The sun rose the following morning with a brutal, uncompromising glare, casting long shadows across the dusty path that led from the family hut to the eastern fields. It had been exactly one and a half weeks since the world had been told that Rana and Ron were dead, and the atmosphere in the village was changing. The protective aura that had once surrounded the house of a high-ranking warrior was evaporating, replaced by the predatory scent of vulnerability.
Fuyu and Manu walked side-by-side, their strides rhythmic but their minds miles apart. The previous night's discussion still rang in Fuyu's ears—the sharp, protective cries of Nula, the quiet disapproval of Susan, and the frantic worries of the girls. They had treated his massage proposal like a joke or a disgrace, failing to see the mercenary necessity of it.
