The sled scraped against stone as they pulled the wounded man toward the low doorway. The mule snorted, shaking its head, unwilling to go further into the hollow. With a pat to its flank, the shaman unfastened the harness, leaving the animal to rest outside among the moss and shadows. The wolves had vanished into the trees, silent as they had appeared.

The girl hesitated at the threshold. Her scarred brow furrowed as she stared at the limp figure they dragged.

“Not inside,” she muttered. “He does not belong here.”

The shaman’s clouded eyes flicked toward her, calm but firm. “He breathes still. That is enough.”

The girl’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she obeyed, helping shift the warrior from the sled. Together they pulled him across the stone floor into the dim shelter of the dwelling.

Inside, the air was cool, smelling faintly of herbs, earth, and smoke. Roots coiled down from the ceiling like ribs, while shelves of clay jars and dried plants lined the walls. In the center lay a shallow fire pit, cold ashes waiting to be stirred back to life.

The shaman guided the warrior onto a pile of straw and woven mats at the far wall, his blood already soaking the cloth beneath him. She knelt, checking his breath once more, then turned to the child.

“Fire,” she said. “We will need warmth and water.”

The girl scowled but dropped her bundle onto the floor. With a sigh, she crouched at the pit, arranging kindling with quick, sharp motions. Her hands trembled—not from inexperience, but from the nearness of the stranger they had carried into their refuge. She muttered under her breath as she struck the flint.

“He should be with the others. Buried under the field. Not here, not with us.”

The shaman ignored her protest, unrolling fresh cloths, her staff laid carefully at her side. She spoke as if reciting a truth the child could not yet see.
“There are times the spirits whisper, child. Times when the living are claimed for reasons we do not choose. This man is not for the crows.”

The fire sparked to life, small flames licking at the dry wood. The girl sat back, her face lit in red and gold, shadows hiding the bitterness in her eyes.

The shaman nodded once. “Now fetch water. And whatever roots or grains remain in the jar. We will eat before the work begins.”

The girl rose reluctantly, glancing once more at the man’s pale, bloodied face before turning toward the back alcove of the dwelling. Her footsteps echoed faintly in the hollow, leaving the shaman alone with the wounded stranger.

For a moment, the shaman pressed her hand gently to his chest. His heart still beat, faint but steady, refusing to yield.

“You were not chosen to die today,” she murmured. “So we will see what you are meant for.”