The familiar collection of huts and structures rose before them, smoke curling from morning cooking fires as people moved about with the routines of a new day, their movements holding the unconscious ease of those who had slept through the night without knowing how close danger had crept to their borders.
The earthworks and wooden stakes that marked the tribe's perimeter looked exactly as they had when Damian left, undisturbed and unbreached, and the air carried no smell of blood or destruction beyond the ordinary scents of morning meals being prepared.
Nothing drastic had happened in the night, and Uncle Adam had kept them safe.
As Damian approached the entrance to the village, he found himself smiling at the sight of Uncle Adam standing there waiting, the old warrior grasping a spear in hands that no longer trembled with weakness.
