What follows is a rapid-fire exchange in the clan tongue, too fast and fluid for me to catch more than fragments. But the body language tells its own story. Sharp gestures, heated words, the constant undercurrent of barely restrained violence that seems to permeate everything these people do.
They're genuinely divided.
Some clearly want me dead immediately. Others seem inclined toward Kira's vision of future military disaster. But a surprising number appear to be considering my words about trade and partnership.
There's hope.
The debate rages for what feels like hours, the circle shifting and reforming as different speakers take center stage. My feet grow numb despite the thick furs underfoot, and the cold seeps through my makeshift clothing like icy fingers seeking my bones.
Stay strong. Don't show weakness.
Finally, the chief elder raises her hand again. "Consensus eludes us," she announces. "As it often does when the stakes are high."
Consensus?
I'd expected autocratic rule, decisions handed down from on high like divine commandments. This is more... democratic than I anticipated.
"Therefore," the elder continues, "we invoke ancient custom. The child will remain among us until the storm passes. During this time, she will be judged not by words but by deeds."
Judged how?
"If she proves useful, adapts to our ways, shows respect for clan law..." The elder shrugs eloquently. "Perhaps the spirits will reveal a path forward."
"And if she doesn't?" The scarred warrior's question carries obvious hope for violence.
"Then we honor Kira's vision and ensure no soldiers follow her trail."
By killing me.
The unspoken conclusion hangs in the frozen air like an executioner's blade. But it's still a chance, more than I had any right to expect.
"I accept your judgment," I say formally, offering another courtly bow. "And I thank you for your wisdom."
Laying it on a bit thick, but these people seem to appreciate formal courtesy.
The chief elder nods approvingly. "Marta will provide shelter and instruction. Learn quickly, child. Winter shows no mercy to the unprepared."
The circle begins to dissolve, clan members drifting back toward their tents with the easy grace of people accustomed to moving across treacherous terrain. But before I can follow, Vorrak appears at my elbow.
"Foolish," he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
"Effective," I counter. "I'm still breathing."
"For now." His eyes search my face in the firelight. "Marta will teach survival. But survival here..." He gestures toward the howling wilderness beyond the camp. "Is different from survival there."
There?
Before I can ask what he means, an older woman approaches. This must be Marta, though she looks nothing like the grandmother the name suggests. Tall and rangy, with the same predator's grace I've noticed in all the clan members, she moves with the confidence of someone who's never met a challenge she couldn't overcome.
"Come," she says simply. "Time to learn."
I follow her through the camp, noting details despite my exhaustion. Two dozen tents arranged in a loose spiral around the fire. Weapons stacked near every entrance. Children peering out from doorways with the same pale eyes and curious expressions.
They're beautiful.
The thought surprises me. I'd expected barbaric squalor, the kind of primitive conditions Father's tutors described when discussing 'uncivilized' peoples. Instead, I see organization, efficiency, a kind of harsh elegance of generations of adaptation and survival.
These people have found a way to thrive in hell itself.
