The mud clung thick to Shakti's body as it trudged through the town outskirts. The dry earth picked up dust beneath its feet, every step leaving small clouds in its wake. The dry heat scraped at its skin where the mud had cracked and fallen away—less protection, more irritation.
At its side, a second troglodyte approached—smaller, thinner, the heat of its body trembling as it closed the distance. It moved with hesitation, claws scraping softly as it held something out in both hands. A scrap of damp parchment.
"Damacon ko'," the trog rasped, offering the paper as if it were worth something.
Shakti took it without a word. Its claws crushed the parchment as it continued walking.
Shakti let out a low rumble, the sound reverberating deep in its throat. It didn't bother to stop. It didn't bother to read. The note dissolved into pulp between its fingers.
The second trog stood still for a moment, then slunk away into the shadows.
The towns watched Shakti in silence from the edges of their hovels and thatch huts. Some turned away; others ducked inside before it could pass. Even the sick and crippled shrank back from its heat as if distance alone might save them.
But not all were cowards.
A scream came from an alley ahead. A shape burst out—small, fast, burning hot with rage.
A boy. No older than twelve.
He charged, rake held high overhead, leaping straight toward Shakti's chest. The rusted metal teeth of the tool slammed into Shakti's hide—snapping in half against the hardened layers of mud and scarred flesh.
Shakti didn't flinch.
It turned its head slowly, jaws parting wide. Teeth clamped down on the rake's wooden handle. A snap echoed sharp in the air as the tool broke apart in its mouth. In the same motion, Shakti's tail swung low and wide, catching the boy midair.
The impact sent him flying. He crashed into the alley wall with a sickening thud, limbs splayed awkwardly as he struggled to breathe.
And yet he still spoke.
"Where's… my… dad…" The boy's voice cracked between shallow gasps. "He left with the trading caravan– with your trog. He never… came back." His fury trying to hold its shape beneath the weight of pain and fear of the unspoken understanding.
Shakti stepped forward. Slow. Deliberate. Shakti's silhouette loomed over the boy as its massive frame blotted out what little light reached the alley.
It tilted its head. As if considering the child.
"Ka'?" Shakti rumbled, voice deep and without sympathy as if asking the boy to remind Shakti who he was talking about.
It raised its spear.
The point hovered over the boy's chest, steady as a stone. The child's body shook—whether from pain or the terror of understanding, it no longer mattered. Shakti pressed the tip into flesh, slow enough that the boy could feel every heartbeat before it stopped. The boy gasped—a sharp, final inhale—then let it out in silence.
Anger faded first.
Then fear.
Then nothing.
Shakti watched the light leave the boy's body.
And when it was done, Shakti pulled the spear free and moved on. Without a word. Without a thought.
No one moved to stop it. No one dared mourn.
The town went silent once again as insects buzzed in the distant fields.