"Hey... Do you think they brought anything back this time?"
"How the heck would I know? I’ve been right here with you!"
"Did you see them? Over by the ridge... look, look!"
"Are they carrying anything?"
"Hard to tell, they’re too far."
"Maybe they caught something this time."
"Or maybe they didn’t...what if they didn’t again?"
"Don’t say that, hush!"
"But... last time they came back empty, remember?"
"Shh, keep your voice down."
"Let’s just hope all the hunters are back this time .... hope that the spirits were kind."
Well, that was the conversation he had heard all along the way...snippets tumbling over each other, carried on quick steps and hurried breaths. Some voices were sharp with worry, whispering about whether they’d make it back whole.
Others were bright, almost giddy, imagining meat roasting, fires burning stronger. A few were anxious, words tripping over themselves, afraid of silence, afraid of disappointment.
The hunters were finally coming back, but unlike other people he wasn’t as much excited.
Anyways, the whole air smelled of dust, sweat, and excitement. Everyone seemed to carry that restless spark in their eyes... hope, hunger, relief. For most of them, this wasn’t just about welcoming people home; this was survival returning through the gates. Food. Proof they’d live a little longer.
By the time he reached the square before the wooden gate, the crowd was thick. People were packed together shoulder-to-shoulder, craning their necks, standing on stones, tiptoeing just to get a glimpse of what was coming.
Some of them even climbed on small rocks or logs to get a better view. There was this raw, primitive kind of joy that rippled through the people, loud and real. You could tell that in this world, nothing was guaranteed... so every small victory, every returning hunter, felt like a damn miracle.
The gates were still shut, but even then it made everyone restless.
He squeezed through, half annoyed, half curious. Faces all around him glowed with excitement. The hunter’s wives whispering near the front, the kids bouncing, elders mumbling prayers under their breath.
And, yeah, he couldn’t help but get caught up in it too.
He smiled faintly, trying to blend in, when suddenly a discordant voice stabbed through the noise.
"Well, well... look who’s out of his hole."
The words slid into his ear like sandpaper. It was sharp, mocking, and too damn familiar.
Sol’s neck twitched, his good mood immediately souring. He turned his head slowly, already annoyed and knowing it wasn’t going to be anything good.
A small group of teenagers stood off to the side...muscular, shirtless, cocky little bastards, all trying too hard to look tough. You could tell right away they weren’t happy to see him.
Their expressions were a mess... some sneering, some smirking, but the same thread ran through all of them: jealousy. And something else. Like they’d just seen a ghost crawl out of the dirt.
And right in the center stood the biggest asshole of them all.
Vurok.
Broad-shouldered, a bit muscular than others with a smug look on his face, with that permanent "my brother’s a hunter so I can act like a king" face.
He stared back, frowning. His body tensed, not out of fear, but old irritation bubbling up from memories that weren’t fully his but still burned like they were.
The one in the center stepped forward ... up close, he was tall, had a sharp chin and eyes like a lizard. Vurok. Yeah.
The name slid into his head from those half-digested memories of the previous Sol.
And with the name came the dirt in his mouth again, the shove in the dirt, laughter ringing in his ears.
The stolen food, not eaten, but ground into the dirt under Vurok’s heel, just to watch him starve.
The bruises that weren’t his, but still throbbed in his bones.
The sneer across his face when he said: "Even your dead parents knew you were useless. That’s why they’re gone...they couldn’t stand you."
The laughter when he stumbled, the deliberate trip, the crowd watching and doing nothing, just because Vurok’s brother was a hunter, and that made him untouchable.
Each memory jagged, incomplete, but sharp enough to sting. And now, standing here, they all came clawing back as if the humiliation had been carved into his own skin...mockery, hunger, grief desecrated.... so much that, Vurok’s grin wasn’t just a face in front of him, but the embodiment of every cruelty he’d ever endured.
Unaware of all of this...
"Well," Vurok said with that little shit-eating grin of his, "the cripple’s walking again. Guess the gods aren’t picky about who they save, huh?"
He made a clawing gesture with his hand, mimicking a beast’s swipe.
His little gang laughed, loud and stupid, like it was the funniest thing ever said.
But he didn’t say anything and just stared in silence, with his jaws clenched together, lips pressed tight, and eyes flat devoid of any emotion, so as to not give him any satisfaction.
That kind of silence that isn’t obviously weak... but the kind that makes people shift uncomfortably without knowing why.
Vurok frowned. "What? Nothing to say?" Vurok pressed, grin twitching a bit now. "Or did you lose your tongue along with your balls?"
That got an even louder laugh.
The laughter went on, awkward and forced, but Sol still didn’t flinch. He tilted his head, cracked his neck slightly, remembering his and his aunt’s situation, exhaled and finally said, in a low, almost bored voice...
"You done talking, or do you need a script next time?"
Vurok’s smirk twitched and the laughter behind him faltered.
As always a few of the nearby tribesmen glanced over, whispers starting to ripple, before turning away.
Vurok took a step forward, eyes narrowing. "Careful, cripple. Your tongue might work again, but your luck’s still shit."
"Yeah?" Sol tilted his head, still smiling. "So is your face. Guess the gods are fair after all."
The words hit harder than any punch could, because he had always been insecure due to his face, and the reason he detested Sol so much aside from other deeper reasons was because of his handsome face.
For a second, the world seemed to hold its breath. The nearby chatter quieted just enough for people to notice the shift in air... that sudden tension, the kind that makes you stop mid-sentence because they knew someone’s about to get wrecked again.
Vurok’s face twisted, all color draining before fury rushed back in. He was already angry enough that this fucking bastard dared to talk back to him, but hearing this, his jaw tightened, his knuckles cracked, and that thin thread of restraint snapped clean in half.
And without caring about the crowd, he lunged forward with a snarl.
"—!"
His fist tore through the air, fast and ugly. The crowd gasped... half in shock, half in sick excitement... but before the punch could land, Sol was already moving. He’d seen that motion before, not just once, but a dozen times in the fragmented memories left behind by the body’s previous owner. That same wild swing, that same dumb arrogance. His predecessor may have been scared, but he wasn’t, and he was ready this time.
He shifted, knees bending, body leaning just enough... the punch missed by a hair.
And then—