The girl returned with a clay jar cradled against her chest, setting it down with a thud beside the fire. She knelt and pulled free a handful of dried roots, their earthy scent rising as she broke them into pieces. From a pouch she shook out a measure of coarse grains, letting them fall into a pot of water balanced over the flames.

The shaman worked in silence at the warrior’s side, rinsing his wounds with what little clean water remained. Her movements were slow but precise, her eyes dull yet unwavering, as though every cut and bruise told her something hidden.

The girl stirred the pot, her jaw tight. The firelight danced across her scar, pulling it into a deeper shadow across her face.

“He will eat our food,” she muttered, her voice edged with bitterness. “He will drink our water. And when he is strong again, he will take more. That is what men do.”

The shaman did not raise her head. “That is what some men do.”

The girl shot her a hard look, but the old woman’s expression was unreadable. Frustration burned in her chest. She wanted to shout, to demand why this stranger was worth more than her fears, but her voice broke only into silence.

The stew began to boil, filling the dwelling with the smell of roots and smoke. The girl leaned close, letting the steam wash over her face, hiding the sting in her eyes.

The shaman finally spoke again, her tone soft but carrying a weight that settled into the hollow like stone.
“You carry scars that were given, child. Scars that were forced. But not all who breathe wear the same guilt.”

The girl turned away, unable to answer. She ladled the stew into two small bowls, setting them near the fire. The third portion, thinner and smaller, she set aside without looking toward the man who still hovered on the edge of death.

The shaman rose stiffly, taking her bowl. She sat across from the child, the fire between them, shadows stretching across the earthen walls. For a time, the only sound was the crackle of flames and the low whistle of the boiling pot.

When the bowls were empty, the shaman set hers aside. She drew her staff closer, resting both hands upon it as if grounding herself.

“It is time,” she said at last. “Tonight we see whether he will remain among the living, or join the silence he escaped.”

The girl froze, her eyes darting to the man’s still body, pale in the firelight.