The climb back to the Painted Dogs camp was slower.
The dead mountain goat was heavy, and the steep path down the slope forced the hunters to move carefully between the rocks. One of the warriors carried the animal across his shoulders while Harrag walked beside him, steadying the body whenever the narrow trail shifted beneath their feet.
Torren followed just behind them.
The wind had picked up again, pushing down from the higher cliffs and carrying the smell of snow and pine through the valley. As they descended, the faint sounds of the camp slowly returned—voices, laughter, the dull thud of wood striking wood where the children still trained.
By the time they reached the outer edge of the camp, several people had already noticed them.
A few of the women looked up first.
Then one of the younger boys shouted.
"They brought one back!"
Warriors began turning toward the slope as the hunters entered the camp. Several small animals already lay near the fires—two hares and a fox—caught by other hunting groups earlier that morning.
But when the mountain goat was dropped onto the ground beside them, the difference was obvious.
One of the men whistled.
"That's a good one."
Another laughed.
"Harrag's group always comes back with the biggest kill."
The warrior who had carried the animal dropped it beside the fire with a grunt and stretched his arms.
"Not us," he said, nodding toward Torren. "The boy saw it first."
Several heads turned.
Torren shifted slightly under the sudden attention.
"Aye," another hunter added with a grin. "Sharp eyes on that one."
"Found the goat before any of us."
Someone chuckled.
"Red-Eyes finds food now too, does he?"
A few of the warriors laughed.
Torren glanced toward his father.
Harrag said nothing at first. He simply rested one boot against the animal and looked down at the boy.
There was no wide smile on his face—Harrag was not the kind of man who celebrated loudly—but something in his expression had softened slightly.
Approval.
That was enough.
"Bring a blade," Harrag said to one of the men.
A knife was tossed toward him a moment later.
The big warrior knelt beside the animal and pulled the goat onto its side. Blood had already begun drying across the thick fur where the spear had struck.
Torren stood close by, watching carefully.
Harrag glanced up at him.
"Come here."
Torren stepped forward.
"You saw how it fell," Harrag said. "Now watch what comes after."
The knife slid into the animal's hide with practiced ease.
"You kill something," Harrag continued calmly as he worked, "you use all of it."
He drew the blade down along the belly in a long, careful cut.
"Meat feeds the clan."
He began pulling the thick hide away from the flesh.
"Hide keeps you warm."
The knife flashed again, separating muscle from bone.
"Bones make tools."
Torren watched every movement closely.
Harrag paused for a moment and handed the knife toward him.
"Your turn."
Torren hesitated before taking it.
The blade felt heavier than he expected.
"Slow," Harrag said quietly. "The hide tears if you rush."
Torren carefully slid the knife beneath the skin the way his father had shown him.
The cut was uneven.
One of the warriors nearby chuckled.
"Gentle hands, Red-Eyes."
Harrag ignored him.
"Again," he told the boy.
Torren tried once more.
This time the blade moved smoother beneath the hide.
Harrag nodded once.
"Better."
The camp slowly returned to its usual rhythm around them. Other hunters arrived carrying smaller animals, children ran between the fires, and the smell of fresh blood mixed with wood smoke in the cold mountain air.
Torren kept working beside his father, slowly learning the careful movements of the knife.
Inside his mind the calm voice spoke quietly.
This skill increases survival probability.
Torren did not answer.
He simply focused on the work in front of him.