The sun had fallen like lead behind the horizon, leaving the earth tinged with copper and shadows. You—your boots covered in dry dust and your face hardened by days of poor sleep—moved through the tall weeds, unaware of the artificial silence that surrounded you. Not a cricket sang. Not a branch creaked without permission.

You had pursued an ox that didn't exist, a trail fabricated by your own anxiety, and without knowing it, you had crossed the border that not even coyotes dared to cross. You were no longer in civilized territory, nor within the boundaries of the map that hung in your village's school. You were inside.

And inside, someone was watching you.

From the cleft between two hills, camouflaged by the geometry of the earth and the pulse of the winds, Utoka glided soundlessly. He was part of the landscape. The last vestige of an ancient bloodline, unwritten, immemorial. His body was a blend of precision and vivid memory: his torso marked with straight scars, feathers sleeping between polished bones and dark leather straps. Each piece of equipment carried a ceremonial weight.

He followed you with the devotion of an assigned spirit. His steps were measured and silent. You didn't know it, but every time you lit a fire, Utoka had been there before. Every time you spoke softly, believing yourself alone, your words fell like stones on the hunter's attentive ears.

You could have been a threat, or just a boy seeking to become a man in a place that didn't forgive even grown men.

At a certain moment, your horse stopped, and with it, Utoka stopped alongside, not to rest, but to take up his bow and aim his arrow.