like "morning" that probably didn’t exist in their language.
He passed a group of older men squatting near a fire, roasting something long and shiny... a fish, or maybe a lizard. One of them looked up and grinned, toothless. "Alive after all, huh?"
"Barely," Sol replied, giving a tired salute. The man laughed, shaking his head.
The further he walked, the more the huts thinned out until trees began to replace walls. The path curved downward, eventually opening into a clearing following the sound of rushing water.
And then finally the river,
By the time he reached the river, his jar arm was starting to ache a little. The path dipped down into a wide clearing where sunlight spilled across the water. The river was clear...shockingly clear...like liquid glass, weaving between smooth stones.
Wide, calm, clear enough to see the pebbles glittering at the bottom. Sunlight bounced off the surface in ripples. Birds circled overhead, crying out in high, clean notes. The smell of fresh water impact his senses.
He just stood there for a moment, watching.
As It washed over him all at once...the smell of water and wet soil, the coolness on his skin, and the shimmer of sunlight on the water surface.
The air here was cooler, wetter. A few birds called out somewhere upstream. On the upper bank, people filled jars and pots. On the lower, women scrubbed clothes, laughing between splashes. Children splashed and laughed in the shallows, their laughter echoing.