The Cloud Forest

695 A.D.

Voices.

Iliyan froze. His fingers stiffened around the spear in his hand. Was someone really there, or was he imagining it? He held his breath, straining to filter out every sound in the mist-shrouded forest.

It wasn’t unusual for his mind to play tricks. Whispers had haunted him before. At first, they had comforted him, as if his lover were still near. For days, he had spoken aloud, clinging to the hope that Iliyan could still hear him. But no answer ever came, and the distance between them had only seemed to grow. Eventually, it became nothing but frustration.

He had let Iliyan go. He had accepted that he was now the only version left of him. Though he would never be as brave as the real Iliyan, he tried to honor him in this way. Ramún could not have survived in the wilderness, but Iliyan had. He reminded himself of this day after day. It had kept him moving forward. He had built a shelter, gathered his own food. Loneliness was his fiercest enemy—and yet it had never stopped him. In his mind, Iliyan had been capable of anything, and therefore, he was too.

Sometimes he comforted himself with the thought that they had merged into a new person. It never erased the bitterness, but it helped him bear it. He would never forgive his people. Somehow, he would not let this atrocity go unpunished.

Now, hearing voices again, he felt that resolve rise. More than two Marches had passed since his banishment. He was far from the valley where he had grown up, so the chances these were men he knew were slim.

Yet he was curious why these strangers had come, for he had met no one else.

He moved carefully, bare feet padding softly over roots and fallen leaves. A long time of stalking wild animals had made him silent and precise. Confidence guided his steps. He reached the riverbank and peered around a tree trunk.

On the far bank stood eight men. They held elaborately decorated spears—ceremonial weapons, he realized. Something like the Hunts he had longed to join. In a flash, he saw the square again, the carcasses. Behind them, Iliyan. Their eyes met and…

Iliyan squeezed his eyes shut.

That time was over.

There was no use dwelling on the past. His lover was gone. He would never come back. Iliyan drew a deep breath, pushed the memories aside, and focused on the people across the water.

Their clothing was bright, with purple and pink dominating. Iliyan remained still for a long moment. He had lived in isolation so long that he couldn’t predict how he would react to meeting people again. Once, he had never feared humans. He had been curious, enjoyed speaking with people of different classes.

Now, only cold hatred filled him at the thought of them. He remembered only their cruelty, their terrible decisions, the pain they caused others.

Humans—they were good for nothing.

Better to stay away. Alone with nature, that suited him. Nature gave. Humans took.

He tore his gaze from the hunters and turned away. Suddenly, he wanted to flee. Memories pressed in—he saw Iliyan first in his warrior garb, then in the simple clothing he had worn on the night they met. A lump lodged in his throat as he remembered their kiss, their plan to leave together.

Iliyan drew a deep breath.

He knew what was coming.

The hateful glare in his father’s eyes. The love on Iliyan’s face. The sharp contrast. One took everything; the other gave everything. The tumi flashing along Iliyan’s neck, the blood spilling out—his life slipping away.

His legs trembled. He gripped a tree to steady himself. The echoes of the godhouse came back—his own screams. His throat burned, raw as before.

Had he screamed again? The images were vivid, the pain raw. Salt on his lips. Tears.

He forced himself to focus, curling his fingers until the nails cut into his palms. Pain always sharpened his mind.

It’s over, Iliyan. Don’t let it define your life. Seek freedom. Seek joy.

He blinked the tears away.

How could he find joy alone? He passed the days gathering food, training in combat, keeping his body strong. Sometimes it felt like preparation for battle. What battle, he didn’t know, but the exercises reminded him of his lost love, and for that reason, they were one of the few things that felt necessary.

A warrior—that was what he wanted to be. Someone others admired, as he had admired Iliyan. But that goal was unreachable if he remained hidden among beasts—beasts that would ultimately end up in his stomach. To reach his full potential, he could not remain in the wilderness where he inspired no one.

He needed a new place to live.

Across the water, Iliyan followed the hunters. Not far ahead lay a crossing. There, he could meet them. How would they react? Would they see him as a threat, even alone? Or would a solitary young man draw their curiosity? Would they give him a chance to live?

It didn’t matter if they didn’t, he told himself. Starving or leaping from heights seemed dishonorable, not the way he wanted to die. Though he did not want to die because he was afraid to live, he could accept his death if it came because he chose to live.

Perhaps then he would be reunited with the boy he had loved. That fragile hope carried him across the stream. The men were near; their voices still audible.

Iliyan climbed the slippery stones to a rapid. Spear in one hand, war-mace that Iliyan’s little sister had given him in the other. He balanced on a stone, scanning for fish to skewer—pretending he was fishing.

The voices drew closer.

Iliyan tightened his grip on the spear but kept his eyes on the water. A shadow darted. He struck without hesitation. A fish pierced in a single throw.

While it thrashed, Iliyan turned.

The hunters stared. He heard them speak, though too far to catch their words.

Iliyan drew a deep breath and pressed a hand to his chest. He was not their enemy. Whether they were his, would soon be clear.

He straightened and walked slowly toward them. He removed the fish from the spear, held it aloft in offering. Nerves surged, but he continued. This was what Iliyan would have done.

A few steps from them, he stopped. He laid the fish on the ground, stepped back, and bent a knee in a humble bow. Through his lashes, he looked up.

Some stayed behind, but the three with the most ornate costumes stepped forward.

“Who are you?” the tallest asked. Pink and purple streaks streaked his cheeks, as if trying to imprint his clothes’ pattern onto his skin.

“I am Iliyan,” he said. “I'm alone. Wherever you go—I hope you’ll take me. I am a trained warrior.” Heart pounding, he realized he was exposed. Someone could strike his torso, and he would not react in time.

“Why are you alone?”

Iliyan had no prepared answer. “I grew up here,” he said quickly. “My parents died two Marches ago; the gods called them to live in the forest. I… I haven’t been among people for long.”

“To which people do you belong?”

He shrugged. He would not claim his parents’ valley. “They believed they belonged to no one. They lived for the gods. Envoys from many valleys consulted them at the oracle.”

An older man stepped beside the first. “Do you speak the oracle tongue?”

Iliyan shook his head. “They said it was my destiny to be a warrior.”

The two exchanged a glance. Iliyan squared his shoulders, projecting confidence, showing he believed himself chosen.

“Very well. Let’s take him and see what path the gods have laid before him.”

Relief washed over Iliyan. Could it be so easy? A weight lifted. He smiled, thinking of Iliyan. I will make it, Iliyan. I will be a warrior, just like you.

Another thought struck him: maybe one day he could march to his birthplace and punish them for what they had done to him and Iliyan. Cherishing that hope, he followed the warriors.

They led him to a clearing where more warriors had gathered. A large platform held piles of fruits and tubers.

There were cages with monkeys and brightly colored birds. 

Iliyan froze.

Nearby, a group of men stood—naked, filthy, faces resigned. Their bodies were skeletal.

A push in his back stirred fury. Must he go there? No. He was a warrior, not a… not a…

“Strip and join the others,” the leader barked.

“W-what?”

A burly man grabbed his shoulder, knife to his ear. “If you won’t obey, we might as well cut off those ears.”

Iliyan’s eyes widened. The shift was sudden; he didn't understand what was happening. “I—I am a warrior. I…”

“You are nothing,” the man snapped. “Strip.”

Another man pulled his mace away.

“No!” Iliyan shouted. “Not—my mace!”

“A slave needs no weapons.” The man struck a club in his hand slowly. “Strip.”

Blood clung to the weapon. A shiver ran down Iliyan’s spine. He wanted to run, but where? He was surrounded. Finally, he undressed, head bowed, joining the other men.

Slaves. They are slaves.

He knew now who these men were: the Muchika. A warlike people who absorbed neighboring valleys. His father’s fortifications had been built to resist them. Their valley lay far north, so far they had escaped.

And Iliyan had walked right into their hands, replacing one monster by another.