"You did well," Para says.

You stop checking your wounds. Your mother rarely offers praise.

She inspects her bow, then buckles her curved bronze sword to her belt. "Our people are brave and clever," she says, "but that won't protect them. There is something wrong with the trolls. They'll be back, but I'm not going to wait around for their return. Neither are you. Help where you can today, but tomorrow morning, you and I are going to find their nest. Prepare yourself."

The afternoon passes in a blur: frightened faces, swirling rumors, damaged buildings in immediate need of repair. You try to ignore how much your ankle hurts as you help wherever you're needed. Hunters-turned-warriors range all around town armed with bows and short spears, until your mother orders them in at dusk so they don't shoot each another in the dark. As night falls, townsfolk pour into the great hall.

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Eight pine pillars support the roof of the great hall, alternating in style: four round pillars carved with images of revelry and four square pillars carved to resemble the gods of love, war, knowledge, and life. Past a rectangular firepit is a tall chair, smooth with age and attention, and Yune—the god of creation, and for your tribe the god of things made well and beautifully—rises above that chair in a circle of beaten copper, holding eight tools in eight hands. Two long tables hold as many people as can fit around them, and more people stand against the walls.

"No," your mother says, appearing beside you. "I don't want you here." She glances at Urmish, who is talking affably with a priestess of Phy from the Oak tribe. "Prepare for our trip to the pit, because I do not have time. Go." She practically forces you out the door. People watch you suspiciously as you leave. You consider what to do, realizing that this is an opportunity to hone your skills before another–potentially lethal–confrontation with the trolls.