If I was going to fall, it wouldn’t be quiet.
Turns out I wasn’t falling yet. Turns out the cliff still had blood left in it.
The Pterafolk came back in waves—leather wings, hollow eyes, and screams that sounded like they were stolen from something better. No speeches. No dramatic pauses. Just meat and gravity arguing over who got to keep us.
Lori called out to her god again. Same calm voice. Same steady hands. But this time the blessing came wrapped in commerce. Bowmore merch. Holy symbols stitched into scarves and trinkets like faith had finally figured out branding.
I took a scarf. Didn’t ask why. Didn’t question how divine power smelled faintly of wool and regret.
It worked.
The fight blurred after that. Axe up. Axe down. Wings tearing. Bones cracking. I stopped counting somewhere after six. Maybe more. Hard to keep a ledger when the entries keep screaming. By the end, the clan was gone—ten, give or take. The cliff finally quiet. The prophecy, if it was watching, didn’t clap.
We looted what was left. Coins. Trinkets. The usual apologies civilization leaves behind. And thighs. A whole bag of them. Pterafolk thighs. For Nani Pupu. Payment in protein.
She didn’t even thank us.
Just grabbed one, tore into it like time owed her money, grease running down her chin, bones snapping loud enough to make a point. Then she told us we were staying the night.
“Tomorrow,” she said, mouth full of bird, “I’ll read the signs. Find the lost path to Omu.”
Tomorrow. Always tomorrow with people who know things.
So we waited. Helped out. Stayed useful. Lori and MODMOS fixed what time had broken. Quiet work. Careful hands. I hauled water until my arms burned, scrubbed the blood off my scales, chopped enough wood to keep the mountain warm through winter. Work like that keeps the ghosts busy.
Balgus stared at the sky. Said the stars were still talking about what Onell told him. Said they weren’t done yet. I don’t trust anything that talks after it’s dead, but I kept that to myself.
Night came soft. Fire lit. Shadows gathered. MODMOS stayed sharp. Always does.
Then movement.
Figures in the dark. Watching. Breathing wrong.
Bowmore tried words. Magic words. Messages sent into the dark like bottles thrown into a sea that laughs back. What came back wasn’t language. Just animal noise. Chittering. Teeth and echo.
MODMOF went out next. Little legs. Big courage. Came back with the truth.
Flying monkeys.
That was it. No prophecy. No doom. Just monkeys with wings and bad timing.
Balgus spoke to them. Asked about Omu. Asked about Nani Pupu. Got nothing. They hadn’t heard of either. The world is big. Ignorance is common.
Lori fed them muffins anyway.
Some things don’t need to make sense to be right.
We went back to sleep. Short rest. The kind you don’t trust.
Then the scream hit.
High. Ragged. Old.
We ran.
Found her in the tent—another old woman, bent like a bad future, shrieking over a dead flying monkey. Its mouth was swollen. Purple. Wrong.
She looked at us like we’d done it.
“Someone poisoned my monkey!”
The fire popped behind us. The stars didn’t answer. And somewhere, Omu waited—still lost, still laughing.
Tomorrow was coming.
