They did not sleep well.

  No one pretended otherwise.

  The Crowfeet camp lay quiet under the stars, low hide shelters pressed into the earth, fires burned down to coals instead of flame. The Stonepath hunters were given space near the edge — not isolation, but not welcome either. A line drawn out of habit rather than malice.

  Ethan woke before dawn, cold settled deep in his joints, the sky still a bruised blue-black above the plains. The savanna breathed around them — distant herd calls, wind whispering through grass tall enough to hide a man standing.

  The buffalo they had killed the day before was gone.

  Not stolen.

  Taken by scavengers, by night predators, by the land itself doing what it always did.

  What remained were bundles — thick strips of meat cured hastily with salt and ash, wrapped in hide and packed for travel. Enough to matter. Not enough to forgive the loss.

  The Crowfeet knew it.

  That was why they came before the Stonepath hunters were fully awake.

  The same scarred goblin as before approached Maurik first, posture careful, eyes lowered just enough to show intent.

  “We are Crowfeet,” he said. “Plains-walkers. Herd-followers.”

  Maurik inclined his head a fraction. A hunter’s acknowledgment. Not acceptance.

  “We owe meat,” the Crowfoot continued. “The kill was yours. The loss was not your fault. But hunger does not care about fault.”

  Ethan listened without stepping in.

  This was not his place yet.

  “We hunt again,” the Crowfoot said. “With you. On the road back.”

  Maurik glanced at Ethan.

  Ethan nodded once.

  So they hunted.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The morning rose pale and cold as they moved out together — two groups still separate in how they walked, how they spread, how they watched. The Crowfeet favored long arcs, wide pressure, reading the herd like a living map. Stonepath hunters moved tighter, used to trees and stone, adjusting as they went.

  No one argued.

  That mattered.

  They found the bull near midmorning.

  Another solitary male, driven off by younger rivals, thick-necked and scarred, grazing alone near a shallow dip where the grass grew sweeter. A dangerous target. A necessary one.

  This time, there was no hesitation.

  No shadow theatrics. No sudden dominance.

  Just bodies moving together.

  Spears drove from the sides. Arrows forced the bull to turn where it didn’t want to. The Crowfeet hunter nearly died when the beast charged — Maurik’s arrow saved him, striking deep through the shoulder joint.

  The bull fell hard.

  Dust rose.

  Silence followed.

  Then breath.

  The kill was cleaner than the first. Faster. More controlled.

  That mattered too.

  They worked immediately, everyone. No one claimed first cut. No one argued share. The Crowfeet knew how to break megafauna for travel — jointing, binding, distributing weight so no single carrier was crushed by pride.

  Ethan took a load without comment.

  Blood soaked his sleeves. His shadow stretched long in the sun, but no one stared now. Eyes were on hands, on rope, on meat.

  That was how trust started.

  They walked most of the day.

  The savanna rolled under them in long, exhausting stretches. The Crowfeet spoke little, but when they did, it was practical.

  “Water east dries faster this season.”

  “Lions closer than last year.”

  “Warbands passed three moons ago. Took grain. Took goats.”

  Maurik listened.

  Ethan listened harder.

  By late afternoon, the stone formations rose again — familiar cracks, familiar shadows. The archway came into view, solid and unchanged.

  The Crowfeet slowed.

  Big Mama shifted at the entrance, massive form uncoiling just enough to be seen.

  Several of the Crowfeet froze.

  Not in terror.

  In calculation.

  “This is your place,” the scarred hunter said quietly.

  “Yes,” Maurik replied.

  The meat was brought in.

  Children stared. Elders stood straighter. Fires were fed without being told. Knives flashed. The smell of cooking spread fast — rich, grounding, undeniable.

  People ate.

  Not politely.

  Not ceremonially.

  They ate like people who had been measuring hunger in days.

  The Crowfeet did not cross the archway.

  They set their loads down and stepped back.

  “We will leave before dark,” the hunter said. “We have seen where you live. We will not return unless invited.”

  Maurik nodded once.

  Ethan said nothing.

  The Crowfeet departed as the sun dipped low, their figures swallowed by the tall grass as if the plains had decided to take them back.

  That night, the Stonepath camp slept heavier.

  Not peaceful.

  But fed.

  Ethan sat near the fire long after most had drifted off, hands still stained dark, muscles aching in ways that felt earned.

  Maurik joined him eventually.

  “They are not weak,” Maurik said.

  “No,” Ethan agreed.

  “They are afraid,” Maurik continued. “But not stupid.”

  “No,” Ethan said again.

  Maurik watched the fire. “Fear spreads faster than truth.”

  “Yes.”

  They sat with that.

  Somewhere out on the plains, the Crowfeet walked under the same stars.

  And the distance between them was no longer measured only in land.