Numa nodded, waving his hands as Hauk flew out of the cave, his shadow covering the settlement for a brief second before clearing.
Walking outside, Numa stared at the moon.
The last two mating seasons were futile and the population in their tribe was declining.
Numa pressed a hand to his chest.
Something was wrong.
The air no longer felt clean. It carried a faint heaviness, as though it had passed through rot before reaching his lungs.
The wind did not sing the way it used to.
Even the insects were quieter tonight.
Unease curled in his belly.
He turned back into his cave and knelt before the small stone altar carved into the wall.
Upon it lay old offerings, shed scales preserved in resin, sun-bleached bones, and a single golden stone worn smooth by generations of prayer.
Numa bowed his head.
"Nok'Ra.." he murmured, his voice low and steady.
There was no need to raise his voice. This god had never required shouting.
