"We're just passing through," Inigo said.
The elder nodded slowly, her gaze lingering on the Apache for a moment before returning to his face. "Passing through or not… you saved our children. Our future. That's not something we forget."
Around them, the village had begun to hum with cautious life again. The fires had been put out, smoke rising in thin trails from blackened rooftops. Neighbors helped each other rebuild fences, douse embers, and gather the wounded. But the air wasn't heavy with mourning—it was threaded with relief, even joy.
The people of this village had seen death and lived.
By twilight, the town square was lit with lanterns—some salvaged, some hastily hung from wooden beams and rope poles. What little food they could spare was brought forth: roasted carrots and potatoes, flatbread warmed over hot stones, and spiced meat likely hunted from the nearby forest. It wasn't much, but it was shared with reverence.
