While her brother was bickering with their father and Allen, Isa brought her attention to Layla. She bit her lower lip and shifted on her butt, seemingly waiting for something. But whatever she was waiting for, it never came.
"Can I lean against you?" She asked a while later. "I don't feel too well."
Layla tilted her head as if she did not understand why she had asked such a thing. There was no need to ask.
"Is it a no?"
Taken aback, Layla stood still for a second before shaking her head, her short, fluffy hair bouncing on each side of her face. With a gesture of her hand, she invited her destined mate to lean on her shoulder, and Isa happily complied.
"You should take note," Allen said to Nyell, a bit envious of Layla. "That's how destined mates should act."
"Like what?" Nyell rolled his eyes. "Lovestruck teens? In your dream. But if we're talking about role models, then you should follow Layla's example and talk less."
"Trust me, she talks a lot, just not in the usual way."
"What do you mean?"
"She can't speak."
Great, now Nyell felt like an asshole. Like always, he'd run his mouth without thinking, and he feared he had hurt the woman's feelings. "Sorry. I didn't know."
Nyell had noticed Layla hadn't uttered a single word since they met, but he hadn't realized she was mute. He had thought she was just shy.
Thankfully, Layla didn't appear offended and waved her hand as if to tell him not to worry, dismissing the subject altogether. At any rate, it had to be known sooner or later that she couldn't talk.
"Alright," Corriel clapped his hands, "I think we bickered enough. Time to go back to the matter at hand.
"Then, let me start. Do you know what this is?" Myrven asked as he put a half-wrapped dagger on the ground before him. It was one of those he had pulled out of Layla's back a few hours ago.
"A dagger?" Nyell and Isa chorused.
"Yes, but that's not exactly what I wanted to hear," Myrven deadpanned. "It belongs to a daemon. You can tell by the symbols whirling on its blade. And don't touch it! It carries a curse."
Myrven warned as he gently slapped Nyell's hand away, brushing it aside. If the man cut himself, it wouldn't end well for him.
"A curse? It carries a curse? How can a blade carry a curse?"
"The black symbols engraved on it act as a medium," Myrven patiently explained. "When blood gets in contact with them, it activates the curse, which, in turn, directly attacks the soul. It chips at it slowly, tearing it apart piece by piece. It's the kind of curse that first makes you lose your mind, followed by your bodily functions."
"Don't worry," Allen coaxed, noticing Nyell's worried glances at Layla. "It isn't effective against Layla. She is a tough one."
"Did she cut herself?!" Isa asked, fear widening her eyes. She couldn't help but straighten her back, giving a look-over glance at her destined mate. She didn't appear hurt, but you never knew what injuries she could be hiding underneath her clothes.
"Just a little."
"…"
A little, my ass!
Nyell felt his mouth twitch, but he didn't comment aloud. He didn't want his sister to find out her destined mate had risked her life to save hers; otherwise, guilt would ravage her.
Corriel also didn't comment. Though there had been no visible wounds, Layla had come back with tattered and bloodied clothes. No need to be a genius to understand that Allen down-played what truly happened.
"So," Corriel smiled darkly, "do you have any idea why a daemon is after our tribe?"
"I had hoped you'd know."
Daemons rarely pursued the living. They were spiritual guides born out of the souls of dead people. They were strongly attached to their brethren and stayed near them until they either turned into a higher spiritual form or vanished, ascending to the heavens.
Sometimes, daemons became wrathful demons. Hatred fueled their souls, and they'd go after whatever had angered them, restlessly and mercilessly.
Just like the curse, daemons attacked the soul. The one after the Black Moon tribe devoured the souls of their ancestors, and probably the ones of the missing persons. Even if they were to find them again, they'd be no better than dead. A soulless body was like an empty shell.
"I guess we'll need to pay our respects to the elders later," Corriel sighed. "I haven't been the chief for long, and my mate hasn't shared everything that has transpired in our tribe with me. She was secretive when it came to tribe matters."
"I'm sorry to ask this, but how did the previous chief die? You haven't shared the reason behind her death to the other tribes."
"From an illness."
Hulien had agonized for months before dying, and they didn't spread the word for fear of drawing unwelcome attention. Some tribes would have jumped on the occasion to launch a surprise attack or threaten them to give up hunting territories and whatnot. The Black Moon tribe was too strong, and it gave birth to envy and jealousy in other tribes. Not only did they have two powerful male alpha, they also had a luna. Hulien had refused to seek help from other tribes, knowing the risks. She had been told that her disease was incurable, anyway, and she wanted to spend the rest of her time with her family.
Hulien had been one of the strongest warriors to ever be born in their tribe and an incredible leader. She was wise and kind but also stern and strong.
Yet, her emaciated form and weak smile were all Corriel could remember now.
"Who treated her?"
Corriel let out a self-mocking sigh, rage filling his stomach. It was the shaman, of course.
"I'm sorry," Allen said. "She might not have died of illness."
Corriel and Nyell had figured as much.