The horn sounded at dusk, deep and urgent. It rolled through the huts like thunder, and the entire tribe jolted into motion. Women dragged children indoors, men grabbed spears from the racks, and the elders shouted themselves hoarse as panic spread faster than orders.
Kael stood in the crowd silently. The fear in the air was thick enough to taste. Some clutched their families, others trembled as they armed themselves. Voices cracked with prayers to the ancestors.
From the treeline, torches flared. Shouts rose in a language Kael did not need to know, as the intent was clear. The rival tribe had come to take food, land, and lives.
The warriors at the palisade braced for the charge, but Kael slipped away. He had no strength for open battle. Yet in chaos, there were always cracks to exploit.
He worked quickly.
At the storage lane he loosened ropes so a hut door would fall if pulled.
He scattered stones across the dirt where shadows funneled attackers into a choke point.
Near the river bend he dragged branches into the reeds and brushed a thin smear of fat across the packed soil, a trap invisible in the dark.
The first clash erupted. Spears met axes. Men roared and cursed. In the confusion, Kael's small adjustments came alive. A raider tripped on the scattered stones and fell hard, spears striking him before he could rise.
Another yanked at the storage hut, only for the weakened frame to crash across his legs. At the river, two more skidded on the slick ground, their screams cut short by the current.
The villagers did not understand why the enemy faltered, but they felt courage surge in their chests.
Panic turned to fury.
Warriors who had trembled now roared, driving their spears with renewed strength. Women cheered from behind the fires. Even children shouted in shrill voices, calling on the ancestors.
Kael watched from the shadows, his expression unreadable.
The raiders wavered. Their rhythm broke, their momentum scattered. Within moments, they were retreating, dragging their wounded into the trees.
When the gates closed and silence fell, the tribe erupted. Warriors pounded their chests, their voices rising in victory chants.
The elders lifted their arms to the heavens, proclaiming the ancestors had guided them. Women wept with relief, clutching their children close. Laughter and cries of triumph filled the night.
Kael stepped from behind the huts, slipping into the edge of the firelight. He held himself small, quiet, letting the noise wash around him. No one noticed the calm in his eyes, the way he observed every reaction.
The elder hunter noticed.
He had watched the fight carefully, and he had seen more than chance. He had seen ropes give way at the exact moment of an enemy's pull, seen men fall where stones had been scattered, seen boys who should have been too small vanish and reappear where the battle turned.
His grip tightened on his spear. The boy is shaping the battlefield, he thought. Not with strength, but with intent.
Kael felt the weight of the hunter's gaze but did not return it. His hand closed around a small disc taken from a fallen raider, carved with strange grooves that echoed faintly of the totem's markings. He tucked it into his shirt before the firelight could betray it.
The tribe celebrated long into the night, convinced the ancestors had saved them. Only Kael knew better. Only the hunter suspected.
Above them, the stars burned bright and cold, as if watching a boy with quiet recognition.