Torren moved quickly down the mountain.
The descent from the ridge was easier than the climb had been, but he still placed his feet carefully between the rocks. Frost clung to the shaded stones, and once or twice loose gravel slid beneath his weight and rattled down the slope. Each sound made him pause and listen, though he already knew no one was following him.
The valley below was waking.
Thin lines of smoke drifted upward from the campfires, and the distant murmur of voices floated through the cold morning air. From the ridge everything had looked calm and ordinary. That was what troubled Torren most. Danger, he felt, should look like danger. Instead it hid in rocks and silence while people cooked, sharpened tools, and spoke about ordinary things.
He slowed as the first shelters came into view between the pines.
Children ran between the hides and wooden racks where meat was drying. Two women crouched beside a fire, turning strips of meat over the coals with carved sticks. An old warrior sat nearby sharpening a spearhead with a small whetstone, his movements slow but practiced.
None of them knew.
Torren stopped for a moment at the edge of the camp and stared toward the southern slopes of the mountains. Somewhere beyond those ridges six Black Ears scouts were moving through the rocks, studying the valley and measuring its weakness. The thought made something tighten inside his chest.
Should I tell them what I saw? he asked silently.
The voice answered calmly.
That depends.
Torren continued walking.
On what?
On how much truth you want them to hear.
Torren frowned slightly at that. The answer felt like a puzzle rather than advice, and puzzles were something he had begun noticing the voice enjoyed.
If I tell them everything? he asked.
Then they will fear you.
Torren slowed again.
Why?
Because most people fear things they cannot understand.
Torren thought about that while he stepped between two shelters. The Tree Speaker might understand, or at least claim he did. But the others would not see it that way. If Torren walked into the center of the camp and announced that he had flown above the valley through the mind of an eagle, the best reaction he could hope for would be laughter.
At worst, they might look at him the way people sometimes looked at cursed children in old stories.
Then what should I say? he asked.
The voice was quiet for a moment.
Tell them what they need to know.
Torren considered that carefully.
And what do they need to know?
That Black Ears scouts are near the valley.
Torren nodded faintly.
That part, at least, was simple.
He walked straight toward the central fire.
Several older warriors sat nearby, but only one of them truly held Torren's attention. Cale rested on a low log beside the flames, his injured leg stretched stiffly in front of him. The old warrior's beard had gone almost completely grey, and the scars across his forearms told stories that the younger men sometimes asked him to repeat.
Cale noticed Torren before the boy reached him.
"You climb early," the old warrior said without looking up from the spear he was sharpening.
Torren stopped beside the fire.
"I was on the ridge."
Cale slid the whetstone slowly along the edge of the spearhead before glancing up.
"That I believe."
Torren hesitated only a moment.
"I saw men."
Cale's hand stopped moving.
The old warrior lifted his head and looked directly at the boy.
"Where?"
"South-east ridge. Above the lower trail."
Cale studied him carefully now.
"How many?"
"Six."
Torren kept his voice steady.
"They were watching the valley."
The old warrior did not answer immediately. Instead he leaned forward slightly, resting both hands on the spear shaft as he considered the boy's words.
"What kind of men?" he asked.
Torren did not hesitate.
"Black Ears."
The name hung in the air between them.
Behind them the fire shifted, sending a small spray of sparks upward. A few nearby women glanced toward the conversation but quickly returned to their work.
Cale's eyes narrowed.
"You sure of that?"
Torren nodded once.
"I saw the ears."
For a moment the old warrior simply looked at him. Then Cale pushed himself slowly to his feet. His injured leg stiffened as he stood, but he ignored it.
"Dren," he called.
A younger warrior turned from across the fire.
"What?"
"Bring two men."
Dren frowned slightly but obeyed. Within moments he and two other fighters approached the fire, spears resting against their shoulders.
"What's wrong?" Dren asked.
Cale nodded toward Torren.
"Boy says he saw Black Ears scouts on the south-east ridge."
The younger warriors exchanged quick glances.
"From the ridge?" one of them said.
Torren met the man's gaze without blinking.
"I know what I saw."
Cale ignored the exchange.
"Take the lower trail," the old warrior said. "Check the rocks above the bend."
Dren hesitated for only a second before nodding.
"Fine."
The three men turned and moved quickly toward the edge of the camp, disappearing into the trees as they followed the narrow hunting path that wound toward the southern slopes.
Torren watched them go.
For a long while nothing happened.
Cale lowered himself back onto the log beside the fire, his movements slow but steady. The old warrior rested the spear across his knees and glanced at Torren again.
"You climb that ridge often?" he asked.
"Sometimes."
Cale nodded faintly.
"Good place to see things."
Torren said nothing.
The minutes passed slowly. Smoke drifted lazily upward through the cold air while the camp continued its quiet morning work. Children ran past chasing each other between the shelters, and the smell of roasting meat spread through the clearing.
Nearly half an hour passed before movement appeared along the tree line again.
Dren returned first.
The younger warrior walked quickly into the camp, his expression noticeably different from before. Behind him the other two men followed, and one of them carried something in his hand.
A strip of leather.
Torren recognized it immediately.
It was decorated with small bone rings tied through slits in the hide.
Black Ears decoration.
The warrior tossed it onto the ground beside the fire.
"Tracks," Dren said.
Cale leaned forward slightly.
"Fresh?"
Dren nodded.
"Six. Maybe seven. They were up there."
The younger warrior glanced briefly toward Torren.
"They watched the valley like he said."
For a moment no one spoke.
Then Cale slowly turned his head toward the boy.
Torren met the old warrior's gaze again. The look he received this time was different from before. It was not amusement, and it was not dismissal.
It was respect.
Cale bent down and picked up the leather strip from the dirt.
"Good eyes," the old warrior said quietly.
Torren did not smile.
But somewhere inside him the calm voice spoke again.
Seeing is the beginning.
Torren watched the smoke drift upward into the pale mountain sky and thought about the six men moving somewhere beyond the southern ridges. He had seen them when no one else had. He had warned the camp before anyone realized there was danger.
And for the first time in his life, he understood something important.
If he could see what others could not—
Then one day, he might lead them where no one else knew to go.