A foul smell and a skin-slicing chill assaulted anyone who ventured into this tent. It was darker than the others, with its flaps shielded off and strapped to smother the light. The only source of illumination was a single candle inside the tent and whatever faint glow slipped in underneath the entranceway.

  Even then, the natural light from the sun seemed limited to begin with — constantly in retreat against the shadows of the room.

  Pacing up to a wooden chair beside a heavy wooden desk, a rare sight among the tribal people, was a man dressed in black. He was tall and skinny, with gaunt flesh and sunken eyes. His pale skin was not like that of the elves or the people found on the far side of the settled lands; it was closer to the color people became when they turned from the living to the dead.

  When he finally sat down, it was as if his legs had turned from human flesh and blood to wooden props. He had to drag them around, lifting them by his pants and swinging them here and there. With a slap, they became like the stiffened legs of a corpse — a noticeable improvement from before.

  Throughout this whole process, the corpse-like man struggled and strained to maintain a stoic silence, but huffs and snorts escaped as he gasped desperately for air or shot out great inhales clearly from pain. Turning his attention to the shadows, he called out softly, "Boy."

  "Boy."

  There was a silent march as a younger child with short black hair, a soft nose, and beady eyes emerged to assist the older man.

  "Were you sleeping?"

  "Sorry, Father, I spent the night making copies of the notes you wanted... I was tired."

  With a disapproving snort, the older man said, "Oh, then bring them to me!"

  "Yes, Father."

  The boy scurried back into the darkness before returning with a thick collection of unbound paper, all hand-written. The man snatched the papers from the boy’s hand, dismissing him with a wave before letting out a few rattling coughs and turning his focus to the work.

  "This is good!" he said after some time. And although he never saw it, those words created a prideful smile on the child’s face.

  The man looked over symbols and icons. The language of the grassland people didn’t use letters to form words, neither did the settled people, but this wasn’t even a languages made for people. It was said that when one read these “words” they could hear them spoken by a foreign voice inside their own minds, as if something had crawled into their skulls and whispered into their ears from the inside out.

  Reaching up, he began to fiddle with a necklace. It was a collection of human finger bones, carved with symbols that seemed to strain the eyes when gazed at. Even the herders and hardened raiders — men who proudly slaughtered children in front of parents and parents in front of their children without remorse — found the necklace too unsettling and nerve-wracking to look at.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "Yes... Yes..." he leered at his own knowledge, getting drunk on thoughts of what to do next. Bringing his hand to his chin, he scratched through his beard and muttered to himself.

  "It will be hard with him around... but with a hatchling dragon, there might only be three in the world... If I can offer such a prize up, then surely I can gain the attention of what I need from the other side to cast that spell... yes. But the chief of this tribe, he will get in the way. He won't understand. I will have to think of a way to get rid of him — once the violence starts, it will be too late for this tribe to take another course of action."

  "Boy, bring me the chest! The one with the fish bone lock on it!"

  The boy seemed startled by his father’s order. Sneaking around in the dark, he hovered near the shadows, trying to locate what he needed to bring. Turning to look for his father to ask if he could use the candle, his father shouted, "Hurry!"

  The boy reached out quickly in response, grabbing at something. He felt something wet coil around his wrist. Biting back a scream, he grasped a carved handle of bone and pulled at a big heavy box that seemed to push itself along with him — almost eager to move.

  The box was green, wooden, and wrapped in a soft fabric neither father nor son could identify. It was softer than silk and remained slightly cool to the touch even in the fiercest summers. On the front was a bone lock — fish bone, the father claimed — and a bone handle just above.

  The boy didn’t understand how his old man saw it as fish bone. As he dragged the box out of the shadows, he could have sworn that the moment he glanced at his father, a thousand tongues ran up the inside of his palm.

  He tasted salt.

  It was coming from his own saliva, which had turned to seawater.

  He smelled rotting wood and something else — a twisted, unnatural version of the scent from their ocean home. It was subtle, but to someone born on the coast like him, it was unmistakably wrong.

  The older man flinched at the smell, clearly caught off guard.

  The boy wanted to let out a whimper but steadied himself and brought the box to his father, who hesitated when it was placed before him. Muttering something like a prayer, the old man produced a small, black bead from his pocket. It was glossy and round, almost like a fish’s eye, but was, in fact, the pickled eye of a man who had wronged the cadaverous figure before — the previous owner of this very box.

  He placed the eye next to the lock and shut his own eyes. His son, without needing to be told, had already shut his eyes as tightly as he could.

  There was a click as the box opened.

  The old man felt the bead in his hand vanish as if snatched by the beak of a massive bird.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw the box was open and empty. Yet, it held a deep emptiness, the darkness inside the box somehow blacker than anywhere else in the tent — darker even than the shadows pressed against the corners of the room.

  Despite the candle sitting on the desk next to him, the light pouring into the box seemed to disappear into it.

  Turning to look at his own shadow, the old man saw two.

  An extra shadow stretched out from him, as if a great fire roared inside the chest. He heard the sound of water draining away, like a bowl being slowly emptied.

  With a sigh, he closed the lid of the box, noticing the room brighten as he did so — without even realizing when it had darkened at all.

  He glanced once more at his new shadow, seeing it hover just next to his old one. When he focused on it, he heard the soft sound of water droplets.

  Turning his attention back to the boy, he said, "Make yourself a potion if strange dreams assault you. Don’t think on them or try to remember them once you awaken."

  "Yes, Father!"