Kael watched Anir as the days passed, and noticed how Respect and fear were two sides of the same blade. And Anir had earned both.

  Though no one dared to challenge him, no one reached out either. The children spoke of him in hushed tones, the adults watched with guarded eyes, and the campfire never quite felt like home anymore.

  But Anir didn’t seem to mind—or at least, he pretended not to. He spent his days working alone, crafting tools, vanishing into the woods for hours at a time. Kael noticed, though. The tension in his shoulders when he walked past a group of whispering hunters. The way his hand always hovered near his knife when Jarek was around. The tired look in his eyes when he thought no one was watching, the way his jaw tightened when the others turned away.

  One night, as the tribe gathered around the fire, Kael saw Anir sitting apart from the others, his back against the cave wall. The firelight cast long shadows across his face, making him look older than his years.

  Kael hesitated, then grabbed a piece of roasted meat and walked over. He sat down beside Anir, holding out the food.

  Anir glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know,” Kael said, shrugging. “But you looked hungry.”

  Anir stared at the offering for a long second before taking it, his fingers brushing against Kael’s for the briefest moment. His grip was firm—calloused, solid. Not a child’s hand. Not anymore.

  Kael said nothing. But as they ate in silence, he knew, somehow, that this was the first and last time Anir would ever accept help.

  They ate in silence, the crackle of the fire filling the space between them.

  From across the fire, Ranla watched her son. Her hands were busy braiding sinew into cord, but her eyes never left Anir. She had seen the bruises on his face, the bloodied rope hanging from his belt. She had heard the whispers, the murmurs of fear and respect.

  She wanted to go to him to hold him, but that would make him look weak. So she waited.

  He’s too much like his father, she thought, her chest tightening. Harlo had been a hunter, strong and defiant, but his pride had cost him his life. Ranla had warned Anir, over and over, to be careful. To blend in. To survive.

  But Anir wasn’t like the others. He never had been.

  Ranla’s fingers trembled as she worked, the sinew slipping from her grasp. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus. She couldn’t afford to show weakness—not now, not ever.

  Later that night, after the fire had burned low and the tribe had settled in for sleep, Ranla found Anir in their corner of the cave. He was sharpening a new flint knife, his movements precise and deliberate.

  “Anir,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

  He looked up, his eyes sharp in the dim light. “Mother.”

  Ranla knelt beside him, her hands resting on her knees. She wanted to reach out, to touch his face, to smooth away the bruises and the shadows. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

  “You need to be careful,” she said finally, her voice tight. “The others… they’re afraid of you.”

  Anir’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “I’m not afraid of them.”

  “That’s not the point,” Ranla snapped, her frustration bubbling over. “You think you’re strong because you fight back, but strength isn’t just about defiance. It’s about knowing when to hold your ground and when to step back.”

  Anir’s eyes narrowed. “And what would you have me do? Bow to them? Let them break me?"

  "so this is an eye for an eye?, you popped many eyes for yours."

  "no this isn't an eye for an eye, but if it is not all eyes are equal.”

  Ranla flinched, the words hitting too close to home. She thought of the times she’d bowed her head, swallowed her pride, and endured the tribe’s judgment. She’d done it to survive, to protect Anir. But now, looking at her son, she wondered if she’d only made things worse.

  “I just don’t want to lose you,” she said finally, her voice breaking.

  Anir’s expression softened, but only for a moment. “You won’t,” he said quietly. “But I won’t live like a dog, either.”

  Ranla sighed, her shoulders slumping. She wanted to argue, to make him understand how to play the social game, but she knew it was pointless. Anir was too much like his father—stubborn, proud, unyielding.

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  From his spot near the cave entrance, Kael watched the exchange between Anir and Ranla. He couldn’t hear their words, but he could see the tension in their bodies, the way Ranla’s hands clenched and unclenched at her sides.

  He felt a pang of sympathy for Anir. Kael’s own mother had died when he was young, leaving him to navigate the tribe’s harsh world alone. He’d always envied Anir for having a parent who cared, but now he wondered if that care came with its own kind of burden.

  Kael glanced at the fire, now reduced to glowing embers. The tribe was asleep, their breathing slow and even. But Kael couldn’t shake the feeling that something was shifting, something dangerous and inevitable.

  The next morning, Kael found Anir by the river, his hands busy with a piece of leather and a bone needle. Kael hesitated, then sat down beside him.

  “Your mother’s worried about you,” he said, his voice tentative.

  Anir didn’t look up. “I know.”

  “She just wants you to be safe.”

  Anir’s hands stilled, his gaze fixed on the leather. “Safe,” he repeated, his voice bitter. “What does that even mean? Hiding in the shadows, pretending to be something I’m not?”

  Kael didn’t have an answer. but he worked up the courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at him.

  “Do you ever regret it?” he asked, his voice tentative. “Fighting back, I mean.”

  Anir paused, his hands stilling among the leaves. “No,” he said after a moment. “I’d rather bleed than bow.”

  Kael nodded, though he wasn’t sure he agreed. He’d spent his life hiding, surviving. But sitting there, with the sun warm on his face and the river murmuring nearby, he wondered if there was another way.

  “Maybe…” Kael began, then hesitated. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we don’t have to live like this.”

  Anir glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “And what would you do differently?”

  Kael thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’m tired of being afraid.”

  Anir studied him for a moment, then nodded. “So am I.”

  As the days turned into weeks, Kael began to see the tribe through Anir’s eyes. He noticed the way the hunters hoarded the best cuts of meat, the way the elders dismissed the younger members’ ideas. He saw the cracks in the tribe’s unity, the fragile threads that held them together.

  And he began to wonder if Anir’s defiance wasn’t just about survival—it was about something more. Something bigger.

  But change was dangerous. The tribe needed order, not rebellion. And yet…

  Kael glanced at Anir, who was sharpening a spear with quiet focus. The boy’s hands were steady, his expression calm.

  Maybe, Kael thought, we need someone who won’t bow.

  Kael sat by the fire, his clubfoot stretched awkwardly to the side as he sharpened a flint knife. The rhythmic scrape of stone against stone was soothing, a distraction from the memories that haunted him.

  He glanced at Anir, who was crouched near the cave entrance, his hands busy with a piece of leather and a bone needle. Anir’s movements were precise, his focus absolute. He didn’t seem to notice the wary glances the other children cast his way.

  Kael envied that—Anir’s ability to shut out the world, to exist in his own space. He wished he could do the same.

  But the memories of his Taming always found him.

  Kael had been seven winters old when it happened. The tribe had just settled in a new cave, its walls still damp with the chill of the underground spring. The children had gathered outside, their laughter echoing off the stone as they played a game of chase.

  Kael had been slow, as always. His clubfoot dragged behind him, a constant reminder of his weakness. The others didn’t mean to exclude him—not at first. But as the game grew more intense, they stopped waiting for him to catch up.

  “Hurry up, Kael!” one of the boys had called, his voice tinged with impatience.

  Kael had tried. He’d pushed himself, ignoring the ache in his leg, the sting of tears in his eyes. But he’d stumbled, his foot catching on a root, and fallen face-first into the dirt.

  The laughter had stopped.

  “Look at him,” Jarek had sneered, his voice cutting through the silence. “He can’t even run. What good is he?”

  The others had murmured in agreement, their eyes narrowing as they circled him. Kael had scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding.

  “I—I can help,” he’d stammered. “I can gather herbs, or—”

  “Gather herbs?” Jarek had laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. “We don’t need a cripple slowing us down.”

  The first blow had come from behind, knocking Kael to his knees. The others had joined in, their fists and feet landing with brutal precision.

  “Lower your arms,” Jarek had commanded, his voice cold. “Don’t hit back.”

  Kael had obeyed. He’d curled into a ball, his arms wrapped around his head, his body trembling as the blows rained down.

  This is the way, he’d told himself. This is how you survive.

  When it was over, Kael had lain in the dirt, his body aching, his spirit broken. The others had walked away, their laughter ringing in his ears.

  He’d crawled to the edge of the clearing, where the forest loomed dark and silent. For a moment, he’d considered walking into it—letting the shadows swallow him whole.

  But he hadn’t. He’d dragged himself back to the cave, his clubfoot scraping against the ground, and pretended nothing had happened.

  Years later, Kael had watched as Anir faced the same ritual. He’d expected the same outcome—submission, brokenness.

  But Anir had fought back.

  Kael still remembered the look in Anir’s eyes—wild, defiant, unyielding. He’d swung that strange rope with a ferocity that had stunned everyone, including Jarek.

  By the end of the fight, Anir had been bloodied and bruised, but he’d stood tall, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing.

  The others had backed away, their bravado shattered.

  Kael had felt a strange mix of awe and fear. Anir had done what no one else had dared—he’d fought back, and he’d made them bleed.

  Now, as Kael sat by the fire, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d made the wrong choice. He’d submitted, he’d survived, but at what cost?. His Cowardice and fear of being an outcast pushed him away from Anir, they where friends then he gave it up, but for what?.

  Anir had scars, but they were marks of defiance, of strength. Kael’s scars were invisible, buried deep beneath layers of shame and regret.

  He glanced at Anir again, his fingers tightening around the flint knife.

  Maybe I should have fought back, he thought. Maybe I still can.

  But the thought was fleeting, drowned out by the weight of years of submission.

  Kael sighed and returned to his work, the rhythmic scrape of stone against stone filling the silence. Then before he could change his mind he stood and moved to site besides Anir and Monire.