I woke up spitting.

  Not politely either. Full reflex, full disgust, like my mouth had decided it wanted nothing to do with whatever was being poured into it.

  A bowl was pressed to my lips, and the second the liquid hit my tongue I gagged and spat it right back out. Bitter. Intensely bitter. The kind of bitter that made my whole mouth feel offended.

  The bowl pulled away, and before I could even finish blinking the sleep out of my eyes, my head got slapped.

  Not hard enough to knock me out again, but sharp enough to rip me out of that half-awake haze and snap my attention into place.

  I sucked in a breath and looked up.

  An elderly woman stood over me, dressed in hide like it was normal, like civilization had never happened. Around her neck hung multiple ornaments of animal teeth and bones, stacked and layered until it looked less like jewelry and more like a warning. In her hand she held the bowl, now half empty, filled with a murky gray liquid with bits of plants floating in it.

  If someone told me she was some kind of witch with an alchemical inclination, I would not hesitate to believe them. She looked exactly like what a desperate person would crawl to when they were out of options.

  She also wore a scowl like I had just spat out liquid gold.

  Off to the side, near the exit, a guard stood watching me. Not casually either. Eyeing me. Like he was there in case I decided to wake up and do something stupid.

  Then everything caught up to me all at once. The running. The cold. The mountains. The hide tents. The herbs hanging around the entrance. Me being led inside. Me passing out.

  Right. I was probably in some kind of healer tent. And the guard was absolutely there to keep me from trying anything.

  The elder brought the bowl to my lips again.

  I hesitated.

  Her scowl deepened. Like she was daring me to argue.

  Fine.

  I took a sip.

  It was just as bad as I remembered. Worse, actually, now that my brain was fully online. I almost spat again out of pure instinct, but I caught the old woman’s expression and forced myself to swallow instead.

  The second it went down, I went into a coughing fit. Not polite coughing either. Full body, throat burning, eyes watering, trying not to throw up on her floor kind of coughing.

  When I finally got it under control and managed to breathe without choking, I saw she had already walked away to a different section of the tent, like my suffering was background noise. She started messing with something over there, shifting bundles, doing whatever witches do when they are not slapping patients.

  The guard stayed at the exit, grumpy and slouched again, like he was not happy about being put on babysitting duty.

  I looked around and realized I was in some kind of private section, separated off by hanging ornaments and cords. Hopefully a guest space. Hopefully not a prisoner space. Hard to tell without knowing more about this tribe.

  Since I seemed to have all the time in the world, I did a quick one-over on myself. Bandages wrapped my thigh. More bandages crossed my chest. Whoever put them on had at least done it tight and clean enough that nothing felt actively wrong.

  I also noticed the fever seemed lower than it had been. At least I thought it was lower.

  The tent itself was lightly decorated. Ornaments hung from the ceiling, but there was an exceptional amount hanging around the doorway, like the entrance needed extra protection. Some pieces were simple teeth or bone. A couple were carved into animals, crude but recognizable. And there was one ornament in an abstract shape I had never seen before.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Maybe some kind of local religious symbol.

  With nothing else to do, I tried piecing together what had happened.

  The villagers had been scared of me, likely tying me to that solar eclipse for some reason. Superstition. A bad omen. Something like that.

  Then I had arrived at the clearing to try to warm up, and that was where I met the group. They were clearly waiting there, like it was a meetup spot for a second group to arrive.

  I still did not understand why they did not shoot me on the spot. Maybe it was my appearance. Maybe they could not tell if I was an enemy. Or maybe they did not want to deal with a body when they had no idea how long they would be waiting. Perhaps they didn’t want to deal with the smell of blood in their meeting spot.

  Then the second group arrived, looking like they had been in a fight.

  Maybe a faction fight. Maybe a raid. But if it was a real fight, why did only some of them wear the warpaint? Why not all of them.

  They talked. The leader seemed to like whatever he heard about me, because he decided to take me with them. Kidnapped me, really, and then kindly did not kill me off.

  Then we ran. And ran. And eventually I started holding them back. Fever, weakness, dragging my feet.

  And still, they did not finish me off.

  So whatever reason they dragged me along had to be important enough that they risked getting caught because of it.

  I was still turning that over when I got pulled out of my thoughts by movement.

  Someone entered my section.

  I looked up.

  A young woman walked in, wearing hide clothing that actually looked nice, fitted and cared for, and some kind of cloth painted blue and gray. She looked like she took care of herself, which was impressive for someone living in a tribe that seemed to have zero technology beyond knives and fire.

  Ornaments were woven directly into her hair, and resting at her forehead was that same abstract ornament shape I had noticed hanging by the doorway.

  Behind her came another guard wearing a similar blue and gray color palette. He had more mass than the one who had been slouching at the exit, and the slouching guard immediately sat up straight when this pair entered, like he had just remembered how to behave.

  Important.

  Got it.

  The young woman sat on the opposite side of me, close enough that we could talk comfortably, but not close enough that I could reach her before her guard turned me into something with extra holes. The positioning was deliberate. Safe. Controlled.

  She took out a small trinket and placed it in front of me. Then she pulled out a pouch, poured out a bit of what looked like ash, and sprinkled it over the trinket.

  I tilted my head, watching closely, trying to piece together what she was doing. A ritual perhaps?

  When she seemed satisfied, she looked at me and said something.

  I understood nothing.

  So yeah, maybe she was some kind of fancy translator they had around.

  “I’m sorry, lady,” I said, my voice rough from coughing. “But I doubt you’ll be able to understand me no matter how many languages you know.” I swallowed, still tasting bitter plants. “But thank the witch for healing me up. Even if you don’t understand me, I feel like that’s the least I owe you all.”

  She furrowed her forehead and started speaking again, trying multiple words, one after another. Each sounded more different than the last, until even I could tell she had definitely switched languages at least once.

  Still nothing.

  Seeing no reaction from me, she sighed like she had hit the limit of her patience. Then she pointed at herself and said the same word again, slower this time, like she was handing me something simple.

  “Liang.”

  She repeated it.

  My brain clicked.

  Name.

  I pointed at her, which made her guard frown, but he did not move. “Liang,” I repeated.

  She nodded, satisfied, and pointed at me.

  “All right,” I said. “James. James Cadiver.”

  She nodded and repeated it confidently.

  “Jie mins.”

  I blinked.

  “Uh, no. That’s not right,” I said. “It’s James. James.”

  Instead of reconsidering, she looked even more certain, like I was agreeing with her.

  “Jie mins,” she said again.

  I stared at her, then at her guard who didn’t seem to find anything amiss, then at the trinket, then at the ash like it was somehow responsible.

  Are we sure this translator isn’t a quack.