Marked by the Four Beast Lords After Transmigration

Kael had left before breakfast was ready.

By the time Nia and Shen finished eating, the porridge pot had been moved from the hearth and their empty bowls sat near the basin. A thin streak of drying mud remained along the rim of the stone tray where Kael’s boots had stood.

Shen knelt in front of Nia and tightened the final tie around her broad-soled boot.

“He checked the lower shoulder before first light,” he said. “If it held through the night, the first paired loads should already be moving.”

Nia rested one hand on his shoulder while he pressed his thumb beneath the tie. “And if it shifted?”

“The lower road closes again.”

He rose and straightened the folded edge of her outer wrap where it caught against her knee. The cloth was lighter than what she had worn through most of winter, though the air slipping beneath the cave screen still carried cold.

Shen reached for her left wrist and untwisted the sleeve there. “This would have tightened before the lower stairs. You would have noticed after it started hurting.”

He released her wrist only after the seam lay flat.

Nia took the empty carrying basket from beneath the preparation table. They had no purchase planned, but Hearthfang had sent her home with roots, jars, cloth, and messages often enough that leaving without one seemed foolish.

The cave screen lifted onto moving air.

Two winter screens in the upper corridor had been rolled around their poles and tied against the wall. Damp stone, smoke, cut wood, and a green scent from below moved through the passage in uneven currents.

Nia stopped outside the cave.

She had walked these passages before winter. She remembered following Kael down while late-season light reached farther into the terraces, stopping at every unfamiliar basket until the ache in her ankle made him lift part of what she had bought. Fire pods had been spread across shallow mats. Frostleaf had filled bowls near the preparation tables. Cloudcaps had been stacked under damp cloth. The smoke chambers had smelled of salt, old wood, and meat that needed more air between the pieces.

The stone descent had not changed. The work around it had.

Two men carried a folded market cover toward the lower corridors. A third balanced empty baskets along a shoulder pole while another worker followed with repaired handles. Hunters came up from below with mud darkening their broad soles and wet leaves caught against one man’s calf.

An older woman carrying a clay bowl nodded to Nia without breaking her conversation with the husband beside her. A leather worker raised one hand from across the passage, then returned to stretching a hide over a rail.

No one gathered around Nia. The traffic opened, closed, and continued.

Shen placed his hand lightly at the back of her waist. “The center stones are drier.”

They joined the people moving down.

The first work corridor had been used for storage during the hardest cold. Tables now stood beneath cleared vents again. Bone handles, wooden pegs, leather strips, basket rims, and tools covered the surfaces while workers checked what damp and disuse had done to them.

At the nearest leather rail, a female with dark antelope-like horns cut a thick strip against a low board. One husband held the hide steady. Another waited with two rolled pieces over his shoulder while she pressed her thumb into the edge of each.

“The darker one can go to the cord room,” she said. “Keep the other here. The salt did not reach the middle.”

“Daron asked for both.”

“He can have the dry one. Tell him I will look at the second after it airs.”

The husband shifted the darker roll higher and left toward the craft corridor.

The man at the board changed his grip when the hide pulled. The female cut through the thick section, then looked up as Nia and Shen approached.

Her gaze touched the marks above Nia’s collar before settling on her face. “The boards behind the pale cord are open underneath. Stay on the stone if you go through the leather row.”

“We saw the marker,” Shen said.

The female returned the knife to the cut. “Kesra.”

“Nia.”

“I know. Mari counted my winter salt twice because your preservation changes altered what we used.” Kesra pulled the hide toward her. “We lost less than the year before.”

The husband at the board glanced toward the upper shelves. “She may count it three times next winter.”

Kesra ignored that and called after the mate carrying the roll. He stopped at the turn, listened, then changed direction without returning.

Nia and Shen continued past the rail.

“Four husbands?” Nia asked.

Shen nodded. “One works near the tanning pits. One handles cord and trade. The two you saw do most of the cutting and finishing with her.”

Nia looked back once. Kesra remained bent over the hide while the husband she had redirected disappeared into another corridor.

The next bend opened toward the lower preparation terraces.

Nia slowed before she reached them.

The wide tables were familiar. Before winter, she had stood there with a fire pod in her hand while Kael watched her as if her delight might make her forget the ache in her ankle. The mats had lain flat then. Now raised reed frames stood above the tables, leaving space beneath the roots and leaves spread across them.

A worker tied small clay markers to the corners. Another checked a row of narrow vents along the lower wall.

Nia stepped closer to the nearest frame. “These were not raised before.”

The older preparation woman at the far table looked up. Nia recognized her before the woman pointed a root knife toward the frame.

“You said the lower side stayed damp.”

“I remember.”

“We tried three heights during winter.” The woman came over and lifted one corner. Cross supports ran beneath the weave, light enough that two people could move the whole frame. “This one turns without spilling the roots. The taller one bent when the load was heavy.”

Nia pressed the reed edge, then looked under the frame. “Small leaves will fall through these gaps.”

“Tighter mats are rolled on the upper shelf.”

The woman pointed toward three narrow rolls near the vent. “The thick meat cuts still dried unevenly at the back of the smoke chamber. When Selvan reopens it to full loads, I want you to look at the spacing.”

“I will.”

“Not today. The roof pegs have not passed inspection.”

Nia left the frame where it stood.

Past the terrace, several wide reed trays leaned against a wall. Some had loose weaves for roots and sliced fruit. Others were tighter, meant for seeds.

A female knelt on a mat splitting soaked reeds with a short knife. Her husband sat beside her sorting the strips by width and discarding any that cracked near the ends.

Nia set down her basket and touched the rim of the tightest finished tray. “Would this hold coarse grain?”

The woman looked at Nia’s fingers on the weave. “The larger pieces. Fine meal would pass.”

“That is what I need, but I think these openings are still too wide.”

The husband lifted the tray toward the vent light. “A second layer would narrow them.”

“It would also trap meal between the reeds,” the woman said. She took the tray and turned it over. “What are you separating?”

“Meal after grinding. I want the fine part to fall through and the coarse pieces to stay so I can grind them again.”

The woman bent one of the narrow strips around her finger. “River reed can be split thinner once the cutting crews reach it. Bring a little of both—the meal and what you want left behind. I can test the spacing before I close a rim.”

Nia pictured the quern and the uneven grain beneath her fingers. “I will bring samples.”

“I have repairs ahead of new work.” The woman nodded toward four cracked rims stacked beside the mat. “The fresh reed is still below the lower post too.”

“It does not have to be immediate.”

The husband selected three strips from the narrow pile. “These may survive another soaking.”

The woman bent each one, kept two, and returned the third to the discard pile. “Set those aside.”

She looked back at Nia. “Dema.”

“Nia.”

Dema placed the two strips beneath a flat stone so they would dry straight. “Bring the grain when the lower crews start carrying reed.”

Nia picked up her basket while Dema resumed cutting.

At the lower split, cold green air came through the reopened road. Carriers entered in pairs with baskets hanging from poles between them. Mud darkened the middle of the path, but the marked inner line remained firm.

A female stood beside two waiting loads with a household token in each hand. One basket held coils of drying cord. The other was covered against damp air and marked for roof clay.

“The clay goes first,” she told the paired carriers. She tied its token to the pole. “Take the cord through the inner passage. Eren is already at the drying rooms.”

One carrier shifted his hands along the pole. “The cord load is lighter.”

“The roof is open now. The racks can wait one trip.”

A man waiting near the wall lifted the cord basket and took the inner turn. The female moved toward the clay counter before either load left the split.

Nia watched the three directions of movement until a loaded pair approached from below. Shen guided her to the dry side of the passage, keeping his body between her and the suspended baskets.

“I saw women directing household work before winter,” Nia said after the carriers passed. “I did not notice how many decisions kept moving after they went somewhere else.”

Shen looked toward the inner passage where the cord basket had disappeared. “The work does not stay in one place.”

“How do they divide it when everyone knows a different part?”

“By the part they know.” His hand shifted at her waist as another worker passed. “Kesra decides what leaves her leather stores. The mate at the pits tells her when a hide is ready. Kael decides which road can carry a load. You decide what our grain becomes after it reaches the cave.”

“And you decide whether the root beside it is safe.”

“Yes.”

Nia looked down the lower road, then back toward the preparation terraces. “If one decision changes the rest?”

“Then we talk before the next one.”

A runner called for the clay carriers to move, and Shen drew Nia onward before the passage narrowed again.

Hammering reached them before the market row came into view.

Nia recognized the turn. Before winter, sellers had crowded the passage beyond it with late roots, dried leaves, salt, fruit, tools, and cloth. She had stopped so often that Kael eventually carried part of what she bought and watched the set of her ankle more closely than the stalls.

Now half the winter coverings lay rolled against the walls. Workers knelt on the platforms checking supports and replacing boards. Pale cords marked open sections. Tables were returning from storage one at a time.

Kael stood near the first row with Tarek and two platform workers. One board had been lifted from its frame. Kael crouched beside the opening with his palm against the support beneath it while a worker shifted his weight across the adjoining stones.

He looked up before Nia called to him.

His gaze moved over her boots, the empty basket, and Shen’s hand at her waist. Relief loosened through the bond.

Kael rose and came to them. Mud marked his boots again, though it had not reached his knees.

“The lower shoulder held,” he said. “Paired loads are still using the inner line.”

“We stayed on it.” Nia nodded toward the corded platforms. “And we have not crossed those.”

His hand settled at the back of her neck. He bent and pressed his mouth to her forehead, then glanced at the empty basket.

“You have not found anything to carry home.”

“Not yet. Dema may make a finer grain sieve once the river reeds come up.”

Kael looked at her. “For the meal you grind twice?”

“For separating it before the second grinding.” Nia shifted the basket to her other hand. “It will need a dry hanging place. I may move one of the smaller pegs in the kitchen plan.”

“Will that change the shelf depth?”

“Not unless the tray is wider than Dema expects. I will measure it when she has a test rim.”

Kael nodded, his thumb moving once beneath her curls.

Tarek came from the open platform carrying a short replacement board. “The outer row needs two more supports. This section should hold after the next fitting.” He handed the board to one of the workers, then looked at Nia. “He ate at the lower post. I took the bowl back myself.”

Nia’s eyes returned to Kael.

“I ate,” he said.

Tarek stepped over the open frame and crouched beside the worker fitting the new board.

Kael kept his hand at Nia’s neck for another breath. “I have to check the west marker before second count. If the work here stays on time, I will cross the outer row before you leave.”

“We will still be looking.”

He glanced at Shen. “The corded sections are open beneath.”

“We have kept to the stone,” Shen said.

Kael released Nia and returned to the platform. Tarek was already pointing out where the board needed to be shaved.

Nia and Shen continued around the marked section.

The market was not open, but its old shape was returning. The stall where Nia had first found fire pods stood without its table, its owner airing woven mats against the wall. Farther down, shallow bowls of frostleaf waited beneath cloth while a seller checked shelf pegs. New drying frames moved toward the preparation turn where her winter questions had become other people’s work.

She had come below before with every scent pulling her in a different direction. Now Kesra expected Mari’s salt count to change again. The preparation women expected her at the smoke chamber. Dema had set aside reed for a tool Nia had not known how to ask for before that morning.

A woman at the next row checked a seller slate while one husband repaired the rail above her. Another crossed from the clay counter to a storage room, leaving two mates to finish dividing the loads she had marked. Near the old spice table, a female opened one packet, smelled it, and set it apart from the others without arguing with the seller.

Across the open space between two half-repaired platforms, a female laughed at something a broad man beside her had said. Her hands remained busy sorting tied bundles. She passed one to him and pointed toward a tilted stall frame. A slimmer husband approached with a seller slate, and she caught the loose cord at the back of his wrap long enough to retie it before sending him toward the inner row.

Another man arrived carrying folded covers. The female shifted two bundles beneath his free arm, touched his shoulder, and turned back to the first husband without raising her voice.

The three men moved toward separate parts of the market. The female remained between the open platforms, sorting the last bundle.

Then she looked across the row.

Her eyes found Nia immediately.

“Who is that?” Nia asked.

Shen followed her gaze.

“Ayari.”