Xeno looked from the heavy carcass of the Silent Hoof to his father, seeing the new, deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes. Without a word, he bent and lifted the entire animal. My strength is for this, he thought, with a grim sense of purpose. To carry the weight for him.
Othniel watched him heft the load, a memory surfacing—carrying a young Xeno on his shoulders during the great migration when the boy's legs had given out. Now, the roles were shifting. "I will clear the path," he said, and it was a promise of protection, a father's enduring duty.
The journey back was a silent conversation. Othniel scouted not just for threats, but for the easiest path for his burdened son. When he found a clearer route, he'd glance back, a slight nod telling Xeno to follow. Xeno, in turn, would meet his gaze, a brief press of his lips signaling he was okay, he could continue.
When Xeno finally lowered the carcass at camp, his body shaking with fatigue, Othniel saw the cost. "Sit," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. He brought Xeno water first, watching him drink, before he allowed himself a sip.
Only then did they begin the real work—the long, careful process of butchering. Xeno worked with the same focused precision he'd used to make the kill, his large hands carefully separating meat from bone while Othniel packed it with Blood Moss to keep it from spoiling.
A full-grown Hoof, Othniel calculated as they worked. Enough meat for seven days, if we ration carefully. His mind drifted to the tales he'd heard from wandering hunters—stories of the small, cunning Grizk, who could supposedly survive a week on what an Atherlian needed in a single day. He'd never seen one himself to know the truth of it, but the principle stood. Our bodies are furnaces. This meat gives us time we didn't have before.
Exhaustion hung heavy on them both as they stored the last of the meat. "A water pit is temporary," Othniel announced, wiping sweat from his brow. "A stagnant pool draws danger. We need flowing water—a spring we can defend."
They tracked downhill, following the subtle signs only a seasoned hunter could read—the way moss grew thicker, the faint dampness in the air. They found a pool, but Othniel's hand shot out to stop Xeno.
"Look," he whispered, pointing to a polished slide mark leading into the water. "River Serpent. The easy path is always claimed by something stronger."
Just like the world, Othniel thought bitterly. The safe places were taken long before we arrived.
They pushed uphill, Xeno now taking the lead. The boy paused frequently, head cocked as if listening to the earth itself. After nearly an hour, he stopped at a fissure where clear water bubbled between Stone Bark roots.
"Here," Xeno said simply.
Othniel tasted the water—cold and clean, with the mineral tang of deep earth. "Good," he nodded, relief washing through him. "A spring that runs fast won't harbor ambush predators."
Their work shifted immediately. Othniel pointed to a high terrace fifty paces above the spring. "The height gives us sightlines," he explained, already mapping their defense in his mind. "The trees provide cover but don't blind us. This can be more than a camp, Xeno. This can be a place that lasts."
As they worked—clearing the terrace, gathering bark, setting Shard Moss trip-wires—Othniel watched his son with new eyes. Xeno wasn't just following orders anymore; he was anticipating needs, understanding the why behind each task.
He sees the pattern, Othniel realized. He understands we're not just surviving day to day—we're building something that must last.
When dusk began to bleed through the canopy, they stood on their finished terrace. The meat was secured, the spring was protected, and their shelter stood solid against the coming night.
Othniel's eyes drifted west again, to where the ancient mounds lay hidden in the growing dark. My son is safe. He has food, water, and shelter. That is all that matters. That is the only tribe I need.
He put his hand on Xeno's shoulder, feeling the solid strength there. "We have meat for seven days," he said. "We will use this time. We rest. We explore what is close. We learn the patterns of the beasts and the growth around this new home of ours. When we know this small piece of land as well as we knew the riverbanks of our old home, then we will face the echoes of the old. A mystery can wait. A strong foundation cannot."
Xeno nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the distant, shadowed line of the mounds. The question that had been burning in him since yesterday finally broke free. "Father," he began, his voice quiet in the settling dark. "Yesterday... you called them 'the Old Walls.' What did you mean?"
Othniel was silent for a long moment. The weight of half-remembered tales pressed down on him. He had hoped to shield the boy from this a little longer.
But Xeno had earned the right to ask.
"They are a story from a world before ours," he said finally, his voice low. "A name I heard in my wandering days. I traded labor for stories around the fires of bigger tribes."
He stared into the growing dark. "Just pieces of tales, really. No one knew who built them. Only that they were old... and best given a wide berth."
Othniel looked at his son. "It was a story I hoped never to see written in stone and earth. Tomorrow, I will tell you the pieces I remember. But tonight, we rest."