Kalik was too nosy for his own good. Even Rasha, his favorite cousin, thought so. “Listen,” she said, hefting her knife. “Stealing supplies from a Canid camp and cutting off Granduncle’s whiskers was one thing, but this is another. Nosy Ermehn end up dead.” But Kalik was the type of Ermehn who felt an itch in the bottom of his feet when he smelled a secret, an itch that crawled up his hide and pricked him every which way until he had weaseled into a truth, and no amount of advice would keep him from it. He had his teeth and his knife. No one needed anything else for secret-seeking.

It was on the cusp of autumn that Sratha’s army slaughtered a tribe of Halvs for helping some Canid. The group—all elders, parents, and children—was dead within in a day. Their bodies lay scattered around their tents and huts. Several of them slumped halfway out of their tents. None of them had been able to run. Kalik almost felt pity for their strange, smooth skin and their nonexistent muzzles. No wonder they wore so many clothes, he thought. They could never face the cold otherwise. He and Rasha hung back from the scattered bodies when their alchemist, Bagúr, approached an old chieftain: the last of the Nanza tribe left.

Bagúr studied the old man’s face. Kalik thought the old man looked ready to spit on him. The splotch of blood on his temple did nothing to hide his furrowed brows of disgust. He clutched his cane with gnarled hands, bent with the knowledge of being the last one left. Charms hung around his wrinkled neck. The circle of weapons pointed at the old man grew sharper in the fading light.

Bagúr smiled. It was a polite smile, almost. He leaned down, hands on his knees, to look the old man in the face. The amber clasp on his cloak and the beads on his necklace rattled against the hollow of his collar. His teeth were as polished as his jewelry.

“If those Canid hadn’t come here,” he said, “we probably would've left you Halvs all alone.”

The old man hunched lower. Kalik spotted a tremor in his veiny hands. Nadirians of any tribe hated being called Halvs. Still, he remained silent. Bagúr, being Bagúr, gave him a teasing look that could draw blood. His tail swished behind him.

“Still with the silent act?” Bagúr said. “It’s a shame it came to this. You know, your lot could have lived a little longer if you hadn’t stuck to old traditions and saved yourselves.” He straightened up, disgust tightening the corners of his mouth. “We’re done here. Kalik, Rasha: take him to the camp. He’s our mandatory guest. The rest of you, clean this mess up. Halvs are bad enough when they’re not cluttering our land.”

With that, the alchemist padded back towards the woods. The Ermehn murmured. As Kalik and Rasha escorted the old man out, the rest of the Ermehn warriors began piling bodies on the edge of the sticky glade. Kalik found himself watching Bagúr’s disappearing back as much as their prisoner. An evening breeze nipped at their faces. The old man shuddered. His bare brown skin was already breaking out in goosebumps. Rasha gave Kalik a look. Can you believe this? He’s already cold.

How strange Halvs were, with their crescent trimmed claws and too-long manes that only clung to their heads. In fascination, Kalik watched the chieftain—now a lone old man—shiver in the autumn twilight. The itch sparked in Kalik’s feet. He knew the rumors behind Bagúr’s powers. He knew the ones about their alchemist somehow using Halv magic, too. Bagúr did not need anything from anyone. What, Kalik thought, could he possibly want from an old man?

It was a stupid plan so Rasha refused to join the stakeout. She did not want to know what their commander was up to. Kalik didn’t begrudge her too much. It was not her fault that only one of them could be the bravest cousin. To spare himself a slap, he didn’t tell her that. Kalik settled down in one of the fortress’ many nooks. There was an armory beside the main hall that he was fond of. If he pressed his slinky back against its corner just right, he could smell spiderwebs and dried mud making the scent of home. He could also peer through a knothole into the small main hall. If anyone was going anywhere, he would see them. Night settled onto the fortress. It pressed its shadows into every crook and crack of the fort. A chill sunk into the stone floor. Kalik curled close to himself to stay warm. Outside, those in their tents were doing the same thing. Darkness swallowed the room around him.

It was in the middle of the night, when the floor was coldest and the dull moon was dullest, and no one but the restless were up, that Kalik heard footsteps. He peered through the knothole. Bagúr walked down the hall. His cloak gave the faintest swish against the floor. As Kalik watched, Bagúr passed the door to the dungeon. Kalik frowned. Where was he going? The main door creaked. Dusty moonlight spilled into the hall. In seconds, the alchemist slipped outside.

Kalik scrambled down the hall. He squeezed through the door without missing a breath. Outside the fort, the waning moon cast its light against the forest. Sheets of white broke against the fort’s rocks and the sides of tents. Bagúr was already entering the forest.

Was it a bad idea, to follow their alchemist commander into the woods? Probably. Kalik followed him anyway. Bad ideas were untested good ones until they drew blood. Kalik, uninjured, decided to continue moving forward. Bagúr was not too hard to track. His cloak outlined his shape in the broken moonlight. The shriveling conifers around them made a snug, sharp forest. Kalik wound around loop after twisty loop as he trailed his quarry into the woods. They lost the stars to clearer skies. Owls screamed in the murk.

Kalik’s belly scraped along some of the tight, low paths they snuck along. The forest floor smelled of glacier water. No ermehn had been here for a long time. Kalik sniffed. Had someone left a slain bird out here? The stench of rot was soft but present. It snuck beneath the glacier water smell like dirt beneath Kalik’s claws. The longer he walked, the stronger the rotten smell grew. It reminded Kalik of the maggoty grouse he had found as a child. Rasha had been with him, then. He wished she was here now.

Kalik stopped when a twig snapped beneath his foot. Bagur had vanished. Kalik swore. How had he lost track of him? One moment the alchemist had been there, the other he was gone. The empty path in front of him threaded deeper into the woods. Kalik restrained his panic. If he didn’t turn around he could only move forward. He did not know where he was going, or what turns to take when he found them. It was too late to go back now. Kalik forged forward. His footfalls sounded incredibly loud to himself. No matter how far he walked, lost and alone, he found no other sounds of life.

Wind hissed in his ear. Kalik found his teeth chattering. He bit his lip, stopping himself. What was wrong with him? It was too early in the season for this. He was no furless Halv. Still, the cold air raked his belly like so many claws. The wind tasted of winter. Kalik found himself hunching to avoid it. His whiskers quivered. The way the wind broke around the trees in hollow gasps made it shrill, almost melancholy. Kalik did not want to hear its whispering.

The forest thinned. Patches of the starless sky shone on them. An undercurrent of red tinged the night. It was not dawn’s blush. The red here was the red of a stomped-on egg that had been close to hatching. Kalik finally straightened up. He started when he saw the path ahead. It swept around the side of a familiar fallen log. This was the same road he and Rasha had stalked down for the camp ambush. The glade of fallen Halvs lay up ahead. Bunches of shimmery light, stars wrapped up in beetle shells, floated inside the glade. They drifted behind trees and the remains of tents, toying with Kalik’s eyes. If Bagúr was here, why? Kalik realized his heart was pounding. The smell of rotten flesh overpowered his nose.

Curiosity won out over fear. Kalik crept towards the glade. He hid behind the same hut where a family of three had died not a day ago. Arborglyphs oozed on the sides of trees. Kalik did not know their shapes. Crunching noises emitted from the center of the glade. If Kalik leaned over, he could spy an edge of the body pile, surrounded by what appears to be little rock effigies. Their shapes carved a border against the ugly sight. Kalik could not see anything else. The crunching noises continued. A hand landed among the stones. Its fingers reached at nothing. Kalik slowly walked around the hut’s side and into the glade.

The heap of dead Nanza tribe members stared at him. Their limbs stuck out from the pile at all angles. Blood soaked the ground around them. Strange rock effigies were scattered around the glade, and in the middle of the them danced Bagúr. Gore dyed his chin. With every swaying step he took, he tore a limb or hunk of meat from a fallen Halv, feasting on their corpses. Marrow and skin peeled beneath his teeth. Flesh tore; bones broke. Flickering blue orbs swayed around him in the reddened night sky. They hummed to his frenzied motions. Bagúr twirled and pranced to a horrible music that only he could hear; after he snatched one hand and devoured it, fingers breaking in his jaws, he was already lunging for another body, his cape twirling. He blended with the red sky before he twisted his waist, breaking into his own reality. No pupils marred his eyes. Death’s stench swallowed everything.

It was a monstrous display, but Kalik could not look away. His stomach heaved. Shock bound him to the place he stood, trembling, as all the while his body screamed run, run, run. He watched his commander cavort through the ritual like a hawk tearing into grouse nestlings. A dawning realization melded with his horror. This grotesque ritual was the price his alchemist—this witch—paid to wield the power of the halvs. No Ermehn, no Dunian, could hold the blessings of spirits in their bodies naturally. But were they to consume Halv flesh, drink their blood, and claim part of their being, then they stole magic from the very corpse that owned it.

Kalik was too transfixed to move. When he saw the madman reach towards a half-gutted chest, his claws sinking into a liver, it was enough. Kalik ripped himself away. His legs shook as he tried not to be sick. Every inch of his fur was on end. Kalik tore around the corner of the hut. With a thump, he slammed into the old man’s chest.

One eye was gone. A raw crater dented the old man’s face instead. His windpipe slumped out of his throat, scored with teeth marks. Deep scratches cleaved his collar. Glazed eyes gazed forward at nothing. A half-eaten hand grabbed at Kalik. Shattered bone scraped his arm. In the woods behind him stood countless more rotten, hollow-eyed corpses, balefully staring at Kalik from behind trees. They were silent and still even as the old man grasped Kalik’s arm.

Kalik swallowed a scream. He lashed out at the old man, kicking at him, tearing his face with his claws. The old man stumbled back. Kalik fled into the woods. The world blurred around him. A branch tore his kilt. The road spiraled into broken fragments that went nowhere. Kalik tripped, rolling down a short hill. In moments he was up again, ignoring the taste of copper on his tongue and the rip in his ear. He fled forward into nowhere. All the while, he heard the garbled sound of everyone in the Nanza village screaming at once, and pictured the flash of stained fangs.

The next morning, the alchemist was early to breakfast. He cheerily greeted everyone at the table before seating himself. Rasha could not find her cousin. She searched and searched until she found him curled in the corner of their armory.

“Kalik, what’s wrong?” she said. Rasha knelt next to him, her bracelets jangling. “What did you see?”

Kalik said nothing. He peered out a knothole in the wall before sinking back into his corner. Despite Rasha’s coaxing he would not go to breakfast. He only ate when she told him their alchemist was gone.