Chapter 1 

Gala

The caravan winds through the valley like a painted serpent, dust rising gold in the afternoon light. I walk beside our family's wagon, listening to the creak of wheels and my Father Magnus humming—some old traveling song I've known since childhood but never learned all the words to. Magnus drives with his weathered hands steady on the reins, his voice a low rumble that matches the rhythm of the horses' hooves.

Mother sits beside him, mending a torn harness with quick, practiced movements. Her needle catches the light each time it rises, flashing like a signal. She doesn't look up from her work, but I see her lips moving—counting stitches, maybe, or saying the small prayers she weaves into everything she makes.

Ahead, Geo runs with the other children. Kess, the weaver's daughter, shrieks as Tomo—the cooper’s boy—nearly knocks her down chasing some game only they understand. Their laughter carries back through the dust, and I find myself smiling without meaning to.

This is my world. The only world I've ever known.

Behind our caravan come the others: the Vey family with their instruments wrapped in oiled cloth, old Marrim riding alone on her gray mare, the Catos with their string of horses. Ten caravans, maybe thirty people total. Not a large group, but large enough. Safe enough.

The road curves ahead, and I feel the shift before anyone speaks. The chatter quiets. Even the children slow their running. Father's humming stops.

We're approaching a sacred site.

I've been walking this route since I was Geo's age. I know every standing stone, every carved tree, every place where the old rituals have to be performed. This site is marked by a cairn of stacked stones, each one painted with symbols worn almost smooth by weather and time. Beyond it stand three ancient oaks, their branches reaching toward each other like clasped hands.

Father pulls the wagon to a halt. Other families do the same, wheels groaning as they stop. No one has to give orders. Everyone knows what comes next.

Mother climbs down, tucking the mending into her belt. She moves to the back of the wagon where the offerings are kept—wrapped in clean cloth, prepared this morning before we started traveling. I join her, and together we carry the bundles toward the cairn.

Other women are doing the same. Old Marrim dismounts with a grunt, her joints crackling. Kess's mother emerges from the weaver's wagon with her arms full. The men stay back with the wagons and horses. The children watch, silent now, understanding this is serious.

Mother kneels before the cairn and begins unwrapping the offerings. Three loaves of bread, still warm from the morning fire. Dried apples threaded on a string. A strip of cured meat. She arranges them carefully on the flat stone at the cairn's base, her movements precise.

Then come the trinkets. A wooden bird I carved last week—I spent three evenings getting the wings right, whittling by firelight while the Veys played their mandolin. Mother places it gently beside the food. A woven belt that belonged to Geo when he was smaller. A clay figure of a horse, cracked but still recognizable.

Always three food items. Always something wooden. Always something once-worn.

The other women add their offerings. The pile grows: bread, fruit, dried fish, small carved animals, strips of fabric, a child's worn shoe.

When everything is arranged, Mother stands. The other women form a loose circle around the cairn. I take my place between Mother and old Marrim. The men and children stay back, watching.

Mother's voice rises clear and strong, and the other women join in:

"The Bone Man walks when the moon is thin
We feed the path, he feeds within
Accept gifts of hand and heart
Keep both tooth and claw and hunger apart"

The words are old. Older than Mother, older than Marrim, older than anyone living. I've heard them my entire life. I know them the way I know my own name.

We repeat the chant three times. On the third repetition, Mother kneels and touches the offerings with both hands—a gesture of completion. Then she stands and steps back.

The ritual is finished.

For a moment, no one moves. The silence holds weight, like the air before a storm. I stare at the cairn, at the pile of offerings we've left. Food for the Bone Man. Gifts to keep him satisfied. Tokens to prove respect.

It's always felt like make-believe—a story the adults tell to keep children careful in the dark. But standing here now, watching the late afternoon shadows stretch long across the clearing, I feel something shift in my chest.

What if it isn't make-believe?

What if something really does come for these offerings after we leave?

The thought sends a shiver down my spine that has absolutely nothing to do with cold.

Father's voice breaks the silence. "Come. We'll make camp beyond the three oaks."

The women turn away from the cairn. I follow Mother back to the wagon, but I look over my shoulder once. Twice. The offerings sit undisturbed in the fading light. The forest beyond is dark and still.

Nothing moves.

Of course nothing moves. It's just ritual. Just tradition. 

"Gala." Mother's voice is gentle. "Come help with the fire."

I shake myself and hurry to catch up.

We make camp in the meadow beyond the three oaks. The wagons form a loose circle, fires blooming in the spaces between them as the solis drops toward the horizon. The smell of cooking fills the air—flatbread and stewed beans, dried meat rehydrating in pots of water, herbs crushed and scattered over everything.

I help Mother prepare our family's portion while Father tends the fire and Geo fetches water from the stream. Around us, the other families are doing the same. Voices rise and fall, easy and familiar. Someone laughs. One of the Vey children starts playing a reed pipe, high and sweet.

When the food is ready, we eat together—not just my family, but everyone. Bowls pass from hand to hand, bread torn and shared, stories traded like currency.

Old Marrim has positioned herself near the largest fire, and after the food is gone and the bowls scraped clean, she begins to speak. The children gather close. Even the adults quiet to listen.

"The Bone Man," Marrim says, her voice rough as gravel, "took a bride once. Long ago, before your grandparents were born. Before mine, even."

Geo leans forward, eyes wide. Kess tucks herself against her mother's side. Tomo tries to look brave and fails.

"She was beautiful," Marrim continues. "Dancer's feet, voice like morning birds. They found her at dawn one spring, dancing in a meadow with flowers woven in her hair. Laughing. Spinning. Alone."

"Why was she alone?" Geo whispers.

"Because she'd gone to meet him." Marrim's eyes gleam in the firelight. "She'd been leaving offerings for months. Extra bread. Ribbons from her hair. Little gifts, personal things. And one night, she walked out of camp and didn't come back."

Silence. Even the fire seems to crackle more quietly.

"Her family searched for weeks. Followed every trail, called her name until their voices broke. Found nothing. Until finally, in that meadow where she'd been dancing..." Marrim pauses, letting the tension build. "They found flowers. Wilted in a circle, like someone had been lying there. And in the center, one bone. White as moonlight. With her name carved into it."

"Did he eat her?" Geo asks, exactly as he always does. This story is old, familiar, but still he has to ask.

Marrim leans forward. "Worse, child. He loved her."

The words hang in the air. I feel them sit in my chest like stones.

I've heard this story a hundred times. More. It's a warning, obviously. Don't stray from camp. Don't leave offerings alone. Don't try to see the Bone Man. Don't, don't, don't.

But tonight, for the first time, I wonder: what if the girl hadn't been taken? What if she'd gone willingly?

What would that kind of love even look like?

"Why is that worse?" Kess asks, small voice breaking through my thoughts.

Marrim smiles, showing the gaps in her teeth. "Because monsters can’t keep what they love, girl. They consume it."

Later, when the fires have burned low and the camp settles into sleep, I lie in my tent listening to my family breathe. Geo snores softly to my left. Mother and Father murmur to each other in that wordless way married people do, then go quiet.

Outside, someone still plays music—the Veys, probably, always the last ones awake. A mandolin, slow and wandering, no particular melody. Just notes in the dark.

I stare at the tent ceiling and think about the carved bird I placed at the cairn. Three evenings of work. I was proud of it—the way the wings curved, the detail in the tiny feathers. It was the best thing I've made in months.

Will the Bone Man take it? Does he even exist, or is this all just elaborate pretend?

And if he does exist... what does he look like? What does he want with our offerings? Does he understand what they mean, or does he just take the food and leave the rest to rot?

I roll onto my side, tucking my arm under my head. Geo's breathing evens out into deeper sleep. The mandolin outside finally stops.

Everything is safe. Everything is known.

I try to go to sleep, but Marrim's words echo: He loved her.

And underneath that: Monsters aren’t able to keep what they love. They consume it.

I wonder which is worse—being consumed or being forgotten.

The thought follows me into dreams.