The transition from the West to the East wasn't exactly subtle. It was a shift in the very atmosphere.
Sol moved through the undergrowth, a shadow wrapped in the skin of a shadow. The matte-black hide of the Cobra draped over his shoulders swallowed the dappled sunlight, making him look like a flickering glitch in the forest's texture.
He checked the sun through a break in the canopy. It was getting late. The Annual Hunting Rite or "Rite of Courage" the tribesmen like to call, was nearing its end.
"Time to find him," Sol whispered, his voice a low vibration in his throat.
He adjusted the bone dagger at his hip and the iron-hard antlers tucked into his belt. He was ready.
As he moved deeper into the Eastern Zone, the sounds of the jungle changed. The singular, terrifying silence of the predators gave way to the chaotic noise of human struggle. He heard shouts of panic, the wet thud of spears hitting hide, and the roar of beasts who were angry about being poked with sticks.
