The next morning arrived with a strange, unfamiliar stillness.
Usually, the hut would be a flurry of frantic activity long before the sun breached the horizon. Lyra would be up first, organizing baskets with nervous energy. Veyra would be sharpening digging sticks by the dying embers. Liora would be whining about the cold. The fear of hunger usually acted as their alarm clock, driving them to beat the other gatherers to the best spots near the perimeter.
But today, the sun rose unchallenged.
Golden beams of light filtered through the cracks in the wooden walls, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, a scene that would have baffled any other family in the tribe.
Sol was the first to open his eyes. He didn't feel the usual grogginess of the primitive life. He felt sharp. Alert. He lay there for a moment, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the four women scattered across the furs.
