I was covered in blood. Not all mine. Hardly any of it was mine, really. But that didn’t matter.

I had to clean myself. Before going back.

I didn’t want Nol to see me like this. Nor the little one. Nor her—the one in the middle—who said she’d take care of us all.

So I went to the stream. I washed myself with wide leaves and cold water. Scrubbed every red trace from my nails, knees, and face. The water turned red, but soon ran clear again.

I returned home with everything I had found. Without saying anything yet.

The cave smelled of corn, fresh leaves, and calm.

The little one was asleep on a blanket. She was fanning the fire with thin branches. Nol carved something from wood, his face at peace.

I watched them, and how could I not smile?

I sat down without speaking. And only after eating… did I sort the things.

I separated the useful objects: a light knife, new cords, some strange seeds, waterproof fabric… and the long stick with the glowing orb.

I stared at it for a long time. I didn’t know what it was. But I didn’t want to let it rot in a corner either.

I set it aside for trade.

The next day, I left for the south. Not just to trade.

This time, I was going to speak. To teach. To warn.

The dust elves. The swamp goblins and the knife tribe. The tree beasts with slow eyes.

The wolves and orcs.

I drew in the dirt. Showed the shape. Explained, as best I could, that the Okais didn’t come from afar… they emerged from cracks.

“They don’t walk from distant lands,” I said. “They are born. They come out. They are thrown through black holes. Through wounds.”

Some mocked. Others stared in silence.

And an old elf, hunched and with dull gray eyes, murmured: “We already knew. But no one listened.”

I looked at him. And the old one added: “If you saw it… others will listen now.”

After that talk, I did my usual trade with that tribe.

I gave roots, herbs, stone tools… And the stick with the glowing orb.

The old elf took it in his hands. Turned it. Smelled it.

“You don’t know what this is, do you?”

I shook my head.

“But it’s different, right?”

“Yes.”

The old one smiled with a cracked mouth.

“It’s… it’s valuable,” the elf murmured.

He gave me a dozen black arrows. Long. Thin. With stone tips that gleamed like obsidian.

“They cut without noise,” he told me. “Use them when you don’t want the enemy to know he’s dying.”

I nodded. It was a good trade.

That night, I slept beneath a hollow branch that smelled of mint and mud.

My new arrows at my side. And my favorite knife on my chest.

The slime inside moved slowly, as if something were changing. As if it felt… something more.

And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t fully sleep.