By the time the sun began to sink, the field of battle had been cleared of the dead. Dan ordered that the burial follow the rite established in Agha. It did not matter whether the fallen had been his own or those who had stood against them that morning. The dead were dead. They deserved rest. They deserved respect.

  On a rise south of the camp, where the soil was dry and soft enough to turn, they dug a long, even trench. Not a pit carelessly thrown together, but a straight grave lined at the bottom with branches. Each body was wrapped in woven grass and leaves. Faces remained uncovered until the final moment, so that kin, if any were present, could say farewell.

  Among those who watched in silence stood the newest members of the tribe, the former warriors of Tanu. Only hours earlier they had been enemies. Their faces were fixed in exhaustion and shock, yet something in them was shifting. They had expected mockery. They had expected their dead to be left for scavengers or, at best, forgotten where they fell. Instead they saw order. They saw quiet focus. They saw respect offered even to those who had fought against them.

  In their world, a fallen enemy was stripped of weapons and erased from memory. This was something else entirely. The decision to join Agha, born from hunger and fear and the instinct to survive, began to take root in firmer ground. A new feeling stirred in their chests. Not fear of strength, but respect for those who wielded it without cruelty, even in victory.

  Shaman Keo walked at the front with a torch, his voice carrying through the still air. He spoke of the circle of life, of returning to the earth, of memory living on in those who remain. No one interrupted. This was more than ritual. It marked another line in the civilization they were building. The dead would not be swallowed by silence. They would be sent off with dignity.

  When the bodies were lowered into the trench, Dan stepped forward. His voice was low and steady. It did not break the quiet but settled into it.

  “We do not cast earth only onto bodies,” he said, looking from his warriors to the former Tanu who stood apart. “We bury hostility here. We bury resentment. We bury the fear that drove us to lift our spears. This morning there was a divide between us. It ends here.”

  He gestured toward the grave.

  “These men were our enemies. They were also fathers, sons, brothers to those who now stand among us. Their blood was spilled. So was ours. That cannot be undone. But we can decide what it means. Let it mean the end of what brought us to battle. From this day we remember them not as enemies, but as those whose deaths closed an old wound and opened the path to a shared future.”

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  He paused, letting the words settle.

  Among the former Tanu, someone drew a deeper breath. Another lowered his head. The tension in their shoulders eased, if only slightly. They had expected triumph from a victor. Instead they heard responsibility.

  One by one, every person present stepped forward and cast a handful of earth into the trench. No one rushed. Some whispered. Some stood in silence with clenched fists. For many, the gesture became more than farewell. It was a vow that the feud was truly laid to rest.

  When the grave was filled, they raised a wooden marker above it. A tall post carved with the sign of a circle, the symbol of the sun and unending motion.

  Klor stood apart with his shoulder bound. He did not weep, though his parents lay among the dead. He stood straight, watching as the last of the soil was leveled. He did not move even when others began to drift away. Only when one of Dan’s soldiers called his name did he turn. He gave a small nod and left the burial ground last.

  When it was all finished, the battle, the questioning, the oaths, the burial, Dan walked down to the river.

  The sun hovered low, scattering broken light across the water as if the river itself had not yet settled after the bloodshed. He crouched at the edge and splashed water over his face. He removed the strap that held his knife and laid it beside him. Cold water ran through his beard, thick now and untrimmed, and dripped back into the current.

  He looked at his reflection.

  The face staring back seemed almost unfamiliar. The lines were harder. The gaze direct and heavy. The sun had darkened his skin until it looked like bark on an old tree. A dense dark beard covered the lower half of his face, giving him a severity he had not once worn. His hair, roughly cut, showed the first strands of gray at the temples. A faded burn scar marked his right shoulder. His hands were crosshatched with scars.

  His clothing was no longer patched together. He wore a sleeveless leather jacket that belonged as much to an ancient warrior as to an officer yet to come. On his chest was the mark of Agha, a sun rising over the horizon. A belt held tools at his waist. A spear rested across his back. A sling hung at his hip. He did not look like one among them. He was their leader. It showed in the way he stood, in the way he carried his silence.

  He felt the change within himself as clearly as he saw it in the water. The Canadian soldier he had once been seemed distant now. Fragments of that life, coffee, stairwells, scanners, hospital wards, felt like fever dreams that faded with morning light. This was the world that demanded his attention. There was no room left for confusion.

  He did not think of himself for long. He thought of the thousands whose lives now depended on his judgment. What would they eat in a month. How would he shield them from future bloodshed without creating more of it. How did one build not just a settlement, but a civilization.

  He rose, lifted his spear, and settled the strap across his shoulder. Shadows stretched across the ground. Behind the trees his people were gathering, waiting for direction.

  He cast one last look at the water.

  Then he turned and walked toward them.

  Toward the place where history is made.