Belurat

Before long, the horses assembled at the edge of camp.

Besides Horace Loux, he had chosen four others: Cole, a young hunter skilled at tracking and remembering terrain; Layla, a woman who had served as an assistant negotiator during tribal conflicts; Finn, an apothecary's meticulous son who had studied both herbs and poisons; and a choice that surprised everyone-Notte, a boy of only sixteen who could already speak three dialects fluently.

"Notte is too young," Uriel objected in private.

"Precisely because he's young, the Hornsent might lower their guard." Horace Loux checked the baggage strapped to his saddle.

"And he learns languages quickly. If the Hornsent have their own writing, he'll be the fastest to memorize it."

Layla wore specially made light leather armor, with a short blade at her waist instead of her usual spear. She looked at Horace Loux. "Lord Loux, if the talks fall apart, how do we retreat?"

"Don't think about that." Horace Loux swung into the saddle, looking toward the black outline barely visible on the eastern horizon-the spires of Belurat, the Hornsent's tower settlement.

"Our goal isn't to reach an agreement. It's to observe, learn, and gather information. Remember, watch more and speak less. Above all, don't argue about matters of faith."

Their horses set off along the muddy path, following an ancient, dried-up riverbed east.

The first day passed peacefully. At dusk, they found a rocky cave to spend the night in. Cole set warning traps at the entrance, while Finn checked the surrounding plants to make sure there were no poisonous vines or hallucinogenic mushrooms.

That night, Horace Loux sat beside the campfire, sketching the terrain he had seen that day on a thin wooden board with a charcoal stick.

Notte edged over and asked quietly, "Lord Loux, do the Hornsent really chop up people without horns and put them in jars?"

"They do." Horace Loux did not hide it.

"That's why we won't go to those areas. Belurat has rules. At least they'll be somewhat more civilized."

Layla sharpened her short blade, its surface reflecting the flickering firelight. "Civilized? I hear they aren't very civilized toward shamans."

Silence fell for a moment.

Everyone knew what happened to shamans-abducted, whipped until their wounds festered, then thrown into ritual jars as "glue."

Even the warriors of the Wasteland found the Hornsent's behavior cruel.

"That's why we must remember what we came here for." Horace Loux put away the board.

At noon the next day, they saw Hornsent up close for the first time.

It was a small outpost built in a natural pass formed by rocks.

Several Hornsent soldiers stood guard. Just as the stories said, horns of various shapes grew from their heads-some curled like a ram's, others branched like antlers.

The Hornsent soldiers saw them too.

The tension tightened instantly. Spears rose, and bowstrings were drawn taut.

Horace Loux raised both hands to show that he held no weapon and called out slowly and clearly in the common tongue, "We are envoys from the northern tribes, bearing gifts and goodwill!"

After he repeated it three times, a veteran made a gesture, and the bows lowered slightly.

He replied stiffly, "Barbarians? Come to die?"

"To talk." Horace Loux urged his horse slowly forward, keeping a safe distance.

"Our chieftain and the Empyrean Marika wish to discuss the future of the Land of Shadow with the sages."

"An Empyrean?" The veteran sneered. "Another one. You hornless lot aren't even worthy of approaching the Scadutree."

Despite his words, he sent a young Hornsent behind the outpost with a message.

During the hour they waited, the five remained motionless, enduring the Hornsent soldiers' openly contemptuous scrutiny, particularly their stares at their smooth foreheads.

The messenger returned with a Hornsent wearing a dark brown robe.

This Hornsent had a distinctly different bearing, with calm eyes and a steady stride.

"I am Carus, a scribe of Belurat," he began, speaking the common tongue much more fluently.

"You say you represent the Empyrean Marika?"

"We represent the tribal chieftain Hoarah Loux and his consort, Marika," Horace Loux corrected, deliberately emphasizing their relationship as consorts.

A subtle look flickered in Carus's eyes. "Follow me. Keep your distance, touch nothing, and do not whisper among yourselves."

The road to Belurat sent chills down everyone's spine.

On either side of the road, every hundred paces stood corpses that had been gutted, stuffed with spices, and air-dried. They belonged to various races, but most were hornless "sinners."

The corpses had been arranged in kneeling poses of worship, facing the middle of the road, their hollow sockets seemingly watching every passerby.

More disturbing still was the "Pot Garden."

It was an open space filled with hundreds of earthenware jars of different sizes, some half a person's height, others no bigger than a fist.

Many of the jars trembled faintly, with muffled whimpering or the sound of churning liquid coming from within.

Several Potentates were at work. Holding oversized cleavers, they pinned a ** to a stone slab and began carefully cutting it apart.

"They make sure every piece is evenly sized to facilitate melding." Noticing their gazes, Carus explained calmly, as though describing the process of brewing wine.

"This is a blessing. Through the power of the Crucible, broken individuals are reborn as more complete 'good people.'"

Finn turned deathly pale and nearly vomited.

Horace Loux stopped him with a stern look, forcing himself to watch the entire process and remember every detail: the whips at the Potentates' waists, studded with yellowish-brown teeth; the "failures" piled beside the worktables; the lumps of flesh formed by botched meldings, casually discarded in the ditches.

Notte gripped his reins so tightly that his knuckles turned white, but the boy strained to keep his eyes wide open, his lips moving silently. Horace Loux could tell he was memorizing words in the Hornsent language.

At last, they reached Belurat.

The town was entirely unlike the tribal camps of the Wasteland.

Its buildings spiraled upward, forming multiple levels.

The lowest level held markets and workshops, the middle levels were residential districts, and at the very top stood the magnificent temple known as "Enir-Ilim," its spires piercing the low-hanging clouds.

The priests resided below the temple, with their own walls and guards.

Most Hornsent here were respectably dressed, and their behavior more closely resembled that of "civilized people" as Horace Loux understood them.

But their eyes were just as cold. Their condescending scrutiny was more suffocating than the Potentates' naked madness.

They were placed in a stone chamber to wait, with two spear-wielding guards at the door.

The stone chamber had no windows.

"My lord," Cole said quietly in the Wasteland dialect.

"To the southeast, in the third alley, there's a back gate with only two guards."

"There's a water channel in the northwest corner leading to the lower market," Layla added.

"But it's so narrow we'd have to crawl."

Horace Loux nodded slightly.

He had been watching for these things himself, but it was good that members of the team were taking the initiative to notice them.

The wait lasted nearly four hours.

Just as Finn began anxiously checking the herb pouch he carried, Carus returned. "The priests have agreed to receive you. But only two may enter, and you must surrender all weapons."

Horace Loux chose Layla to accompany him-a woman could sometimes make the other side lower their guard during negotiations, and Layla did have experience in such dealings.

They handed their short blades, daggers, and even their flints to the guards. Carrying only the bundle of gifts, they followed Carus through one spiraling corridor after another.

The council chamber lay on the temple's middle level, a circular hall where twelve priests sat on elevated stone seats. They were the oldest Hornsent.

"Barbarian envoys." The high priest's aged, hollow voice echoed through the hall.

"You claim to represent an Empyrean. But an Empyrean requires guidance. Where are your Fingers?"

Horace Loux's expression did not change. "Lady Marika's Fingers will appear when she deems it appropriate. We have come on behalf of our tribe to seek room to survive in the Land of Shadow, and... to discuss the possibility of cooperation."

"Cooperation?"

"The hornless are fit only to become material for jars. What can you offer besides your flesh and blood?"

Layla took a deep breath and spoke up. "We offer warriors. The Land of Shadow is about to face upheaval. Other Empyreans also covet the Hornsent's rule. Surely another ally is better than another enemy."

"Are you threatening us?" Another priest leaned forward.

"We are stating facts," Horace Loux replied calmly.

"The Gloam-Eyed Queen is already gathering her Godskin Apostles. And how enticing must the Hornsent who invoke divinity be to her, a hunter of gods?"

Several sages exchanged glances at these words.

Clearly, they knew of the Gloam-Eyed Queen.

The high sage spoke slowly. "The Hornsent have weathered countless upheavals. You barbarians, together with the Empyrean you picked up, are merely another vine seeking something to cling to. Leave. In recognition of your courage in setting foot here, we will allow you to leave Belurat alive. But do not return."

The talks had broken down, as expected.

Horace Loux did not press the matter and withdrew from the council chamber with Layla.

"They don't see us as people at all," Layla whispered through gritted teeth.

"They look at us like beasts that can talk."

"But we saw cracks too." Horace Loux quickened his pace.

"Those younger priests stayed silent while the high priest spoke. They aren't a united front. And their attitude when they mentioned the 'Fingers'... it seemed more wary than respectful."

They returned to the stone chamber, rejoined the others, and retrieved their weapons. The six immediately left.

Carus did not see them off, merely sending an ordinary guard to lead them out of town.

As they passed through the lower market, something unexpected happened.

A drunken Hornsent warrior suddenly rushed out of a tavern. At the sight of them, his eyes instantly reddened. "Hornless! There are hornless here!"

He snatched up a battle-axe leaning against the wall and charged. The guard tried to stop him, only to be knocked down with a punch.

"Run!" Horace Loux roared.

The six spurred their horses into a gallop, but the market streets were too narrow and crowded for them to pick up speed.

More Hornsent were alerted, and furious shouts came from every direction.

Some hurled things; others used incantations.

"Split up!" Horace Loux pointed in three directions.

"Cole, take Notte down the east alley! Finn, follow Layla through the waterway! I'll draw them away! Meet at the third marker outside town!"

He wheeled his horse around and deliberately charged toward the thickest crowd, drawing his short blade and slashing the horse's rump.

The startled horse neighed and charged wildly, scattering their pursuers for the moment.

Horace Loux crouched low. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cole and Notte turn into an alley, while Layla and Finn dismounted and ducked into the narrow entrance of a water channel.

But he himself was trapped. Ahead lay a dead end with stone walls on three sides, and the pursuers had already reached him from behind.

Hornsent warriors blocked the alley entrance, led by the drunkard. He grinned, baring yellow teeth. "Run, then. Let your grandpa see whether you hornless lot have softer bones."

Horace Loux dismounted, backed against the wall, and held his short blade across his chest.

Just as the Hornsent came within three paces, a black shadow descended from above.

It was not human.

Maliketh.

Marika's Shadow Beast.

"A beastman!" A Hornsent soldier recoiled in terror.

Ignoring the Hornsent, he turned to Horace Loux.

"You must not die here."

His words fell. The Hornsent soldiers' angry roars turned to terrified screams, followed by the dull thuds of heavy bodies hitting the ground.

Three breaths later, the mist dispersed. All the Hornsent lay unconscious, without a single wound on their bodies.

Maliketh gave Horace Loux a slight nod, then vanished.

Horace Loux's heart pounded, not because he had been saved-he could have handled those few Hornsent himself.

It was because Maliketh's appearance meant that Marika, or rather the Fingers behind her, had been watching this mission all along.

There was no time to dwell on it. He rushed out of the alley.

This time, no one stopped him. Even the Hornsent on the streets had hidden inside their houses, as though afraid of something.

At the rendezvous outside town, the other five had already arrived, all injured.

Cole's arm had been struck by a stone, Notte's forehead was grazed, and Layla and Finn had emerged from the water channel covered in filth, but they were all alive.

"Go! Leave this place now!" Horace Loux ordered sharply.

Four horses and one wounded horse raced west. Only when Belurat's spires disappeared below the horizon did they dare slow down.

That night, they camped in a secluded gorge.

Horace Loux checked everyone's injuries, and Finn treated them with the herbs he carried. Fortunately, they were all superficial wounds.

"What was that black shadow?" Notte finally could not help asking. Alongside fear, the boy's eyes held intense curiosity.

Horace Loux was silent for a moment. "Marika's guardian. It saved me."

"So the Empyrean has been watching us all along?" Layla asked perceptively.

"Perhaps." Horace Loux leaned against the rock wall and looked up at the night sky with its two moons.

"Perhaps she isn't the only one watching us."

His temples throbbed with pain.

But he forced himself to think: the Hornsent's arrogance and internal divisions, the Potentates' extreme behavior, the shadow beast's appearance, the Fingers' invisible manipulation... all these fragments needed to be pieced together into a usable map.

"Our mission failed," he said slowly.

"But we didn't come for nothing. First, there are cracks within the Hornsent. The younger priests are dissatisfied with the way things are. Second, they really do fear the other Empyreans, especially the Gloam-Eyed Queen..."

He stopped as a dangerous thought surfaced.

"My lord?" Cole asked in confusion.

"Nothing." Horace Loux shook his head.

"Rest. We leave before dawn tomorrow. We must return to the tribe before my elder brother does anything reckless."

There is debate over exactly how the older and younger M were born.

Judging by their abilities, the Gloam-Eyed Queen is the most reasonable possibility; judging by their hair color, Radagon is not impossible either.

According to the wicker man's mask, the older M's fire is the Fell God of Fire's flame, which connects it to the giants.

The author cannot figure it out either. There is a shed snakeskin in Bonny Village, but it is not quite like the older M's snake. Judging by its head, it looks more like the great serpent of the volcano.

Yet nearby, "O Mother" hints at Messmer.

In short, the author will not dig any deeper and will simply go to Liurnia to avoid the issue.