I cut the meat in my hands into small pieces, slicing each one with care, for I would feed him with my own hands. Slowly, cautiously, I approached the edge of the pen. Around us the night was silent and heavy, the only movement the trembling glow of firelight that flickered across the ground. In that shifting light, it was only me and my bison. I was certain I could train him, certain in a way that left no space for doubt. There was a steady confidence in my chest, as unshakable as stone.
I extended my hand carefully, placing the small cuts of meat into his mouth one after another. He was immense, towering and powerful, yet I could not look away. His size alone inspired awe, but as I stood before him I allowed myself a vision: the two of us riding across vast plains, marching into the unknown, leading expeditions, building new homes for my people. He was more than an animal to me, he was a future waiting to be claimed.
As he ate from my hand, I stroked the thick line of his head, running my palm over coarse hair that felt both wild and ancient. From time to time I whistled softly, the sharp tone cutting through the night air. Already that sound was becoming a command to him, a signal burned into his instincts. And he responded with a gentleness that clashed against his enormous frame. He stood beside me like a tame pup, brushing his head against me in a gesture that carried both trust and gratitude. When the meat was gone, he fixed his eyes on mine, waiting, almost impatient, as if he had learned already that more would come from my hands.
I studied that look. I learned to read him in those moments: which movements calmed him, which startled him, which tones of my voice reassured and which unsettled. The bond between us was no longer a dream, it was taking shape right before me.
It was then I heard the returning steps of my scout team. The sound carried over the quiet night like a distant drumbeat. I slipped out of the pen, leaving one last portion of meat for him, not wanting his patience to fade in my absence. The scouts arrived, arms laden with spoils of the hunt. They showed me what they had gathered—animals caught, bundles of herbs, stacks of reeds—and their eyes shone with triumph. Behind them, the cart they pulled was filled to its edges with food and materials. My heart swelled with hope. I felt it deep in my bones: something good was coming.
Cycnopy came running straight toward me, breathless yet smiling, his face glowing with both exhaustion and triumph. "We found it, Chief, we found it!" he cried out, his voice quivering with joy. The excitement in his tone spread like fire to those around us. "We discovered a place, a stronghold fit for settlement. Along the way we passed one or two smaller tribes, but they are no threat to us. If you allow it, after some rest I will lead you there myself, so you can see it with your own eyes."
I accepted at once. "At dawn we leave," I told him, my words firm. "With the first light we will walk, and I will judge this new land myself." For if this place proved worthy, if it offered water, cover, and room for growth, then it would mark the beginning of something far greater than what we had now.
With everyone gathered, I called them to attention once more, my voice rising above the crackle of flames. Faces turned toward me, expectant, hungry for certainty. "The former clan leader Xeptolyn and his people have joined us," I declared. "From this day they are one of us. Treat them as brothers and sisters of this tribe. From this moment forward, when I am absent, command belongs to Cycnopy. His word is my word. If anyone dares oppose it, they oppose me."
My decree rolled across the square like thunder. Eyes flicked toward Cycnopy, who stood taller under the weight of his new authority. He and his men bowed their heads in gratitude, and one by one they retreated to rest, weary but proud.
I then gave one final order to those who remained. "Process the animals, set the herbs in order. By tomorrow we may have to move from this place, so prepare to leave at a moment's notice." The people moved quickly, splitting hides, salting meat, storing bones for later use. From those bones they carved needles, hooks, and pins, while fibers from reeds were twisted into thread and baskets. Nothing would be wasted, for everything had purpose.
I returned to my tent, though sleep did not come easily. My body longed for rest, yet my thoughts ran ceaselessly. Other tribes surrounded us—potential allies, potential enemies. Opportunity and danger in equal measure. It would be my task to decide which were which, and how to act before the choice was forced upon us.
The chill of night slipped into the seams of the tent, pricking my skin as if to remind me of what lay at stake. Before closing my eyes, I turned once more to look at my bison. His breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling like the rhythm of the earth itself. His presence comforted me, not merely as an animal but as a symbol of what I was building. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would take his first steps toward becoming more than a beast in a cage.
My mind raced with questions: Would the new land hold water to sustain us? Would valleys there guard us from the harshest winds? Would game roam nearby, enough to keep bellies full? Could the soil be broken, shaped, planted for when the days grew lean? And in the dead of winter, when ice and hunger pressed down on us, would its shelter save us? These doubts chased each other through my mind, yet every time I recalled Cycnopy's shining eyes, I felt renewed belief that the answers would be yes.
I thought again of my bison's training. The bond we were shaping would go beyond daily survival. He would be my companion, my ally in war, my living standard before the tribe. I would load his back with supplies and together we would march further than any foot could carry. And one day, when I mounted his massive frame and rode before my people, they would grant me a new name—one born of both fear and reverence. That vision alone warmed me more than the fire at my feet.
I planned the signals in my head, refining them like tools: a sharp three-note whistle to command his attention, a low rising tone to call him closer, and a clipped final sound to halt him in place. Already, I could sense he was learning. And as I looked out across the camp, I saw how others were learning too. In their eyes glimmered something more than survival—it was belief, the kind of belief that turns frightened wanderers into a tribe.
Before lying down, I took a moment to study the camp. Smoke rose lazily into the night sky, a veil between us and the stars. Families whispered among themselves, forging bonds with the newcomers. Some shared food, others shared stories. A few sat alone in the quiet, their faces shadowed by loss, yet even in silence they held to the hope that tomorrow would be different.
I resolved then and there that if the new land proved as good as promised, we would move at once. I would not allow hesitation to weaken us. I thought of defenses, of spreading traps wider, of choosing the right men for patrols, of building not just a camp but a true stronghold. Such were the duties of a leader, and I accepted them without fear.
At last I returned to the pen. I lifted the gate slightly and leaned inside. He looked at me with wary eyes, still carrying that ancient fear, but I met his gaze without flinching. Between us stretched a silence that was its own kind of vow. I whispered to him, my voice low, yet full of conviction. "Together we are stronger. Together we will survive."
I left him with one final strip of meat. He took it gently, then rested his massive head against my hands. His weight was steady, grounding me in that moment. Tomorrow would come quickly, carrying its trials and choices, but I no longer felt unprepared. I turned away, closed the gate, and walked back to my tent. Sleep, when it came, was not a surrender but a gathering of strength—for the day ahead would not wait.