Naro’s fever came on the second night.

  Teshar woke to teeth clacking — too quick for cold. The shelter held damp smoke under the hides. Someone had stuffed the seams tighter against frost, and now the air sat heavy and stale.

  Naro lay bundled in reeds and fur. He should have been warm. Sweat still shone on his brow, darkening the fur at his throat. His eyes were open but unfocused. His lips moved as if he were trying to chew his way through a thought.

  Siramae had one hand on his shoulder, pinning him when his body tried to jerk up.

  “Still,” she said, low and final.

  Teshar pushed himself upright. His joints protested. His palms stung where scabs had split again from hauling Naro, from gripping a spear shaft in mud, from scraping wood in stolen minutes. Dried blood sat in the creases.

  He leaned closer. Naro’s breathing came fast and shallow, a thin whistle through his teeth.

  The other life supplied a word. Teshar kept it behind his teeth. Words didn’t help unless you could turn them into work.

  Siramae glanced at him. “You’re awake.”

  “I heard him.”

  “You heard his body losing the argument,” she said.

  Naro made a sound that tried to be a laugh and turned into a cough. It scraped hard, as if it took something off the inside of his throat.

  Siramae clicked her tongue and drew the hides back from his thigh.

  The bandage was damp.

  Teshar’s stomach rolled once, sharp and immediate.

  The boar’s tusk had torn him open, not cut him. Siramae’s paste was packed into the gash — dark green pressed into red — and the binding was tight. The skin around it had puffed up. The flesh looked hot, even in a shelter full of winter air.

  Siramae touched above the wound. Naro hissed and tried to pull away.

  “That’s it,” Siramae said, very quietly. “That’s what I didn’t want.”

  “Bad blood?” Teshar asked.

  She didn’t like the phrasing, but she didn’t waste time correcting it. “A wound like this steals heat,” she said. “Then it throws heat back into you. The wrong kind.”

  Naro’s eyes rolled towards them. “I’m fine,” he rasped, dragged out by pride.

  Siramae looked at him as if he were insisting the river wasn’t cold while shaking on the bank. “You’re not,” she said. “Hold still and let me do my work.”

  Outside, footsteps passed close. Two voices murmured. Quiet talk travelled differently at night — close to the ground, close to the fire, close to worry.

  Teshar could feel the camp’s attention even through the hide. People didn’t crowd the shelter. They counted in their heads. A boy lay up meant nets untied, wood uncut, watches heavier, food stretched thinner. Winter made every injury public, even when no one spoke.

  Siramae rose and slipped out.

  Cold bit through the flap. The fire crackled outside. Someone shifted in sleep. The river kept its steady hush beyond the reeds.

  Siramae’s voice cut through the dark. “Boil water. Now. Bring me willow.”

  Teshar sat back on his heels and forced his breathing to slow. His mind ran ahead anyway: clean cloth, clean hands, something that could stop the heat from climbing. He had none of it. He had boiled water that tasted of ash and a healer who didn’t flinch when bodies tried to fail.

  Naro shuddered again.

  Teshar took his wrist. The pulse raced, too fast and uneven under the skin.

  Naro’s fingers found his and gripped weakly, desperate for something solid. “Don’t let me fall,” he whispered.

  The words landed hard. Teshar had made promises before and hated the taste of them as soon as they left his mouth.

  “You’re here,” Teshar said. “Breathe.”

  Naro’s eyes squeezed shut. A tear slipped out, hot against his cold face.

  Teshar sat with him in the dim and held his own face still. The other life offered bright rooms and clean sheets and help you could call for. Here, there was smoke, herbs, and the band’s patience measured in meals. He didn’t let any of it show. People noticed weakness the way wolves noticed limps.

  By morning, the camp moved as if everyone had been told to save their warmth.

  Smoke rose thin and straight from the fire. Children were hushed before they could start. Even Hoden kept his voice low.

  Teshar stepped out of the shelter and blinked into the pale light. Frost edged the thorn ring and made every branch look newly sharpened. The clean, cold outside felt wrong after the shelter’s damp heat.

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  Arulan sat on his flat stone, staff across his knees, as steady as a post set deep.

  Siramae crouched near the coals, stirring something in a shallow stone bowl. Steam lifted in a thin thread. Willow shavings. Bitter herbs.

  Teshar’s belly clenched with hunger. He ignored it. Hunger was constant. Fever was a new mouth inside the ring.

  People spoke at the edges of the fire-circle. He caught scraps as he went for water.

  “…boar sign…”

  “…Torek…”

  “…stupid…”

  “…bad luck…”

  No one said the simplest truth: winter didn’t need bad luck. Winter only needed time.

  At the river, Teshar filled a skin with numb fingers. As he straightened, he saw prints in a soft patch where the frost had melted.

  Human footprints. Bare. Small.

  Children, his mind tried.

  The stride said no. Too long. Too steady. And beside them, a dragged line, as if something had been pulled along the bank.

  His eyes moved along the reeds. Nothing shifted. Stillness meant nothing.

  Teshar tightened his grip on the skin and walked back at an even pace. Inside the ring, an even pace was armour.

  Arulan came to the shelter after the sun climbed a little.

  He didn’t announce himself. He appeared in the doorway and tapped his staff once on packed earth. Voices outside dulled. Someone stopped mid-sentence.

  Siramae stood at once, wiping her hands on a strip of hide.

  Arulan looked at Naro first.

  Naro lay quieter now, not restful — used up. Sweat dampened his hair. His mouth hung slightly open. Each breath came shallow.

  “Will he live?” Arulan asked.

  Siramae didn’t dress it up. “He can,” she said. “If his body holds. If the swelling eases. If the heat breaks.”

  Arulan nodded once.

  His gaze moved to Teshar. “You were there.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Torek?”

  “Torek was there.”

  Arulan’s eyes slid out towards the fire. Torek stood near the meat rack with his arms folded, jaw set, as if he could keep the camp standing by refusing to bend.

  Arulan tapped his staff again.

  Adults began to drift in. Not everyone — the ones whose hands had proved they were worth hearing. Mothers nudged children away. Work slowed without stopping. The circle formed.

  Teshar stayed by the shelter flap, close enough to step back in if Naro’s shivering turned violent again.

  Torek spoke first. “We train hard because the land is hard.”

  Varek answered too quickly. “We train hard, and we bleed boys.”

  Torek’s eyes flashed. “He isn’t dead.”

  “Not yet,” Varek snapped. “He’s shaking under hides while you stand there with your pride.”

  Marlek cut in, voice low. “Torek. What happened?”

  Torek’s jaw worked. “They watched,” he said. “They watched until Naro leaned. He slipped. The boar charged.”

  “And you?” Marlek asked.

  “I drove it off.”

  Varek’s lip curled. “After it took him.”

  Siramae stepped forward. “Enough. You can trade blame all day. It won’t close his leg.”

  Varek turned on her. “Blame stops the next one.”

  “It also splits the band,” Siramae said. “Splits feed wolves.”

  Hoden shifted at the edge of the gathering, arms tight across his chest, eyes moving from face to face as if looking for the first crack.

  Arulan listened without a word. That was part of it. Let them spend their anger where everyone could see it.

  When Varek opened his mouth again, Arulan tapped his staff harder.

  The fire popped. No one spoke over it.

  “Winter tests bodies,” Arulan said. “It tests rules.”

  He looked at Torek. “No more boar sign for boys until the camp is steadier.”

  Torek held the stare. The order bit. He swallowed it anyway. “Yes.”

  Arulan’s gaze moved to Varek. “And you stop swinging fear like a club.”

  Varek stiffened. “Fear keeps people alive.”

  “Fear makes people bolt,” Arulan said. “Wolves like bolting.”

  Varek’s nostrils flared. He shut his mouth.

  Arulan looked at Siramae. “You need wood.”

  “Heat,” Siramae said. “Steam. Clean water. If the fever climbs, I’ll sweat it out of him.”

  “You’ll have wood,” Arulan said.

  Then he turned his eyes to Teshar.

  Teshar stepped forward, keeping his face flat.

  “Tonight you speak to the boys,” Arulan said.

  “Why me?”

  “Because you were there,” Arulan replied. “Because you don’t turn fear into noise.”

  Teshar felt the weight of it anyway. “What do I say?”

  “Say what you learnt,” Arulan said. “Not what makes you sound clever. What keeps them alive?”

  Teshar nodded.

  Arulan tapped the staff once more. The gathering loosened. People went back to their tasks, but the camp didn’t feel lighter. Orders had been laid down. Now everyone would watch who followed them.

  Teshar returned to the shelter.

  Siramae had set hot stones in a shallow pit and poured water over them. Steam filled the low space with a bitter scent. It stung Teshar’s eyes and made breathing work.

  Naro lay in the heat, sweating hard now. His hair clung to his forehead.

  Teshar crouched beside him. Naro’s eyes cracked open and found him, as if the sight anchored him for a second.

  “Did I…” Naro rasped. “Did I ruin it?”

  “You got hurt,” Teshar said.

  Naro swallowed and winced. “Torek hates me.”

  “Torek hates what kills people,” Teshar said. It was the only truth that helped.

  Naro’s fingers twitched. “And you?”

  Teshar could have given him anger. He had plenty. He chose what mattered. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

  Naro shut his eyes again. Another tear ran into his hair.

  Siramae pressed a skin to his mouth. “Drink.”

  Naro gagged, then forced it down in small swallows.

  Outside, a wolf howled — distant, long, real enough to raise hairs.

  Siramae glanced at Teshar. “Go. Bring more willow. And resin. The pale one by the river bend.”

  Teshar nodded and ducked out.

  Cold slapped his damp face. It cleared his head fast.

  He scanned the thorn ring, the gaps, the tree line. Nothing moved. That didn’t settle him.

  He set off towards the river, already shaping the words he’d have to say later — plain, usable, no pride in them. Behind him, the shelter held Naro’s thin breath. Ahead, the reeds waited with prints in the mud and whatever had made them.