Lucanis was the first to speak.

  His voice broke the silence—hoarse, carrying a tremor he didn’t try to hide.

  “We need to get out of here,” he breathed.

  “I… I can’t stand this smell anymore. The blood, the dust… it’s making me sick.”

  Althéa nodded slowly, her gaze still fixed on the Overdrawn’s corpse.

  Her lips trembled slightly, but her words came out clear.

  “I agree. We’ve seen enough.”

  “If we stay here any longer, we’ll end up like him.”

  She gestured briefly toward the body near the wall.

  Kael, crouched beside the beast, lifted his head toward them.

  A tired smile stretched his lips—one that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “You’re forgetting we’re still in the middle of a survival course.”

  He paused, dragging the tip of the Needle-Blade across the monster’s black hide.

  “And survival being what it is… we take whatever can be useful.”

  Lucanis stared at him, incredulous.

  “You don’t mean what I think you mean…”

  “I do,” Kael replied, a note of sarcasm in his voice.

  “We could always take its fur. It’s big enough to make several coats.”

  “The nights are cold, right? Might as well turn something useful out of something disgusting.”

  Althéa looked at him, mouth slightly open, caught between consternation and exhaustion.

  “You’re joking. I hope.”

  Kael shrugged.

  “Halfway.”

  “We don’t have tents. No blankets. And it’s cold outside.”

  “If you’ve got a better idea, I’m listening.”

  Lucanis looked away, one hand on the back of his neck, his face tight.

  “You’re sick, Kael.”

  “That thing… look at it. You really want to sleep wrapped in that?”

  Kael stood up, wiped his dust-covered hands on his trousers, and said in a falsely casual tone:

  “I want not to freeze to death, mostly.”

  “And between an Overdrawn’s fur and the touch of death, I’ve already chosen.”

  A silence followed—heavy, almost absurd.

  Lucanis sighed, nauseated.

  Althéa said nothing—but her gaze had hardened.

  Not against Kael. Not really.

  Against the reality he had just reminded them of: it wasn’t over.

  They were still in it.

  And worst of all—he was right.

  Althéa crossed her arms, her features drawn, her eyes averted.

  “I don’t know how to skin an animal,” she said at last.

  “And even if I did, I doubt it’s the same with… that.”

  She tipped her chin toward the carcass. The Overdrawn lay on its side—huge and shaggy, black, its skin cracked and stretched tight over muscle. The blood was already coagulating, gluing sand to the ground.

  Kael snorted, a humorless half-smile tugging at his lips.

  “Yeah. Me neither.”

  Then he turned his head toward Lucanis.

  Their gazes met—an unspoken exchange, almost cruel.

  Lucanis understood before either of them spoke.

  He let out a long sigh.

  “Right. Go on, look at me like that. Bunch of slackers.”

  He lowered his eyes, stared at the beast for a moment.

  “Fine. I’ll handle it.”

  “But let’s be clear: we’re not touching the meat.”

  “Obviously,” Althéa replied, her tone sharp.

  “We’re not animals.”

  Kael nodded once.

  “Just survivors. That’s already something.”

  Lucanis knelt beside the body.

  His face set, focused. He drew his knife and began cutting the skin at the base of the neck, where the fur was thinner. The blade scraped against the tough flesh, scratching at the blackened hide.

  Kael crouched beside him, watching closely.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Looking for the tension line,” Lucanis replied without lifting his eyes.

  “If you cut too deep, you ruin the hide.”

  “You open shallow first, follow the fibers—like an inverted seam.”

  Kael leaned in, fascinated despite himself.

  “And then?”

  “Then you pull. Gently. You have to peel the skin away without tearing it—in this case the fur’s so dense it’s even harder.”

  “There… you see?”

  Lucanis grabbed a fold of fur and pulled slowly. The flesh came away with a wet sound.

  Althéa turned her head, a hand over her mouth.

  “That’s disgusting.”

  Kael looked up at her.

  “It’s useful.”

  “Come look.”

  “No,” she cut in, icy.

  “I don’t want to touch that.”

  Kael sighed.

  “Listen, Althéa—whatever chandeliers and gold you grew up under, they won’t save your life out here.”

  “Watch. Learn. You never know when you’ll have to do it yourself.”

  “You’re irritating—no, you’re infuriating,” she snapped, her voice rising.

  “I told you I don’t want to.”

  Kael straightened. His expression shifted—his cracked calm let anger through.

  “Stop acting like a princess, damn it!”

  “We’re not at the Institute anymore! No one’s going to applaud your posture, no one gives a shit about your rank!”

  “If you don’t learn to dirty your hands, you’ll end up underground—clean, but dead.”

  The word echoed through the chamber—sharp, brutal.

  Althéa froze, eyes gleaming, jaw clenched.

  Lucanis, without lifting his head, spoke in a low but steady voice:

  “He’s right, Your Highness.

  Not in the way he said it—but in substance.

  What you refuse to see today is what will be missing tomorrow.

  Look. Learn. Even a little.”

  Silence fell again.

  All that could be heard was the steady sound of Lucanis’s knife, the scrape of hide being pulled free, and their still-heavy breathing.

  Rigid, Althéa finally turned her head—just enough to see.

  Her eyes showed revulsion, but she was watching.

  Kael, for his part, slowly steadied his breathing, his face closed off.

  Lucanis, focused on his task, continued peeling the skin away—methodical, precise—as if the barbarity of the gesture had become mechanical.

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  Once the Overdrawn was skinned, silence settled again.

  A different silence this time—heavier, more resigned.

  Lucanis wiped the blade of his knife on a scrap of cloth soaked with dried blood, his fingers still tight from the effort.

  The hide—black and thick—lay at his feet in three long, uneven pieces.

  Kael moved away without a word.

  He circled the carcass, crossed the chamber, and stopped in front of the body of the man who had died earlier.

  The corpse lay there in a corner, half-crushed against the wall, unrecognizable.

  Its face was nothing but a purplish mash, twisted by death and fear.

  Kael looked at it for a moment, impassive.

  Then, without ceremony, he bent down and searched its pockets.

  His fingers probed torn clothing, lining, collar, boots.

  Nothing.

  No weapon. Not even a coin.

  He straightened, shook his head, and let out a breath:

  “You probably got what you deserved… for killing your friend.”

  There was no anger in his voice. No pity.

  Just that flat, cold tone of someone who knew the truth.

  He turned away, letting the corpse slump back into its corner like discarded refuse.

  Lucanis, meanwhile, had crouched down to gather the pieces of fur.

  He rolled them carefully, securing them with a strap taken from his own gear.

  The motion was methodical, almost calming—the routine of a mind trying to stay upright.

  “They’ll need to dry before we can wear them,” he said.

  “If we keep them damp, they’ll rot in less than a day.”

  Althéa looked at him, startled.

  “Dry them?”

  “You mean… like tanning hides?”

  Lucanis nodded without looking up.

  “Exactly.

  But we don’t have salt or fire. We’ll do what we can.”

  Althéa fell silent for a moment, unsettled.

  She knew nothing about any of this—tanning, salvaging, raw survival.

  She, the heir to a name, stood there covered in dried blood, between two boys who seemed built for a world she did not know.

  Perhaps by instinct, or simply to put distance between herself and the corpse, she moved slowly into the corridor.

  The torch trembled in her hand, throwing skittish shadows across the walls.

  Between two overturned barrels, she noticed something strange.

  She crouched, brushed aside a dust-covered cloth.

  A bow—worn, but still solid—lay there.

  Two arrows accompanied it, wedged into a cracked leather sheath.

  She picked them up slowly, studying them, fascinated and repulsed at once.

  The weapon still bore dried traces of blood—not the Overdrawn’s, older.

  Kael, having returned toward them, saw what she was doing.

  “You just found that?”

  “Yes,” she replied, straightening.

  “It was hidden behind the barrels.”

  Kael flashed a brief smile.

  “Looks like this place still had a few gifts left to offer.”

  Lucanis barely lifted his head as he finished tying the last strip of hide.

  “Gifts that stink of blood and death, yeah.

  But still… better that than nothing.”

  Althéa turned the bow over in her hands, weighing it with an almost reverent caution.

  “I’m keeping it,” she said at last.

  “My sword is worthless. If I’m counting right, it almost got me killed three times in less than ten minutes.”

  Lucanis nodded without argument.

  “Good call. At least it gives the group some range.”

  Kael straightened, wiping the blood from his fingers onto his tunic.

  “Hold on. Hold on.

  If we’re talking merit, I’m still the one who finished the beast.”

  Lucanis rolled his eyes.

  “You’re serious?”

  Kael met his gaze, ready with one of his usual grins—but said nothing.

  Some of the bravado drained from his face, and his eyes dipped briefly to the floor.

  He knew.

  Without them, he would never have had the chance to “finish” anything.

  Without their strikes, their wounds, their courage, he would probably already be in the monster’s stomach.

  Lucanis, seeing his silence, shook his head, a sigh hovering on his lips.

  “And anyway, would you even know how to use a bow?”

  Kael lifted his head, reclaiming a bit of his swagger.

  “With a little training, I’d become an exceptional marksman.”

  He punctuated the line with a theatrical gesture toward the bow, confidence on full display.

  Lucanis let out a dry, disbelieving chuckle.

  “Yeah. And I’ll be Dean by tomorrow morning.”

  Althéa smiled despite herself, then hugged the weapon closer.

  “Sorry, Kael. But it’s mine.

  I don’t plan on finishing the next fight bare-handed.”

  Kael looked up at the ceiling, muttering under his breath.

  “Yeah, keep your toy.

  Anyway, it takes a princess’s soul to wield a bow.”

  Lucanis stifled a laugh but said nothing.

  Kael turned on his heel, annoyed, and headed toward the rusted ladder leading out.

  He placed one hand on the first rung, then glanced back at them.

  “Come on. Let’s get out of this rat hole.

  If we stay any longer, we’ll end up looking like what we just killed.”

  Without waiting, he climbed the ladder, torch clenched between his teeth, slowly disappearing into the grayish light of the exit.

  The heavy air of the cellar vibrated for a moment after him, then settled into an almost comforting silence.

  Kael was the first to push through the basement hatch.

  A rush of cool air poured in immediately, sliding over his clammy skin, stirring the dust—and the lingering taste of blood on his tongue.

  Never had open air felt so pure, so precious.

  He drew in a deep breath, eyes closed, savoring that rush of life with an almost religious slowness.

  For a few seconds, he stood there, motionless, face turned toward the evening sky.

  Behind him, the hatch creaked softly.

  “You planning on blocking us for long?” Lucanis called up from below, his voice worn out.

  Kael smirked, stepped aside, and held out a hand to help Althéa climb up. She refused. She emerged on her own, followed by Lucanis.

  The three Trame Bearers straightened up, dust-covered, faces drawn.

  They stood in silence for a moment, simply glad to be out of there. Then they stepped away from the cabin. The sky was slowly turning orange, twilight biting into the treetops.

  Kael rummaged through his satchel and pulled out a small piece of dried rabbit—the last of his morning ration.

  He sat down on a tree stump, tore off a strip of meat with his teeth, and chewed slowly, his gaze drifting toward the forest edge.

  Althéa stared at him, incredulous.

  “How can you eat after that?”

  “We just skinned a creature that looked like a nightmare.”

  Kael shrugged, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  He paused, pretending to think.

  “And besides, it’s not every day you get to eat with a view like this.”

  Lucanis rolled his eyes, exhausted.

  “You really have a problem, Kael.”

  Kael snorted softly, chewing without hurry.

  “Or just a good appetite. Depends who you ask.”

  The wind shifted, occasionally carrying back the metallic smell of blood.

  Lucanis turned away from the cabin, his expression dark.

  “We should camp nearby,” he said.

  “Not here.

  With the noise we made, there’s probably something else in the area that heard us.”

  Althéa nodded without argument.

  Kael finished his piece of meat, stuffed the rest of the packet back into his satchel, and stood.

  “Alright.

  Then we move off, find a dry spot, and this time… we pray for a quiet night.”

  They followed a small path hidden behind the cabin, a narrow ribbon of earth winding between stones and roots.

  The air had cooled, heavy with moisture and the scent of evening.

  The sky was turning violet, streaked with the last traces of orange from the dying dusk.

  After several minutes of silent walking, they emerged onto a grassy overlook.

  The grass there was tall, soft beneath their steps.

  A small spring trickled out between two rocks, sliding down the slope before vanishing beneath the ferns.

  From there, the view opened onto the entire meadow—vast, calm, bathed in fading light.

  A perfect place to keep watch over the surroundings.

  Kael set down his rabbit-skin pouch and, without a word, began gathering several fallen branches from the ground.

  He sorted them, choosing the straightest, the sturdiest.

  Althéa watched him for a moment, intrigued.

  “What are you doing?”

  Kael, crouched down, didn’t look up.

  “A drying rack.

  We need to dry those hides if we don’t want them rotting before tomorrow.”

  She arched an eyebrow and turned to Lucanis.

  “Your idea?”

  Lucanis shook his head, a tired half-smile on his lips.

  “No. Apparently, Kael has a few hidden talents… leatherwork, stitching, improvising.

  I had no idea he could do anything besides sarcasm.”

  Althéa frowned, genuinely surprised.

  “You? A handyman?”

  Kael shrugged without answering, too busy planting the sticks into the ground.

  In a few quick movements, he improvised a rough structure—a crossed frame propped up with stones.

  He then hung the strips of black fur from it, still damp with blood, fastening them with thin ties cut from the edges of the hide.

  The evening wind made the leather strips shiver, spreading a sharp, acrid smell through the air.

  Althéa turned her face slightly away, but said nothing.

  Straightening up, Kael wiped his hands on his tunic.

  “There.

  By tomorrow morning, they’ll have lost enough moisture for us to fold them.

  And if all goes well… we’ll have something to keep us warm tomorrow night.”

  Lucanis sat down in the grass, gazing at the view stretching out before them.

  “Coats made from an Overdrawn,” he murmured.

  “If someone had told me that yesterday, I’d have called them insane.”

  Kael gave a crooked smile.

  “Yesterday, we were still students.

  Today, we’re playing hunters.”

  Althéa sighed, crossing her arms.

  “And tomorrow?”

  Kael answered without thinking, his gaze drifting toward the meadow.

  “Tomorrow… we’ll see who’s hunting who.”

  He watched the improvised drying rack for a moment, satisfied.

  Then he exhaled, ran a hand through his tangled hair, and said:

  “Well, on that note… I don’t feel like being told again that I stink, so I’m going to take advantage of the spring.”

  He started toward the small stream, then added over his shoulder, in a mock-nostalgic tone:

  “Ah… my room at the Institute already feels so far away. That’s where I took my first real bath, you know?”

  Lucanis stared at him, appalled.

  Althéa rolled her eyes, arms still crossed.

  Kael answered with a smug grin before disappearing behind the ferns.

  The spring was clear, almost icy.

  Kael knelt down, plunged his hands into the water, and let the cold bite into his skin.

  He pulled off his dark shirt, scrubbed it vigorously against the stones, driving out the stains of dried blood and dust.

  Then he slipped in, slowly, until the cold stole his breath.

  The water rose over his battered skin, washing away sweat and fear.

  Beneath the surface, he caught sight of the purplish shadows along his ribs.

  The Overdrawn’s blow had left a wide bruise there—dark, deep, throbbing.

  He touched it with his fingertips, wincing slightly.

  “Lovely souvenir,” he muttered to himself.

  He spent a long while scrubbing his hair, freeing it from caked blood and grit, until the water around him grew cloudy.

  When he finally emerged, skin flushed red from the cold, he felt almost human again.

  Back at the campsite, he laid his uniform out on the drying rack, beside the strips of fur.

  The air was dry, gentle, still warm from the fading day.

  Kael sat down in the grass, bare-chested, arms folded behind his head, and let out a satisfied sigh.

  “Finally clean,” he said, as if only to himself.

  Althéa and Lucanis, seated a little farther away, exchanged a glance—one tinged with exasperation, the other with indifference.

  But neither spoke.

  The wind played through the leaves, the spring murmured nearby, and for the first time in a long while, they could simply breathe.