Chapter 14 — Dirty Bandages, Tart Decoction, and a Low Hum

Morning arrived gray and heavy, like yesterday's clay beneath one's feet. Alex woke up because someone poked him unceremoniously in the shoulder—the wounded one, of course—and pain shot down his arm, reminding him that the nighttime breach had not been a dream. He opened his eyes and saw Ilsa; she stood over him with the expression of a strict mother who had caught her son trying to climb onto the roof of the shed. In her hands, she held a fresh bandage and a pungent green salve. Ilsa grumbled something—briefly, with an intonation that could be translated even without the language as "idiot, look at the hero we've found"—and began changing the rags. Her fingers moved quickly, almost roughly, but an awkward care permeated her movements: she tried not to look him in the eye, as if afraid he would see something too human in them. Alex hissed through his teeth, trying to smile, but it came out crooked. Yesterday he had been a stranger for whom a spot by the wall was tolerated; today, he was an idiot who had nearly given a leg for their yard. Ilsa finished, dusted off her hands, and pointed toward the doorway, clearly hinting that he shouldn't try to be a hero any further. Alex nodded, feeling the sticky fear recede. It wasn't a "thank you," but a "don't you dare do that again."

Breakfast became the logical consequence of the night's battle. Under the canopy by the communal hearth, where it smelled of smoke and yesterday's turnips, Alex tried to be useful: he stood up to help with the pot, but his wounded leg buckled, and he nearly overturned the entire table. Bram, sitting opposite, gave a dry, short huff, without malice, like a man who had already seen enough stupid attempts to die beautifully. Ilsa caught the pot in mid-air, set it back down, and gestured for Alex to sit back down, as if saying, "Sit, or we'll tie you down ourselves." Kael now silently pushed a bowl of porridge toward him, adding a piece of yesterday's bread on top—the gesture was almost tender, if one ignored the fact that the bread was as hard as yesterday's stones by the breach. Alex chewed, grimacing from the pain in his arm, and thought that this was probably the most earthly breakfast of his new life: no solemn recognition, only porridge, pain, and a silent agreement that he was now part of this village machine. He tried to stand again to take away the empty bowl, but Holger simply placed a heavy palm on his shoulder—wordless, but clear: "Sit and don't fidget." Alex sat back down, feeling the irony of the situation tickle somewhere under his ribs. Being useful in this world meant, first and foremost, not getting in the way.

Arno, with dried clay on his sleeves and cheek, stepped closer and silently hooked the bench with his toe, sliding it so that Alex could stretch out his wounded leg. Then he shoved a wooden spoon into his hand and pointed first to the bowl, then to the bench, then to Alex himself. The gesture was rough, almost commanding, but it lacked the previous suspicion. Today, his job was to sit, eat, and not fall apart. Alex wanted to make a grateful bow, but his shoulder immediately reminded him that the bow was canceled. All he managed was an awkward nod. Arguing didn't work either: his body voted for the bench with both hands, especially the one that still obeyed. Arno snorted, turned away, and busied himself with his belt, as if nothing important had happened. But Alex noticed how he remained nearby, slightly to the side, where he could quickly catch him if the leg buckled again.

After eating, Alex lingered by the hearth, warming his fingers on a coarse mug of tart decoction. A borrowed woolen shirt lay across his knees—yesterday it had been new protection, now it was torn, stained with dirt and dark streaks of blood. Beneath it peeked his old office shirt, a ridiculous thin layer between his former life and the fresh, ragged gashes from the claws of this world. Alex ran a finger beside one tear and winced: here it was, the local loyalty system. First they tolerate you, then they feed you, then you discover that you're already worrying about their bowls, benches, and stubborn faces. No triumphant music, just an extremely inconvenient attachment that there was now no escaping.

When the porridge was finished, everyone headed toward the carcass of the creature that Bram had gutted by the fire yesterday. Alex walked last, limping, and every step echoed with a dull pain in his thigh. Over the night, flies had swarmed the carcass; the sliced opening had dried at the edges, and inside, a thin gray coating had formed, as if it had been burned from within and left as mere chaff. Bram pried up one of the claws with a knife and showed everyone the ashen crust; it glowed faintly, smelled of sharp ozone, and didn't crumble even under the blade. Alex watched and felt a quiet, sticky vulnerability rise within him. These weren't hunters. If whatever had driven these creatures out of the forest, leaving them scorched with ash on their claws, ever broke through the gap in the fence—hot water and sticks would not save them. Not Arno, nor Ilsa, nor Kael. Nor this boy who was currently hauling water. His hand clenched into a fist of its own accord against the wet fabric of the bandage. His fingers let go immediately: the wound pulsed beneath the dressing, and that was a better reminder than any promise of how beautiful stupidity ends.

Bram, noticing his gaze, silently broke off a piece of stale bread, split it in half, and shoved one half into Alex's palm. Gutturally, almost with a growl, he uttered a short word. Alex smirked and tried to reproduce the sound—it came out as a hoarse, ridiculous gurgle. Bram snorted and almost smiled in response, the corners of his eyes wrinkling slightly. Their eyes met for a second, and in that silent exchange was everything: "Don't be so stupid again" and "Thanks for not running away." Alex took the bread, nodded, and bit into it; the crust scratched the roof of his mouth, but at that moment, it seemed the most human thing he had tasted across three worlds.

The conversation by the carcass was short and anxious, though there were almost no words. Holger crouched nearby, poked the dried incision with a finger, then nodded toward the forest—the gesture was as heavy as his boot. Bram added his own: he ran a hand across his throat, then pointed to the claws with ash and spread his arms, as if saying "more." Alex understood. The creatures hadn't been running from hunger—they were driven by something that left emptiness and ash in its wake. Ilsa stood slightly apart, hugging herself, her gaze fixed on the trees beyond the stone wall. The atmosphere thickened, like yesterday's animal stench, and Alex felt anxiety crawl up his spine. This wasn't the end of the threat, but only a hint of a larger one that had yet to reveal itself. He swallowed, but nodded—as if to say, I get it. Wonderful: now he wasn't just wounded, but had also morally signed up for the local fire brigade without the right to resign.

Evening arrived quietly, with the crackle of embers in the hearth and a fatigue that settled over him like an old blanket. Alex lay in the same stable where he had woken up yesterday, only now there was fresh straw beside him, and before leaving, Ilsa had adjusted his blanket, lingered her palm on his healthy shoulder, and quietly uttered something guttural that sounded like "rest," leaving the salve and a clean rag nearby. The pain had subsided to a throbbing ache, there was nothing majestic about the ceiling, and the livestock nearby breathed so loudly it was as if they also had an opinion on heroism. Alex thought that if this was a home, it was a very poorly ventilated one. But for some reason, he wanted to leave this place less than he had yesterday, and that was suspicious.

Sleep had already begun to pull him under when the yard suddenly became too quiet. Until then, people had been talking somewhere, dishes had been clinking, and village dogs had been barking briefly. Now everything cut off, as if someone had covered the settlement with a wet palm. Alex opened his eyes but didn't move. From afar, from beyond the wall, came a low, wet hum from the thicket—not wind, but something deeper, heavier. In the hearth beyond the wall, the embers flickered and dimmed, as if blown out by an invisible breath. Alex shuddered, but fatigue was stronger than fear: his eyelids closed on their own. The hook remained hanging in the darkness: that which had driven the creatures had not yet arrived. And when it did, this place would have to be held tighter than yesterday's wall.