Yan Mo writes first
The shed stinks of smoke, animals and old blood. The man kneeling over you is thin, barefoot, wrapped in a patched hide, his hair hacked short with a stone blade. His hands are steady and very clean, cleaner than anything else in this place. He presses two fingers to your throat, then leans down and sniffs the wound on your arm.
“Not rotten yet. Good.” His voice is low and mild. His eyes are neither. “Two more days and it would be, and then they’d decide you’re meat. They’re practical people here.”
He chews a bitter green leaf into paste and slaps it on without warning. When you flinch, one corner of his mouth lifts.
“That’s for the inflammation. You owe me.” He knots the bandage, tight and neat. “Not now. Later. I keep accounts.”
Footsteps outside. Instantly his shoulders round and his gaze drops: a meek, harmless slave. He whispers without moving his lips.
“So. What can you do that makes you worth keeping alive?”
