When Elion woke up, he felt better. Rest was definitely what he needed.
As he sat up, stretching his stiff limbs, the crackling fire caught his eye. Shadows danced across Farha and Eshrod's faces, flickering in rhythm with the flames.
"Well, well. Sleeping beauty's finally up," Eshrod teased.
Elion rubbed his eyes and scooted closer to the fire, groaning as his body reminded him of every bump and bruise.
"How long was I out?"
Farha turned her head to look at him while Eshrod answered,
"A while."
Elion's gaze landed on a pile of raw, dark red meat resting on a cloth nearby. He grimaced.
"Wait… don't tell me you cut meat off that thing—"
He didn't finish. The image of the Class III's twitching corpse slithered back into his mind, making his stomach churn.
"Yep," Eshrod said cheerfully. "We were hoping you'd make it taste good."
"You're serious?"
Elion didn't want to admit it, but he was considering it. Anything to avoid those chalky ration bars again.
Eshrod shrugged.
"We don't know how long we'll be stuck down here. Might as well save the rations for when we're truly desperate." She jabbed a thumb at him. "Now get to it, chef. I didn't save your asses for nothing."
Ah, what did I expect from her?
Muttering under his breath, Elion approached the unappetizing pile and pulled out the survival knife from his pack. He carved—with visible difficulty—the deep red, almost purple flesh into strips. Digging through his pack, he pulled out a stash of spice bags he'd wedged in wherever he could.
Farha raised an eyebrow. Eshrod looked at the pile with amused disbelief.
"That's called being prepared," Elion said defensively.
"We didn't say anything," Eshrod replied, barely stifling a laugh.
He ignored them and began seasoning the mystery meat, coating it in layers of spice with the practiced hands of someone who really didn't want to taste what it actually was.
Then, with no better option, he skewered the strips on his sword and held it over the flames. The alloy shimmered, turning shades of blue as the deep-red mystery lumps of fun sizzled and dripped.
"Isn't that going to ruin the blade?" Eshrod asked, watching with mild horror.
Elion shrugged.
"I'm sure Farha has a full armory of masterfully crafted weapons stored deep in her ability."
The mute girl turned to glare at him. She was not amused by the idea.
Disregarding her burning gaze, Elion flipped the sword, exposing the other side of the meat.
Oddly enough, sitting around a fire with them, grilling meat on a sword in a ruined temple, felt… peaceful. Beautiful, even.
Once it looked properly cooked, he pulled the sword back and let the meat cool. The scent was surprisingly enticing—spicy, smoky, savory. A far cry from the creature it had come from.
They each took a few pieces. Elion hesitated, then took a cautious bite.
Eshrod dug in like she was forgetting where it came from.
"This… is amazing!" she exclaimed, juices running down her chin. "When my dad grilled meat, it always turned into coal. But this—"
She stopped mid-thought, blinking.
Her father used to grill meat over a fire?
Elion tilted his head, intrigued. He didn't know much about her past. But there was something odd about both her background—and her ability.
"So, what's with your arms?" he asked. "And the eye."
Farha, happily chewing, paused and looked at Eshrod too.
"…That's my ability," she said simply. But she wasn't telling the whole story.
"Then why not dismiss it? Isn't it taxing on your soul?"
She swallowed her bite and stared at him.
"My ability works… differently." She tapped her closed eye—the one marked with a black X. "To use it, I have to sacrifice something."
She flexed her dark, glistening arms.
"Now I've got tougher, stronger limbs. Good deal, right?"
"Wait," Elion blinked. "Your ability is permanent?"
Eshrod shifted uncomfortably.
"I mean, I don't really know. The description was vague."
"You sacrificed your eye without knowing?!"
"I would've died otherwise. It was that or nothing." She looked away, jaw tightening. "Honestly, it could've gone way worse. If you saw what I fought yesterday, you'd be shocked I'm still breathing."
It's her body. She can do what she wants, I guess. She could kill herself for all I care! Well, maybe I would… a little. She's good muscle, after all. And not entirely unbearable.
Eshrod waved him off.
"Anyway, enough about me. What happened to you two?"
Elion looked at Farha, who had already finished her piece of meat and was reaching for another. He sighed and leaned back.
"Basically, we washed up upstream, patched ourselves up, then started looking for people. I couldn't walk, so…" He pointed at Farha. "She had to carry me."
Eshrod raised a single brow, a sly grin curling at her lips.
"Don't even say it," Elion cut her off.
"After that," he continued, "we ran into the Class III. Tried hiding in a crevice. Farha got some sleep, but it found us before I could. So we ran, again. That's when we found you."
"Huh. Must've been nice," Eshrod muttered. She tossed another strange-looking stick into the fire.
"I got thrown further downstream. Started heading up. That's when I ran into a massive Class III—thing was already half-dead, limbs snapped in every direction, but it still gave me hell."
She sat up straighter.
"But nothing stops me! Its corpse is what fueled the fire you cooked on."
Elion eyed a pile of vines and roots stacked in a dark corner of the temple.
"I keep it there," Eshrod said, following his gaze. "That damn thing kept coming back to life. I figure if I stash it where I can see it, I'll have a chance to react if it moves again."
Yeah… we've all had our own adventures.
Silence settled around the fire.
Farha glanced at her forearm, smiling faintly. Eshrod helped herself to another piece of meat.
"So, what now?" Elion finally asked. "Any suggestions on what to do?"
"We can't wait for rescue," Eshrod said. "They won't even realize we're missing for weeks. We were supposed to be down here for more than a month."
She paused. Then added,
"I think we need to find a First Finger on our own."
Elion began tapping his foot, mind spinning.
Finding a First Finger… unlikely. They're rare. And if Class IIIs are the weakest things here, we're not going to last long.
Then he remembered something—a fragment from a book he once read:
All known First Fingers have been found at significant landmarks.
Maybe this river counts. If the estuary holds a shrine…
It was a long shot. But it was the best one they had.
Going back upstream was suicide, and staying put meant waiting to unravel or be found by something worse.
Eshrod must have noticed the look in his eyes.
"What are you thinking?"
Elion clicked his tongue.
"We follow the river to its estuary. If there's a First Finger nearby, it'll be there."
Eshrod nodded.
"Makes sense."
Farha looked thoughtful, then nodded too.
Eshrod squinted at Elion, suddenly narrowing her eyes.
"Wait… what's up with your hair?" She turned to Farha, pointing at him. "Doesn't it look paler?" Her expression shifted in an instant, twisting into panic. "Wait—don't tell me it's time dilation! Are we aging faster down here?! Is it the river?!"
Elion blinked.
"What… are you talking about?"
Eshrod grabbed a lock of her own hair.
"Do I look older? Am I greying?! Is my hair turning white?!"
Farha frowned, clearly confused.
Before she could spiral further, Elion sighed, exasperated.
"No. We're not aging faster. My hair is naturally white, okay? Like my father's. I just dye it black to avoid standing out." He gestured vaguely. "And clearly the dye's fading, because I didn't pack for hair care when we got dropped in S33."
Eshrod looked away, a hint of embarrassment flickering across her face before she covered it with a smirk.
"You? White hair? Now that I gotta see."
"I'm sure you do…"
Farha studied him quietly. Her eyes narrowed as if imagining it. Then she smiled—nearly laughed—before turning away to hide it.