Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
The fire breathes its last as the final Tenakth warriors retreat to their beds. Heads of guards loll where they sleep at their stations, one of them sliding down to rest her back against the wall of the camp. Wooden beams creak, wind kicks sand underneath tents, the desert sinks into silence.
The air ripples as something unsettles it. Shadows drift into the camp like fog, rolling over the remains of a wooden sword abandoned by a child. The sword clatters as it’s kicked.
Oxygen thins to a brittle breath. The fabric of tents shudders yet no one stirs.
The shadows are searching.
Misty fingers beckon, faceless lips call out.
Then the shadows continue on their way, rattling a stray bucket as they trundle out of the camp and dissipate into the desert.
The sand begins to breathe again, blowing over the footprint-less earth. Natural sounds return; cool wind swaying fabric, the shifting of bodies in their sleep, the crackling fire embers adjusting to the loss of warmth.
There is no evidence that any shadows have been here, no fingerprints left on metal or footprints left in sand. The camp is as it was before anything infiltrated it.
Except for the Tenakth warrior now missing from his bed.
CHAPTER ONE
“So if you witness the wind shift or the sand whirl,” the Chaplain leans into the firelight, casting his ageing skin in streaks of orange and jutting shadows. “Beware, for the Hendeka may be coming for you.”
“Yes, well,” Aloy says, stretching her shoulders where she sits by the fire pit. The warmth rolls over her face. “I’ll be careful.” She offers him a tight smile to which he leans back, his lips pulled into a hard line.
Aloy has heard enough of the Tenakth stories to recite them in her sleep. They warn children of vengeful Carja spirits ready to kidnap them when they lessen their vigilance. Those who kill another in an unjust act will be subject to the poison of a just spirit. Then there’s the Hendeka, the story used to teach the Tenakth that keeping dangerous secrets can get them killed - or, according to the folklore, vanished.
They remind Aloy of the religion of the Nora, built around the ‘all-mother’ and the ‘metal devil’ - such fickle ideals shrouding over solid truth. They had not taken it well the first time she had tried to open their eyes, all disregarding and cynical. Now she teeters on the edge between this moment and having to face them again, this time with the knowledge of a bigger truth, a bigger threat. Aloy picks at the edge of her nail. She wishes Varl were still here. He would have done a far better job than her.
“Aloy.” The gravelly voice behind her softens her smile. She tucks her hair behind her ear, offering the Chaplain an apologetic nod, as she swivels to face him.
Kotallo stands in the midst of the Tenakth camp, a bronze glow from the fire licking over the curves of his muscles. It adds an extra layer to the inking that covers his skin, as if all the stories they tell contain a flame. His grey eyes watch her in amusement, his head tilted ever so slightly.
“Kotallo,” Aloy breathes, standing up to meet him, brushing off the debri of sand and leaves from her armour. “To what do I owe the honour?”
His eyes narrow, casting a glance at the very obvious Tenakth decoration surrounding them that clearly states she is in his territory, not the other way around.
“Okay, okay,” she concedes, reading enough into his eyes. She had been staying at The Grove for a few days now at Hekarro’s insistence. The avoidance of her task had led her to seek out Kotallo, to check in on how he was doing after the events at the Zenith base and to ask about how his people had responded to the incoming threat.
It had not taken Kotallo long to notice her weary eyes and aching muscles and had immediately gathered her into The Grove to his Chief.
She is grateful. Staying at the base with Beta means feeling the weight of her mission, and Zo reminds her too much of Varl. She knows Alva would have gladly accepted her company but Aloy isn’t so comfortable around the rest of the Quen especially when they regularly refer to her as the reincarnation of Elizabet. She would have enjoyed staying in Las Vegas with Erend if he had not already travelled back to Meridian to resume his role as Captain of the Vanguard.
Staying alongside Kotallo feels easy. Like slipping on her favourite armour - rounded to her muscles, patient with her moves.
But she will have to concede and head to the Nora soon. They must be offered a chance to know the truth just like the other tribes. And someone needs to tell Sona her son is dead.
“Chief Hekarro has asked for us to meet with him,” Kotallo says, his shoulders straightening. The fire crackles behind Aloy like applause. “Join me?” With a sweep of his arm, he offers for her to step out in front of him. She obliges, Kotallo quickly matching her stride.
He settles beside her with ease. Her arm tingles where he brushes her, heat radiating from him.
Tenakth tents line their path, spearing up into arches above their heads. Wooden spikes painted in red and blue jut out from the sandy earth, occasionally replaced by the crumbling remains of the old museum. Someone has tied a rope amongst them, hanging animal skin and slack fabric to dry.
When they are out of earshot of the fire pit, Kotallo asks, “So, are you amused by the Chaplain’s tales meant for children?”
Aloy parts her lips, unsure of how to word her opinions without offending him; but a glance that catches his smirk relaxes her. “They are,” she says playfully, “certainly vibrant.”
Kotallo’s sly smile grows as he shakes his head, his braids swaying. “They may be dramatic,” he says, “But it certainly worked on me as a child. I would not dare withhold the truth from my parents in case the Hendeka captured me.”
“I can’t imagine you as a child,” Aloy laughs. Dewy foliage crunches as it sneaks underneath her boots from between sand and stone.
“Ah,” Kotallo raises his eyebrows. “You must think I came out of my mother with my muscles already defined.”
Aloy grins and nudges him with her shoulder. He smirks back, ducking his head. “No, I just mean… you’re so level-headed, I can’t imagine you as naive as a child.”
Kotallo casts a long glance in her direction before he says, “That is assuming that I was ever naive.”
Rolling her eyes, Aloy begins to climb the steps towards the main entrance of The Grove, Kotallo close behind her. The guards at the entrance nod their welcomes as they pass. They don’t notice Aloy catching the way they glance at each other and then at her and Kotallo with sly smiles. Her cheeks burn.
Aloy lets out a slow breath. “Do you still believe in the stories?” she asks, partly out of curiosity and mostly in the hopes to distract him from her face.
“Are you asking me if I have any secrets?” Kotallo replies.
Aloy opens her mouth to protest but Kotallo doesn’t give her time; “There are a few.” He meets her gaze heavily. Aloy’s mouth dries. His eyes are steady, opening himself up for her to study him. She doesn’t know what to do with it.
He blinks once, reading her expression, before turning away, beckoning her to follow him to the throne room. She does, shaking off the clinging uneasiness with a shiver of her shoulders.
Hekarro sits on his throne when they arrive, fists rattling against his knees. Kotallo presses his fist against his chest as they approach, Aloy bowing her head while she follows behind him. Hekarro flicks his hand, a gesture for the guards by the entrance to vacate the room.
“Thank you for coming, Marshal,” he nods his head towards Kotallo once they are alone, and then to Aloy. “Champion.”
Aloy smiles, taking a step forward. “Thanks for letting me stay here.”
The Chief’s kind eyes lower to her, his lips upturned in the hint of a smile. “Of course, Tenakth’s champion is welcome here at any time.” His eyes slide to Kotallo who ducks his head. “I’m sure Kotallo appreciates the company.”
“What is it you need of us?” Kotallo asks, dropping his arm to his side. Aloy jolts at the sudden change of subject, glancing at him. His shoulders are rigid, his features sketched in hard lines. Aloy imagines his war paint does wonders in hiding a flush.
Hekarro raises his eyebrows at his Marshal’s reaction, watching him with intrigue, but does not address it. Instead he inhales, resettling himself on his throne and says, “I have been hearing disturbing reports from the clans. They talk of disappearing Tenakth. These warriors will go to sleep and not be seen in the morning, with no trace of where they have gone.”
Aloy’s eyes drift as she considers what he is telling them. No trace? Surely there would be tracks, even if not to the naked eye than at least with her focus.
“What’s more,” Hekarro says, his discomfort growing as he shifts again, his armour rustling. “It has been discovered this morning that Dekka has vanished. Much like in the way these reports are saying.”
Kotallo’s chin jerks. “Dekka?” He asks, his voice cracking. Something in Aloy plummets to her stomach. She looks at Kotallo and catches his hand crunch into a fist.
Hekarro nods solemnly, his long, black hair slipping over his shoulders. “I need people I trust to investigate this. No one need know these are not isolated incidents,” Hekarro orders, his eyes sliding between Kotallo and Aloy. “Find Dekka, and then look into the other disappearances. I will give you the information you’ll need.”
Kotallo shudders for a moment before he raises his fist to his chest once more in salute. Aloy’s lips are dry. She darts her tongue out to wet them. “We will find her,” she says, meeting Hekarro’s eyes with a resolute stare. She does not add that Dekka may not be alive when she is found.
Hekarro dips his head, his expression relaxing. Then he lifts his palm to his temple. “May the Ten be with you.”
Aloy dusts the sand in front of Dekka’s tent with her fingers. The earth is undisturbed as though no one has stepped foot in it before. Confusion tightens her forehead.
Kotallo crouches beside her though his attention is slack. Something burrows through his mind like a slitherfang. Reaching up, Aloy places a hand on his bare shoulder and squeezes. His skin is clammy underneath her palm.
“This is my people, Aloy,” he says quietly, her hand on him question enough. “And Dekka, she… she is of no small importance to me.”
Aloy nods slowly, letting her braids fall over her shoulders. Her hand, comfortable where it is, has not left Kotallo. His features soften at her touch, taking it as a reminder to breathe.
“When I was a challenger at the Kulrut,” he offers, his gaze drifting to the opening of Dekka’s tent, “I had no desire to leave the sky clan, as you know. I felt as though I were leaving my family. It was Dekka who reassured me, instilled my purpose in me, made me realise the entire tribe was my family.” Aloy’s hand drifts down Kotallo’s stump, the war paint chalky under her fingers, before dropping to her lap. “I… have not thanked her.”
“You will have the chance,” Aloy says, willing herself to sound confident.
“I admire your thought for my feelings, Aloy, but I am Tenakth,” Kotallo says. He grinds his fist into the earth. “It is not often that, when we go missing, we are found alive.”
Aloy takes in a hiss of air. “No wonder so many of your stories involve disappearances,” Aloy muses solemnly, casting her mind back to the tales shared with her around the fire pit. To go back to such a time when all she was worrying about was returning to the Nora would be like breathing again.
“Yes,” Kotallo replies.
Pressing her lips together, Aloy taps on her focus in hopes that, in the few minutes she has not used it, something will have changed. Yet still nothing is illuminated in between the netting of purple lines. Aloy lets out a short, frustrated breath. A stray hair dances in front of her eyes and she’s tempted to snag it and rip it out.
Kotallo’s eyes on her are heavy. She feels them linger on her though whether they are of disappointment or pity, she cannot tell. He picks at the earth with his fingers before he stretches to his feet and turns.
Behind her, she hears his shoes crunch as he approaches the Tenakth who reside in the tents close to Dekka’s, ordering them to complete secrecy as he asks them for anything they might have witnessed.
Stretching out her unease, Aloy pulls back the heavy fabric of Dekka’s tent and, cautious of where she stands, steps inside. The interior, though meagre, is intimate with a wooden table stacked neatly with scrolls. Aloy plucks one off the table, unrolling it and finds scribbles of Dekka’s interpretations of the ‘visions’ within. She has delved into the story of the Ten, working and reworking her understanding of their history. Aloy hums before gently placing the scroll back where it belongs.
Above the table hangs a scratchy charcoal drawing of a lancehorn attached to the beam of the tent with a stretch of string. Underneath it is the childlike signature of what Aloy can only decipher as being Kavvoh . Aloy smiles. Dekka must love her grandson a great deal to have kept such a dubious drawing.
Turning, Aloy examines the bed roll laid out on a wooden base. The cover has been roughly strewn, half hanging off the side. Her throat tightens. For a woman who keeps her scrolls so orderly, to leave her bed like this seems wrong.
Dekka never had a chance to straighten it.
Reaching forward, Aloy pulls apart the covers, lifting up the pillows, desperate to find some sort of scrap of a clue. Yet all that’s left of Dekka are two grey hairs caught in the fabric of her pillow, easily left naturally in her sleep.
A sigh drags out of her, collapsing to her knees. Everything feels like she’s spiralling into the mouth of a widemaw. The weight of the Nora clings to her back, tearing her skin, and now joining them are Hekarro and Dekka and Kotallo. Kotallo. Kotallo.
In blind hope, Aloy stuffs her hand under the bed roll, her fingers scraping along splinters of wood. Then they crunch against a scrap of parchment. Aloy stills, breathing, ensuring this is not some hallucination, before she’s snapping it out from underneath the bed and hurriedly unrolling the note.
Meet me where the sun meets the key.
Aloy stares at the writing, reading it over and over as her breath quickens. Then; “Kotallo!” she calls out, her voice coarse.
It is only one more breath before his broad figure peels open the tent door, the spears of bone in his hair silhouetted against the low sun.
Aloy holds up the note, triumphant. Breathless, she asks, “Do you know where this is?”