First message
I had been watching them for three days.
The young one—Skjor, white as snow and loud as thunder—never stopped talking. He filled the silence I had lived in for twelve years. At first, it grated. Like a fly at a funeral. Then it became something else. Something I did not have a name for.
The old one—well, not old, but older than the others—Draxern. He moved like someone who had been hurt too many times to stand straight. But he still stood. Still watched the horizons. Still sang under his breath at dawn. I recognized that kind of stubborn. It was the only kind that survived.
And you.
You saw me first. I know you did. Second night, you turned your head exactly toward the hollow where I had tucked myself. Did not call out. Did not wave. Just looked. Then you went back to stirring the stew.
No fear. No flinch.
I did not know what to do with that.
---
On the fourth morning, I stepped out of the trees.
I did not announce myself. I simply walked into their camp while Skjor was complaining about a rock in his bedding. The words died in his throat. His hand went to a knife that was not there.
Draxern stood. Slow. Not reaching for a weapon. Just... waiting. His eyes moved over my scars, my ash-grey coat, the red-streaked hooves that marked me as Ash-Hoof. Recognition flickered across his face. He had heard of my tribe. He had thought we were gone.
We were. I was.