LXVIII
They settled me into the large yurt as though preparing a ritual space rather than a guest room, every movement deliberate, every object placed with intention older than I knew. The thick furs muffled sound, swallowing the outside world until only the crackle of fire and the soft breath of smoke remained. The air was warm, close, fragrant with herbs and cedar‑like wood that hung from the supports like wind chimes, swaying gently whenever someone passed.
The brazier in the center was battered, ancient, made from bone and a treated wood so old it looked petrified. Its surface was charred black from countless ceremonies. Beneath it, hot briquettes glowed red, brightening with every breath of air, sending thin ribbons of smoke drifting upward. The smoke curled through the enclosed space, rising toward the small hole at the top of the yurt—just enough ventilation to keep us from suffocating, but not enough to let the magic escape.
The shaman had prepared everything.
She entered with the same eerie grace she'd shown in the limestone cave. Her staff rattled. The various bone pieces clacking together like teeth, as she began to circle the fire. Her feet were bare, stained crimson from the ochre floors of the cave. Her voice rose in a low chant, rhythmic and ancient, vibrating through the furs and the bone walls.
She danced in esoteric circles, each step deliberate, each turn precise. The air thickened. The herbs overhead trembled. The smoke shifted color, deepening from grey to a faint reddish hue. I felt the rising force of magic like pressure behind my eyes, like the moment before lightning strikes.
The hat man, still in his cat form, sat pressed against my hip, fur puffed, tail wrapped tight around his paws. Sniffed and sneezed once at the rising herbal smell.
Around the fire sat four figures, cross‑legged, solemn, watching me with the intensity of judges at a trial.
The hunting party leader, the blonde man with the piercing eyes and the spear that had nearly touched my heart. Two elders, their hair silvered, their clothing decorated with beads, feathers, and ochre markings that denoted status. And a stoic older man with a salt‑and‑pepper beard, his eyes the same sharp amber as the leader's, a relative likely his father, or uncle, or someone equally important.
Their clothing was finer than the villagers'. They wore better hides, more intricate stitching, bone clasps carved with symbols. They were the tribe's decision‑makers, the ones who determined fate, alliances, punishments, and protections.
They watched me without blinking. Not hostile.
Just… evaluating.
The shaman's chant rose, her staff rattling louder, the smoke thickening until it felt like a veil between worlds. The hunters' faces flickered in the firelight, their expressions unreadable.
I sat in the center of the yurt, surrounded by furs, smoke, magic, and the tribe's most powerful minds.
It was a ritual to decide whether I was prey, spirit, omen… or something worth keeping alive. The shaman's voice rose again, echoing off the fur‑lined walls.
The smoke didn't just rise it wove into shapes, pulling threads of grey and red into living images that hovered above the brazier like drifting spirits. The shaman's chant guided them, her bone rattle snapping sharply in the thick air.
First came animals, some I recognized, megaloceros, mammoths, wolves, aurochs. Each one forming from smoke and dissolving again, their outlines shimmering like memories. Then plants, towering ferns and ancient pines, foliage unfurling in ghostly silhouettes. The spirit world of their people breathed itself into existence right in front of me.
Then the smoke shifted.
It showed people, primitive at first. Human looking hunters with stone tools, women grinding roots, children learning to throw spears. The images moved forward in time, evolving, changing, becoming more complex. And then—Me.
A smoky silhouette of myself falling from the sky, landing in the middle of their hunting party. The hunters around the fire inhaled sharply. The leader's jaw tightened. The elders exchanged glances. The stoic older man's eyes narrowed, studying the image with the same piercing intensity as his son. The shaman nodded once, sharply, as if the vision confirmed something she already suspected. She spoke to the elders in low, rhythmic tones. They listened without interrupting.
Then she turned to me.
Her gaze was deep, unsettling, knowing.
She dismissed everyone with a gesture, everyone except the hunting party leader.
He moved immediately, obediently, settling beside me at the fire. His presence was solid, warm, protective in a way that felt instinctive rather than intentional. The smoke curled around us both, thickening, reddening.
The shaman shook her bone rattle staff, waving it over our heads, then down our shoulders, then around the brazier. Her voice dropped into a low, guttural chant that vibrated through my bones. The words were ancient, heavy, carrying meanings I couldn't decipher. But the intent was clear.
She was declaring something, assigning me to him, declaring him in charge.
The hat man's cat form pressed against my thigh, tail wrapped tight, whispering:
"She's marking him as your watcher. Your guardian. Or your keeper."
My eyes grew hazy in the smoke. The air felt thick, syrupy, warm. My brain fuzzed at the edges, thoughts slipping like wet stones. The shaman's movements became hypnotic—circles, spirals, sharp angles, each one pulling my consciousness deeper into the ritual.
The leader's shoulder brushed mine as he leaned closer, steadying me without touching me fully. His presence anchored me, even as the smoke blurred the edges of the world.
The shaman's chant rose. The smoke swirled. My eyelids drooped.
I didn't know if I could keep them open much longer. The ritual was pulling me under, drawing me into whatever judgment, bond, or fate the shaman had decided.
And the last thing I saw before my vision blurred completely was the leader's amber eyes watching me, steady, unreadable, and impossibly close.
I saw him as my eyes drifted closed, he drew his face close to my own, and inhaled, drawing in my scent. His mouth quirked, fingers inspecting my chin, gripping it lightly, turning my face to each side. He let go, nodding. I could feel him lift me in one go as I closed my eyes. He was so strong.
Waking felt like rising out of tar.
My body didn't just ache. I could feel it as it complained, every muscle stiff from sleeping on raw earth and grass. My ribs felt tender, as if the ground had pressed too hard. My hips throbbed from uneven stones. I could feel tender bruising in soft places. Even my shoulders carried bruising, probably from whatever rocks had been hiding under me during the ritual. I groaned and rolled slightly, wincing as my spine and bottom protested. There was a dull ache at my neck, most likely from sleeping without the pillow I was used to.
The world around me was dim, warm, and fur‑scented. I was lying atop a woven grass mat, surprisingly soft despite the stiffness in my bones. A thick fur covered me. It looked clean, well‑kept, but worn enough to have that buttery softness that only comes from years of use. It smelled faintly of smoke and cedar.
I blinked up at the ceiling. It wasn't the grand longhouse or the ceremonial cave. This was a small yurt, cozy and intimate, clearly meant for two or three people. The central firepit glowed low, embers pulsing like sleepy red eyes. The smoke drifted lazily upward through the hole at the top, carrying the scent of herbs and that cedar‑like wood with a deodorizing effect that they hung like wind chimes from the supports.
Bundles of dried plants dangled overhead, rustling softly whenever the breeze shifted. The treated bone brazier from the ritual wasn't here. I was carried to a smaller yurt, this was a simpler space, a living space, not a ceremonial one.
My clothes lay neatly folded to one side, along with my bag.
And on top of the pile, curled like a smug loaf, was the hat man's cat form, fast asleep, tail twitching occasionally, clearly having claimed my belongings as his personal throne.
I pushed myself upright, wincing again as my muscles protested.
The yurt's interior was warm, quiet, and surprisingly peaceful. The fire crackled softly. The herbs swayed. The fur blanket slid off my shoulders, pooling around my waist.
Someone had put me here deliberately; they had stripped me and covered me. They had watched over me while I slept off the ritual. My gaze drifted to the entrance flap. I wrapped the fur blanket around myself, tucking it under my arms, as I was naked underneath.
The flap was closed, but I could sense movement outside. Soft footsteps, the faint murmur of voices, the quiet presence of someone sitting guard. Likely him.
The hunting party leader. My guardian… or keeper… or whatever the shaman had decided.
I exhaled slowly, rubbing my sore arms. The ritual had done something.
I could feel the magic and the scent of the herbs sticking to me, the fine ash from the fire like a grit on my skin. I direly wanted a bath.
The hat man cracked one eye open, pupils narrowing.
"You're awake," he yawned. "Good. Things are about to get… interesting. You should ask me."
I wasn't sure if that was a promise or a warning.
But I pulled the fur tighter around my shoulders and listened to the quiet crackle of the fire, knowing the next moment would decide what this tribe expected of me now.
"What should I ask you, hat-cat?" I questioned.
"Ask me what happened after the ritual."
His tone frightened me a little. This situation was already too complicated.
"You're probably teasing me hat-cat. If it's not going to kill me, I don't want to know. Is it lethal to me in any way?"
"No, my darling." He twitched his cat whiskers.
"Then keep it to yourself. I really don't want to process anything else. Right now, what I really want is a bath." For that, I needed to find water. I tucked my clothes and bag into my arms and looked outside the door flaps of the yurt.