Chapter 29: A Stolen Pot

After Vaelira led the other women away, Seraya lingered outside her cave for a moment with her arms hanging limp at her sides, looking as sullen as if, instead of dodging an execution, she had just been handed a brand-new, vastly more grueling sentence.

Niva, evidently, read her silence in a completely different light. She stepped up with a beaming smile and wrapped her arms tight around Seraya, pressing her cheek against her shoulder. Noticeably shorter, her petite, soft frame snuggled without hesitation beneath Seraya's arm. Hugged so close, Niva's rounded bust inadvertently pressed into Seraya's ribs, while her bushy fox tail swished in excitement, brushing against Seraya's bare thigh in a warm, tingling sweep. The girl's long, white rabbit ears twitched right beside the warrior's neck, tickling her skin with every excited breath.

"Warrior, you truly thought of everyone," she said with such breathless adoration that Seraya squeezed her eyes shut, catching her breath at the sudden, almost overwhelmingly sensual warmth. "Even when they accused you, you never stopped helping them."

Seraya looked down at her, then out at the deserted trail Vaelira had departed down moments before, and let out a heavy sigh.

"Niva, maybe hold off on calling me a saint for just a second," she muttered. "Can you seriously not see the look on my face?"

The girl drew back slightly, tilting her head to study her more closely, only now realizing that rejoicing over having saved her skull wasn't the only emotion one could feel after an evening like this.

"What's wrong?"

"I made myself a pot," Seraya answered, pointing to the vessel by the hearth. "One pot, just so I could cook my own dinner in peace. And now I'm supposed to churn out more and teach the whole damn tribe what to toss inside."

Niva glanced at it, not entirely understanding why something so wonderful should be a cause for despair, while Seraya sank onto a stone and buried her face in her hands.

First they nearly slaughter me for molding it, and now they're going to stand watch to make sure I mold fast enough... Jesus Christ, was there really no normal way to resolve this?

Only a short while ago she had been thrilled by her first successful pot and the taste of the soup, but now every glance at the clay served as a grim reminder of all the other caves whose dwellers were already daydreaming about their own cookware. She didn't mind showing someone the ropes, but the prospect of turning her days into an endless cycle of kneading, drying, firing, and cooking thoroughly gutted what remained of her good mood.

Niva lingered a while longer, helping tidy the workspace and trying to draw her into conversation with gentle questions, but when Seraya's replies became punctuated by longer and longer yawns, she finally decided the warrior needed sleep far more than small talk. Saying a quiet goodnight, she returned to the communal cave. Seraya carried the cooled pot and bowls inside, pushed the tools away from the bedding, and was just about to lie down when she felt the sweat-dampened cloth clinging unpleasantly to her back.

Exhaustion weighed on her shoulders, yet the crowd's roars, the grip on her wrists, and Vaelira's face - swinging from executioner to demanding seconds in the span of a single evening - still buzzed through her head. She ran a hand over the back of her neck, grimacing at the caked dirt, and glanced toward the dark entrance, figuring that if she lay down like this, she would only toss and turn.

First they nearly kill me, then they eat my dinner, and to top it off, I get assigned extra shifts... What a fucking stellar day.

Grabbing a scrap of clean cloth to dry off with, she slipped out to the pond, pausing to listen to the nighttime sounds of the valley. Faint voices drifted from afar, but all was quiet around her cave, the dark water rippling gently where the mountain stream fed into the shallows.

Checking her surroundings once more, she peeled off her clothes and laid them on a dry boulder, trying not to dwell on how surreal her life had become when taking a simple bath required scouting the bushes first. The cold clamped around her ankles on the first step, then her calves, and as she waded deeper, she gritted her teeth and sucked in air with a sharp hiss, as though the pond were personally punishing her for every curse she'd uttered today.

"Right, well, at least I won't fall asleep on my feet now," she muttered, sinking down slowly and waiting for her body to adjust to the chill.

She washed her face, neck, and shoulders, then ran her palms over her skin, scrubbing away the grime and sweat left from getting tackled in the dirt. Only now, with nobody demanding anything of her, could she inhabit her familiar body without rushing - though the word "familiar" still came with a major asterisk.

She stared at her reflection fractured by tiny ripples and lightly traced the right side of her face, where the Crimson Mark rested.

So it really isn't just a cosmetic quirk from the transmigration... Morra has it, Selka has it, Raska has it too, but Niva and Vaelira don't.

She had noticed these patterns in passing between crises, but only now was she trying to piece them into something coherent. Women with the Mark were generally tall and visibly muscular; remembering the warriors who had pinned her to the ground, she rubbed her bruised shoulder on reflex.

Yeah, that branch of local biology I've had the pleasure of experiencing firsthand.

Her thoughts drifted to their silhouettes and a faint blush touched her face, as her musings on strength and height slid toward observations she had made without quite wanting to admit them to herself.

Niva's probably a B-cup, at a glance... Vaelira maybe a C, though it's not like I'm breaking out a measuring tape, damn it.

She snorted softly, cupping water in her hands, but the memory of the gatherer who had helped her identify mushrooms cut her short. She remembered the woman's broad shoulders, the mark on the right side of her face, and a bountiful bust that a loose wrap did nothing to conceal, especially when bending over the specimens.

That one had to be an F-cup at least...

She tried to think of anyone with a Mark who had small breasts, but drew a blank - just as she hadn't yet seen an unmarked woman with a build as voluptuous as that gatherer's. For a moment she was ready to chalk it up as an ironclad rule of this world, then frowned, reminding herself how few people she had actually met and the frantic circumstances in which she had observed them.

Easy now. You've seen one valley, not every woman on the planet... Maybe you just haven't run into an exception yet.

Animal ears and tails were an entirely different story; those traits mixed and matched so freely that any attempt to sort the tribe into rabbits, foxes, or wolves collapsed the moment you looked at Niva. White rabbit ears and a snow-fox tail belonged to the exact same girl, while Raska looked as though nature had thrown several ideas into a blender without asking anyone's opinion.

So the Mark tells me a lot more than a tail does... And while I don't have a single animal trait, I ended up with the two things I never had before.

Her gaze drifted downward, and as she considered that second change, her cheeks flushed warm despite the freezing water. Over the past few days, she had treated her new anatomy strictly as an added nuisance - something to navigate while dressing, moving, and handling daily necessities - yet now, for the very first time, she didn't have to instantly look away.

Well, hello there, little buddy... I still maintain someone should've asked for my consent first, but nothing I can do about it now...

She scoffed under her breath, though humor couldn't entirely quell the curiosity that crept in with this rare pocket of peace.

After all, it looks like every woman with a red mark on her face packs one of you...

She wondered how much of her physical sensation remained familiar and how much was uncharted territory, and that thought alone was enough to make her prick up her ears in sudden paranoia, as though someone could overhear her thoughts. For a moment she simply let herself grow accustomed to its presence, taking her time without pretending the change would vanish if she ignored it. But when a rustle broke the silence from the far bank, her head snapped up so fast that water splashed across her shoulders.

It was almost certainly a small animal or a swaying branch, yet Seraya felt as though she had just been caught doing something mortifyingly indecent.

"All right, enough fieldwork for one night," she muttered, sweeping wet hair from her eyes.

She clambered onto the bank, dried off as best she could with the scrap of cloth, and pulled her clothes on, wrestling for a moment with fabric sticking to damp skin. By the time she got back into the cave, her cheeks were still warm, but her mind had drifted away from the angry mob and threats of death, exhaustion finally winning out.

Lying on the bed, she adjusted the clothing bunching at her side and turned her face to the rock wall, trying to push her pond-side reflections out of her head.

Tomorrow I tackle the pots... At least they don't make me wonder what the hell is hanging between my legs.

With that final, thoroughly unconvincing solace, she closed her eyes, and after a few slow breaths, fell fast asleep.

Not long after, several shadowy figures crept stealthily outside the cave. Raska, leading the pack, held up a hand to halt them, peering inside to listen to the rhythmic breathing of a sleeping Seraya.

One of the women leaned in close, glancing anxiously over her shoulder at the darkened path.

"If the Grand Shaman finds out we took the warrior's things, we're in deep trouble," she whispered, clearly losing her nerve.

Raska glared back in irritation, her ears twitching at a soft rustle from the bedroll inside.

"What warrior?" she muttered under her breath. "She had a full pot and dished it out to everyone, but suddenly there was none left for us."

"We saw it was empty, though..."

"Was the pond empty too?" Raska pointed at the dark surface of the water, as though laying down an unassailable argument. "She could've drawn more and made another batch if she wanted to."

Her companion frowned, trying to remember what ingredients Seraya had thrown inside, but Raska cut her off, raising a hand and leaning toward the entrance.

"Quiet, before you wake her. We take the pot and go. We'll cook our own."

She slipped in first, treading carefully between the stacked timber and the hide with clay. Spotting the finished vessel resting by the wall, she scooped it up with both hands, clutching it against her belly. For a moment she stared at Seraya, whose face in the dim embers looked far more peaceful than during the standoff with the mob, and sneered beneath her breath.

Didn't want to give me any soup? We'll see how smug you are when I cook my own.

She signaled the others, who grabbed the bowls and the wooden ladle, while one woman fished a glowing ember from the hearth so they wouldn't have to beg anyone for fire later. They stole away into the night, leaving Seraya fast asleep and completely oblivious to the fact that her proudest achievement was currently traveling through the valley in the arms of the person who had screamed loudest for her death.

Selka was still awake when a hushed call came from outside her cave. She sat on her bedroll turning over the evening's events, growing increasingly sour over how swiftly everything had slipped through her fingers. Seraya was supposed to be punished, Vaelira had been convinced of her guilt, and the tribe had stood primed to back the decree - yet a few bowls of strange food were all it took to render the charges meaningless.

Worse still, she could still taste that cursed soup on her tongue.

"Elder... Selka..."

She looked up with a frown, tossed back the pelt covering her legs, and stared toward the entrance.

"Who's there?"

"Raska."

"What do you want at this hour?" she asked, before waving a dismissive hand, realizing there was no point shouting across the valley. "Enter."

Raska stepped in first, cradling the pot with as much swagger as if she had sculpted it herself. As the other women filed in behind her with bowls, the ladle, and a smoldering brand, Selka slowly swept her gaze over the crew.

"Where did you get that?"

"From Seraya," Raska answered, setting the pot on the ground and puffing out her chest.

Selka eyed her sharply.

"You stole it?"

"I brought it for you, elder," Raska offered quickly, as though rewording the deed could change what it was. "The tribe gathered that clay, yet she keeps everything in her cave as if she's the only one allowed to use it."

Hesitation flickered across Selka's face; she knew full well how Vaelira might react to such antics after tonight's ruling, yet the sight of the pot immediately summoned the memory of the rich, warm broth. She turned over possible responses in her head, eventually settling on one that let her bypass the uncomfortable moral dilemma.

"Even with the vessel, you don't know how to make soup."

Raska grinned, apparently finding that the easiest hurdle of all.

"I saw what she threw inside. The valley's crawling with it. I'll go with them and gather it."

Selka opened her mouth to forbid nighttime foraging, but looked back at the pot, swallowed hard, and rose from her bedroll.

"I'm coming with you."

After dark, the forest looked entirely different than by day, but Raska strode through with the supreme confidence of someone who mistook a vague memory of ingredients for culinary mastery. She recalled mushrooms floating in Seraya's pot, so she plucked whatever grew along tree trunks and damp hollows, not bothering in the slightest to tell species apart.

One woman asked if they all looked like the ones the warrior had used, but Raska merely shrugged, rolling another cap between her fingers.

"Once cooked, they'll all be soup anyway," she replied. "I saw how she did it."

Selka didn't correct her, far more focused on the anticipated taste than what they were actually gathering, and in the dim light of the torch it was easier to trust Raska's cocky voice than to inspect every fungus closely. They harvested haphazardly, piling the specimens together and taking the growing heap as proof of a successful haul, never checking if all of them were remotely edible.

Back outside Selka's cave, Raska ordered one companion to fetch water, while putting the rest to work scraping the mushrooms and slicing a small cut of meat the elder fetched from her stash. She arranged stones by the mouth of the cave, copying Seraya's hearth from memory with such intense focus you'd think the flavor of the soup depended on the alignment of the rocks.

Soon the pot sat over the fire, the ingredients bobbing in the water, the women gathering close with mounting anticipation. Raska cradled the ladle on her knees, trying to look as though she knew exactly what she was watching for, though all she truly remembered was steam, bubbling, and the moment Seraya began ladling it into bowls.

"Can we eat yet?" one woman asked, leaning in, but Raska shook her head, unwilling to admit she hadn't a clue.

A little while later another question came, then another, until even Selka dropped her facade of indifference and nodded toward the pot, from which heavy steam was now billowing.

"Surely that's enough now?"

Raska checked the simmering liquid, compared it to her memory of the warrior's hearth, and nodded with satisfaction, convinced that since it looked similar, the result had to be identical.

"It's ready."

The women surged forward at once, hands outstretched for the bowls, but Raska clacked the ladle against an overeager palm and shot them an indignant look.

"Wait, the elder first."

Her companions drew their hands back, glancing sheepishly at Selka, while Raska filled the first bowl and presented it with a solemn air, as if making an offering. The elder accepted the portion, clearly pleased by the show of respect, while the rest edged back toward the pot, expecting the next bowl to finally come their way.

Instead, Raska filled it carefully, held it through a folded scrap of hide, and turned down the path without handing it over.

"Where are you going?" one woman called out, surprised by the abrupt exit.

"To Niva."

The reply drew a chorus of hushed snickers, as none of them doubted why Raska insisted on delivering that specific portion in person, though interest in her courtship quickly lost out to the sight of the pot. Once she disappeared with her prize, the others bent over the soup again, trying to figure out how to split it using the single remaining bowl.

Niva was still awake when Raska reached the communal cave. Having returned from Seraya's, she was busy sorting through her family's meager provisions, separating what needed to be eaten first from what could keep until morning. Hearing footsteps, she looked up, but upon seeing who entered, went right back to work, having zero desire to speak with the person who had pointed at the warrior and shouted to seize her not hours ago.

Raska, however, treated the cold shoulder as a minor hurdle that the aroma of hot food would easily clear. She stepped closer, smiling as broadly as if the evening hadn't left a shred of bad blood between them.

"Niva, look what I brought you."

The girl tucked the last piece of fruit into place without answering, so Raska crouched beside her, shoving the bowl close enough for the steam to waft into her face.

"Leave that for a minute, you've got time to sort it later. I brought you something delicious."

Niva turned around, ready to tell her to get lost, but when she recognized the familiar shape of the bowl and the ingredients floating within, her eyes narrowed sharply.

"Where did you get that?"

Raska drew herself up, pleased to have finally hooked her attention.

"I cooked it myself. Try it and tell me if it's good."

Niva inspected the bowl, then lifted her gaze to Raska's face. Instead of the anticipated awe, Raska was met with suspicion that hardened by the second.

"I don't want it. Take it away."

"Why?" Raska asked, genuinely baffled. "I worked so hard to make it..."

"What did you cook it in?"

The question cut her ready grievance short, but Raska answered on reflex, still not seeing where Niva was going with this.

"In the pot."

"And where did you get the pot?"

Raska froze. That brief hesitation was all the girl needed to set down everything in her hands and pivot toward her completely.

"You took the warrior's vessel without asking?"

"No, no, of course not," Raska denied hastily, nearly spilling the bowl as she waved a free hand. "Seraya let me use it."

"You're lying."

The word fell with such absolute certainty that panic flared in Raska's chest; Niva looked poised to jump up and investigate for herself right then and there. Yet instead of walking back the lie, she doubled down, adopting the righteous outrage of someone falsely accused.

"She really did! She even showed me what to do, and once the soup was ready, told me to bring some to you."

Niva frowned, her gaze drifting to the bowl. The mention of Seraya suddenly made her second-guess whether she had missed something after leaving. The warrior did have a knack for doing things she couldn't predict, and despite her fury, she had fed the very women who called for her death earlier, so the possibility that she had let someone borrow the pot wasn't entirely outside the realm of belief.

"Seraya told you to bring it to me?"

Raska seized on the hesitation instantly, clapping her free hand over her chest and pouring every ounce of conviction she could summon into her voice.

"Yes, that's what I've been saying! If you don't believe me, go ask her yourself!"

For a beat, she prayed Niva wouldn't take her up on the dare, so she quickly dropped her shoulders and let out an aggrieved sigh, looking deeply wounded.

"I prepared everything, carried it all the way here piping hot, and you won't even taste it... Do you honestly think I came all this way just to lie to you?"