Chapter Twelve – Words in the Wild

The human didn’t leave. That was the first sign that something wasn’t right. Kezra had assumed, hoped even, that after his short-scribbled entry and a few rustling nights by the creek, he’d continue north, following the path that led deeper into unclaimed woods. But instead, he stayed. Three days passed. Three quiet, deliberate days. He built no shelter beyond a crude lean-to. He lit no fire. But he stayed. Reading. Writing. Sketching. Listening. Each day he explored a little farther—not in straight lines, but spirals, circling outward from his camp like he was feeling for something. And each time, he came closer to Hollowfang’s outer edge.

Rik watched him first. Then Urr. Then Drak. Kezra rotated the scouts so no single set of eyes would grow too familiar. It was dangerous, growing used to a face—human or not. He remained oblivious to the watchers, at least on the surface, but something about the way he looked at disturbed grass or examined broken twigs told Kezra he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t hunting. But he knew. One evening, Drak returned with a scrap of parchment. “He left it by a trap,” the boy said. Kezra took the paper, half-expecting it to be blank. Instead, in small, careful writing, it said: “I don’t mean harm. I only want to understand.”

Sha scoffed when Kezra showed the tribe. “That’s what they always say. Until they’re calling you ‘vermin’ while they gut your kin.” She tossed a stick into the fire. “Understanding means dissecting.” Rik agreed. Even Urr looked unconvinced. Kezra didn’t argue—not because she disagreed, but because the fear behind their words was earned. But something about the paper lingered in her mind. The handwriting wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t mocking. It looked… hopeful. And hope, in her experience, was either a gift or a weapon.

Kezra debated long into the night. She paced the perimeter of the camp, her thoughts running jagged. If she ignored him, he might leave. But he might not. If she killed him, the tribe would feel safer—briefly. But if he didn’t return, someone might come looking. A mentor. A family member. An expedition. Silence could invite suspicion. But a voice… that was different. So she made her choice. “I’ll send someone to speak with him,” she said the next morning. The camp reacted as expected. Urr spat. Rik stood abruptly. Sha stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Kezra raised her hand, palm out. “Not to reveal us. Not to trust him. Just to listen.”

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None of the core three volunteered. Even Drak hesitated. It was one of the newer goblins—a wiry female named Vekka—who stepped forward. Her voice was soft, her scars deep. She’d come from a collapsed tribe months ago, and had rarely spoken unless spoken to. But now, her eyes were clear. “I’ll go,” she said. “If he lies, I’ll know.” There was something resolute in her tone. Not pride. Not ambition. Just readiness. Kezra nodded. They gave her a simple script: ask why he was there, what he sought, and if he meant to return. If anything felt off, she was to vanish before he could blink.

Vekka left at dusk, her form melting into the underbrush like smoke. Kezra waited beside the fire, trying not to pace. The others said little. Only Sha sat close, her hand occasionally brushing Kezra’s shoulder, grounding her. Hours passed. When Vekka returned, the camp gathered silently. Her face was unreadable. “He was scared,” she said. “Not of me. Of being wrong. He thought we were stories—barbaric, cruel. But when I didn’t kill him, he asked questions. Real ones.” She paused. “He asked what we eat. How we sleep. If we… dream.”

The camp didn’t know how to process that. Not at first. Rik scoffed, but it lacked venom. Drak merely nodded. Urr said nothing, chewing on a twig. Kezra sat still, her hands folded, eyes closed. “He’s not a threat,” Vekka continued. “But he’s a start. If he leaves with the truth, he might tell it.” The implications rolled through them like a distant thunder. One human might not change the world. But he might plant doubt in those who only knew how to hate.

Later that night, Kezra stood alone beneath the trees, her gaze turned skyward. The moons were veiled again, but she felt the old god watching. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The mark between her shoulders warmed slightly, not in power—but in acknowledgment. With neither approval nor denial. Just… presence. The kind that waits to see if you’ll keep walking even when the path vanishes beneath your feet.

For the first time in her life, Kezra whispered a wish—just four words, barely audible: “Let us be seen.”