Marked by the Four Beast Lords After Transmigration

The hunting tally came down the mountain before the hunters did.

Rovan brought the first strip of bark-paper with snow packed into the seams of his boots and a smear of ash across one cheek where the lower path grit had blown back at him. He ducked into the counting room beside the lower kitchens, shook his shoulders once, and held the strip toward Mari before he had fully caught his breath.

“Tarek says the first group is at the east butcher arch. Second group is behind them with the sledges. Kael is still above the second turn.”

Mari took the strip with two fingers because her other hand was inside a bowl of salt. “Still above it doing what?”

“Looking at tracks.”

Sera, who had been tying cloth over a basket of cooled leaf bird bundles, looked up. “What kind?”

Rovan rubbed his cold nose with his wrist. “The kind no one is allowed to follow until he says.”

Mari’s mouth tightened. “Level?”

“He did not write it.”

“Then it is high enough that no one in this room needs to go looking.”

“It means,” Rovan said, shifting his weight as if his toes were waking painfully inside his boots, “Tarek told me to say no one goes toward the north ravine because they think fresh tracks mean festival meat.”

One of the older kitchen workers snorted from the sorting table. “Then he should have written that.”

“He did.” Rovan turned the bark-paper around and pointed near the bottom.

Mari leaned closer. Her eyes moved once across the marks, and her expression went flat with satisfaction. “Good. Put that on the hunt cloth. Big enough for the young ones to see.”

Nia wiped her hands on the towel Sera had pressed into her lap earlier and tried not to smile. The counting room was smaller than the lower kitchen, tucked beside the cold passage where meat could be brought in without dragging slush across the cooking floor. Long stone tables ran down the center, each marked with charcoal lines for festival, patrol, elders, workers, smoke, bone, fat, and reserve. The words had been written and rewritten often enough that older marks ghosted beneath the newer ones.

Yesterday, the room had smelled of steamed winter leaves and burrow-hen filling. Today, even before the first hunter arrived, it smelled like salt, cold stone, old smoke, damp fur, and sharpened knives.

Sera came behind Nia and retied the loose end of her scarf without asking. “Your ears are cold.”

“They are always cold in this passage.”

“Then I will always fix your scarf in this passage.”

Nia lowered her chin, and Sera tucked the edge beneath the outer wrap before pressing a cup into her hand.

Rovan, halfway to the hunt cloth, touched the ash on his cheek, found the cold smear, and continued toward the wall.

The first hunters arrived with frost on their shoulders and the tired, loose-limbed movement of men who had been carrying weight downhill longer than pride could make comfortable. They came through the butcher arch one by one, boots scraping over grit, sledges pulling behind them on rope. Conversation thinned. Workers came forward with hooks, cloths, and shallow bowls. Mari handed the salt bowl to the woman beside her and moved to the first table.

Tarek entered behind the first sledge, hair damp where snow had melted near his temples, one glove tucked under his arm while he unwound a cord from his wrist. He looked across the room, found Sera, nodded, then found Nia.

“You are away from the blades?”

Nia touched the edge of the marked line on the floor with one boot. “I have been assigned this side.”

Sera did not glance up from the basket. “She will stay there.”

Tarek’s mouth shifted, but he only nodded again and turned toward Mari. “First count. Frost hare, eight clean. Two damaged. Burrow-hen, eleven. Thick-feather birds, six. Root-field boar, one large, one young. Ridge deer, three. Elk-beast sign above the south hollow but no confirmed kill.”

Mari’s hand was already moving over the cloth. “Fat on the boar?”

“Good on the large one. Young one lean.”

“Bones intact?”

“Mostly. One ridge deer shoulder broken from the fall.”

“Usable for stew?”

“Yes.”

“Then do not call it damaged near me.”

Tarek gave a low sound that might have been agreement and untied the next cord. “Second group has more birds and hares. Maybe another boar if the sledge runners did not lose their footing.”

Mari wrote without looking pleased.

The first sledge covering came off, and cold air rolled upward from the meat. Frost hare lay bundled together, pale winter fur already stiffening at the edges. The bones were small and the meat lean, better for broth if stretched and better roasted only if fat was added. The damaged ones would not be pretty enough for festival pieces, but they could still deepen a pot.

Mari pointed with the marking stick. “Send two clean hares to the elders and two to the small broth pot. Workers get two today. Trim the damaged ones for the bone pot, and leave the last two in reserve unless Kael changes the count.”

A hunter near the sledge lifted his head. “Festival gets only two?”

“Festival gets broth people can drink while standing,” Mari said. “Elders get meat they can chew before the singers start. Workers get food because hungry hands ruin good counts.”

The hunter lowered his eyes and reached for the carrying cloth.

Nia took a sip from the cup Sera had given her. The broth had sharp bulb in it today and a thread of warming bark so faint she only felt it after swallowing. It moved through her chest while the hares were carried to the first table.

The burrow-hens came next, plump enough under their thick winter feathers that the kitchen workers nearest the door exchanged a glance.

Mari’s eyes cut toward them. “Do not start smiling until they are plucked.”

The worker immediately looked serious.

Yesterday’s folded leaf bundles had made burrow-hen feel like a menu item. Here, with the cold clinging to feathers and the hunters’ hands stiff from rope, the birds became work again. The work returned to plucking, saving skin, separating bones, and choosing which pieces could be chopped into filling or held for roasting and stew.

“The bundle filling can use mixed cuts,” Nia said. “It does not need the neat pieces.”

Mari paused. “Say that again.”

“The leaf bundles. If the meat is chopped small with grain and fat, we can use the uneven parts. The better whole pieces can go somewhere people will notice them.”

Tarek glanced from Nia to Mari.

Mari tapped the marking stick against the table once. “Mark the uneven burrow-hen for leaf bundles. Hold the whole legs and thick breast pieces until the second count comes in. Bones go to broth, and the skin is saved.”

The worker beside her wrote quickly.

Sera set the basket of cooled bundles on a side shelf and came to stand near Nia’s shoulder. “That means yesterday’s work helps today.”

Mari marked the uneven cuts. “It means yesterday’s work eats scraps politely.”

Nia smiled into her cup.

The thick-feather birds were heavier than the burrow-hens, with darker feathers near the wing joints and narrow breasts beneath the fluff. They smelled stronger when the cover lifted, more gamey beneath the cold, closer to the kind of bird that needed smoke, salt, or a good braise instead of gentle steaming. Nia leaned forward before she remembered the line on the floor.

Sera’s hand landed lightly on the back of her wrap.

Nia stopped with one foot still behind the mark.

Mari did not look away from the birds. “Say it from there.”

“They may be better roasted or smoked than folded,” Nia said. “The smell is stronger. If they go in the leaf bundles, they might take over.”

Tarek took a small knife from a worker and cut beneath the wing of one bird, checking the meat. “Smoke pit?”

Mari nodded slowly. “Smoke them first. After that, we can slice them for worker trays or put them into stew.”

“Some could go with iron-greens,” Nia added. “If the greens are sturdy enough.”

Mari turned toward her. “With boar?”

“Maybe not with the main boar pot. A smaller pot. Strong bird, bitter greens, enough fat.”

Mari stared at the bird another moment. “Smoke two of them. Keep the other four cold until Kael sees the full count.”

Hooks shifted, cloths opened, and the next table cleared.

The first root-field boar took four men to lift fully onto the low butcher table. It landed with a weight that traveled through the stone and into Nia’s feet. Dark bristles clung to its hide. The thick neck and shoulders made the air feel different, not dangerous now but substantial. Workers nearest the table leaned in despite themselves, already measuring pots, fat, and portions with their eyes.

Mari walked around it once.

“Fat,” she said.

One of the hunters cut near the belly. Pale fat showed beneath the hide.

Mari’s expression did not soften, but her shoulders settled. “Good. Festival pot can hold.”

Tarek untied another cord from his wrist. “Kael said no fresh boar goes to private households until the patrol store count is marked.”

A few men near the doorway shifted, though no one argued.

Mari lifted her marking stick. “He said that before or after the north tracks?”

“Before.”

“Then he will say it louder after.”

“Yes,” Tarek said.

The boar had the kind of shoulder that wanted long cooking, enough fat to carry greens, and bones that could deepen broth if no one rushed them. The iron-greens would hold better than softer leaves. Some could go in early to flavor the pot, and some late so the whole thing did not turn dull.

Nia closed her mouth around the first thought, but Mari caught the movement. “What?”

“I was thinking about the greens.”

“You always are.”

Sera’s fingers pressed once against Nia’s shoulder.

“If all the iron-greens go in early, they will turn heavy,” Nia said. “Some should cook with the boar, but some can go in later, after the meat softens. It will taste fresher and stretch the pot without making it muddy.”

Mari pointed to the worker at the cloth. “Write two greens additions. Early for broth. Late for bite.”

The worker wrote, then paused. “Bite?”

Nia searched for the right Beast World phrasing. “So it still has tooth.”

The worker wrote tooth.

Mari did not correct it.

The young boar was leaner, ribs showing beneath the winter hide. Mari marked it for workers and smoke, then changed her mind after touching the shoulder.

“Smoke half of it,” Mari said. “Mince the rest for reserve. If the root stores open tomorrow, we may need small meat for mash trays.”

Tarek nodded and pulled the next count strip from his belt.

Rovan came back in with another message before the ridge deer were fully laid out. His boots had been brushed this time, but his hair was wet near the ends and his cheeks were flushed from moving between warm and cold spaces.

“Second group is five turns out. One sledge rope snapped. No injuries. They are tying with spare line.”

Tarek asked, “Who tied it?”

“Bren.”

“It will hold.”

Rovan handed him a folded strip. “Kael sent this for you.”

Tarek read it, his face changing only in the smallest tightening near the jaw. He passed it to Mari.

Mari read it once and held it farther from the salt bowl. “He closed the north ravine.”

Rovan nodded. “Until after festival unless Kael opens it himself.”

A hunter near the boar table muttered something too low for Nia to catch.

Tarek caught it.

The nearest knives slowed against the tables.

Tarek turned his head. “Say it where I can hear it, or swallow it.”

The hunter’s ears angled back. He wiped his knife on a cloth. “I said the tracks might leave by tomorrow.”

“They might.”

“We could take two Level Fives and follow before the snow fills.”

Tarek’s eyes stayed on him. “No.”

The hunter’s hand tightened around the cloth. “If it is elk-beast, that is meat.”

“If it is not, you become meat.” Tarek reached for the cord at his wrist and pulled it loose with deliberate calm. “Kael closed the ravine.”

The hunter looked down first.

Mari returned the strip to Tarek. “Good. I do not count meat I have to scrape off stone.”

The hunter lowered his eyes, and Nia held the warm cup tighter while the closed-ravine mark stayed dark on the cloth.

The ridge deer were lean and dark, their meat less forgiving than the boar. Good for stew if kept moist, easy to dry out if roasted without care. Bones for broth. Marrow if they had enough.

Mari was already touching joints, asking about the fall, checking where the shoulder had broken.

“Use the shoulder and neck for the stew if the elk does not come,” she said. “Crack the bones for broth and hold the back pieces.”

Tarek glanced toward the cloth. “Patrol gets one full haunch.”

“Patrol already has dried strips.”

“Patrol will be out in the closed paths while everyone else is singing.”

Mari’s mouth pressed into a line.

The line on the cloth moved from festival toward patrol.

Sera touched Nia’s cup, and Nia drank while the mark settled into place.

The second group arrived with more noise because the repaired sledge dragged unevenly. Men came in stomping and breathing hard, one laughing under his breath until Mari’s attention found him, then the hunter carrying two thick-feather birds by the bound feet. The final count added four frost hares, nine burrow-hens, one damaged thick-feather bird, and a second root-field boar smaller than the first but fat enough to make Mari touch the mark beside the festival pot again.

“Now it holds,” she said.

One of the hunters grinned. “The boar pot?”

“The count.”

The grin turned sheepish, and he helped lift the boar.

Kael came in after the last sledge.

Heads turned before Nia saw Kael, then returned to work because meat needed to stay cold. He entered with snow melting across the shoulders of his outer fur, dark curls damp at the ends, and a line of blood along one forearm where something had scratched through the edge of his glove. It had already closed enough that he did not favor the arm.

Nia stood before she thought better of it.

Sera’s hand hovered near her back but did not stop her.

Kael found Nia first, taking in her face, her scarf, the cup in her hand, and the floor line Sera had assigned before he crossed to her.

“You stayed back.”

“Sera made a border.”

“Good.”

Nia reached for his sleeve, then paused because the fur was wet. “Your arm.”

“Closed.”

Nia waited.

His mouth moved, faint and tired. He held the arm where she could see. The scratch had sealed into a dark line against his skin, shallow enough that it would probably be gone by night. Still, Shen would look at it if he were here, and Shen would not accept “closed” as a full answer either.

Nia touched the uninjured part of his wrist. His skin was cold.

Kael’s hand came around the back of her neck, thumb slipping beneath the scarf edge to check the warmth there. Nia’s fingers loosened around his wrist.

“You ate?”

“Broth.”

Sera, behind Nia, said, “And half a root cake.”

Nia shifted the cup in both hands. “I was going to eat the other half.”

Rovan, from the wall, held up a wrapped cloth. “It is still here.”

He lowered it when Kael turned back toward the main cloth.

Kael bent and kissed Nia’s forehead, lingering only long enough for cold to brush her skin and warmth to follow where his mouth had been. Then he let her go and moved to the main cloth.

Tarek handed him the strips in order. “First count and second count are marked. The ravine closure is on the cloth. There was one argument.”

“Who?”

Tarek named the hunter.

The hunter’s shoulders dropped before Kael spoke.

“North ravine stays closed.”

“Yes, Chief.”

“No one follows tracks without my word.”

“Yes, Chief.”

Kael turned back to the cloth. “Level Five at least. Maybe higher.”

Even Mari’s hand paused.

“Did you see it?” Tarek asked.

“Partial track. Drag mark near the upper ice. Too much weight for elk-beast.”

Mari’s face sharpened. “Then the south hollow elk sign?”

“Separate.”

“Can it be hunted?”

“Not today.”

Mari breathed once through her nose over the cloth. “Then ridge deer bones stand in for marrow stew.”

“Elk-beast if conditions allow tomorrow,” Kael said. “No promise.”

Mari crossed out one mark and rewrote it lower on the cloth. “No promise goes in the pot.”

Kael began dividing the meat.

He did not make speeches. He stood at the cloth with Tarek on one side and Mari on the other, listening when hunters gave details and cutting through argument before it grew legs. His hand moved from column to column. Patrol stores took more than the younger hunters wanted. Elders received clean hares and soft cuts. Workers kept enough for the next two days of kitchen labor. Festival received the large boar, the second boar’s fat, uneven burrow-hen cuts for leaf bundles, ridge deer bones and shoulder, thick-feather birds for smoke, and a smaller share of hares than the first menu cloth had hoped for.

The reserve column grew: a strip of boar fat, two ridge deer back pieces, several burrow-hens, one full haunch, bones that could have enriched the festival stew, and meat that would not be seen in the festival trays at all unless something went wrong.

Mari asked about cuts, bones, fat, and timing. She argued for skin when the workers needed it. She gave up a neat roast without blinking when Kael moved it to patrol. She reclaimed damaged birds for smoke when someone tried to mark them as poor. To her, a bone was not lesser than a cut if the bone fed the right pot; fat could matter more than meat, broken shoulders could save broth, and small hares could warm elders better than they could impress a crowd.

A worker brought in a shallow tray of preserved berries from the cold room, the surface dark and glossy under a thin layer of set syrup. Rovan reached for one strip of root bread from his pouch while he waited for Kael to finish marking the patrol note. The bread bent stiffly in the middle from cold, and he chewed with the absent focus of someone already thinking about his next route.

He took another bite, glanced toward the berry tray, and looked away again.

A thin dried sheet came to mind, tart enough to chew with hard bread and light enough for a runner’s pouch. Berry pulp could be cooked down, spread thin, and dried near gentle heat if the room stayed dry enough.

Mari saw the direction of her attention. “What now?”

Nia blinked. “I did not say anything.”

“You have been staring at those berries since they came in.”

Sera adjusted the cloth beside her.

Nia stepped closer to the line but did not cross it. “Do the preserved berries always stay in jars?”

Mari tilted the berry tray a fraction. “Where else would they stay?”

“If the pulp was cooked thicker and spread thin on flat stone or cloth near gentle heat, could it dry into sheets?”

Rovan stopped chewing.

Mari measured the tray in her hands. “For what?”

“Carrying. For runners or patrol. Not for the festival drink jars.” Nia nodded toward Rovan’s root bread, then the berries. “Something sharp and sweet that does not need a cup. If it dried enough, it might fold. Maybe wrapped in leaf or cloth.”

Rovan swallowed. “Berry sheets?”

“Maybe.”

Tarek nodded toward Rovan’s pouch. “Would you eat it?”

Rovan glanced at Mari before answering. “If it did not stick to the message strips.”

Mari reached out and took the berry tray from the worker. She tilted it, watching the syrup cling. “Jars break.”

Nia nodded. “And they are heavy.”

“Drying takes space.”

“Yes.”

“Heat.”

“Gentle heat. Too much and it burns or turns hard.”

“Berries are already counted for drink.”

“I know. Maybe only the scrap pulp after straining, or a small test with what sticks to the bottom. It might not work in winter air unless the room stays dry enough.”

Mari held the tray another moment. “Not festival menu.”

“No.”

Mari considered the tray. “For runners, then.”

“Runners and patrol, maybe.”

Mari signaled the worker with the side cloth. “Mark berry sheets under food thoughts. Small test. Use scraps only unless I say otherwise.”

Rovan’s attention followed the marking stick. “If it works, do runners get counted before patrol takes the batch?”

He put the rest of the root bread into his mouth when Tarek went quiet.

Kael’s tiredness eased as he turned from the berry tray to Nia. “Good.”

Nia tightened both hands around the cup.

Sera smoothed a loose strand back into Nia’s braid. “Drink before your broth cools.”

Kael felt the side of the cup before handing it back to her.

Hunters left for the washing area. Butcher teams began separating cuts under Mari’s eye. Bones went into marked tubs. Fat was trimmed into bowls and carried toward the rendering hearth. Feathers were gathered for cleaning. Hides moved to another table. The damaged hare became trim instead of waste. The large boar’s shoulder was marked for the festival pot, then half of its fat was redirected when Kael reviewed the patrol column again.

Mari’s mouth tightened as the mark moved. “That much?”

Kael’s hand stayed on the cloth. “The north ravine closure lengthens patrol routes.”

“Festival boar pot thins.”

“Use more roots.”

“Roots delayed from upper storage.”

“Lower stores?”

“Pale frost-root and ridge carrot, yes. Gold gourd waits until the ledge opens.”

Tarek shook his head before Kael had to ask. “No carts above the second turn. Foot carry only, and not gold gourds. Too awkward if the path slips.”

Mari muttered something into the cloth that Nia chose not to hear.

Nia traced the boar column, the root column, and the note for iron-greens with her eyes. “If the boar pot has less fat, the greens can help stretch it, but it may need something to keep it from tasting thin.”

Mari asked, “What kind of something?”

“Bones roasted first if there is time. Even if there is less meat, the broth will taste deeper.”

Mari turned toward the bone tubs.

Tarek nodded. “Boar bones?”

“And ridge deer bones,” Nia said. “But separately at first. If the ridge deer is too strong, maybe not all in the boar pot.”

Mari weighed that against the tubs. “Roast bones before broth. Separate tubs. Mark strong deer bones. We decide after smell.”

The worker wrote.

Kael’s hand brushed Nia’s back as he reached past her for the upper strip. It was brief, but his fingers pressed once between her shoulder blades before he returned to the cloth. She held the cup with both hands and stayed beside the marked line while the room moved around her.

The final division came when the second boar’s fat was weighed.

Mari wanted half for festival. Tarek wanted more for patrol. The butcher wanted enough kept aside for drying strips properly. Rovan, who had been given three messages and was trying to tuck them into separate parts of his wrap, kept glancing at the berry sheet note as if worried it might vanish.

Kael listened to all of them.

Then he took the marking stick and drew the line through the fat count himself.

“Patrol first,” he said.

Mari’s mouth tightened.

Kael continued, “Festival keeps enough for the boar pot to hold. Workers keep enough for the bundle filling. The smoke pit gets what it needs, and reserve keeps the rest.”

“The rest is small,” Mari said.

“Yes.”

“No honey-bark berry trays if preserved fruit has to stretch into runner tests.”

Nia answered quickly. “The runner test can wait.”

Mari shook her head once. “I said if.”

Kael checked the berry count. “The drink jars come first. Festival trays only happen if fruit remains after that.”

“That was already the cloth,” Mari said.

“It stays.”

He marked it again, darker.

Under his hand, leaf bird bundles stayed, the boar and iron-greens pot thinned, ridge deer bones stood where elk marrow had been written, hares dropped lower on the count, and honey-bark berry trays stayed behind the drink jars.

Kael’s hand moved to the reserve column.

Half of one major meat share slid away from festival and into patrol stores, and though the room quieted around the mark, no one moved it back.

Rovan took the new strip from Tarek and tucked it inside his outer wrap. “Lower kitchens first?”

“Take it to the smoke pit first,” Mari said. “Then the lower kitchens. If you pass Sera’s household after that, leave their strip there.”

“I always pass that way.”

Sera lifted a brow.

Rovan corrected himself. “Often.”

She reached into her basket and pulled out the other half of Nia’s root cake, wrapped in cloth. “Take this before you pretend root bread is enough.”

Rovan accepted it with both hands. “For me?”

“For whoever is running on cold feet.”

He tucked it away with more care than he had used for his own bread.

Near the butcher arch, two men prepared to carry the marked patrol haunch into the cold store, and Kael turned that way. “I will walk the first store count.”

Tarek gathered the strips. “I’ll take the second.”

Mari pointed toward the bone tubs. “No one moves those until I smell them roasted.”

The butcher nodded.

Kael turned back to Nia before leaving. He stepped close enough that the cold still clinging to his clothes brushed against her wrap. His hand went to her braid, thumb sliding once over the woven length near her shoulder.

“Go warm after this.”

“I am warm.”

Sera made a sound behind her.

“I will go warmer,” Nia said.

Kael bent and kissed her cheek, then the corner of her mouth when she turned toward him. His breath carried cold air, smoke, and the faint iron scent of the hunt.

When he straightened, he stayed with her for one breath more before Tarek called his name from the arch.

Kael left with the patrol mark in his hand.

The counting room kept moving after him. Meat still needed cutting, fat rendering, and bones roasting. Mari began arguing with the smoke-pit worker about how close the thick-feather birds could hang without drying too fast. Sera took Nia’s empty cup and replaced it with a warmer one Nia had not seen her fill. Rovan ducked out with the message strips and half a root cake, nearly collided with a worker carrying feathers, apologized under his breath, and kept moving.

Nia stayed by the marked line as the first patrol haunch was carried away from the festival side.

The men lifted it between them, wrapped in clean cloth with the dark mark tied around the cord. It was heavy enough to make their arms strain. Behind it, the menu cloth lay covered in fresh marks, some darker than before, some crossed out, some shifted into columns that had not been as full that morning.

Mari came to stand beside Nia with the berry tray still in one hand.

“You look like you are thinking too much.”

“I am trying not to say everything.”

“Then choose one thing,” Mari said.

Nia returned to the cloth. “It feels better this way.”

“With less meat?”

“With the truth on the cloth before the cooking starts.”

For a moment, Mari said nothing.

Then she set the berry tray on the table and pushed it toward the worker waiting to carry it back to the cold room. “Good. Remember that when the truth annoys you.”

Nia laughed softly into the rim of her new cup.

Her laugh disappeared under the scrape of salt and the knock of a knife against bone. Someone called for more cloth near the boar table. The first tray of bones went toward the roasting hearth, and as the heat took them, the smell began to change from cold meat to something deeper.

Outside the butcher arch, winter pressed against the mountain.

Inside, the knives kept working.

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