The last vestiges of daylight hung in the sky as Brin and I approached the encampment. I felt a tight knot in the pit of my stomach, but Brin's confident stride kept my nerves at bay.

"Let me go in first," Brin murmured, his green eyes scanning the perimeter.

As we stepped into the outskirts of the settlement, we were quickly surrounded. Four individuals, each with skin darker than ours, emerged from the dimly lit interiors of the tents. Their faces were marked with streaks of red, blue, and yellow, adding to the intensity of their stern gazes. Their hands tightly gripped stone-tipped spears.

The sight of their weaponry sent a shiver down my spine, but I forced myself to remain calm. My gaze moved from one face to another, trying to read their expressions. A silent communication seemed to be taking place, but the language was foreign to me.

Brin cleared his throat and began to speak in a language familiar to my ears, the words heavy with intention, "Hēah-we we cuman in frēode. Nā ondrǣdath ūre intingan." (We come in peace. Do not fear our intentions.)

The men exchanged glances before one of them responded in a similar language. His voice held an edge of suspicion, "Ma aqatatoq chi aqanimaq."

I shook my head, turning to Brin, "They aren't Wulani."

One of them picked up on the word 'Wulani' and pronounced it slowly, as if trying it out, "Wulani?"

A silent exchange of glances passed between Brin and me before he nodded back at them, repeating the word, "Wulani."

The unspoken command from the strangers came as forcefully as a gust of wind, their eyes never leaving us, their weapons threateningly aimed. "Tumarik kanapi," one of them said, motioning us forward.

Brin's brow furrowed as he translated in a low whisper, "Seems like they want us to follow them."

"And it doesn't look like we have much of a choice," I murmured, taking in the sight of the sharp flint tips.

We were led to a larger tent, its interior illuminated by the fading daylight streaming in through its open entrance. The sight that greeted us was one that struck a cold blow to my chest. Five women huddled inside, three adults and two children, their once vibrant eyes dimmed with despair.

"They're Wulani," Brin muttered, his voice barely audible as his eyes took in the familiar features. I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

"It's not good," I agreed, scanning their faces, their bruised bodies, the cruel vines binding their hands and feet, and the telltale signs of malnourishment.

One of the men forcefully nudged his spear towards Brin. "Achawak, kow. Speak, go," he growled.

Taking a deep breath, Brin switched to the elder's ancient language, his words slow and precise, "Gē sind gē Wulani?" (Are you Wulani?)

One of the women, her eyes filled with a desperate hope, nodded furiously. "Hwæt, wē sind. Sendode þū þone hlāford?" (Yes, we are. Did the chief send you?)

Brin shook his head, "Nē, ic neom Wulani." (No, I'm not Wulani.)

The surprise on her face was quickly replaced by a sinking fear. One of the men started yelling, his words a harsh cacophony in the still air, his anger seeping into the dimly lit tent.

The woman's eyes flitted nervously between Brin and the agitated man who had demanded an answer. She relayed the question to Brin, her voice trembling. "Hēo cwæð 'hwā sindon gē?'” (He asks 'who are you?')

Brin turned to her, a questioning look on his face. "Mægþū understandan him?" (Can you understand him?)

Aiasha nodded, her gaze darting back to the man, Vilthur, "Ġēa, ac swiþe lȳtel." (Yes, but very little.)

"We're from Ashaya," I said, hoping she could relay our message. Aiasha seemed to understand, her brows furrowing as she attempted to translate my words to Vilthur.

She then switched back to the old language, her tone a little calmer. "Hwæt sindon ēower naman?" (What are your names?)

"I'm Brin, he's Tak," Brin responded, motioning to me.

Aiasha nodded, repeating our names as though cementing them in her mind. "Ic eom Aiasha." (I am Aiasha.)

Her gaze flickered back to Vilthur, a grim expression crossing her face. "Þæt is Vilthur." (That is Vilthur.)

As the word 'Ashaya' left Aiasha's lips, Vilthur's eyes narrowed. His voice echoed through the tent, a roaring thunder that set the women around us on edge.

"Hīe hǣþenlīce eorðe oferstigan." (They have trespassed on sacred land) Aisha repeated what the man had spoken.

Brin didn't miss a beat, "Wē wǣron ūt sēcan for hūse for ūser folc." (We were out looking for resources for our tribe.)

As she turned to deliver our message to Vilthur, a visible shiver ran down her spine. When she returned her gaze to us, her eyes held a different message altogether.

"Vilthur wile witan hwānan wē cōmon," she whispered urgently. (Vilthur wants to know where we came from.) "Ġē ne sceolan tellan him." (You shouldn't tell him.)

"Why?" Brin queried, concern etching itself onto his features.

"Þes folc is swiþe micel," Aiasha replied, her voice barely a whisper, "hīe sind blōdig." (This tribe is very large, they are bloodthirsty.)

I made a quick decision, "Tell him wē cōmon fram þǣm oþrum healfe þāra Bisons." (We came from the other side of the Bisons.)

Brin gave me a side glance, but remained silent. Aiasha relayed our invented origin to Vilthur who listened intently.

"Can you describe it?" Aiasha's voice quivered as she translated Vilthur's question. Brin took a deep breath, diving into a detailed description of our last home before the Wulani invasion. His words painted a picture of lush greenery and sparkling rivers, a place far removed from the hostile setting we found ourselves in now.

Vilthur's face seemed to soften slightly as Aiasha relayed Brin's description, and when he spoke again, his tone carried a surprising warmth. But as Aiasha translated, that warmth soon faded, replaced by an icy chill.

"Ġē mōton gān nū," she murmured, her eyes wide and fearful. (You are free to go now.) "Ġē sceolon gān ǣr Vilthur and his folc dōn þæt þe hīe dydon to eallum þǣm oþrum werum." (You should leave before Vilthur and his people do what they did to all the other men.)

"What's that?" I asked, already fearing the answer.

"Hīe ofslōgon hīe," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, "and bescendedon hira līc and lēton hit to þǣm wulfum." (They killed them, and desecrated their bodies, only to leave them to the wolves.)

A chill ran down my spine, my stomach knotting with unease. I could only manage a curt nod in response. Aiasha's gaze shifted from me to Brin, desperation evident in her eyes.

"Can the Ashaya save us?" she pleaded.

Brin shook his head solemnly, "Wē sind fēawe on rīme." (We are few in number.)

We left then, under the watchful eyes and threatening spears of Vilthur's men. The sight of Aiasha and the Wulani women, bound and clearly mistreated, stayed with us as we left the camp. The reality of the danger we had walked into was now all too clear, and it was a reality we were lucky to be walking away from.

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My mind wondered if there was such a thing as a God in this world. There was no reason for them to let us go, we were outnumbered with weapons to our backs. In any other circumstance they should have killed us, but instead they let us go. I thought it to be odd.

As we stepped out of the tribal encampment, the fresh air felt unusually chilly, a stark contrast to the stifling tension we'd just left behind. Brin's brow furrowed deeply as we walked, his mind clearly occupied by the ordeal we'd narrowly escaped.

"I feel bad for that woman... Aiasha," he finally admitted, breaking the silence.

"I do, too," I echoed his sentiment, glancing back one last time at the tribe that was quickly receding from view. "But we don't know how many people are in Vilthur's tribe."

"Yeah," Brin replied, rubbing his temple as if nursing a headache. "And did you see the way he looked when he got the description of our home? He seemed... pleased, almost happy even."

The memory of Vilthur's expression sent a shiver down my spine. Aiasha's warnings replayed in my head like a haunting melody. "She did say they were bloodthirsty," I mused out loud, "Maybe they're excited by the prospect of new lands to pillage, new people to enslave."

A shudder rippled through Brin, his face visibly paling at the thought. We walked in silence for a few more minutes before I broke it again. "We should be careful not to lead them straight back to the others," I suggested. "Just in case anyone decides to follow us."

Brin nodded in agreement, his gaze lingering on the horizon. "You're right, Tak."

We continued our trek, veering off the direct path back to our friends, conscious of the new threat we had stumbled upon. Each rustle of the leaves, each snap of a twig, now carried the potential echo of danger, and we had to be prepared.

The relief at seeing Lorn, Eamon, and Isha safe was immeasurable. As Brin and I approached, their faces lit up with a mixture of worry and relief. Eamon was the first to speak, his voice betraying a hint of anxiety. "How did it go?"

Brin, ever the blunt one, didn't sugarcoat it. "Not good."

Eamon's eyebrows shot up, curiosity piqued. "What happened?"

Drawing in a deep breath, I replied, "We found some Wulani people."

That admission fell like a stone into a quiet pond, sending ripples of surprise through the trio. "They were bound, beaten, and barely fed," Brin elaborated. "They were captives of that tribe."

Isha interjected, her voice shaky, "I wonder how they ended up in such a state?"

"Perhaps some of the Wulani tried to raid them like they did our tribe," Lorn ventured, "Only this time they were captured instead of finding allies."

I nodded, validating his assumption. "That's possible. Or Vilthur's tribe could have attacked the Wulani."

Brin added, "Aiasha, the Wulani woman we spoke with, said that Vilthur's tribe is large and bloodthirsty."

Eamon frowned, clearly perturbed by this revelation. "We should return to the tribe and report this immediately."

I held up a hand, stalling his impulsive decision. "Maybe we shouldn't."

His gaze narrowed at my dissent. "And why not, Tak?"

"There's a possibility Vilthur's men might follow us," I explained. "If some strangers walked into my camp with unclear motives, and then left, I'd definitely want to know where they came from. To calculate the distance, time, and see the resources they might have. We'd need to be ready in case they pose any threat."

Eamon considered this, his forehead furrowed in thought. "There's merit to that."

Brin chimed in, "Perhaps we should continue scouting for a few more days before heading back. Just to be safe."

He glanced towards Isha and Lorn. "Both of you should be on high alert for possible trackers."

Lorn had an unsettlingly calm demeanor as he pulled back the string of his bow, displaying the arrowheads we had recently fashioned from copper. "I'd like to see how these new arrows fare," he said, his voice steady and determined.

Eamon quickly retorted, "That's all well and good, Lorn, but we must avoid provoking that tribe at all costs."

I interjected before Lorn could respond, "We shouldn't stir trouble, but we must also be prepared to do whatever it takes to protect our home."

There was a collective nod from the group. It was settled, then. For now, we'd continue with our reconnaissance while remaining cautious.

We took varying paths as best we could, continuing to make note of what we saw and any animals we found. On the plains I spotted what looked to be a horse, but it was far out so I couldn't be sure. Eventually we ended up far away from that tribe and night was approaching so we made camp. Everyone was in agreement that someone should stay up to keep watch, with Lorn volunteering for that job.

I fell asleep with a myriad of thoughts racing through my mind. What if...?

I woke up to Brin's hand covering my mouth. My heart jolted in my chest as I came to, but his stern gaze told me everything I needed to know. I nodded, silently signaling I was awake and understanding. Removing his hand, he whispered, "You were right. We were being followed."

My heart tightened, the weight of my prediction becoming a reality sank in. I scanned the surroundings and my eyes fell on three figures - the distinct blue, red, and yellow stripes on their faces, an eerie mirror image of Vilthur's appearance.

Each of them was wounded, with arrows lodged in their bodies. Lorn was pulling out one from a man's shoulder, his face hardened. Isha, tending to her own arm wound, was preparing a concoction of the herbs we'd carried with us.

"Are there more?" I asked, my gaze darting around the dark forest.

"We don't know. This is all we found. They're lousy scouts," Brin whispered, not without a note of contempt.

Eamon rubbed his chin in contemplation. "We should take one back for more information," he suggested, his eyes trained on the injured men.

Isha grimaced. "But how? They don't speak our language."

Eamon glanced at me, a knowing look in his eyes. "That didn't seem to be a problem when Tak talked to the Wulani."

Despite the tension, I couldn't help but grin. This was different, much more complex, but perhaps not impossible.

"What are we going to do with the others?" I asked, glancing at the injured men.

Eamon scratched his beard. "We could either kill them, or injure them enough to slow them down."

Lorn looked over from where he stood. "Why don't we just kill them and be done with it?" His tone was harsh, but his sentiment was not unfamiliar.

Brin, however, shook his head. "If we kill them, the tribe will know it was us."

"Good," Lorn fired back, a glint in his eyes that was hard to ignore.

"Not good," Eamon corrected him. "They'd want revenge."

Isha's voice was small but firm when she spoke. "Ordhran would want them dead." There was truth in her words, a remembrance of our fallen comrade.

I considered it, the different perspectives, the fear, the anger. "Dead men can't talk," I said finally. Brin and Eamon turned to me, surprise etched on their faces. "If we plan on returning, we should kill them." The words tasted bitter, but there was a reality to them that couldn't be denied.

"But, in doing so," I continued, "we would also seal the fate of the Wulani women held captive in their tribe. Vilthur might not reach us, but he can exact his revenge on them."

Lorn, ever the realist, shrugged. "Their fate is already sealed. Their ancestors willed it so."

Brin argued, "That might not be true if we find a way to save them."

I stared at him, incredulous. "Are we going to save them?" The question hung heavy in the silence.

Brin's gaze flickered towards the wooden sticks adorned with flint-tipped spearheads in our prisoners' hands. "Did you notice their weapons?" he asked.

"Yeah," I replied, confused.

"We're using copper, Tak. And we have that wooden shield you made."

Eamon huffed. "Even then, it won't be enough."

"No," Brin agreed, "it won't. But we know where their tribe is. And they don't know where we are, or will be." He let the implication of his words settle among us.

Isha's voice broke the silence, directed at Brin. "So, what do you suggest we do?"

Brin considered the question. "If we want to save those Wulani women, we could return with more people under the cover of night. Eliminate any guards, if there are any, and set their tents ablaze. The panic would work in our favor."

I frowned at his suggestion. "But why set fire to the tents? Wouldn't it be better to stay undetected and simply rescue the women?"

A nod of agreement from Brin indicated that he saw the merit in my argument. "You're right, Tak. That does sound like a better plan."

Eamon, however, disagreed. "We're not doing any of that. We need to get back to our tribe and inform Mako and the elders."

Lorn grunted, clearly annoyed by Eamon's opposition. "Those Wulani people will want to aid their kin. We'd do the same for our tribe."

After a brief silence, Lorn added, "We need someone to keep an eye on Vilthur's tribe. Ensure they don't pack up and leave."

Eamon questioned Lorn, "Are you volunteering?"

Lorn didn't hesitate. "Yes."

I looked at Lorn with concern. "You'd be out here for days before we return, and possibly longer while we come to a decision."

Lorn shrugged. "I'll be fine. I can hunt whatever I need, and I can stay out of sight."

Isha offered to stay with Lorn, but Brin immediately dismissed the idea. "No, Isha. You're injured. You need to see Aisling, she can help you."

A sense of unease settled in as I thought of my mother treating wounds inflicted by this savage tribe.

I reached into my quiver and pulled out my copper arrows, handing them to Lorn. The copper-tipped arrows, an upgrade from the flint-tipped ones, had become something of a prized possession within our tribe. "You'll need these more than I will," I said, trying to inject some confidence into my words.

Lorn took the arrows with a nod of thanks. "I appreciate it, Tak," he said, his voice solemn.

As we gathered around, a discussion ensued about how we'd reestablish contact with Lorn once we returned to our tribe and made our plans. It was agreed that Lorn would move a few hours away from the large Bison that grazed near the tree with a hollow hole in its middle. This place was well known to all of us, a landmark that would be easy for us to find when we came back.

Our attention then turned to the wounded men from Vilthur's tribe. If we left them where they were, they'd likely make it back to their tribe and inform them of our presence. To avoid this, we decided we should move them to a place far from their tribe, a place that would make it difficult for them to return quickly.

Lorn nodded at the decision, adding that he had a plan for this too. Eamon looked skeptical. "You're not planning to kill them, are you?"

Lorn shook his head. "No, Eamon. I'm not going to kill them."

With our plans made, some of us turned in for the night. I, however, found it difficult to shake off the worry that had settled in my gut. As I lay under the starlit sky, I pondered over the decisions we'd made and what was to come. The uncertainty gnawed at me. All we could do now was to trust in our plans, and in each other. But the question that truly kept me awake was simple: How would this all play out?