I wake to silence so thick it feels like drowning.

My eyelids drag open only halfway before pain flashes behind them. Something gritty seals the lashes together-tears dried to salt, or maybe the remnants of that golden paste they smeared across my skin while I couldn't move or speak.

Every muscle aches. My thighs burn. There's a soreness deep inside me that makes me want to curl into myself and vanish.

But I keep still.

Stillness is safe. Stillness is information.

Only the fire makes sound-a low, steady crackle like bones settling under earth.

I'm lying on something soft-furs, I realize, as my fingers curl into them. Thick layered pelts, warm and slightly greasy, smelling of smoke, musk, and damp earth. The air is cooler than in the cavern, less suffocating, but still heavy with scents I don't recognize. Resin. Dried herbs. Old ash.

I force my eyes open.

Above me stretches a canopy of dark, weathered fabric, its surface stained from years of smoke. Firelight flickers against it, making the woven fibers shift and ripple like something alive. Wooden poles pierce upward at angles, holding the structure in a tight, rounded shape.

I turn my head carefully, letting the room come into focus.

It's small and circular, more like a ritual shelter than a bedroom. The inner walls are lined with hides and strips of fabric, many painted with spiraling symbols that loop around the tent's circumference. Some of the markings glisten faintly, as if painted with tar or resin that hasn't fully dried. Others are fresh, their edges too sharp, too deliberate.

A fire burns in a shallow pit near the center, ringed with blackened stones.

Beside it sits a slab of wood serving as a table. On it rest clay bowls whose surfaces are rough as bark, woven bundles of herbs bound by sinew, and charms fashioned from knucklebones and teeth. They clack softly whenever the wind nudges the tent walls.

There's an opening opposite the fire, covered by a curtain of thick woven fabric. It stirs with every faint current of air.

I push myself up too fast.

Pain knifes through my abdomen, sharp enough to steal my breath. My hands fly to my stomach. There's no wound there-nothing visible-just deep, bruised ache.

What they did to me??

My breathing turns shallow. The golden sheen is still there, paler now, like a stain fading but refusing to leave. It clings along my arms, across my chest, pooling in the hollows of my hips. I'm still naked except for a narrow strip of cloth draped over my lap. Some kind of modesty cloth, maybe. It covers almost nothing.

I pull it tighter anyway, fingers shaking.

The curtain rustles.

I freeze.

A woman steps through.

She's older than my mother, maybe fifty-sixty her age carried in the fine lines around her mouth and the pale scars along her forearms. Her skin is a deep sun-browned shade, her hair a thick braid streaked with iron gray that hangs over one shoulder. She wears a simple rust-colored tunic cinched with a leather belt. Her feet are bare, callused, steady on the cold stone.

She doesn't look at me at first. She crosses to the low table and sets down a wooden tray. The smell hits me before I see the food-something roasted and savory, a hint of sweetness, steam curling in the air. My stomach clenches traitorously.

She speaks.

The sounds are wrong-hard consonants, flowing vowels, a rhythm that shouldn't mean anything. But it does.

"You must eat," she says-or that's what lands in my mind, whole and clear. "Your body is fragile, you have slept two days."

Two. Days.

My tongue feels thick. My mouth opens, but no words come.

She turns at last. Her eyes are dark red and steady. Not kind. Not cruel. Just weighing me the way someone might study a storm cloud, estimating when it will break.

"You must take food," she repeats more slowly. "If you collapse, I must answer for it."

Her words settle over me like dust-soft, inevitable.

I wet my lips. "Where am I?" I manage, though my voice is barely sound at all. But the words that leave my mouth are not English.

My heart stumbles.

The syllables that leave my mouth are not English. They're the same strange language she's using, tumbling out smooth and sure.

Her brows lift a fraction. "You shape our tongue well," she murmurs. "The bond runs strong in you."

Panic pricks the back of my eyes. "I'm speaking English," I insist-but again, the wrong sounds come. The intent feels like mine; the voice doesn't.

My hands start to shake.

"What... what did they do to me?" I whisper.

Her expression softens at the edges. Not sympathy-more like resignation. She picks up one of the clay bowls from the tray and approaches, moving slowly, like she's learned not to startle wounded things.

"The bond," she says. "It joined you to the chiefs. Mind, body, spirit"

"I..." My voice cracks. She kneels beside the furs and offers me the bowl. Steam coils up-thick stew dotted with root vegetables and shreds of meat. "You will fall apart if you do not eat."

I don't reach for it.

She lets out a breath, not quite a sigh, and sets the bowl on the furs between us. "I am Vasani, tribes healer," she says. "I tend the ill and broken. That includes you now, chosen one."

"I am not anyone's Chosen one," I snap, heat flashing through the numbness. "What are they going to do to me?"

Vasani's gaze doesn't waver. "What happens to you is for the chiefs and the spirits to decide," she says. "Not me."

My stomach drops so sharply I nearly retch.

"Those two males..those who touched me? They are the chief" The word in their language comes out strangled, broken.

She nods.

"They have ruined me!"

My voice cracks so violently it hurts. "Do you understand? Where I come from- I can't-"

A sob stabs up my throat, sharp and humiliating.

I swallow it down so hard it burns.

"You grieve the life you expected," she says. "But grief will not unmark you."

Tears sting my eyes. I blink them away furiously.

"I didn't choose this," I whisper.

"No one who is claimed chooses," she replies.

"I want to go home,"

"That choice," she says simply, "is gone." Like a blade slipped between ribs.

Her voice remains calm, controlled, inexorable.

My vision blurs. I don't know if it's tears or exhaustion or pure, crushing shame.

"Why me?" I whisper. "Why would they...?"

"The spirits know," she says. "Ask the chiefs, if you dare."

She rises slowly, adjusting her tunic with practiced hands. Her gaze drifts to the tent opening, then back to me, and something in her expression shifts-not softening, but settling into the rhythm of ritual speech.

"The elder is called Rahn," she says, her voice dropping into something measured, deliberate.

"The younger, Katan. They are the two pillars that hold this tribe upright. When one speaks, the earth listens. When both speak as one, even the spirits grow quiet."

She pauses, watching my face. "Their names are not spoken lightly here. Names hold power. They bind. They mark. And now their names are woven into your flesh as surely as yours is carved into theirs."

The names thrum through me-alien, heavy, familiar all at once, like I've heard them whispered underwater.

"Rest. Or rage. But do not starve. Weakness will not loosen the bond." She rises, adjusts the braid over her shoulder, and slips back through the curtain.

The fire pops.

I stare at the untouched bowl, at the spirals carved into the walls, at my own traitorous hands.

I don't know how long I sit there. Time goes molten, stretching and folding around the crackle of the fire and the gnawing twist of hunger. Eventually, dizziness pushes in at the edges of my vision. I reach for the bowl with stiff fingers.

The stew is good-hearty, rich, spiced with something sharp that makes my nose sting. I hate every swallow.

I'm halfway through when the curtain moves again.

This time, the air changes first-thickens, like the room knows who is coming.

They enter together.

The younger chief katan steps in front, ducking under the curtain as if the room is an inconvenience. He's bare from the waist up, skin mapped with dark swirling tattoos that pulse faintly, synced to his heartbeat. Bronze skin. Corded muscle. Amber eyes that catch the firelight and burn with an animal focus that pins me where I sit.

Behind him, the elder Rahn Broader, heavier, fur draped over one shoulder like a mantle. His hair is tied back at the nape of his neck, streaked with silver.

His gaze sweeps the room once and settles on me, deep and unreadable, as if he's measuring whether I still fit wherever he's placed me in his head.

Between them, they carry a large wooden tub. Water sloshes against its sides as the elder-Rahn, I remember distantly someone calling him that-sets it down near the fire. The sound echoes in the stone room like a verdict.

The air hums. They don't need to bare teeth or snarl; their presence is enough. Predators don't announce themselves. They just arrive.

I scramble backward until cold stone presses between my shoulder blades, clutching the strip of cloth tighter against my chest. My heart trips, then starts pounding as if it's trying to break free.

The younger chief-Katan-straightens.

His gaze tracks the way I press myself into the wall, taking in every flinch. "You need to bathe," he says. His voice is low, steady.

"I don't need bathing. I need to leave. I want to go home."

The words scrape out of me, shredded at the edges.

"Home?" Katan barks a short, ugly laugh. "This is home. Your cunt belongs to the tribe now." He nods at the tub. "Get in."

The vulgarity was a calculated blow, meant to demean. And it worked. A hot flush of shame warred with the icy fear. "Go to hell."

"Already there, pretty thing. And I'm taking you with me." He takes a step forward, the room shrinking around him. "You can get in the water on your feet, or I can throw you in on your back. Your choice. I'll enjoy either."

"Please," I blurt, the word slipping out before I can stop it.

Both men still. The fire pops between us.

"I don't belong here," I rush on. The words tumble over each other, too fast, too thin. "This isn't my world. I have a family-friends-people who think I'm dead or missing or-" My voice breaks. I swallow hard. "There has to be something you can do."

Katan's gaze sharpens, wary. "Do?" he echoes."Send me back," I say.

I half-reach toward him before catching myself. "Undo this bond, or... or take me to your shaman-whoever has power here. I will do anything. Just let me go back."

Katan’s smirk was a slow, wicked thing. "Kuch bhi?" (anything?)he repeated, his dark eyes dragging over my body with a possessiveness that felt less like a look and more like a physical caress—one that left a trail of fire and revulsion in its wake. "We'll see."

"Vasani added feverleaf," Rahn rumbles. "Your skin is still laced with convergence oil. If it stays, it will rot your flesh."

Rot. My fingers twitch against the cloth. I imagine the golden sheen sinking deeper, turning to poison under my skin.

"I can wash myself," I manage.

"Such a sport spoiled," Katan murmured. The phrase was chilling in its softness. It wasn't anger; it was a statement of fact, a promise of a struggle he looked forward to dominating.

"Stay away from me," I whisper. "I don't trust you. Any of you."

"You don't need to trust us," Rahn says. His voice is deeper than Katan's, slower, like stones grinding together. "You only need to live."

Katan takes a step closer. The room feels smaller with every inch he closes. "Up," he says softly. "Or I will carry you."

There is no room in his tone for doubt, no threat of violence because he doesn't need one. He simply states what will happen.

My legs feel like reeds, hollow and shaking. I push myself upright anyway, clutching the cloth to my chest. When I stand, the fabric slips, sliding uselessly against my skin. I catch it, but it's too short, too narrow. It hides nothing.

Heat crawls up my throat. I am used to cities, crowds, the anonymity of distance. Here, in this small stone circle, with their eyes on me, I feel skinned.

Shame burns hotter than the water ever could. My fingers tighten on the hide until my knuckles go white. I hate how small my voice comes out. "Turn around. At least... turn around."

For a heartbeat, Katan just watches me. Then his jaw flexes. He glances at Rahn, something unspoken passing between them.

Rahn grunts and faces the curtain. Katan follows a second later, though he moves more slowly, like turning his back on me is an indulgence, not an obligation.

I wait, counting breaths, watching their broad backs. They don't look over their shoulders. They don't move.

My fingers loosen. The cloth drops to the furs. I'm naked, gooseflesh racing over every inch of me, the golden ritual oil still clinging in streaks across my breasts, belly, thighs. I feel branded. Marked. Theirs.

I move toward the tub on unsteady legs. The wood is rough under my fingers as I grip the rim and step in.

The water is hotter than I expect. It bites at first, then seeps in, heat bleeding into my bones. I sink down until it laps at my shoulders, hugging my knees to my chest, trying to make myself smaller.

"Are you in?" Rahn asks without turning.

"Yes," I bite out. "You can go now."

"No." Katan's answer is immediate. "If you faint again and drown, the shaman will complain in my ear for a full turning of the moons."

Water soaks the golden film, loosening it into shimmering ribbons that swirl around me like molten dust. It smells faintly of resin and something sweet, like bruised flowers.

I scrub frantically at my arms, my breasts, the insides of my thighs where the oil is thickest. The water clouds gold. My skin stings. I can't reach my back; my shoulders scream every time I try.

Something splashes into the tub beside me. A rough cloth.

Katan's voice comes, closer now. "Use that. The oil binds to skin. It doesn't leave politely."

I twist. He has half-turned-enough to see me from the shoulders up, nothing more. It's still too much. I glare at him anyway.

"I said I can do it myself. Stop looking at me you perverts"

"Then do it," he replies. "You're moving like an old woman."

Fury flares, hot and sharp. It's almost a relief to feel something that isn't fear. I snatch up the cloth and scrub at my shoulder with more force than necessary. The gold smears, then fades, leaving angry red skin behind.

By the time I reach my back, my arms are shaking. The cloth slips from my fingers twice. The soreness in my muscles spikes; my shoulders burn.

"Stubborn," Kiran mutters. "Like a half-broken colt."

"I can hear you," I snap.

"Good. Then listen."

Heavy footsteps approach. "Give me the cloth." Rahn.

"No."

Water sloshes as his shadow falls over the tub. I clutch my knees tighter, heart pounding. Rahn's hand, broad and callused, appears on the rim, but he doesn't reach for me. He just holds out the cloth he's retrieved from the water.

"You cannot reach your back," he says. "You will infect the marks there if the oil remains. That will poison all of us." His gaze meets mine, steady, unflinching. "We do not want to share that fate."

The idea of hurting them should make me feel vindicated. Instead, a cold ripple of unease moves through my chest. If I go down, I'm dragged with them. The bond, Vasani said. Mind, body, spirit.

I hate this place. I hate their spirits. I hate that they've made my survival tangled up with theirs.

"Fine," I grind out. "Just-stay above the water."

A corner of Katan's mouth twitches, as if he finds that amusing.

Rahn doesn't react at all.

He kneels behind the tub. The heat from his body presses against my back even before his hand moves. When the cloth touches my skin, I flinch despite myself.

His touch is firm, impersonal, like he's washing a weapon, not a person. He works in slow, methodical strokes, following the lines of the tattoos I didn't know I had until now-the faint, raised patterns etched along my spine, still tender from the ritual. Each pass of the cloth draws out more of the gold, clouding the water around me.

"Be still," he says quietly. Not a threat. A simple instruction.

"I don't like being touched," I mutter.

"Most wounded animals don't," he replies.

I go rigid. "Did you just compare me to an animal?"

"Yes," he says. "You bite. You run. You don't listen when danger is explained."

Anger sparks again, but underneath it, something twists. "Danger," I echo. "Where I am from this all things.. being like you don't even exist?"

"Where is this strange land?East? South of mountains of shimbaul." Katan moves into my peripheral vision, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, watching. "You think you can go back. You think the world you knew is waiting for you." His gaze narrows to a blade's edge. "You are not the first chosen."

"That word again—chosen," I spat, the water sloshing as I trembled. "I didn't ask for any of this!"

"No one asks," Katan replies, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. His presence is like heat-heavy, ancient. "The spirits choose. The land listens. And when a sign appears, the tribe answers."

"I'm not property-"

"You are exactly that," Katan cuts me off, his voice sharp as flint. "You are a vessel. A message written in flesh. You will learn to accept this, or you will break. Either way, the tribe continues."

The casual brutality of it steals my breath.

Tears of pure, helpless rage welled in my eyes. "Stop talking about me like that! If you're going to keep me here, at least explain what you want from me!"

Katan studies me for a long moment, as if deciding how much truth I deserve. "You were called by starfall," he says finally. "The spirits answered through blessings. Not every tribe is blessed with chosen."

Rahn pauses, his hand warm between my shoulder blades. His thumb sweeps over the nape of my neck—gentle, lingering—before he continues washing me. He doesn’t speak, but the touch leaves its mark.

“I’m not chosen,” I insist. “I just touched something I shouldn’t have. All that talk about spirits… it’s superstition.”

His lips curve slightly, though the expression is hollow. “Maybe to you. But for us, it’s the reason we’re still here."

I stare down at the water. The gold has thinned to a dull sheen on the surface, breaking apart whenever I move. Beneath it, my skin looks like mine again-just battered, not otherworldly.

"What is your name?" Katan asks.

The question hits harder than it should. My name feels fragile suddenly, like something that might dissolve if I say it in their language.

I look down at my warped reflection, at the stranger with hollow eyes and wet hair clinging to her face. "Naina," I whisper.

Katan repeats it, shaping the syllables differently, turning it into something rougher in his own tongue. Somehow, it still sounds like me. "Nai-na," he says slowly, as if tasting it. "I am Katan." He nods toward the elder. "He is Rahn. You will remember."

"I didn't ask," I mutter.

"No," Rahn agreed from behind me, his scrubbing never ceasing. "But knowing the names of those you're bound to makes it easier to scream them when the time comes."

His words sent a jolt through me, a confusing mix of terror and a dark, undeniable thrill. The cloth moved lower, following the curve of my spine to the very base.

His knuckles brushed the sensitive skin just above the waterline, a fleeting, electric contact. My breath caught, and I squeezed my eyes shut, horrified to feel a flutter low in my belly, a warmth that had nothing to do with the bath.

Katan’s grin was a slash of white in the firelight.

I drop my forehead to my knees, tears mixing with bathwater. My mind screams: You're Naina. You had an apartment, a job, a life. This is temporary. You'll find a way out.

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