The elder’s gaze shifted toward Sira.

  “Inform the tribe. We will prepare the ceremony. Until that time, these two are to be considered part of the tribe.”

  His eyes returned to Jason.

  “We will perform it in a few days. By then, your wound should be healed,” he added gently.

  Jason instinctively placed his hand over his shoulder. The wound was still there—still not fully closed. Yet he hadn’t felt it in some time.

  In fact, he had nearly forgotten it existed.

  His eyes drifted toward the incense.

  The smoke curled lazily upward, thin and steady.

  It wasn’t just calming.

  It was numbing.

  Sira had already stepped outside, her expression tight with restrained disapproval. She did not agree with bending tradition—but obedience to the elder was tradition. So she followed it.

  The elder noticed Jason’s lingering stare at the incense and paused.

  If the boy were to stay, he would have to begin learning.

  “It is made from parts of the pejuta plant,” he explained. “It carries healing properties. Most of our salves are derived from it.”

  He stepped toward the doorway, signaling them to follow.

  “Tahuuk already understands how our tribe lives,” he continued. “Learn from him while you can. It will help you survive this planet. And prepare yourself. Once the ceremony begins, there will be no turning back.”

  They stepped outside.

  For a moment, Tahuuk and Jason simply looked at each other.

  Tahuuk carried the weight of resurfacing memories—ones he had long buried. Jason, in contrast, felt anticipation stirring beneath the surface.

  They both turned back toward the elder.

  The old man stood in the doorway a moment too long, their gazes locking in silence.

  “Well…” he muttered awkwardly. “I suppose I have nothing further to add.”

  He closed the door slowly.

  Through the wood, they faintly heard, “That was awkward…”

  Tahuuk’s defeated expression shifted into mild irritation.

  “He always pretends to be all-knowing,” Tahuuk muttered. “But he’s just an old man. Everything he knows is passed from elder to elder. And when he doesn’t know something…” He exhaled sharply. “He improvises.”

  A faint scoff followed.

  “I’ve been placed in some very… inconvenient situations because of that.”

  He turned and began walking toward the edge of the village, Jason following close behind.

  As they moved through the settlement, the judgment was palpable. Some tribespeople subtly adjusted their paths, taking longer routes to avoid brushing shoulders with them.

  Tahuuk did not slow. He did not look back.

  Jason noticed—but he felt no sting from it. These were strangers. What intrigued him more was their discipline, their silence.

  Those concerns would come later.

  They reached the outskirts of the village, where smaller structures stood apart from the main dwellings. These were temporary quarters—used by hunters preparing to depart, or those awaiting ceremony.

  They were mostly empty.

  And intentionally distant.

  The warriors stayed here when not with their families. It was also the perfect place to house outsiders under quiet watch.

  Without hesitation, Tahuuk began gathering materials as though guided by instinct. He pulled together hanging vines, layered broad leaves from the red-canopied trees scattered through the jungle, and secured them between two inner support walls.

  Within minutes, a hammock hung firmly in place.

  Jason stood at the entrance, watching with open fascination.

  Tahuuk caught his expression and smirked.

  “First time you’ve seen this?” he asked. “You should learn. It keeps you off the ground. The jungle is far less forgiving at ground level.”

  Jason nodded and began gathering his own materials. He tried to mimic Tahuuk’s construction from memory—tightening vines, layering leaves, adjusting the knots.

  From a distance, it looked almost identical.

  The illusion shattered the moment he attempted to lie in it.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  He lifted himself up carefully, placed his weight down—

  —and fell straight through.

  For a brief second, he dangled upside down, feet near his face, backside hovering only centimeters above the dirt.

  Tahuuk stared blankly.

  Then burst into laughter.

  He debated whether to help—or enjoy the spectacle a moment longer.

  The decision was made for him when one of the side hooks snapped with a sharp crack.

  Jason dropped flat onto the ground with a heavy thud.

  Tahuuk wiped a tear from his eye as the laughter subsided.

  “Much to learn,” he said calmly.

  Jason could only grunt in annoyance at the position he found himself in. Still half tangled in vines, he accepted Tahuuk’s outstretched hand and allowed himself to be pulled upright.

  “Watch,” Tahuuk said.

  He gathered the scattered pieces of Jason’s failed hammock and began rebuilding it—slower this time, tightening each vine, layering the leaves with deliberate care. The structure grew firmer under his hands.

  Jason stayed close, assisting where he could, handing over vines, holding tension while knots were secured. Within minutes, a sturdier hammock hung between the walls.

  “Try again.”

  Jason grasped the edge and lifted himself cautiously, testing the tension. The structure held. He shifted his weight, then finally let himself drop into the woven leaves.

  This time, it supported him.

  He exhaled.

  Only then did he notice the fatigue returning. His body, numbed by incense and medicine, began to relax. The gentle sway of the hammock rocked him steadily, and the dull throb of the bullet wound faded into the background.

  His eyelids grew heavy.

  Within moments, he drifted off.

  Tahuuk watched him for a few seconds before returning to his own hammock. He lay back and turned his head toward the window.

  Darkness had settled over the jungle, but above the treeline, the stars were visible—sharp and endless.

  That was not what held his attention.

  He listened.

  The quiet murmur of the tribe speaking in their native tongue. The scraping of tools against bark. The soft pull of fibers as materials were carried and shaped. The rhythm of home.

  The sounds stirred memories he had not allowed himself to revisit in years.

  A faint smile touched his face.

  Not long after, sleep claimed him as well.

  ***

  Sunlight pierced through the opening of the shack and struck Jason’s face.

  He woke abruptly.

  The sudden movement rocked the hammock violently—and once again, he found himself meeting the wooden floor below.

  He groaned.

  Two large feet stood directly in front of his face.

  His gaze lifted slowly.

  Four feet.

  No—six.

  Two warriors stood inside the shack, broad and unmoving, their expressions unreadable. They did not speak. After a brief glance at Jason, they turned and resumed their positions by the doorway, silent as statues.

  “They’re here as guards,” Tahuuk said calmly.

  Jason rolled onto his back and looked up. Tahuuk was already standing beside his own hammock, composed and ready to move.

  “We don’t need to concern ourselves with them.”

  He nodded toward the exit. “Come. Let’s explore the village.”

  Jason pushed himself up, brushing dust from his knees. As he straightened, he instinctively touched his shoulder.

  The ache was faint now.

  He peeled back the bandage to inspect it—and blinked.

  The wound had nearly closed. What remained was covered in a thick green paste, dried slightly along the edges.

  “The elder gave it to me before we left yesterday,” Tahuuk explained. “You’ll be healed soon.”

  Jason rotated his shoulder carefully, testing the movement. The muscles responded smoothly.

  Better than he expected.

  He replaced the bandage loosely and stepped toward the door.

  “Alright,” he said. “I’m coming.”

  ***

  Under quiet escort, they walked between the tents and elevated treehouses of the village.

  Some tribespeople ignored them entirely, continuing their work without pause—shaping armor from hardened bark, binding weapons with fiber and stone. Others ground plants into thick pastes, mixing them with diluted seawater to create salves and potions.

  There was no bargaining. No exchange of goods.

  No currency.

  Each worked for the tribe, and for the tribe alone.

  It was natural, then, that the exile received no welcome. Even under escort, glances followed them. Some were cautious. Others were sharp enough to cut.

  Heavy footsteps approached from the direction of the elder’s tree.

  The air shifted.

  Sira.

  She stopped directly in front of Tahuuk, her posture rigid, her expression controlled.

  “You are permitted to remain within the village,” she said evenly. “But not all will accept you. Either of you.”

  Her gaze shifted to Jason briefly.

  “You will need to prove yourselves in the coming days. We trust the Elder’s judgment. We do not yet trust you.”

  Silence followed.

  “For now,” she continued, “I have instructed the villagers to assist you if necessary.”

  Tahuuk nodded once and began to step past her, lightly guiding Jason along.

  They had moved several paces when her voice reached them again.

  “The ceremony will be tomorrow night.”

  They both turned slightly.

  “Be ready.”

  She did not wait for a response. Her stride carried her back toward the outskirts of the village, likely already preparing what was to come.

  Jason and Tahuuk exchanged a brief look.

  Tomorrow.

  They continued walking toward the working stalls.

  “What do we get?” Jason asked, glancing at the crafted weapons and tools.

  “Nothing,” Tahuuk replied. “You watch. You learn. You will use it in the jungle.”

  Jason blinked, momentarily surprised.

  Then he focused.

  For hours they moved between craftsmen and gatherers. Jason observed how fibers were twisted for tensile strength, how armor was layered to distribute force, how blades were balanced without machinery. Eventually, he began to try for himself—awkward at first, then steadier.

  The village worked until nightfall.

  When darkness returned, they made their way back to the shack at the edge of the settlement.

  Before lying down, Jason unwrapped his shoulder once more.

  The wound was nearly gone. Only a darkened scar remained—black-red against his skin.

  Two or three more days, and even that would fade.

  Which meant he was ready.

  He lingered on the thought as he lay back in the hammock.

  For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to imagine acceptance. A place to remain. A life not dictated by pursuit or war.

  But that future stood behind a single threshold.

  Tomorrow night.

  And survival.