Sol jogged back into the square, the heavy water skins sloshing rhythmically against his back. His chest was heaving with legitimate exertion this time, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. He was damp, disheveled, and smelled faintly of river mud... a deliberate choice he’d made to mask the musk of sex and sweat clinging to his skin.
"Water!" he announced, dropping the skins next to the pot with a heavy, wet thud. "Fresh from the stream."
Veyra looked up from the mountain of bones she was sorting. She was covered in grease and blood, her hair sticking up in angry spikes. She eyed his wet tunic and the mud streaked across his cheek.
"Took you long enough," she muttered, her eyes narrowing with a razor-sharp suspicion. "You look like you wrestled the river spirit. And why are you wet? Did you fall in?"
"Slippery bank," Sol lied smoothly, grabbing the ladle from a tired-looking Liora. "Mud everywhere. Had to wash off. Don’t worry about it."
Veyra opened her mouth to press him... she knew him, looking at his blissful body, she knew something was suspicious, but she couldn’t point it out, and she could smell secrets on him... but she was cut off by a demanding shout from the front of the line.
"More soup! The bowl is empty!"
"We don’t have time for your clumsiness," Veyra grunted, deciding profit was more important than interrogation. "Just serve. My arms are falling off."
Sol nodded brightly and stepped back into the line, his rhythm returning instantly. Scoop. Pour. Charm.
His family nodded and didn’t suspect anything more. The chaos of crowd was the perfect cover.
But what Sol didn’t know... what his senses had missed in his haste to return... was that the shadows had eyes.
Far back, hidden behind the drying racks at the edge of the square, a figure watched. A pair of sharp, calculating eyes had followed Sol to the stream. They had seen him wait. They had seen Nia emerge from the grass, trembling and desperate. They had seen the two of them vanish into the shadows of the palisade, and they had seen the disheveled, satisfied state in which they returned.
The figure smirked, a knowing expression twisting his lips. He slipped away into the crowd, carrying a secret that was worth more than any bowl of soup.
Oblivious to the sword hanging over his head, Sol threw himself back into the grind.
The stall was booming. It wasn’t just gatherers and old women anymore; the smell had lured in the predators.
Proud hunters, men who usually wouldn’t deign to speak to a waste, were now standing. And being overly proud, thinking themselves above others, they didn’t bring trash; they brought decent cuts... flank steaks, thick ribs, slabs of fat... trading them for the spicy, savory broth that warmed their bellies like nothing else.
Sol served them with a smile, his ears wide open. The square was the heartbeat of the tribe, and today, the blood was pumping with gossip. He poured and listened, filtering the noise for useful intel.
"Team Two is due back in a few days," a scar-faced hunter murmured to his companion between loud slurps. "They say the ambush went long. Tracking a herd of Iron-Hides."
"At least they’re coming back," the companion grunted. "Team Three is the one living like kings. That massive carcass that arrived on the day of the celebration? The one that fed the whole tribe? That was Torak’s kill. Spear right through the eye."
Sol’s ladle paused for a fraction of a second.
Torak.
Vurok’s older brother. The Captain of the Third Hunting Team.
Sol searched his predecessor’s chaotic memories. He realized that the tribe had three elite hunting teams. They operated differently from the miscellaneous daily hunting parties who just hunted nearby; they went out for weeks at a time, deep into the wilderness, tracking apex predators. That was why he rarely saw them. They truly lived on the edge of the blade.
And Torak was one of the top dogs.
An elite hunter, the massive carcass that had arrived on the day Sol woke up... the one that started the celebration... was Torak’s trophy.
"He’s in the Council Hut now," the hunter continued, wiping chili oil from his beard. "Discussing some things with the Chief. They say he might be named Head Hunter soon if he keeps bringing in beasts like that."
Sol filed the information away, his mind racing.
This was bad and good.
Bad: Vurok’s protector was his brother and it seems like he is close with the chief too. If Vurok went crying to him, Torak could crush Sol with a single command.
Good: Torak was ambitious. He was busy with politics and glory. He wouldn’t care about a squabble between his little brother and a soup merchant unless it threatened his reputation. Vurok hadn’t struck yet because Torak had ordered him to lay low to avoid tarnishing the family name during his victory lap.
"So the big brother is the hero of the hour," Sol thought, pouring soup for a warrior. "High status. High pride. Harder to break, but..."
He looked at the hunter drinking the soup with an expression of pure bliss.
I need more leverage, more strength, Sol decided. Can’t leave my fate on the whims or mercy of others.
He continued selling, his mind churning with plans, occasionally dealing with troublesome cheapskates who tried to trade pebbles or dry leaves for soup. He shut them down with a merchant’s ruthless efficiency.
Suddenly, the crowd parted. A hush fell over the front of the line, like ripples smoothing out on a pond.
A young, sturdy man stepped forward.
He didn’t look like the other hunters. His gear was polished, his furs were high quality and dyed a deep crimson, and he carried a spear tipped not with stone, but with polished white bone.... the mark of the Chief’s personal guard.
And if he remembers correctly he was called Rovan.
The people looked at him with reverence and fear, stepping back to give him space. He was one of the elite, the hand of authority.
He stopped in front of the stone table, looking down at Sol with arrogant boredom. He didn’t offer a scrap or bone. He reached into a pouch at his waist and threw a slab of meat onto the table.
It was a prime cut of meat, dark red, fresh, and marbled with white fat. It was worth at least double or even triple bowls of soup.
"Pour this thing called ’soup’," the guard commanded, his voice flat and monotone. "Let’s see what the noise is all about."