The man’s pastel garbs fanned in the low winds, almost seeming aroused by the crowd’s hollering. Keter did not quite know what was happening, other than he seemed to be revered by this place’s populace. Why? Because he could use magic? Was he the only one with such an ability? There was no way of knowing, for now of course.

The old man angled himself at him, gesturing at his clothes then at his own, and beckoning him over, seeming eager to leave and taking Keter with him. There was a fanatic glitter in the man’s eye and Keter didn’t know whether he could be trusted.

Should he come with him? He did not speak the language nor understand their customs. A slight mistake in behavior could have drastic outcomes. They seemed to accept him now, but human patterns could change quickly. Keter had found most human interactions involving him generally did so for the worst for either of them.

Virrah was eyeing him expectantly, the old crone close at her shoulder. Her wrinkled lips formed a kind smile, but Keter would’ve been quicker to trust a singing shark. She might look old as time, but there was a tell to her posture that told otherwise.

Crooked yet tall and wrapped from neck to toe in a long apron with pockets sewn on every inch. Her large frame loomed over Virrah as she looked down inquisitively at Keter. No, he did not trust her. But Virrah? She had helped him, but why? For her own goals, no doubt. Keter did not believe humans to be selfless. Such a thing was unnatural for all living things.

His gaze moved to the wiry man, clad in pelts and leather; a myriad of scars and old wounds spread over his body. Eyes sharp but in a single-minded way. A man who knows his business, but little else beyond that. Was he capable of manipulation while Keter was vulnerable?

Everyone, everything has their own purpose, their own desires. If Keter were to choose between any of these choices, he’d choose the one who’s goals mirrored his own. He wanted to stay alive. That was his aim for now.

The low wind coiled around the group of men and women as the crowd slowly calmed with the stretching silence and building tension. They were all focused on their new Master, on his hand as he raised it towards his chosen patron.

When confronted with the unknown, man will prefer the familiar, and Keter was man after all.

*

The knot tying down her gut was about to tear, then clenched as the Master Maker offered his hand to her. She looked up, confused, into his dark eyes, peering above a wry smile. Slickleaf was torn from the spell that had her frozen by a firm pat on the shoulder.

She jolted, looking about her in bewilderment. Grog’s unfeeling gaze. Hawk’s insulted stare. Silva’s proud grin.

“Are you going to make the Master wait any longer? He’s going to be needing medical attention now! Perhaps a good scrub, to get rid of all that blood and grime.” The Owl smacked Slickleaf on her back, starting her forward.

The moment she grasped his hand, his hardened, scarred hand, she felt him grip hard. And that calculated shudder in his dark, dark eyes told her he would not be fooled by anything. They nodded at each other in silent agreement, accepting one another for what they were. At least for now.

The gathering quickly split in half, allowing them passage. Some seemed eager to touch the Master Maker, but none dared; fearing his ire. Others kept their distance, and others yet even looked with contempt. At her or the Master; Slickleaf could not tell.

The walk to Silva’s cottage was far from the Village proper, and even further from the Cattle Valley. Once, Slickleaf had asked the Elder why her hospit was so far from where anyone lived. If someone became injured, wouldn’t it be easier for Silva to arrive there quickly? She’d laughed, the Owl had, and told her with a knowing smile; ‘If they die before I can get there, there was little I could’ve done anyway. And the walk is good for my joints!’ That said, Slickleaf had long realized that Silva hated any kind of physical strain.

The trek stretched longer, and Silva was stringing curses, long forgotten through the passing of ages, thinking her hissing too quiet for Slickleaf to hear. Her great, stoic figure trembling as she fought for balance on her warped cane.

The sun had climbed high by the time they reached the hill upon which her cottage rested. The old wood had been replaced countless times, for the building had sat there for as long as Slickleaf had remembered. longer still.

Perhaps it would remain even far after the last Hollower had perished. Standing proud upon the grassy hill as a token to a forgotten Clan. Slickleaf wanted something to remind the world of her life; no matter how small.

The smell hit her like a solid wall. Strong spices mingling with mellow herbs or pungent potions, all swimming about them. The Master Maker staggered slightly when the overwhelming aromas latched at his nose. To him, a concoction of unfamiliar, unknown sensations. To Slickleaf, a lifetime of memories waded through her brain in a dazzling array of images. This was no sensation she’d dared hope to feel again.

When the Elders deemed her as Sacrifice, these were things she had put behind her. All those times, some happy, some sad; others arduous or calm. They all had a part of Slickleaf to them; she had lived them all. It was enough to get her eyes to sting, and her lip to tremble.

She blinked the wet away while guiding the Master through Silva’s small herb garden, teeming with all sorts of plants, patiently waiting to be brewed into medicine or other. The solid lockwood door opened before they ever reached it, and a face, all too familiar, popped out from within. Halfbloom - Grog’s daughter - Silva’s second pupil.

Slickleaf quickly rubbed the stray tears away with her forearm. She could not show weakness. Not ever. Halfbloom was two winters older, and a deal more matured in body. Only in body. For the rest, as how it goes, the girl was still very much a child. You could see it in her eyes, mired with contempt. She would never have dared look at Slickleaf like that before. Seemed like she’d gotten the notion of being superior during her absence. A thing that needed correcting.

“Prepare a bath for the Master Maker.” Slickleaf spoke coldly, no hurry to it. Every word was slow and precise, demanding command. “He needs to be clean before we care for his wounds.”

Halfbloom’s eyes narrowed, grasping the door’s frame. She was weighing her chances carefully, eyeballing the Master, then Slickleaf to judge how much authority she still had, or could win.

“Are ya deaf?” Silva’s grating voice ripped through Halfbloom’s thinking. “Make yer’self useful, or I’ll have you pullin’ taintfin for a week!”

Halfbloom jumped at the Owl’s barked orders, bowed, and quickly ran to the well downhill. Gathering all that water and then heating it for a warm bath would be a chore, and not really necessary. The Master could also wash himself with a single bucket. But Slickleaf found Halfbloom could use the exercise, if only as punishment. She’d gotten too close at replacing Slickleaf already. She would make sure such an opportunity would not show itself again to the lesser pupil.

They entered a room lit by the midday sun, throwing its rays through a large open window. On the table, standing in the middle, an array of foods had been prepared by Halfbloom for whenever Silva would’ve returned from the gathering. Easily enough for two people. Too bad Halfbloom wouldn’t be able to enjoy any of it. Slickleaf grinned. A pity.

The Master Maker sat down on the chopped chunk of Needlewood and started chewing down on a great helping of chicken and flatbread. He almost chocked when he took a swig from the jug of milk, then swallowed it down with a piece of meat. Slickleaf traced the scar on her wrist with a finger. Would food be enough to sate his hunger? Perhaps blood would need to be spilled again. She bit her lip, still somewhat lightheaded from the last dose she’d given him.

There was a pull at her elbow and quickly she was led to another room by a gleeful Silva.

“You dun excellent work, Slickleaf! Did you see that walking corpse, Hawk? And then dumb Grog, staring like he saw the sun turn blue!” She gave a barking laugh. “To imagine all these fools think the boy a Master!” She shook her head, amused. Slickleaf frowned slightly at that. Wasn’t he a Master Maker? Silva noticed her doubtful eyes.

“Oh, don’t pretend you believe all that nonsense the Shaman spouts at every Turning!” Silva snickered, grabbing a bottle of liquid spitfire from a shelf and taking a full swallow. The drink was enough to down most hunters with a sip, yet it didn’t seem to faze the Elder Owl.

“But he can call his magic in silence, so terrible it shies summer’s thunder! And the prophet had predicted his coming in his prophesy!” Slickleaf objected, only to Silva’s amusement.

“D’ya now how many things the old prophet has predicted? You know how many prophesies he scribbled on the old walls, so many ages ago?”

How many indeed? Slickleaf traced her memories, recalling the gloomy cut-stone Hollow; walls teaming with countless runes and writing.

“I don’t know.” She admitted.

“Thousands!” Silva took another swig, smacking her lips pleasantly, before speaking again.

“So, if he predicted so many things, without specifying a time or place, how big is the chance that after the passing of hundreds of years, one of them would prove true?”

It was like a smack in the face. All the tales, all the teachings that had decided the laws and rules of her Clan were now no more than, than –

“Guesses?”

Silva shrugged, tossing the leather-bound bottle to her. Slickleaf thought better of it though than drinking from it. She stuffed the stopper and placed it away.

“Or luck, coincidences, by accident. Truth is, he could be a Master, or perhaps not. But in the end, none of that matters. The people believe it, and that makes it fact as much as all the prophesies on those stuffy walls; more so even.”

Was Silva right? Could she be wrong? The grandness of the idea that the revered prophet was probably no better at foretelling the future than the average goat was much to take in.

“So… Where does this leave us?” She dared ask, and Silva smiled. That old smile, from way back to the roots of Slickleaf’s memories, that told everything would be alright. Because the Elder Owl always knew better. It was something Slickleaf took great comfort in.

“We use him.” Silva’s eyes were glowing. “Stay close to the boy, my little flower, and help him stretch his wings as broad as possible. Because, together with him, we will rise and glide to the top; to the pinnacle of power.”

Silva walked over to Slickleaf, grasping her shoulders firmly and looming over the girl with her great, crooked frame.

“Get his trust, Slickleaf, and do not lose it. The boy has something strange to his eyes. Something cold and cunning. So, you need to be smarter than him by half and two steps ahead at all times. And no matter what –“ The all-knowing Owl leaned in close, eyes round and burning bright. “– Be he man or Master, even the Gods can be fooled, it just takes the right fox to outwit the wolf.” She released her clasp and started shuffling to her old chair, sitting down with a groan.

“Old Hawk tried using the old writings and his fainting staff as an excuse to send you, my best pupil, away as a sacrifice; hoping by trading you to the Herald that he’d get powerful bones to carve in return. And Grog had taken that chance to estate his daughter here, the bastard. He’d let her soak up all I know, or as much as that girl’s tiny brain could hope to contain, and then rid of me; placing his own daughter as the Clan’s owl.” A frustrated growl escaped her.

“My authority only stretches so far. They’ve already gotten really close to dominance. Do not give them another chance, Slickleaf.” The Owl shuddered, wrapping her apron closer to ward against the low draft, seeping through the old walls, and closed her eyes, leaving Slickleaf alone with her coiling thoughts.

Bright thoughts of her youth, guided by Silva at every turn. Dark thoughts, of a future where Halfbloom would don the Owl’s apron and cast all proof of Slickleaf’s life into the abys of time.

She watched the girl trudge up the hill, labored by a bucket of water and sweating something fierce. No, she would not allow that. Not ever. Not for as long as the twin moons crossed the night sky and the sun was aflame. For as long as the Cradle held man, and the world held beast. Not ever.

She would make the Master her own, no matter the cost.