The meadow should have felt like relief.

  It did. His shoulders dropped once, as if the strap had loosened on its own. The last of the rock fell away underfoot, and the slope eased into beaten grass. Open ground after the stone and narrow cuts in the pass. Damp air off the river. Grass beaten flat by many feet, which meant the route had held.

  Then the eyes found them.

  Naro felt the turn in the crowd before anyone spoke. A woman paused with a skin-sling half on her shoulder. A man stopped scratching at his beard and left his hand there. Two boys ran up, lost their nerve at a sharp hiss from behind them, and slowed to a walk that pretended it had always been a walk.

  He let the band’s pace carry him. No sudden stops. No standing too long in one place.

  Stillness made the limp speak.

  Five years, and the leg still chose its own timing. Cold mornings made it stiff. Damp made it ache. A long day made it drag. It didn’t matter how straight he held his back or how cleanly he moved his hands—people looked down, saw the right leg, and the memory did the rest. The boar. The rush. The tusk. The boy who wanted a shout of praise more than he wanted to live.

  He told himself he wasn’t that boy.

  He told himself he’d cut that boy out and buried him.

  His body kept the proof that he hadn’t.

  Raisa slowed at the first stones—small markers half-swallowed by earth, older than the big rings deeper in and the stacked slabs where elders spoke. Grass clung close around them, as if it didn’t want to leave a gap for feet. People stepped differently near those stones. They didn’t need telling. The place taught manners.

  A man from another band stood at the edge of the basin with his palm lifted. White powder streaked his forearm from wrist to shoulder, caught in the dark hair. More powder across his chest in broad lines—marks laid on to be read from a distance.

  Not toll-ochre. Council chalk—meant to show permission, not payment.

  A marked warrior.

  Not a title. A public claim. A warning. Permission.

  Naro’s fingers tightened on his bowstring where it lay against the wood. He hadn’t dusted his own arms yet. The little pouch of pale powder sat tied inside his pack, stubborn as his pride. He’d told himself paint didn’t make a man.

  Facing the stones and the watching, he wanted the marks anyway. He wanted them before his eyes found his leg.

  The warrior’s palm stayed up until Arulan and Raisa stopped. The band bunched behind them, shoulder to shoulder, packs brushing. Someone’s child fussed and was pressed into a breast; the fussing turned into small snuffles, then quiet.

  Raisa lowered her spear first. Torek followed without being asked, crisp and neat about it. Others copied—bows dipped, blades slid back into hide—because the safest way to learn a rule was to follow whoever looked like they already belonged.

  Naro obeyed, too. He tucked his arrows deeper into his quiver so the fletching didn’t flare, held the bow close, the way you held a tool you did not intend to offer.

  The warrior let his gaze travel. Older ones. Children. Hunters. His eyes paused on a bow here and there, not with wonder—more like counting teeth in a dog’s mouth.

  When he reached Naro, his eyes dropped to the right leg. Quick. Flat. He didn’t blink longer. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say a word.

  Naro held his face still.

  The warrior looked away as if he’d finished checking a knot. The lack of comment sat worse than a joke.

  “Arulan,” the man called. His voice carried easily, like he’d practised making men listen without raising it.

  Arulan stepped forward, staff grounded. “Haren’s fire,” Arulan answered, naming the band without asking.

  The warrior’s mouth moved—almost a smile, almost not. Recognition was a coin here, and Arulan had plenty of it to spend. “You still walking, old man?”

  Arulan glanced down at his own feet as if seeing them for the first time. “I keep trying to stop. They refuse.”

  A couple of people near the warrior snorted. The warrior let them have it, then looked back at Raisa.

  “You’ve come early,” he said. The words carried a question even if he didn’t shape them as one.

  “The cold came early,” Raisa answered. Her tone stayed plain. No push. No plead. She offered it the way you offered a fact you’d already paid for with sore shoulders. “We travel because we must.”

  The warrior scratched at the powder on his forearm, leaving a faint smear under his nails. “Everyone must,” he said. “Council makes cowards brave and braves stupid. Haren says the stones bring out the worst in men.”

  “He’s right,” Torek said from behind Raisa, too blunt to hold it back.

  The warrior’s eyes flicked to Torek. “That yours?” he asked Arulan, like Torek was a dog that might bite.

  Arulan didn’t look back. “He’s ours,” he said, and the quiet certainty in it was a fence.

  The warrior nodded, slowly, as if making room for the answer. “Keep him on a short rope, then.”

  Torek’s mouth tightened. He didn’t speak again.

  Raisa shifted her grip down her spear shaft a finger’s width. Not a threat. Readiness. “Is Haren well?”

  “A cough,” the warrior said. “And he’s angry about it, so he’ll live.” He glanced towards the rings deeper in, where smoke rose. “He sent me because he’s not walking to meet every band that thinks it’s special.”

  Arulan’s head dipped. “No band thinks it’s special.”

  The warrior gave a rough sound that might have been laughter. “You’ve been away from Council too long.”

  He lifted his chin at their dogs. “Keep them close. No biting at night.”

  Ketak, somewhere in the crush behind Naro, muttered, “Our dogs bite only the ugly.”

  The warrior heard it anyway. He turned his head, slow, letting Ketak feel the look land. “Good,” he said. “Keep the ugly away from your fire.”

  Ketak’s grin flashed, quick and shameless. “That’ll clear half the meadow, won’t it?”

  The warrior didn’t grin back. He lowered his palm. “Go in,” he said. “Don’t run near the stones. Don’t draw blood near the stones. If a boy wants to prove he’s a man, tell him to carry water.”

  The band flowed past him. Naro moved with them, eyes forward, leg doing its best impression of obedience.

  The sound changed as they entered the basin. Not simply louder—stacked. Fire crackles from many camps. Low talk with sudden spikes when a trade went wrong, or a joke landed. Dogs yapping at scraps. Babies crying, soothed, crying again. Smoke lay thick enough to taste; fat and ash sat on the tongue.

  The river ran along the meadow’s edge, dark water under overhangs, bright where it broke over stones. The damp came off it and climbed under hides, into joints.

  Raisa chose a patch near the river where the grass had been rubbed to earth by earlier arrivals. Space. Sightlines. And the damp.

  Naro saw it at once. So did everyone else.

  Closer to the stones, bands sat packed in tight circles that looked claimed by right rather than need. Their fires burned higher. Their meat smelled richer. People stepped through those spaces like owners for the few days the Council lasted.

  Near the river, hides were thinner, fires smaller, bodies closer. People kept their hands busy—water, wood, repairing lashings—because idling invited eyes.

  Raisa didn’t look towards the centre. “Here,” she said.

  That was all.

  Naro tasted something in the back of his mouth and swallowed it. Complaining would drag the old boy up by the hair. The boy who thought the ground belonged to him because he wanted it.

  Before anyone could offer him work, he took it.

  He drove stakes with clean swings, using shoulders and breath so the leg didn’t have to take the weight. He cut reeds and wove them into a low windbreak. He stacked firewood up on stones so damp wouldn’t creep into it. He shifted hides from one pack to another and did it without showing a pause before he bent.

  When he stopped, it was to re-tie a knot or shift a load so it sat better.

  He carried more because carrying more kept his eyes off his gait. Carrying more meant nobody offered him a hand. Nobody did the soft thing that felt like pity.

  Ketak came over with a bundle of reeds and dropped them at Naro’s feet. “You’re building a palace,” Ketak said, voice light, but his eyes scanned the stakes as if checking whether the windbreak would hold.

  “It’s a wall,” Naro said.

  “A wall,” Ketak repeated, mocking reverence. “Near the river. Brilliant. Next, you’ll tell me you’ve decided to drink damp air for supper.”

  Naro pulled a reed through, tightened it until the fibres squeaked. “If you want to sleep in the open, go.”

  Ketak crouched and started lacing reeds with quick fingers. “I’m not complaining,” he said. “I’m practising for the day I get old and start complaining as a job.” He glanced up. “You should try it. Might relax you.”

  Naro didn’t answer. He let his hands speak: knot, pull, tuck.

  Ketak watched him for a heartbeat, then changed tack, as if the first path hadn’t worked. “Did the guard look at your leg?”

  Naro’s fingers paused on the fibre. Not long. Enough.

  Ketak held his gaze. He didn’t soften his face. He didn’t give Naro the mercy of pretending it hadn’t happened.

  “Everyone looks,” Naro said.

  Ketak shrugged, as if everyone looking was a weather problem. “If he’d said something, I’d have tripped him.”

  “You’d trip yourself.”

  “I’ve got balance.” Ketak tugged hard at a reed, and the whole windbreak shivered. “See?”

  Naro snorted despite himself. It came out sharp and small. Ketak’s grin widened, pleased he’d found a crack.

  “You’ll dance tonight?” Ketak asked, like the question was a joke, like it didn’t matter.

  Naro kept weaving. “No.”

  Ketak made a face. “You always say no.”

  “I always mean it.”

  Ketak leaned closer, lowering his voice without turning it into a secret performance. “People watch at Council,” he said. “You know that. You stand in the dark and brood, and they decide you’re dangerous. You laugh, and you’re safe.”

  “I don’t brood.”

  Ketak’s eyes slid down to the right leg and back up, quick, careful. “You don’t laugh either.”

  Naro tied off the last reed and sat back on his heels. “I’m working.”

  Ketak’s mouth opened, shut. He tried again, slower. “I’m not saying you’ve got to dance like Ketak the Fool,” he said. “I’m saying… show your face. Let them see you’re ours.”

  Naro looked past him, towards the stones, towards the packed circles of higher fires. “They see what they want.”

  “And what do they want?” Ketak asked.

  Naro picked up another bundle of reeds and stood, making himself stand smoothly. “Someone to blame,” he said.

  Ketak’s grin faded. Not gone. Thinner. “All right,” he said, and his voice lightened again like he’d slapped the worry back into place. “So don’t give them a reason. Easy.”

  Naro didn’t answer. He carried the reeds to the next stake line and set them down like he was laying out a plan.

  Once the camp looked like it could hold wind and eyes, he let himself look towards the stones.

  Bows were everywhere. Slung over shoulders, leaned against packs, propped beside fires. Different woods, different curves, different strings. Some looked crude; some had care in them. None drew stares.

  Three winters ago, a bow had turned every head in the basin. Men had watched with mouths half open, uncertain whether they were seeing a trick.

  Now men counted.

  How many arrows? How thick is the string? How straight the shafts. Not wonder. Measure.

  Naro should have been glad. The bow had made hunting cleaner, keeping a distance between flesh and tusk.

  Instead, it tightened him. A tool became common, and the credit died. What remained was a baseline. Stand above it, and they called you lucky. Slip below it, and they called you useless.

  He loosened his quiver strap, drew one arrow, and rolled it between his fingers. Straight shaft. Tight fletching. Hours of quiet work packed into a simple line.

  He walked to a strip of ground stamped flat by passing feet and found a stump with a dark knot in it, small and stubborn. He planted his feet.

  The bad leg complained. He ignored it.

  He drew. String to cheek. Wood flexed under tension.

  He released.

  The arrow struck the knot and quivered there. The sound carried.

  Heads turned. A few. Enough to feel.

  Naro did not look back. He walked to the stump, pulled the arrow free with a twist so the point didn’t catch. The leg flared on the return. He shortened his stride on the good side, stole from himself to keep the gait even.

  Marlek glanced at the arrow as Naro slid it back into the quiver. Marlek didn’t speak. He gave one slow nod.

  Approval without sweetness. That was the kind that stuck.

  Naro went to the trade lanes with a bundle under his arm: two good points, a twist of sinew, a strip of dried meat. Enough to look like he belonged. Not enough to invite questions.

  The lanes weren’t marked, but they existed. Gaps between fires where strangers could brush shoulders without it being an insult. Goods passed hand to hand. So did rumours, quick and light and poisonous.

  Tysha stood behind a small spread of hides. Clean cuts. Tight stitching. Work that came from patience, not panic.

  Naro had seen her years ago and thought her old. He understood better now. She wasn’t old. She was unmoved.

  Her eyes landed on his bundle. “Points,” she said.

  “Good ones,” Naro replied, and heard the edge in his own voice. He softened it. “If you’re sick of meat, I’ve got sinew.”

  Tysha picked up one of his points between finger and thumb and turned it slowly. “If I’m sick of meat, I’m dead.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Naro’s mouth lifted, briefly. He didn’t let it stay. “You want them or not?”

  Tysha’s gaze drifted down his body.

  His leg.

  Naro shifted the bundle in his arms as if he’d meant to do it anyway.

  “You came early,” Tysha said.

  “The cold came early.”

  “Everyone says that.” Tysha pressed her thumbnail against the edge of the point. It didn’t roll. She nodded once, not praise, just acknowledgement. “How many coughed on your road?”

  Naro held his face steady. He could picture it too easily: hands on mouths, hands on cups, hands on other hands. He’d seen it and kept walking.

  “Some,” he said. “None died.”

  Tysha’s eyes stayed on him. “That’s luck.”

  “It’s walking,” Naro said, too quickly. He corrected himself by adding something plainer. “We didn’t stop long.”

  Tysha set the point down. She didn’t ask the next question like she was curious. She asked it like she was counting. “Warm nights?”

  Naro blinked once. “Cold.”

  Tysha’s mouth moved a fraction, as she’d almost smiled. “You didn’t answer.”

  He hated that she was right. He hated that she could do it without raising her voice. “We kept fires,” he said. “We slept close.”

  Tysha picked up the second point, turned it, and checked the binding. “Close with who?”

  Naro frowned. “What?”

  “Old ones. Babies. Sick ones.” Tysha’s eyes slid towards the lanes where children darted between camps, hands in mouths, hands on bowls. “You put them in the middle, or you put them out where the wind finds them. Which?”

  Naro felt the question trying to get under his ribs. He answered the safest part. “Middle.”

  Tysha nodded as if she’d expected it. “So if someone coughed, everyone got a taste.”

  Naro shifted his weight. The leg complained. He ignored it. “That’s Council too,” he said, and the defence sounded thin even to him.

  Tysha leaned closer to her hides, hands moving again, needle flashing. “Council is choice,” she said. “Road isn’t.”

  Naro watched her hands for a second. Stitch, pull, tuck. The work didn’t pause for a talk. He forced himself to keep his voice even. “You want these points, or you want to ask me questions all night?”

  Tysha didn’t look up. “Both.”

  Naro huffed out a laugh, short, unwilling. “All right. Trade.”

  “What do you want?” Tysha asked, still stitching.

  “Soft hide,” Naro said. “A strip. For an ankle wrap.”

  Tysha’s eyes lifted at last. Not to his face. To his leg. “Soft costs.”

  “I’ve got meat.”

  “Meat’s gone tomorrow.” Tysha’s needle paused. “Give me the sinew. Keep one point.”

  “That’s not a trade,” Naro said, and heard the boy in it.

  Tysha’s shoulders rose and fell. “Walk away.”

  He should have. He should have kept leverage.

  Instead, he held out the sinew. “Fine.”

  Tysha took it, calm as if he’d offered what she’d expected from the start. She turned to her hides, chose one without showing him the full stack, tore a strip with a practised jerk, and slapped it into his palm.

  “Wrap it before you dance,” she said.

  “I don’t dance.”

  Tysha’s eyes went back to her stitching. “Everyone dances. Some people just call it standing near a fire.”

  Naro opened his mouth, closed it. He tucked the strip away and turned.

  A cough sounded behind him—wet, careless. Another answered from a different fire. A child coughed into his palm, wiped the hand on his tunic, and ran between camps.

  Naro watched the child vanish into smoke and bodies. The tightening in his gut didn’t have a name yet.

  He drifted closer to the stones anyway.

  Vekarn’s camp sat where it could be seen without sitting in the deepest ring. Close enough that anyone heading for the sacred stones had to pass their fires. People skirted the edge of that space, stepping in only if they meant to be noticed.

  Isac stood near one of the larger fires.

  Naro had expected a boy made of noise—swagger, grin, loud stories. The sort of arrogance Naro had once confused for strength.

  Isac wasn’t that.

  He stood still when he chose. Let people come to him. Tilted his head to listen like he was giving a gift, and the gift cost him nothing because everyone around him offered more.

  An elder woman caught her hem on a stone by the fire. Isac stepped in, lifted the cloth free, and murmured something. The woman’s face softened. The men watching softened with her. A small ripple moved through the group like a warm breath.

  A child hovered at the edge of the light. Isac broke off a strip of fat and held it out. The child took it with both hands, eyes fixed on it as if it might vanish.

  Naro felt heat rise behind his ears.

  He remembered the other kind of watching. The quick look when you stumbled. The laughter that followed meant kindly or not, because people couldn’t help themselves.

  Isac could trip, and they’d call it grace.

  Naro turned away before his face betrayed him and headed back towards Arulan’s fire.

  Raku sat with a knot of youths near the flames, knees drawn up, shoulders tight together. Ketak sat with them too, grinning easily, enjoying the attention. Yarla listened with her eyes on the crowd rather than the talk, as if she trusted ears less than she trusted movement.

  A girl from another band had wedged herself into the circle. Long braid. Cheeks reddened by the cold. She held a thin bone comb in one hand and kept tapping it against her knee.

  Raku talked too fast, hands sketching shapes in the air as if he could build a better version of himself out of gesture alone.

  The girl cut in with a laugh. “You lot always come early,” she said. “Is it just because your feet are quicker, or do you like being first so everyone has to look at you?”

  Raku bristled. “We don’t—”

  Ketak spoke over him, cheerful. “We like being looked at. It’s why we brought Naro.”

  Raku shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

  The girl’s eyes slid from Ketak to Raku, amused. “I saw you in the pass last winter,” she said to Raku. “You were the one who nearly slipped and pretended it was a jump.”

  Raku’s face went hot. “It was a jump.”

  “It was a slip,” Ketak said, delighted.

  Raku leaned forward, voice rising. “Why are you even—”

  The girl tapped the comb against her knee again. “I’m asking because my aunt says your band always has a new trick,” she said. “Three winters ago, it was bows. Now every fool thinks he’s a hunter.” She jerked her chin towards the meadow where a man was showing off a crooked arrow to anyone who’d watch. “So what’s it this time? Don’t say ‘nothing’. People who say ‘nothing’ always have something.”

  Raku’s chest puffed. He liked the attention; he hated the trap. “We’ve got—”

  Yarla spoke softly, barely audible over the fire. “Raku.”

  Raku ignored her. “We’ve got food,” he said, too quickly. “We’ve got points. We—”

  The girl leaned in, eyes bright. “Your packs sit like you’re carrying eggs.”

  Raku’s mouth opened. He glanced towards Arulan’s camp without meaning to, eyes darting to where packs were stacked and watched. His tongue flicked over his teeth. “It’s because Teshar—”

  Naro stepped to the edge of the circle.

  He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t smile too widely. He simply crouched and reached for a half-burnt stick by the fire, as if he’d come for that and nothing else.

  The girl’s eyes slid to him at once. People always tracked movement. “There he is,” Ketak said, pleased. “Our perfect hunter. Ask him. He’ll tell you we’re carrying eggs.”

  Naro held the stick between finger and thumb, turned it, and broke off the charred end. “If we were carrying eggs,” he said, “you’d have eaten them already.”

  Ketak made a wounded sound. “Lies.”

  Raku’s face stayed red. His eyes met Naro’s for a heartbeat. Anger there. Relief, too, was buried under the anger.

  The girl shifted her attention, comb still tapping. “So you don’t have a new trick?” she asked Naro. “You’re going to disappoint my aunt.”

  Naro shrugged, casual. “Tell your aunt to stop listening to stories. Stories don’t fill bellies.”

  The girl made a face. “You sound like an elder.”

  “Give me another ten winters,” Naro said. “I’ll get uglier too.”

  Ketak laughed, loud enough to make heads turn.

  The girl’s eyes flicked to Naro’s bow. “Show me,” she said, suddenly, as if the talk hadn’t satisfied her. “If you’re so perfect.”

  Naro could feel Raku beside him, wound tight, waiting for the next question to hook into the wrong place.

  Naro stood. Not too fast. Fast enough to look effortless.

  He walked ten paces to the stamped-down strip he’d used since they came in. Found a torn strip of hide still tied to a stake, fluttering in the river breeze.

  Behind him, the girl’s voice carried. “Don’t miss. I’ve been promised perfection.”

  Ketak called, “If he misses, he’ll limp away and pretend it was on purpose!”

  Raku snapped, “Ketak!”

  Naro didn’t look back. He set his feet. The bad leg complained; he put weight through it anyway and held the line.

  He drew.

  The string came back to his cheek. The strip of hide danced in the air, small and mocking.

  He released.

  The arrow took the strip clean off the stake. Hide dropped into the grass like a leaf.

  A couple of murmurs rose from nearby fires. A laugh. Someone clapped once, then stopped as if remembering where they were.

  Naro walked out, yanked the arrow free first, then retrieved the strip and came back with it in his hand. He dropped it into the fire. It curled black and vanished.

  The girl stared at him for a second, then let out a breath that might have been admiration, might have been irritation. “All right,” she said. “That’s… all right.”

  Ketak grinned. “She’s impressed. Look, she can’t say it.”

  The girl’s cheeks reddened. “I can say it. I just don’t want to.”

  Raku’s eyes stayed on the fire. He didn’t look at Naro. His hand tightened on his own arrow shaft.

  Naro crouched again, close enough that only Raku would hear him over the crackle. “You nearly said his name like it was a door you could open,” Naro said.

  Raku’s voice came out sharp. “Everyone knows his name.”

  “They know the bow,” Naro said. “They don’t need the rest.”

  Raku swallowed. His throat worked. He stared into the flames as if the fire had answers. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  Naro let the silence do the work without dressing it up. He snapped the stick in his hands and tossed the pieces into the embers.

  Raku muttered, “You think I’m stupid.”

  Naro didn’t answer the question. He answered the fear underneath it. “I think you like being looked at,” he said. “Council makes that itch worse.”

  Raku’s shoulders rose. “So what? Everyone—”

  Naro’s hand moved, quick, and caught Raku’s wrist for half a second. Not a grip. A stop. A reminder that bodies could be controlled even when mouths wanted to run.

  Raku froze. His eyes flashed up, angry, startled.

  Naro released him. “Walk more,” he said. “Talk less.”

  Raku’s lips pressed together. He nodded once, sharp, as it hurt.

  Behind the circle, a man from another band had paused by the fire—ash-grey beard, eyes set deep. He hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t smiled. He watched the strip fall. Watched Naro’s interruption. Watched where Raku’s gaze had flicked.

  His eyes slid to the packs piled near Arulan’s fire.

  They stayed there longer than needed.

  Naro looked away first, not out of shame, but out of practice.

  Evening thickened. More fires flared. The air filled with fat smoke, damp river mud, roasted meat, and the sour tang of old ash.

  People moved between camps with the boldness of those who believed rules could hold back knives. Children ran until someone caught them by the arm and scolded them, then released them to run again. Couples drifted close and split when an elder’s gaze cut their way.

  Naro couldn’t sit still. The leg punished stillness.

  He walked the edge of their camp, checked lashings, tightened knots, and moved things without needing a reason. He picked up a bundle of kindling he didn’t need and carried it deeper into the basin because carrying something made him look like he belonged.

  Fires thinned near the stones. Voices lowered. Bodies held themselves differently—less careless movement, more watching.

  Three men stood close enough to the sacred ring that the firelight kept itself modest.

  Arulan, with his staff, faced composed in that way that made younger men straighten without being sure why.

  Vekarn straight-backed, hands folded behind him, as if cold and smoke were someone else’s problem.

  Luther, beside them, younger than both, a small cup in his hand and a smile that looked friendly until you watched it long enough.

  Eren lingered a few steps back in shadow, arms folded, eyes hard. Tysha sat a little apart, hands busy with hide, needle flashing, listening like she was counting.

  Naro slowed. He didn’t step into their circle. He drifted near enough that words could reach him, as if by accident.

  Luther was speaking. “—I’m telling you, if I hear ‘unity’ one more time tonight, I’m going to start charging for the word,” he said. “My band will be rich by morning.”

  Arulan made a small sound through his nose. “You’d charge your own mother.”

  “I’d give her a discount,” Luther said. “I’m not heartless.”

  Eren shifted, impatient. “Stop talking around it,” he said. “Say what you mean.”

  Luther lifted his cup. “That is what I mean. People keep saying ‘unity’ like the sound will make it real.” He tipped his head towards the lanes. “Half the meadow’s already decided who they want to be tied to. The other half’s pretending they haven’t.”

  Arulan’s voice stayed mild, but it carried. “Tied,” he repeated. “You make it sound like rope.”

  Vekarn spoke, calm enough that it drew attention without asking for it. “Rope is honest,” he said. “It holds. It chafes. It leaves marks. People still reach for it when the wind picks up.”

  Luther’s brows rose. “You always talk as if you’re carving words into stone.”

  Vekarn glanced at him, slowly. “Stone lasts,” he said. “Men don’t.”

  Tysha’s needle paused, thread held taut. She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to.

  Arulan shifted his staff in the dirt, a small scrape. “We’re men,” he said, and there was something like a warning in it. “We’re families.”

  Vekarn’s tone didn’t change. “We are what winter permits,” he said. “When meat thins on bone, ‘family’ turns into a count. A count turns into weight. Weight demands rules.”

  Eren let out a short breath. “Rules. Fine. What’s your rule, Vekarn?”

  Vekarn didn’t answer at once. He let his eyes travel the basin. Fires. Bodies. Children weaving between camps with hands on mouths, hands on bowls. A cough sounded and went unanswered for a second, then another cough answered from somewhere else.

  When Vekarn spoke again, he did it as if continuing a thought that hadn’t stopped. “Council makes crowds,” he said. “Crowds make sickness. Sickness makes fear.”

  Luther’s smile thinned. “You’re in a cheerful mood.”

  “Cheer doesn’t stop coughing,” Vekarn said.

  Arulan’s mouth tightened. “Crowds have always brought sickness.”

  “Crowds have always brought opportunity,” Vekarn replied, flat, like he was talking about the weather.

  Eren’s head turned. Sharp. “Opportunity for who?”

  Vekarn looked at him as if Eren had asked why water ran downhill. “For whoever is ready,” he said.

  Luther scratched at the rim of his cup, thinking. “Ready,” he repeated. “That’s a word you like. It sounds clean. Like you’re saying, you’ll ‘help’ when people start falling over.”

  Vekarn didn’t flinch. “When people are afraid,” he said, “they look for the strongest fire. The face that doesn’t shake. The band that looks organised.”

  Arulan’s voice went quieter. “Or they look for the one who feeds them.”

  Vekarn’s gaze slid towards the riverside fires—towards Arulan’s camp, without naming it. “Feeding,” he said. “Warmth. Shelter. Storage. Clean water.” He paused, as if tasting each word. “Those are gifts worth talking about.”

  Luther followed the glance and let out a slow breath. “So we’re circling the river lot.”

  Arulan didn’t look away. “They’re mine,” he said, and he didn’t raise his voice to make it true.

  Tysha’s needle moved again. Stitch, pull, tuck. She spoke without lifting her head. “People don’t care whose they are,” she said. “They care what they can take without being stabbed.”

  Luther pointed at her with his cup. “See? She’s why I sleep better. Someone in the room speaks like a person who’s been hungry.”

  Arulan’s eyes stayed on Vekarn. “If you want something,” Arulan said, “say it.”

  Vekarn’s mouth moved, almost a smile, and stopped. “I want what everyone wants,” he said. “A winter without begging. A spring without burying.”

  Eren muttered, “Everyone wants a full belly.”

  “And a story,” Luther added. “Don’t forget the story. People will trade a full belly tomorrow for the right story today.”

  Vekarn’s eyes slid to Luther. “Then give them the right one,” he said.

  Luther’s smile came back, bright and thin. “And what’s that story?”

  Vekarn spoke as if laying a tool on the ground. “A gift,” he said.

  Arulan’s face didn’t change, but Naro watched his hands on the staff. A small shift of grip. “Gifts don’t come empty.”

  “They come with ties,” Tysha said, still stitching.

  Luther nodded as if she’d read his thoughts. “A gift for a marriage,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been hearing. People love marriage. No blood. No shouting. Everyone gets to look pleased while they do something ugly.”

  Arulan’s voice stayed steady. “A marriage is a life,” he said. “Not a rope.”

  Luther raised his brows. “I didn’t say it was kind. I said it was neat.”

  Eren’s mouth tightened. “Neat gets men killed.”

  Vekarn’s tone stayed calm. “A gift ties fires together,” he said. “Once tied, they don’t drift apart without burning.”

  Arulan’s eyes held his. “You talk like burning is fine so long as it’s not your skin.”

  Vekarn didn’t deny it. “Burning happens,” he said. “Council decides who gets warmth from it.”

  Luther leaned in a fraction, voice dropping a notch, and the shift pulled the others with him, whether they liked it or not. “If we’re talking about gifts,” he said, “we should talk about how they’re offered. Publicly. With witnesses. Let the stones see it. Let small bands see it. So later—when coughing turns into fever—no one can say you acted out of hunger.”

  Eren looked away, disgusted. “You’re planning blame.”

  Luther shrugged with one shoulder. “I’m planning for blame. Someone will wear it. Might as well decide who.”

  Arulan’s voice went colder. “You speak of children coughing like it’s a lever.”

  Vekarn’s eyes travelled the basin again, taking in shared bowls, shared hands. “Fear is a lever,” he said. “Sickness provides fear. Council provides an audience.”

  Tysha’s needle stopped. She lifted her eyes at last. “And you,” she said to Arulan, “will be asked to ‘share’.”

  Vekarn’s gaze flicked to her, approving. “Yes,” he said. “Sharing.”

  Arulan’s shoulders stayed square. “If my people have something worth sharing,” he said, “it will be shared on our terms.”

  Luther let out a soft laugh. “Terms,” he echoed. “I like that. ‘Terms’ sounds civil. Like we’re traders. Like no one’s holding a knife under the table.”

  Eren’s voice came flat. “There’s always a knife.”

  Vekarn nodded, as if Eren had finally said something sensible. “The question,” he said, “is whose hand learns to use it first.”

  Arulan stared at him, the patience of an old man thinning into something sharper. “Be careful,” Arulan said.

  Vekarn’s expression didn’t move. “Care is what I’m doing,” he replied.

  Luther took a sip from his cup, eyes sliding towards the riverside fires again. “So,” he said lightly, as if they’d been discussing meat prices, “when does this ‘gift’ get offered?”

  Vekarn’s gaze went distant, as if he could already see the morning. “Day three,” he said. “When all elders stand with their bands behind them. When the crowd is thick. When everyone is watching.”

  “And when people are too tired to argue well,” Tysha murmured.

  Luther’s smile flashed at her. “Exactly.”

  Arulan’s staff tapped once against the ground. A small sound. A sound decision. “I won’t have my people turned into a lesson,” he said.

  Vekarn looked at him with something that might have been pity, or might have been amusement. “Lessons arrive whether you invite them,” he said. “You decide what your people learn from them.”

  Naro backed away into the darker edge of the crowd and let the warmth near the stones slide off his skin. The talk had been quiet. Civil. It had also made a shape in the air—like a noose you couldn’t see until you walked into it.

  He walked back towards Arulan’s fire with his bundle of useless kindling held like proof that he belonged.

  Across the basin, near the stones, Isac laughed at something an elder said, and the people around him laughed too—quick, eager, as if laughter might earn them a place.

  Naro tightened his grip on his bow until the wood creaked.

  He forced his fingers loose and kept walking, stride even.

  Tomorrow, the Council would feast and dance. Tomorrow, men would trade and couple and pretend the stones made them good. Tomorrow, the elders would start laying ropes with pretty names.

  Naro sat by his fire and stared into the embers until his eyes watered from smoke.

  He promised himself he would not fail again.

  Beyond the firelight, a child coughed—wet, persistent. Another cough answered from a different camp, nearer than it should have been.