The camp saw me before I reached it.
Eyes lifted as I crossed the last stretch of trampled earth, the weight slung over my shoulder drawing quiet attention. The smell of blood followed me in—fresh, sharp, unmistakable.
Conversations slowed. A few warriors straightened. Others merely watched, faces unreadable.
Rain threatened overhead, clouds thick and bruised, the air heavy and wet.
I stopped at the edge of the Great Fire.
Tuk was there.
He looked up from where he sat sharpening a stone blade, the scrape halting mid-motion the moment his eyes landed on me. His gaze dropped first to my arm—blood-soaked, crudely bound—then to my face, pale and tight with exhaustion.
Then to what I carried.
I let the small carcass slide from my shoulder and hit the dirt between us with a dull thud.
Silence spread.
I reached into my pouch and withdrew the proof—clean, deliberate—and dropped it beside the body.
Tuk didn't speak at first.
He rose slowly, circled the kill once, then crouched to inspect it. His fingers pressed into the meat, tested the cut, the placement. Efficient. Purposeful.
"Brush-runner," he said at last. "Clean enough."
He looked up at me again.
"And you bled for it."
"Yes."
A pause.
Something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.
"Most first-timers come back empty," he said. "Or don't come back at all." He straightened and gestured toward the gathered warriors. "Witnessed."
That word carried weight.
A murmur rippled through the crowd—not praise, not approval, but acknowledgment. Enough to shift the air.
Tuk turned back to me. "You earn shelter tonight."
Relief hit me like a blow to the chest—but it didn't loosen my shoulders. Not yet.
"Temporary," he added, voice firm. "One hide. Edge of camp. Until you prove more."
I nodded. "That's enough."
His eyes narrowed slightly at that, then drifted—just for a moment—to the blood seeping through my bandage.
"You were lucky," he said.
I met his gaze evenly. "I survived."
That earned me a sharp, humorless breath of a laugh.
"Go," he said. "Before the rain decides otherwise."
*Shelter*
The hide they gave us was old.
Thick, heavy, patched in places where claws or time had torn through it. But it was shelter—real shelter—lashed over a bent frame of timber just sturdy enough to keep the worst of the rain out.
The ground beneath it had been cleared and packed down, still damp but no longer wild.
It wasn't much.
It was everything.
I staggered slightly as I approached, exhaustion finally catching up to me now that the trial was done. My arm throbbed fiercely, the wound hot and angry beneath the makeshift binding.
Then I saw her.
Livia was sitting just inside the shelter, knees pulled to her chest, staring at nothing. Her eyes lifted the moment I entered—and widened.
She was on her feet in an instant.
"What happened?" she whispered, hands hovering uselessly as she took in the blood, the dirt, the torn skin. "Adrian—"
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
She ignored that completely.
Her hands were on me now, gentle but frantic, guiding me down onto the ground beneath the hide. "Sit. You're bleeding everywhere."
I obeyed, the fight leaving me all at once.
She worked quietly, tearing clean strips from a spare cloth, her movements practiced despite the tremble in her fingers. She cleaned the wound as best she could, jaw clenched, eyes glassy but focused.
"…Did you pass?" she asked softly.
I nodded. "We won't be sleeping in the rain."
Her shoulders sagged.
A sound escaped her—not quite a sob, not quite a laugh—as she pressed her forehead briefly against my arm, careful of the injury.
"I thought—" Her voice broke. She swallowed hard. "I thought I'd lost you too."
The words hit deeper than the hound's teeth ever had.
"I promised," I said quietly. "I'm not leaving."
She nodded, wiping her eyes roughly. "You're an idiot," she muttered. "A reckless, stupid idiot."
I huffed weakly. "Yeah."
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Rain finally began to fall, soft at first, then heavier—drumming against the hide overhead, running down its sides in steady streams. The sound filled the small space, enclosing us in something almost like peace.
Almost.
*Livia*
She finished binding my arm and leaned back on her heels, exhaustion etched deep into her face.
The firelight from the camp barely reached us, casting her in shadow.
"I'm not ready," she said suddenly.
I looked at her.
"For trials," she continued, voice low. "I know they expect it. I know I'll have to eventually. But right now…" Her hands curled into the dirt. "I can't."
"I know," I said.
She looked up at me sharply, like she expected an argument.
"There's no rush," I continued. "You heal first. We survive first."
Her eyes shimmered again, but she nodded.
After a moment, she glanced at my pouch. "What's in there?"
I hesitated.
Then reached in and placed the two heavy stone-fang fangs into her palm.
Her breath caught.
"…You fought one of those?" she whispered.
"I didn't hunt it," I said carefully. "It found me."
She closed her fingers around the fangs, then pressed them back into my hand. "Keep them," she said. "They'll matter later."
I didn't argue.
Outside, thunder rolled distantly.
Inside the shelter, Livia curled closer, exhaustion finally dragging her down. I stayed awake, listening to the rain, watching shadows stretch and shift with the firelight.
The tribe had given us a night.
Tomorrow, they would demand more.
And I would give it to them—one trial at a time.