Dawn crept over the huts with a thin, gray light. The village breathed in quiet fits, a cough here, a door-latch there, the whisper of ash shifting in a cold hearth. Kael carried a bundle of kindling past the palisade and returned by the long path, letting his steps learn every rut in the ground. He did not hurry. The day had a way of revealing itself to those who watched.
Haron waited near the drying racks with a spear across his knees. His hair was threaded with white, his shoulders scarred, his gaze steady as winter. He did not call out.
When Kael drew near, Haron unwrapped a small twist of cloth and held it open without ceremony. Inside lay three different herbs, all uncommon on the valley floor. The leaves were narrow and waxed, the stems red-veined, the scent faint but sharp.
"What can you make of these," Haron asked.
It was not quite a question, not quite a challenge. Kael glanced around them once, then crouched. He crushed a pinch of the first leaf between stones and let the oil bead on his fingertip. He touched the oil to the skin inside his elbow. A coolness flowed outward, bright and clean, like the river when snow melts high in the peaks. With the second herb he scraped a thread of bark and tested it on a small scratch along his wrist. The sting dulled, then vanished. The third he held to the light and frowned. He burned a sliver on a coal from a nearby hearth. The smoke rose pale, carrying a bitter sweetness that made the back of the throat ache.
Haron watched the boy's face more than his hands. No glee, no fear, only patient attention, the kind a craftsman gives a blade that will one day save a life or end one. Something old and sore tugged in the hunter's chest. He remembered a fever that had taken his brother when they were young, a heat no river cooled, a helplessness that had tasted like iron. He blinked, and the memory folded back into silence.
"That one numbs," Haron said at last, nodding toward the second smear. "And the smoke drives insects." His voice carried no praise, yet the tightness at the corners of his eyes loosened. "Keep your fire small. The old fear what they do not watch being made."
Kael inclined his head. Haron wrapped the cloth again, tucked it away, and rose. He did not look back as he left, but his pace had changed, a shade lighter than before.
By noon, voices thickened near the totem. Seris stood with a staff in hand, bracelets of bone clacking softly at her wrist. The circle of villagers left a clean ring of dirt around her, as if fear itself had weight. Dagan pressed close at the front, jaw set, eyes bright with the relief of having someone else to blame.
"The boy lingers where blood fell," Seris said."He gathers what should be left to the ground. He lights hidden fires. This is how misfortune takes root. It begins with what looks like cleverness. It ends with ruin."
Murmurs rose like flies. A few nodded vigorously, grateful for firm words.
Others stared at their feet, ashamed of their own fear. Mira stood near the back with her son against her hip. She looked down when Kael's path crossed the edge of the circle. He paused, neither challenging nor shrinking, then continued on. There was nothing for him to say that the crowd would hear.