And somehow, more unsettling than any of that, Kaiven is becoming real to me in return.
Chapter 20
Keandra
The camp feels different from the moment I wake.
Not tense exactly. Not like the day the predators came. More focused. Men move earlier and faster. Weapons are checked in the open. Leather ties are pulled tight. One of the younger boys runs between tents carrying bundles wrapped in cloth, and no one stops him. The women at the morning fire speak less than usual. Even the children seem to know this is not an ordinary day.
I learn why before midday.
A hunting party is going out.
Not a simple food run. Not a handful of men with bows disappearing into the grass. Something larger. More formal. Warriors chosen. Gear checked twice. Paint prepared. Hair bound. Blessings or warnings spoken in low voices by older women as the men pass.
I notice the paint first because it is darker than I expected. Thick. Mineral-rich. Set into shallow bowls near Oshara’s fire. Black. Rust red. Deep earth-brown. Not decoration. Not celebration. Something more serious than that. The womenhandle it carefully, and the men who pass near it do not touch it themselves.
I am sorting straps beside two younger women when I see Oshara seated near the largest fire with one of the bowls in her lap. Beside her sits a comb carved from bone, a cord wrap, and a small knife for trimming loose leather ties. Everything is arranged with the kind of care that tells me this is ritual, not simple grooming.
I watch too long.
Oshara notices.
Without looking up, she says in English, “Hunter paint.”
I shift slightly on the stool. “For all of them?”
“For those going.”
A younger woman beside me adds, “The First Mother paints the Kai.”
There is a quiet pride in the way she says it. Not boastful. Just fact. This is how it has always been. This is where Oshara’s role stands visible before everyone.
My hands are still on the strap in my lap.
The First Mother paints the king.
Something in that lands sharper than it should. Not jealousy exactly. I have no right to jealousy over a custom I did not know existed yesterday. But the image settles under my skin anyway. Another place in his life already shaped before I arrived. Another intimacy here that is not sexual, not private, but means something deep and old in the horde. A place I cannot step into because it already belongs to someone else.
I lower my eyes back to the strap.
That should be the end of it.
It isn’t.
As the sun climbs, the camp gathers around the center line where the hunting party will depart. Warriors stand in partial gear. Bows, blades, wrapped packs, water skins, hide shields.Kaiven is among them, and seeing him in full hunting readiness changes the air inside me all over again. Darker leathers. Broad chest wrapped close. Hair partly loose still, not yet bound for the hunt. His weapons are already in place. He looks less like a husband in a tent and more like what he was before I ever touched his bed. A horde king built for the wild parts of this world.
The women form one side of the circle. The warriors are the other. I end up near the back at first, half by instinct, half because I still do not know what place is mine when the whole camp watches something important unfold.
Oshara sits by the paint bowl as expected.
One by one, the warriors come to the women who paint them. A wife here. A sister there. An older mother. A promised female. The paint goes on in swift, sure strokes over cheekbones, throats, foreheads, arms. Hair is pulled back tighter. Small braids or ties are fixed into place. The gestures are intimate but efficient, public but not showy. The women do not decorate the men.
They prepare them.
Kaiven waits until last.
The circle feels tighter by then. The camp is quieter. Even the children have gone still.
