In the mindspace, there’s a tremor. Not words exactly, but a shared breath that ripples through the gathered Drakav. Relief. Relief and…gratitude.
A few scattered mental voices spark brighter:
“The females will live.”
“The Daughters won’t dry out.”
Something relaxes in the lines around Kol’s eyes. “Xiraxis is calmer now,” he projects.
We leave the filter doing its work in the dark and head back to the main cavern. When we finally step into the firelight of the main gathering space, the mood shifts instantly. Heads turn. Eyes widen. The air is thick with waiting.
“Now for the hard part,” I murmur to Alex.
Haroth is already moving, releasing water from the skins into large stone pots. But he moves with a strange hesitation, his usual confidence gone. He sets the first pot onto the central fire, but his claws linger on the rim, as if he wants to pull it back.
Around the circle, the other Drakav tense.
And then I realize…
To them, this is sacrilege. Water is life. Fire consumes water. Watching the steam rise, seeing precious moisture vanish into the air, goes against every survival instinct they have.
“It feels… wrong,” Haroth projects, watching the first bubbles break the surface. “To burn the water. To let it fly away.”
“It’s not flying away,” I say, projecting the thought as clearly as I can to the group. “The heat is fighting the sickness. Think of it like… cauterizing a wound. We lose a little water to save the rest.”
It’s a lie. Boiling doesn’t work exactly like cauterization, but the metaphor lands. The tension in the room eases just a fraction. They don’t like it, but they understand fighting.
When the first pot reaches a full, rolling boil, the Drakav lean forward in unison, staring at the violent, bubbling surface with a mixture of horror and fascination. They treat it like a volatile chemical reaction that might explode.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Alex says, stepping in. “Kill the heat. I don’t want anyone burning their mouths trying to gulp salvation.”
Kol eyes the bubbling pot warily. But I can tell he trusts us. Without so much as a piece of sinew to protect his hands, he lifts the pot off the flame and sets it aside to cool, treating the vessel as if it contains liquid fire.
The first bowls of boiled, newly filtered water go to the sick bay, where the sickest lie.
Tina is sitting up inside when I enter. She looks up as I approach with a carefully cooled bowl.
“Brought you the good stuff,” I say, kneeling at her side.
She eyes it as if it might sprout teeth. “That from Murder Spring?”
“Adjacent,” I say. “Post-murder mitigation.”
“Reassuring,” she mutters, but her fingers are already reaching. Sweat beads on her forehead as she takes the bowl, hands shaking a little.
“Small sips,” Alex instructs from behind me, her tone the exact same one she uses for scolding and encouragement, which somehow works.
Tina rolls her eyes but obeys, swallowing slowly.
I watch her throat work, impossibly aware of each movement.
She finishes half the bowl, then sinks back against the wall, exhaling a breath that sounds marginally less ragged than the one before.
“Doesn’t taste like poison,” she announces. “I prefer this genre. Much less ‘Gothic Horror,’ more ‘Cozy Survival.’”
Relieved laughter bubbles up from the humans closest to us; some of the Drakav echo it, even if they don’t get the exact reference. A few of the other sick females reach for bowls, and the cycle continues: scoop, boil, cool, carry, sip.
I feel a warm, solid weight at my back, and even before his arm loops around my waist, I know it’s him. Sarven hasn’t stopped touching me since we walked back into the cavern, as if he needs constant tactile proof that I’m not dissolving into sea foam.
