Morning came slowly to the valley of the Painted Dogs.
The cold light of dawn crept down the high slopes of the Mountains of the Moon, turning the frost on the rocks pale silver. Thin mist hung low between the pines, and the camp still carried the quiet heaviness that followed a long night. Only a few warriors were awake, moving slowly between the dying fires while they prepared the morning meal.
Torren had been awake for some time.
He sat on the same ridge he often climbed, the one that overlooked most of the valley. From there he could see nearly the entire Painted Dogs camp: the low shelters of hides and branches, the smoking fire pits, the scattered groups of warriors beginning to stir.
Further down the slope, the children of the clan had already gathered.
They were loud.
They always were.
Torren watched them from above as they ran across the frozen ground, chasing one another between the trees. One of the older boys had a stick and was swinging it wildly while the others pretended to be warriors fighting Andals.
"Die, lowlander!" one of them shouted proudly.
Another boy tackled him into the frost.
Torren tilted his head slightly.
Inside his mind, the familiar voice spoke calmly.
Children frequently imitate adult behavior during play.
Torren watched as one of the smaller boys picked up a stone and threw it toward a tree, missing badly. The others laughed.
Their throwing form is inefficient, the voice continued.
Torren almost smiled.
"They are small," he muttered quietly.
So are you.
Torren did not respond to that.
After a few minutes he climbed down from the ridge and walked toward them.
The children noticed him immediately.
One of the boys—broad-faced and a little older than the others—pointed.
"Red Eyes!"
Another laughed.
"Ghost boy!"
Torren ignored them.
They always said things like that.
His pale skin and red eyes had been a curiosity among the clan since the day he was born beneath the weirwood in the Weeping Grove. Some thought it meant the Old Gods had marked him. Others simply thought he looked strange.
Either way, the name had stuck.
Red Eyes.
One of the boys tossed him a stick.
"Fight!"
Torren caught it easily.
For a moment he considered joining them. But their game was chaotic—wild swings, sloppy footing, shouting more than striking.
Their balance is poor, the voice observed.
Torren handed the stick back.
"No."
The boys groaned dramatically.
"You're boring."
Torren shrugged and turned away.
Behind him the game resumed with even louder yelling.
---
Near the center of the camp, smoke drifted from the cooking fires. Several women from the clan were already preparing the morning stew.
Not far away, the captured lowland women sat together beneath a rough shelter that had been built for them.
Torren walked toward them again.
Mara noticed him first.
She sat wrapped in a fur cloak someone had given her during the night. Her dark hair was still loose around her shoulders, though she had tried to braid part of it again.
"You again," she said cautiously.
Torren stopped a few steps away.
He searched for the words.
"You… sleep good?"
Mara blinked in mild surprise.
Then she nodded.
"Yes."
Torren nodded back.
"Good."
One of the other women watched him carefully.
She had been silent the night before, but now her eyes narrowed slightly as Torren approached.
"What does it want?" she asked Mara quietly in the Common Tongue.
Torren caught only one word.
Want.
Mara shook her head slightly.
"He's just talking."
The woman looked unconvinced.
Torren pointed toward the children playing across the clearing.
"Children," he said slowly.
Mara followed his gesture.
"Yes."
Torren tried again.
"Children… play… what?"
Mara smiled faintly.
"They're fighting," she said. "Pretending to be warriors."
Torren nodded thoughtfully.
One of the smaller children tripped and fell, and the others laughed loudly.
Torren watched them.
"They loud."
Mara laughed softly.
"Yes. Children are always loud."
Torren considered that.
The other woman suddenly shifted closer to Mara and grabbed her arm.
"Stop talking to it," she whispered sharply.
Torren understood only the tone.
Fear.
Mara frowned.
"He's a child."
The woman shook her head quickly, eyes fixed on Torren's pale face.
"That thing is cursed."
Torren didn't understand the exact word.
But he understood the meaning.
Mara glanced at him nervously.
Torren stood very still.
Inside his mind, the calm voice spoke quietly.
Hostile perception detected.
Torren ignored it.
The frightened woman leaned further away from him now, pulling the edge of her blanket closer around her shoulders.
"Look at its eyes," she whispered.
Torren heard that word clearly.
Eyes.
He touched his face unconsciously.
Mara looked embarrassed.
"She's scared," she said quietly to Torren.
Torren nodded once.
"Fear."
Mara seemed surprised he understood the word.
"Yes," she said softly.
Torren did not move closer.
Instead he sat down on a nearby rock.
After a moment Mara spoke again.
"Why are you here?"
Torren thought about the words.
"Talk."
Mara studied him.
"You like talking?"
Torren shrugged.
"Learn."
Mara nodded slowly.
"That's… good."
Behind them, the frightened woman kept staring.
She whispered something else under her breath.
Torren caught only a single word.
Monster.
He looked down at the frost-covered ground.
Inside his mind, the voice spoke again.
Lowlander cultural beliefs often associate unusual physical traits with curses.
Torren frowned slightly.
"I not cursed."
Correct.
Torren glanced back at Mara.
"You village… big?"
Mara nodded.
"Yes."
"How many house?"
"Maybe fifty."
Torren tried to imagine that.
It sounded large.
"Children there?"
"Many."
Torren thought about the children playing in the camp.
"They loud too?"
Mara laughed again.
"Yes. Exactly the same."
For a moment the tension between them eased.
Torren stood up.
"You eat," he said, pointing toward the cooking fires.
Mara nodded.
"Soon."
Torren turned and walked away.
Behind him, the frightened woman watched his pale figure disappear between the shelters.
"He's not normal," she whispered.
Mara looked thoughtful.
"No," she said quietly.
"He's not."
---
Torren climbed back toward the ridge above the camp.
From there the valley spread wide beneath him.
The Painted Dogs camp looked small against the vast slopes of the mountains. Smoke curled upward into the cold morning air.
Far above, a golden eagle circled slowly in the brightening sky.
Torren watched it.
Inside his mind, the voice spoke once more.
Your observation skills are improving.
Torren sat on the cold stone.
Below him, the children continued shouting as they played.
Torren looked down at his hands.
"They think I am monster."
The voice answered calmly.
Incorrect.
Torren waited.
You are simply different.
Torren looked up again.
High above the valley, the eagle drifted silently through the morning sky.