Winter came.
Not a true winter—Verath didn't have seasons like Earth—but a cold season, when the rains came and the winds bit and the days grew short. The valley protected them, but it couldn't keep out all the cold.
They huddled in their shelters, burning what wood they could find, sharing what food they had stored. It wasn't enough. It was never enough.
People died. The old, the weak, the wounded. They died quietly, without complaint, their eyes turned toward the mountains where they believed Eyva waited.
Kaelen buried them himself. Every one. He dug the graves, spoke the words, marked the places. It was the least he could do.
Seri found him one night, sitting by a grave, his face blank with exhaustion.
"How many?" she asked.
"Six today. Eleven this week." His voice was hollow. "We're dying, Seri. Slowly, but we're dying."
"Then we need to stop dying."
He looked at her. "How?"
She sat beside him. "The humans. They have food. Medicine. Supplies. We've been hiding from them, surviving on scraps. Maybe it's time to stop hiding."
"You mean raid them."
"I mean take what we need to live." Her eyes were hard. "They took everything from us. Our homes. Our families. Our future. Why shouldn't we take from them?"
Kaelen thought about it. Thought about the risk, the danger, the certainty that some would die. Thought about the alternative—watching his people starve, one by one, until nothing was left.
"We'll need a plan," he said finally.
"I thought you might say that." She almost smiled. "I have one."