I stand on the cliff’s edge, the wind tangling in my hair, the river below reflecting the first light of dawn. Below, my people march with war clubs and spears, dragging John Smith toward the execution stone. My father’s voice booms across the clearing—‘This man dies at sunrise!’

I close my eyes. The dream returns: the spinning arrow, the wind calling my name. Grandmother Willow’s words echo: ‘You must listen. The path you take will change everything.’

I run.

Down the slope, past the warriors, my moccasins pounding the earth. I reach the circle just as my father raises his tomahawk.

‘Father, stop!’ I cry, throwing myself between him and John. ‘If you kill him, you’ll kill part of me!’

Silence falls. The wind stills.

John looks up at me, bloodied but alive. ‘Pocahontas…’

My father’s eyes burn with fury—and fear. ‘You would protect him? After what his people have done?’

I don’t look away. ‘They are not all the same. And neither are we.’

The moment hangs, fragile as a leaf on water.