The air smelled of smoke and iron.
The Wigu's ashes still swirled in the night wind, curling through the cemetery like gray snowflakes. What remained of the battle was silence, heavy and absolute, the kind that pressed down on their shoulders and made every breath feel like a weight.
Leonotis crouched in the dirt, cradling the broken body of Widow Eno's raven. Its wings were torn, feathers matted with dried blood, the glassy eyes dull. Even so, he held it gently, brushing away clumps of ash clinging to its body.
"It's lighter than I thought," he murmured, almost to himself.
Jacqueline knelt beside him, her hands still glowing faintly from healing Zombiel. "That poor thing never stood a chance. If the Wigu dragged it here, it must have been hunting us for days."
Leonotis's jaw tightened. "Widow Eno trusted this bird. It was more than just a companion. It was her eyes, her ears… her family." His fingers clenched around the raven, careful not to crush it. "We'll bury it. Properly."
Low stood a few feet away. The fight had ended, but her chest was heaving, her pulse racing as though it hadn't. She hadn't let go of Zombiel since she caught him. He leaned against her now, pale and shaky, though his ghostfire no longer burned.
"Why did you use that," Low muttered, her voice sharp with a tremor she tried to hide. "You nearly—" Her words caught in her throat. She couldn't finish.
Zombiel gave a weak, lopsided smile. "But I didn't."
"That's not the point!" Low snapped, louder than she meant. Jacqueline and Leonotis both looked up at the sudden edge in her tone, but she didn't care. "You can't just throw yourself in front of death like it's nothing. You're not—" She stopped herself again, biting down on the words.
Zombiel tilted his head, curious. "Not what?"
Low swallowed hard. Her throat felt raw. She wanted to say you're not disposable, but the words tangled with the knot in her chest. Instead, she turned away, her knuckles white on the hilt of her blade.
Jacqueline set a hand on her shoulder, grounding her. "He's alive, Low. That's what matters right now."
Low didn't answer. She couldn't.
Leonotis, sensing the weight of the moment, cleared his throat. "Come on. Let's give this raven a grave. If the Wigu thought it could desecrate the dead and get away with it…" His eyes hardened, glowing faintly with the stubborn spark of his affinity. "We'll prove it wrong."
Together, they set to work. Leonotis dug a neat, narrow trench. He laid the raven inside, smoothing its wings across its chest. Jacqueline whispered a prayer under her breath, her voice trembling like the ripples of water.
When the grave was covered, Leonotis pressed his palm to the fresh mound. Vines sprouted, weaving themselves into a small marker crowned with white blossoms. The flowers swayed in the still night air, luminous under the moonlight.
Zombiel's gaze lingered on them, his eyes half-lidded. "It deserved better. Everything deserves better than ending in a Wigu's stomach."
They entered the market street quietly, trying to look like travelers instead of fugitives. Jacqueline adjusted her shawl, covering the faint shimmer of her damp hair. Zombiel kept his hood drawn low, hiding the pallor of his skin. Low stayed near the back, tense and watchful.
The first stall they passed sold dried plantains. The merchant—a heavyset man with a kind face—looked up, smiled… then froze. His eyes darted from one of them to the next, then to the faint scorch mark on Zombiel's sleeve.
The smile vanished.
He turned away. "We're closed," he muttered.
Leonotis frowned. "You just sold to the man before us."
"No food for you," the merchant said, voice tightening. "Not after what you did."
Jacqueline stepped forward. "And what exactly did we do?"
The man's gaze sharpened, filled with the kind of fear that always made Leonotis's stomach twist. "Don't play dumb, girl. Everyone knows. You killed the Wigu."
The word killed carried through the air like a curse. Nearby shoppers turned to look—then quickly looked away. Someone whispered Njiru's name.
Low's voice was low and sharp. "You're welcome. That thing's been feeding on your dead."
"Maybe," the man spat, "but it wasn't ours. Njiru's creatures don't touch us when we obey. You've brought his eye here now."
The weight of his words hung in the air. Others began to murmur in agreement, pulling their children close, slipping behind stalls and doorways. Fear spread faster than truth.
Leonotis tried again, forcing calm into his tone. "We're not here for trouble. Just food."
"Then you'll find none here," the man said coldly, and turned his back.
The market went still.
Low's fists clenched. Her voice trembled—not with fear, but rage. "They're cowards. Every one of them."
Jacqueline touched her arm gently. "They're scared. That's different."
"Doesn't feel different," Low muttered.
Zombiel said nothing. He simply stood there, his hood shadowing his face, his silence heavier than any accusation. Leonotis knew what that silence meant. Zombiel had heard the same tone in other places—when people whispered about the walking dead and their borrowed souls.
They moved through the market in uneasy quiet. Every attempt at conversation or barter was met with the same cold rejection. The same glance toward Zombiel. The same whispered prayers.
Finally, as they reached the edge of the village, Leonotis spotted movement beneath a shaded awning.
A Siyawesi stood there. Its eyes glowed faintly, and it held a small pouch of seeds woven from soft reeds.
Leonotis knelt, lowering his voice. "We won't harm you."
It extended the pouch.
Leonotis hesitated, then accepted the gift with both hands. "Thank you."
The creature nodded once and vanished into the air. No one else seemed to notice.
When they were far enough that the village sounds faded to nothing but the wind, Zombiel dropped his pack and slumped against a tree.
Leonotis chuckled, though the sound came out hollow. "It's something. I'll plant them when we make camp."
Low sank down beside him, muttering, "We should've just taken what we needed."
Jacqueline raised an eyebrow. "And prove them right? No thanks. Let them have their fear."
"Still," Low said, staring down at her hands. "You'd think they'd care more about who Njiru's hurting than who's fighting him."
Zombiel looked down. "They hated us," he said quietly. He plucked a blade of grass, twirling it between his fingers. "Humans are funny. They're more scared of us like we're monsters."
No one answered at first. The truth didn't need repeating.
Low gave a humorless laugh. "Well we might as well be monsters to them."
Jacqueline frowned. "Don't say that."
"Why not?" Low snapped. "Half of us aren't human anyway." She gestured vaguely toward Zombiel, then herself. "He's a corpse with a soul. I turn into something that can tear a man apart with my bare hands. The villagers weren't wrong to be afraid."
"They were," Leonotis said quietly. "Because fear doesn't make them right."
Low opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. Her shoulders slumped.
Jacqueline walked ahead, silent for a while. "Maybe people like us don't get to choose what we are," she said softly. "But we can choose what we do."
Leonotis met her gaze, a faint smile tugging at his lips. She looked away quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. He caught the flicker of guilt in her eyes—the secret she still carried beneath her skin, hidden scales glinting in the dim light.
He wouldn't betray it.
He couldn't.
Low trudged ahead, muttering under her breath about the unfairness of it all. Zombiel followed last, his expression unreadable, his silence more eloquent than words.
As they walked, Leonotis found himself studying the three of them. Jacqueline, the girl who was actually a mermaid. Low, who fought the werebear curse with every heartbeat. Zombiel, who carried the weight of being both undead and alive.
And himself a Green àṣẹborn. The only human among them, and even that wasn't entirely true. Among humans, he was just as strange. The Green plant magic might as well be a curse.
He thought of the Siyawesi and he began to wonder why the monsters saw him as more of a kindered spirt than the villagers did.
He shook the thought away.
"Let's keep moving," he said, slipping the seed pouch into his belt. "Capital's can't be much father from here. Maybe we'll have better luck there."
Jacqueline forced a small smile. "Yes, journey is almost over."
Leonotis nodded. "Yeah."
They walked on, the road stretching endlessly ahead, the air heavy with the scent of wet soil and unspoken truths. Behind them, the village gates closed. Ahead, the world waited—hungry, fearful, and watching.