Two weeks passed in a quiet, grinding rhythm that began to wear on Grub in ways he hadn't expected. Each day blurred into the next, structured by necessity rather than choice. He woke early, often before the sun had fully risen, slipping into his bush disguise while the forest was still half-asleep. He would move carefully toward the edge of the settlement, always taking a slightly different path, always watching for signs that he might have been discovered. Then he would settle into place and begin the long hours of observation—watching, listening, writing, thinking. In the afternoons he returned to the cave to train his body until it felt like it might give out beneath him, forcing himself to push further with the strange death-weight power in his chest. At night, he studied everything he had written, trying to force meaning out of the unfamiliar sounds and symbols until his head ached and his eyes burned. It was exhausting. It was isolating. But it was working.
And through all of it, he now followed one person.
Lelan.
He had learned her name after several days of careful listening, catching the way others addressed her, the tone they used when speaking to her, the subtle shifts in posture when she gave instructions. She was not just another soldier. There was weight behind her presence. Others listened when she spoke, not out of fear, rather a mix of respect for her rank. She had authority—not absolute, but enough to make the other lizards think before addressing her. That alone made her valuable to observe. But beyond that, she was consistent and young. Predictable in a way that made her easier to track than the others. She had routines and patterns. Habits that repeated from day to day.
Grub watched everything.
The way she moved through the camp, confident but not to the level of arrogance. The way she spoke—short, efficient phrases that others responded to quickly. The way she trained, practiced, ate, and rested. He began to understand not just her words, but her cadence. Her rhythm. Through her, the language started to take shape in his mind. He could not speak it well—his attempts still came out rough and unnatural—but he could follow more than he had before. He could pick out familiar sounds, recognize repeated phrases, even infer meaning from context when enough pieces lined up.
It was progress. Slow—painfully slow— progress.
But real.
Still, nothing he had learned in those two weeks prepared him for what he saw next.
It was late in the day when it happened. The light had begun to soften, turning the edges of the camp gold as the sun dipped lower behind the trees. Grub had positioned himself just outside a row of tents, carefully angled so that a small tear in the fabric of one tent gave him a narrow line of sight inside.
Lelan's tent.
At first, nothing seemed unusual. She entered alone, her posture slightly more tired than usual, her movements slower as if the day had taken more out of her than she cared to show in public. Grub adjusted slightly within the bush, narrowing his focus.
Then she began removing her outer clothing.
Grub immediately felt a wave of discomfort crawl through him. His first instinct was to look away. This wasn't observation anymore, he felt like a pervert. He was crossing into something he shouldn't be seeing. For a brief moment he hesitated, his hand tightening slightly around his notebook as if that alone could justify his presence.
But something about her stopped him. She didn't move like someone at ease. She looked… uncomfortable. Her shoulders were tense. Her breathing is slightly uneven. And as more of her form was revealed, Grub noticed something that made him lean forward despite himself. Her skin. It didn't sit right on her body. It looked loose. Almost… detached.
Like it no longer belonged to her. Lelan reached up and gripped the skin along her arm, her claws catching the edge of it. For a moment she paused, as if bracing herself from the sensation.
Then she pulled. The outer layer peeled away. Grub's breath caught in his throat.
It was seamless like removing a second layer of clothing. Beneath it, a lighter, softer flesh was revealed. The color was different. It was less hardened and weathered. It looked almost new, as if the outer layer had been a shell that had simply outlived its purpose.
She continued, working methodically, peeling away sections of the old skin with practiced ease. There was no panic in her movements. Just routine. Something she had done before. Something she would do again.
When she finished, she stood still for a moment, her new skin faintly catching the dim light inside the tent. Then she dressed again, as if nothing unusual had happened.
And then, without ceremony, She picked up the discarded skin and dropped it into a bin. Grub stared at it. That was it. That was the answer.
All the uncertainty he had wrestled with over the past weeks suddenly collapsed into clarity. They did shed. They shed entire layers of their skin. Complete coverings. And they discarded them.
He didn't move immediately. Instead, he waited. He watched as Lelan adjusted her clothing and exited the tent, disappearing back into the rhythm of the camp as if nothing had changed. Grub counted slowly in his head, forcing himself to stay still, to think, to make sure no one else was nearby.
Then he moved.
The bush slipped forward, parting slightly as he entered the tent. The interior felt closer than he expected, filled with the faint smell of worn fabric, leather, and something distinctly organic—earthy, almost damp. His eyes went straight to the bin.
Every step felt louder than it was. While each second felt like hours.
If someone walked in now— If anyone saw him— There would be no explaining it.
Grub crouched and reached inside. His fingers closed around the discarded skin. It was lighter than he expected.
He pulled it free and didn't hesitate. Turning immediately, he slipped out of the tent and back into the forest, moving faster than usual but still careful not to break the illusion of the bush.
Only when the trees fully swallowed him again did he allow himself to breathe.
***
Back at his shelter, the work began immediately.
Grub laid the skin out in front of him and studied it in detail. He forced himself to slow down, to observe rather than rush. Every detail mattered. The texture varied subtly across different areas. Some sections were thicker, others thinner. The coloration wasn't uniform—it shifted slightly depending on the part of the body it had come from. There were faint patterns, irregularities that made it look real.
That was what he needed. It had to be as life like as possible. He began experimenting with materials he had gathered over time. Plants were crushed into paste, mixed with water and binding substances he had tested previously. The result wasn't perfect paint, but it was enough.
Hours passed without him noticing. He worked obsessively, adjusting, refining, layering. When something didn't look right, he redid it. When a section didn't sit properly, he modified it. He reinforced areas that needed structure, reshaped others to better fit his own body.
Then came the tail. He constructed it carefully, binding materials together and shaping it to match what he had observed. Attaching it required improvisation—he used a paste-like mixture to secure it to his clothing in a way that would hold, even with movement.
It turned out more convincing than he had expected. When he finally stepped back, he paused. He felt pride exuding from him. He had made something. Something that might actually work. Still, he wasn't finished.
The disguise alone wasn't enough. It needed to be hidden, softened, obscured. So he made clothing that turned out rough and uneven, but functional. The most important piece was the cloak. It was a dark purple with a giant hood that covered his head. The robe draped over his body and cast deep shadows across his form, masking the imperfections, the slight stiffness, any details that might give him away up close.
When he put it all on, the feeling was strange. The skin didn't belong to him. The movements weren't natural at all.
But when he looked down— When he adjusted the hood and caught his reflection faintly in a piece of polished metal— He didn't see himself. He saw one of them.
Maybe this could work.
Grub stood there for a long moment, letting the weight of what he was about to do settle in. Then he sat down and thought through the plan one final time. He could not speak well.
That was the biggest risk. So he would not speak. He would pretend to be mute. And slightly deaf. It would give him time. And more importantly, enough excuses. Just enough room to make mistakes without immediate suspicion.
It was risky. Everything about this was risky. But staying hidden forever wasn't an option.
Grub took a deep breath. Then another. And slowly stood. For a brief moment, he hesitated.
Then he stepped out of the shelter and into the forest, moving toward the settlement not as an observer watching from the shadows. He was simply another lizard passing through.
And as he walked, one thought echoed quietly in the back of his mind.
He just hoped this worked.