Yet here he was, standing once more beneath the oppressive silence of the chief's tent, eye to eye with the massive, tusked leader of the Darvani.
The one-eyed chief stared at him with that same cold, unreadable expression, daggers for teeth, brutality etched into his every line and scar.
And then, in his deep, guttural voice, he finally spoke:
"You have proven that survival is not a hindrance to you. However… the Darvani are not waiters of judgment. The forest grows sparse with prey. We now go deeper to find meat. You will go with them."
He didn't gesture.
He didn't need to.
The group of guards surrounding the chief, six in total, the same ones who had once mocked and stoned Timothy awake immediately nodded in unison.
Their posture grew alert with Intent.
There was no mistaking it.
He was going hunting with them.
Timothy's gut wretched.
He wasn't being given a chance, he was being handed a death sentence.
Hunting night creatures in the deeper forest?
