The next morning, before the sun had even touched the mountain peaks, a low rumble moved through the camp. The war drums — used that day for an entirely different purpose — echoed between the mountains. A slow, deep beat that seemed to make the earth itself tremble.
Peter climbed down from his cave. He had put on a ceremonial outfit he found in Oonak's belongings. The clothes were too large, too heavy. He felt like a child playing dress-up.
On a funeral pyre lay Goran's body, wrapped in bison hide, his weapons placed beside him.
Oudra approached and bowed respectfully.
"You came. Good."
Peter nodded without answering. He could feel the weight of the stares. Some eyes held sympathy. Others held something else entirely.
Bork raised his spear and spoke in a thundering voice:
"Goran was a hunter! He gave his life for the tribe. May the ancestors receive him with honor!"
The warriors struck their weapons against their shields in unison. Clang. Clang. Clang.
Peter stood still. He should have spoken — it was his role. But the words wouldn't come. His mouth was dry. So he stepped forward toward the pyre, took the torch Oudra held out to him, and brought it to the wood.
The flames climbed fast, hungry, consuming the offerings.
The women began to sing — low, mournful chants that rose with the smoke. Peter took a step back, slipping into the shadows, letting the others carry the ritual in his place.
That was when Karg stepped out of line.
"The chief says nothing?" he called out, loud enough to cut through the drums. "The shaman stands silent before his own warrior's fire?"
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Oudra moved forward, but Peter stopped him with a quiet gesture.
"Karg," he said simply. "Not today."
"Not today?" Karg repeated with a bitter laugh. "Then when, Chief? After another death?"
He spat on the ground — as was his habit — then turned and walked away, taking a handful of warriors with him. The ceremony resumed, but the atmosphere had been poisoned. Something had broken that couldn't easily be fixed.
When the smoke from the pyre finally faded, the villagers drifted away one by one, not a single glance spared for their chief. Some whispered. Others shook their heads.
Then an old woman approached him.
"I curse you, Oonak. Because of you, my son left far too soon. I wish it had been you in his place."
Peter said nothing. He stared at the ashes, his fists tight at his sides. The old woman walked away, wrapped in the arms of others who consoled her.
Oudra came and stood beside him.
"You should have answered her."
"I didn't know what to say," Peter replied. "And I kept telling myself — she's saying all this under the weight of grief. Is that not pathetic?"
Oudra looked at him for a long moment, then slowly shook his head.
"Then you'll have to prove yourself another way, Chief."
And he left.
Peter stood alone in front of the dead pyre. Night was falling. Around the fires, voices wh
ispered. And somewhere in the shadows, Karg was smiling.