Innleioleia gazed down at his one good hand; not so good anymore. Even though the skin was slack and wrinkled, the muscles underneath were taut--too much so for him to grip the clay mug with stability. The stump that would’ve been his left hand was necessary to keep it steady.

He’d unstrapped the false hand he normally used and set it aside for now. The damn thing squelched on hot humid days. It, and the cane to which it was attached, stood propped up in the corner of Ghitha’s stable.

The smell of hay and horses filled Innleioleia’s nose. The heat made the stink of piss and defecation especially strong. Not that there were any animals left. They’d all been sold to pay Ghitha’s debts. The only ones left in the stable were the mice and Borba. The hunter sat opposite Innleioleia, a set of iron bars forged by the village’s smiths in between them.

Innleioleia drank water from the mug and placed it just outside the bars so that Borba could drink. The former lodge master kept his distance though, out of reach of Borba’s blood-stained hands.

Borba’s nails had grown as thick and dark as claws, and reddish scales grew along the backs of his hands and arms. His eyes were crazed. Except there were flashes--moments when Innleioleia recognized the hunter who once lived in Borba’s body; before the rage consumed him.

“Free me,” Borba said, his voice croaking. “I did what you asked, now free me.”

“I can’t do that,” Innleioleia said. “You attacked two of your lodge brothers.”

“I remember no such thing.” Borba frowned. His expression darkened, and his visage grew twisted as the darklight’s rage filled him. His voice rasped as he yelled, “Free me!”

Borba launched himself at the bars, his gaunt arms reaching through. Innleioleia sat back, but the bars held. As weakened as Borba was, there was no way the bars wouldn’t. The man looked like he’d been starved for three tendays. The energies he’d consumed from the King of the Forest were long gone.

Intelligence returned to Borba’s eyes, and he retreated. “Sorry, sorry. My control slipped.” He licked his lips. “At least feed me. I’m--I’m so hungry.”

“The lodge brings food everyday.”

“Not that,” Borba said. “Real food, like the bear. He was so good. I want more. Let me--just let me hunt. I’ll kill the threats the forest sends at the village--I’ll rend and tear them apart--suck them dry. The village will be safer. Just let me eat my fill.”

With a groan and creaking joints, Innleioleia levered himself to standing. He retrieved his cane and restrapped the false hand in place. His fingers moved with practice, if not ease. Nothing was easy anymore.

He left the stable; left Borba’s pleading behind him. It wouldn’t do any good to answer. There wasn’t much good possible now that Borba’d reached this state. He’d be kept alive though, having proven how useful he could be during the lightning’s bear’s hunt. It was the lodge’s assessment that the hunt would’ve failed without him.

His punishment had inflicted a powerful Talent, an incredible blessing and curse: the ability to temporarily absorb a creature's qi and a portion of their abilities, but to always be hungry. Used correctly, Borba could become a powerful weapon for the village’s protection. He’d replace the loss left by Grunthen.

Gods curse them, but Woldec’s Family had sown a bitter harvest for the village to reap. The loss of Woldec and Grunthen. The turning of Borba into a monster. The push to hunt the King of the Forest, and all that it entailed.

Before the King’s hunt, Innleioloeia expected to live another twenty years; enough time to properly season Little Mumu. For her to travel far down the path of the hunter and develop the Skills necessary for a lodge master. Now, Innleioliea must quickly push the wisdom and lore required onto her, for any day might be his last.

Kesa would help. She was a Blessing with her wit, her ease with people, and her tempered caution. And there was Eight too, or was it more accurate to say Yuki?

Innleioleia traveled back to the moment when the uekisheile revealed themselves--the surprise, the alarm, and the epiphany. Suddenly there was an explanation for how an eight-year old boy’s eyes could look so old. It was the ancient creature within him peering out. Eight’s uncommon wisdom and his quick rise were explained.

It was a mystery, though, how much of Eight was the boy and how much was Yuki. Innleioleia felt a pang. Something of the original boy must’ve been lost to make room for the uekishiele. Everything in the world had a price. A hunter only had to be willing to pay it.

Innleioleia nodded to himself. The lodge would find out eventually. As Eight and Yuki learned to trust them more, as they bonded with their brothers and sisters, they would continue to open up about themselves. And there would be Mumu close by his side to hear it, and Kesa at a distance to witness it.

That the Spirit of Ikfael Glen approved of Eight and Yuki saved their two lives. She would not do the village wrong. A hunter knew to be cautious though, and even now, Mumu went to visit Ikfael Glen to see with the lodge’s own eyes the relationship between the boy and the spirit.

Mumu was too attached to Eight. Going to the glen had been her idea to put Kesa at ease. That was good. That was the two of them fulfilling their responsibilities.

There’d been death and tragedy, but seeds were also planted. There was so much potential in Mumu, Eight, and Yuki. Borba too. Perhaps Innleioleia might allow himself a small measure of hope: that the lodge would prosper, that the village would thrive, and that he might die without regret’s bitter taste still in his mouth.