Chapter 47 The Hatchlings’ Gift

The next two days were a waking nightmare. The guards made sure of that.

They didn’t let us sleep. Not for a second. Every time our eyelids drooped, a bucket of icy water would crash over us, or a spear butt would slam into the cage bars, jolting us awake with a loud clang. Our throats burned with thirst, our stomachs gnawed themselves hollow. The only "food" they tossed us was dried up shit. Witch I did not refuse, I was used to this kind of treatment. But Lyn, she did not and suffered the worst.

Her humanoid form—usually effortless—was slipping. Her claws retracted unevenly, her ears twitched at random, and sometimes, for just a second, her pupils would slit like a true cat’s before she forced them back. The strain was slowly eating at her.

But she never let them see it.

Instead, when the guards weren’t watching, she’d press her forehead to mine.

"Hold on. Just a little longer. My father will come. Even if he charges in blind with half his warriors, it’ll be enough. Rakrak’s army is nothing but cowards and bullies. The moment real steel meets them, they’ll break."

I swallowed hard, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. 

"What if… what if he doesn’t?"

"He will."

A guard’s laughter cut through the night, followed by the clink of a bottle. They were drinking again. Celebrating.

Lyn’s golden eyes gleamed in the dim light.

  "And when he does… he will slaughter all of these bastards."

The night was quiet, save for the distant snores of the drunken guard slumped against his post. The torches had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows across the cage. Exhaustion weighed on me like a stone, but sleep was a luxury we weren’t allowed.

Then—a tug.

Gentle, hesitant.

I blinked, my vision blurry from fatigue, and turned my head.

There, pressed against the bars, were my precious hatchlings.

Brog, Snik, and Murb—their tiny bodies trembling, their big eyes wide with fear. Brog held a folded leaf like a sacred offering, its edges carefully cupped to keep the precious few drops of water inside from spilling. Snik clutched a handful of crumbs—stale bread, scavenged from who knows where. And Murb…

Murb proudly extended a wriggling beetle, its legs still kicking.

"We bring foods," Brog whispered, his voice so small, so fragile.

  "For Papa. For Lyn."

My breath caught.

They were starving. More than I was. Their ribs pressed against their skin, their bellies hollow. No one fed them, the guards only beat them, and yet… They had brought us their last crumbs with gentle smiles on their little beaten faces.

Lyn stirred beside me, her ears twitching weakly. When she saw them, her tired eyes softened.

"You… little idiots. You should’ve eaten this yourselves."

Snik shook his head fiercely.

"No. You strong. You fight. We… we just small."

Murb nodded, pushing the beetle closer.

  "Eat! Make you big! Then you survive."

The words hit me like a knife to the chest. I reached through the bars, my fingers trembling as I took the leaf, the crumbs, the pitiful little beetle. My throat tightened.

"Thank you. But next time… eat it yourselves. Promise me."

They didn’t promise. Instead, Brog pressed his tiny forehead against the bars, his eyes glistening.

"We save you. Like you save us. We bring more food. More water."

And just like that, they were gone—vanishing into the shadows as silently as they had come, leaving behind only their heartbreaking gift.

Lyn and I shared the water first—just a few drops each, but it felt like a river on our parched tongues. The crumbs were stale, the beetle bitter, but we ate every last bit.

The next day, guards came.

They didn’t bother with taunts this time—just wrenched the cage door open and hauled us out. My meaty ears screamed in pain as they twisted them pulling me out, and Lyn’s snarl was cut short by a fist to her ribs. They beat us as they dragged us, not for information, not for answers—just because they could. Boots in my stomach. A club across Lyn’s shoulders. The taste of blood, thick and metallic, filled my mouth.

By the time they threw us into the center of the camp, I could barely see through the swelling in one eye.

Rakrak lounged on his throne—a thing of scavenged wood and polished bones—surrounded by his elite warriors. The new reinforcements Grishnak had brought stood at attention, their weapons ready. The rest of the camp had been gathered too—slaves, goblins, even the hatchlings—forced to watch.

This wasn’t just torture. This was a show.

Lyn was dragged to the wooden post—the one stained dark with old blood. They bound her wrists above her head, the ropes biting into her skin. She didn’t struggle. Didn’t beg. Just stared at Rakrak with those burning golden eyes, her breath ragged but her spirit unbroken.

As for me?

They tossed me into the dirt like garbage.

I hit the ground hard, my body a map of bruises and cuts. The crowd murmured—some laughing, some silent.

Rakrak stood, spreading his arms wide.

"Behold! The mighty Lyn, heir of the Cat Clan! And her pathetic little pet!"

The warriors jeered.

Rakrak sauntered forward, stopping just inches from Lyn’s face. 

"Last chance, little cat. Tell me everything—your father’s forces, his plans, his weaknesses—and I’ll make your death quick."

Lyn spat in his eye.

Rakrak recoiled, wiping his face but he only laughed.

"Fine. We’ll do this the fun way."

Rakrak's grin was a jagged slash of malice as he nodded to the hulking guard looming beside him—Butcher, the cruelest of them all. A monster who took pleasure in the snap of bones, the spill of blood, the whimpers of the weak.

Butcher stepped forward, a heavy wooden box clutched in his gnarled hands. With a sadistic chuckle, Butcher lifted the box high—then smashed it into the ground.

The wood splintered.

And out tumbled—

My hatchlings. My precious hatchlings.

Beaten senseless. Broken but alive.

Their tiny bodies were a mess of bruises, their green skin mottled with dark, ugly patches where fists and boots had brutally landed. Brog's left eye was swollen shut, Snik's arm bent at a sickening angle, Murb—oh gods, Murb—had a gash across his forehead, blood painting his tiny head. And the rest didn't fare any better.

They whimpered, trembling, their big eyes glazed with pain and fear.

"Nooooo! Please, mercy! Not them! Not the hatchlings! Not my precious! Please!" I screamed, my voice cracking. My body, weak from days of starvation and torture, moved on pure instinct. I crawled to them, my fingers digging into the dirt, my vision blurred by tears.

Rakrak's laughter echoed around me.

  "Oh, don't look so heartbroken! They were very brave. Tried to steal and sneak you food again. Stupid little things."

I reached them, my hands shaking as I gathered them against me. They were so small, so light. Brog let out a weak chirp, his tiny fingers clutching at my skin.

"S-sorry…" Snik hiccuped, his voice barely a whisper.

  "We… we tried…"

Murb coughed up a bit of blood but still managed a wobbly grin.

  "We… we bit Butcher’s toe. Hard."

A sob ripped from my chest.

Lyn's voice cut through the air like a blade. 

"You filth. You cowards. They're children!"

Rakrak shrugged.

  "And now they're examples. This is what happens when you defy me, Hermit. This is what weakness costs you."

I clutched my hatchlings tighter, my body trembling with sorrow. They had hurt the only good thing I had left. 

Suddenly, Rakrak's fingers snapped like a whip crack.

"Do it! Teach these damn slaves a lesson they won't forget."

Butcher's grin split his face like a rotten fruit. He lumbered forward, his boot slamming into my ribs before I could even react. The world upended, I somersaulted through the air, bones crunching as I hit the ground in a crumpled heap. Pain exploded through my body, but I barely had time to gasp before—

"NO!"

The shriek tore from my throat as Butcher's massive fist closed around Brog. My precious hatchling dangled in the air, his tiny legs kicking weakly, his one good eye wide with terror.

"Nuh-ugh! Nu-ugh! P-please—" Brog whimpered.

Butcher didn't hesitate. First—he squeezed. Brog's tiny ribs crunched under the pressure, a high-pitched wheeze escaping him as his breath was crushed out.

Then—he shook him like a ragdoll, his little body whipping back and forth until his limbs flopped limply. Butcher held him high—then slammed him into the ground like a hammer striking anvil.

"BRROOGG!" I screamed, crawling forward, my vision swimming with tears.

Brog didn't move. Didn't make a sound. His tiny body lay twisted in the dirt, his breaths shallow, wet. But before I could reach him, Butcher slammed his boot on Brog, crushing him like a grape.

Rakrak clapped slowly. 

"Ahhh, nothing like the sound of lesson learned."

He gestured to the other hatchlings—Snik, Murb, the rest—huddled together in a trembling pile.

  "Who's next?"

The moment Brog’s broken body hit the dirt, something in Lyn shattered.

Her golden eyes—always burning with defiance—dimmed. Her claws, which had strained against the ropes, went slack. The fire that had kept her spine straight, her teeth bared, her spirit unbroken… guttered out.

“Enough.”

Rakrak’s grin faltered. He leaned forward, his beady eyes narrowing.

  “What was that, little cat?”

Lyn didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed on Snik’s trembling form, on Murb sobbing huddled with the rest of the hatchlings, on me—bloodied, broken, barely holding myself together.

“Stop! I’ll tell you everything. My father’s forces. Their positions. Their weaknesses. Everything. But you must stop. No more beatings. No more torture. You let the hatchlings go. You let Hermit go.”