The scent of wildflowers and turned soil hung thick in the air. Jai stood just outside the hut, bare feet brushing against the packed dirt path that ran through the village. Morning life stirred all around him—someone chopping wood, a child laughing, the low murmur of a conversation drifting from a nearby home. Smoke rose from hearths and mingled with the clean forest breeze.

  This was home.

  The village was small. Timber walls, thatched roofs, crooked fences, and narrow footpaths. It felt like the kind of place the Empire might forget, tucked away past the low hills and choked woods. That suited Jai just fine. The world beyond—whatever it was—had never called to him as loudly as the trees did.

  He had grown up here. No memories of palaces or grand cities, no sense of any past before the forest. This life, simple and quiet, was all he’d ever known. And in that quiet, he had carved out a rhythm: hunt, eat, sleep, train. Repeat.

  “Jai!” came a voice from around the hut. Shanika.

  He turned and walked toward her, brushing a hand along the edge of a nearby post. She crouched beside the firepit, stoking coals beneath a rack of sizzling meat. Her dark braid hung loose today, tied only at the end. She looked up briefly, motioning with a piece of flatbread.

  He took it wordlessly, sitting beside her in the dirt. The food was warm and soft, the water cool from the well.

  “We’ve got work,” she said.

  They always did.

  Jai chewed slowly, eyes wandering toward the woods. The trees beyond the village edge were tall and old, their limbs knotted like the fingers of sleeping gods. Somewhere past them, the world changed—became louder, faster. More dangerous. Shanika had told him so since he was young.

  “You ever think,” he asked around a bite, “what it’s like out there? Past the hills?”

  She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stood and began packing their supplies—knives, twine, flint, skinning tools. Her motions were efficient. Precise.

  “There are things beyond these woods,” she said finally. “But not all of them are worth finding.”

  She passed him his bow—simple yew, reinforced with horn. Jai ran his hand along the grip, feeling the familiar grooves worn in by years of use. His calluses fit the string like puzzle pieces.

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  Shanika gave him a long look. Not suspicious. Not doubtful. Just weighing. Measuring.

  They left the village without ceremony. The forest closed around them like a green curtain, the light shifting cooler beneath the canopy. Birds scattered as they passed. Twigs cracked underfoot.

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  Shereen came quietly behind.

  The tiger didn’t need prompting. Her steps were velvet on the ground, her body moving in and out of shadows like a creature of mist. She kept a pace just behind Jai, never quite brushing his side—but never too far, either.

  He glanced back at her and smiled. She didn’t smile back, of course. She just blinked slowly and flicked her tail.

  They were attuned, whatever that meant. Jai didn’t pretend to understand it. He only knew that she’d always been there. Since he was a child. She wasn’t tame—more like… familiar. Trusted. Sometimes he could almost feel what she felt, like a vibration in his spine. Curiosity. Caution. Hunger.

  Today, she felt calm.

  They tracked through the underbrush for hours. No words were exchanged; none were needed. Jai had grown used to silence. He preferred it, most days. The forest spoke enough—branches creaking, birds flitting between boughs, the rustle of something moving just out of sight.

  By midday, they came upon fresh tracks. A buck. Big. The prints were clean and deep.

  Jai signaled. Shanika nodded.

  He moved ahead, crouched low. His heart didn’t race—he’d done this before. Instead, there was a clarity to his movements. The air was cooler now, laced with pine. He nocked the arrow, drew the bow.

  The buck raised its head—just as the arrow flew.

  A clean shot. Right through the chest. It staggered, then fell.

  He lowered the bow and exhaled.

  Shanika arrived seconds later and gave the faintest nod. “Good work,” she said, crouching beside the body. “Clean shot. You’re improving.”

  Jai didn’t answer at first. He watched the blood soak into the moss, then looked toward Shereen, who was sitting silently between two trees. Her eyes watched him—not the kill.

  The silence stretched. The gnawing inside him—the one that had never quite left—resurfaced.

  “Shanika,” he said, quieter now. “Who were my parents?”

  He’d asked before. A hundred times. Maybe more.

  Shanika paused, knife halfway to the buck’s belly. She didn’t look at him right away. Just stared down at the animal for a long moment.

  Then she stood.

  Her voice, when it came, was low. “You’re not ready to know that yet.”

  Jai’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

  “There are truths that only make sense when your soul is strong enough to bear them. Yours isn’t there yet.” Her gaze flicked to Shereen. “But it’s close. Sooner than you think.”

  Jai lowered his head. “So you’re not going to tell me.”

  “I will. When it’s time.”

  They hauled the carcass back as dusk settled. By the time they reached the village, the sun was a molten coin behind the trees. Smoke curled up from chimneys. Children ran barefoot through the paths.

  Shereen disappeared into the tree line as they returned. She always did.

  That night, they sat by the fire. The meat crackled on the spit, and the flames painted the inside of the hut in flickering gold. Jai ate in silence, staring into the coals.

  Shanika said nothing for a while.

  Then: “One day, Jai,” she said softly, “you’ll have to leave here.”

  He turned. “Why?”

  “Because there are places to see. Things to do. Decisions to make.” She paused, eyes reflecting the firelight. “And because this was never going to be your forever.”

  Jai didn’t reply. But something stirred in his chest—a hum beneath the ribs, subtle and low, like the echo of a tiger’s breath.

  Shereen watched from the shadows outside, silent as always.