On the sixth day after Theron found him, Dorn announced he was leaving.

  He did it with gestures—pointing at himself, then at the forest, then making a walking motion with his fingers. Then he pointed at Theron and made an insistent gesture: come with me.

  Theron understood immediately. The tribe. Dorn wanted to take him to his people.

  His stomach clenched. This was what he'd been hoping for—contact, connection, a way into human society. But it was also terrifying. These people could kill him. They could reject him. They could take Dorn and leave him alone again, which might be worse than either.

  Dorn saw his hesitation. He put a hand on Theron's arm, waited until Theron met his eyes, and spoke slowly. Simple words. Words Theron knew.

  "Dorn. Theron. Good." He pointed at his healed wound. "Theron help Dorn." Then he pointed at the forest, at the direction of his tribe, and made a gesture that clearly meant welcome. Safe. Come.

  Theron took a breath. Then he nodded.

  "Okay. I come."

  Dorn's face split into a grin. He clapped Theron on the shoulder—gently, mindful of his still-healing wound—and started gathering his things. Which wasn't much: a worn hide cloak Dorn had been wearing when Theron found him, a bone knife Theron had given him, and a small pouch of dried meat Dorn had produced from somewhere and insisted they share.

  Theron packed his own supplies. His spear. The bone knife Dorn's people had given him. The amadou fungus. His remaining herbs—the aloe-like plant was nearly gone, but he had a small store of dried berries and nuts. The broken spear point he'd found at the hunting camp, which he kept for reasons he couldn't quite explain.

  They set out midmorning, Dorn leading, Theron following.

  ---

  The walk was slow. Dorn was stronger than he'd been a week ago, but he still tired easily, and the wound limited his movement. He stopped often, leaning against trees, breathing deep. Theron didn't push. He'd learned long ago that healing couldn't be rushed.

  They followed game trails through the forest, then crossed a wide grassland that stretched toward distant hills. Theron recognized some of the landmarks—the strange rock formation, the dead tree with the split trunk—and realized they were heading generally north, away from his camp, away from the grave.

  Good, he thought. I don't ever need to see that place again.

  As they walked, Dorn talked. Pointed at things, named them. Trees—different kinds, with different words. Animals—he imitated their sounds, their movements. The sun—sol, or something like it. The sky—kana. The distant mountains, one peak shaped like a broken tooth—Ash Tooth, Dorn said, pointing.

  Theron repeated each word, storing them away. His mental vocabulary was growing daily. He could now say simple things: water good, sun hot, Dorn walk slow. He could understand basic questions: Theron hungry? Dorn tired? Communication was still halting, still limited, but it existed. They could talk now, after a fashion.

  Around midday, they stopped at a stream to rest and drink. Dorn sat on a rock, wincing as he lowered himself, and Theron checked his wound. The dressing was clean, the edges pink and healthy, no sign of infection. He nodded approvingly.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "Good. Heal good."

  Dorn grinned. "Theron good healer." He patted his stomach. "Dorn live. Theron make live."

  Theron felt his face warm. "You did the hard part. I just helped."

  Dorn didn't understand the words, but he understood the modesty. He shook his head firmly. "Theron good." Then he pointed at Theron, then at the sky, then made a confused gesture—the same one he'd made days ago, the one that meant where from?

  Theron hesitated. He'd been expecting this question, dreading it. How do you explain "another world" to a stone-age hunter? How do you say "I died and woke up in a mass grave" in a language of two hundred words?

  He pointed at himself. "Theron." Then he pointed vaguely east, toward the direction he'd come from. "Far. Very far." He made a walking gesture with his fingers, then a sleeping gesture, then repeated the walking gesture many times. Many days' travel.

  Dorn nodded slowly. Then he pointed at the sky again, made the confused gesture again. From where? Really from?

  Theron shook his head. He didn't have the words. He didn't have the concepts. He spread his hands, shrugged, made his best I don't know how to explain face.

  Dorn studied him for a long moment. Then he nodded, accepting. He patted Theron's arm, the same gesture he'd used before. It's okay. I trust you anyway.

  They finished their water and kept walking.

  ---

  The tribe's camp appeared suddenly, without warning.

  One moment they were walking through a stand of trees; the next, the trees opened onto a wide clearing backed by a rocky cliff. And there—huts. Hide tents. A central fire. People.

  Theron stopped dead.

  He hadn't realized how many. In his mind, he'd pictured a small group—a dozen, maybe two dozen. But this was bigger. He counted quickly: fifteen, twenty structures. At least fifty people, maybe more. Children running between huts. Women working hides, tending fires. Men gathered in small groups, some with spears, some working tools.

  They saw him.

  The children noticed first—they stopped running, pointed, called out. Then the adults looked up. Conversations died. Faces turned toward the edge of the clearing where Theron stood, frozen, spear in hand, heart pounding.

  Dorn stepped forward, put himself between Theron and the tribe, and started talking.

  He spoke loudly, confidently, gesturing at his wound, at his bandaged stomach, at Theron. He told a story—Theron could tell by the rhythm, the way Dorn acted out parts, the way he kept pointing at Theron and then at himself. The story of the last week. The wound. The fever. The strange man who saved him.

  The tribe listened. Some looked skeptical. Some looked curious. An older woman with sharp eyes and white hair stepped forward, studying Theron with an intensity that made his skin crawl. She circled him slowly, examining him from all angles, saying nothing.

  Theron stood still. Let her look. He'd learned long ago that patients and their families needed to assess you before they'd trust you. This was the same, just on a tribal scale.

  The woman—Mora, he would learn later—stopped in front of him and spoke directly. Her voice was calm, measured, but her eyes never left his face. She asked a question—he caught the rising inflection—but he didn't understand the words.

  He spread his hands, shook his head. "I don't understand. I'm sorry. I don't speak your language."

  Mora's eyes narrowed. She glanced at Dorn, who said something urgent, defensive. Then she looked back at Theron, and something in her face shifted. Not trust—not yet. But curiosity. Interest.

  An older man joined her. This one moved with authority—people shifted aside to let him pass. He was stocky, solid, with missing fingers on his left hand and a limp in his walk. The chief, Theron guessed. Korr, though he didn't know the name yet.

  Korr studied Theron the way Mora had, but differently. More practical. Assessing threat, not mystery. He looked at Theron's hands—clean, careful hands. At his eyes—calm, not darting. At his stance—relaxed, not aggressive.

  Then Korr spoke to Dorn. A short exchange. Dorn answered, gestured at his wound again, at Theron. Korr listened, nodded, and turned back to Theron.

  He pointed at the edge of the camp—a spot away from the main fires, far enough to be separate but close enough to observe. Then he made a gesture that needed no translation: You stay there. For now.

  Theron nodded. He understood. Outsider. Suspect. Watched.

  It was more than he'd had yesterday.

  ---

  Dorn walked him to the spot personally, talking the whole time. Apologizing, maybe—his tone was soft, placating. Explaining. Theron patted his arm.

  "It's okay. I get it. Stranger. Suspicious. I'd do the same."

  Dorn didn't understand, but he seemed to get the gist. He pointed at the main fire, then at Theron, then made an eating gesture. Food. Later. I'll bring you food.

  Theron nodded. "Thank you."

  Dorn squeezed his shoulder and limped back toward the main camp, leaving Theron alone at the edge.

  Theron sat on the ground, his back against a tree, and looked at his new home. The hide tents. The central fire. The people moving between them. Children playing a game with sticks. Women talking as they worked. Men preparing for a hunt.

  He could hear them. Laughter. Voices. The ordinary sounds of human life.

  He'd been alone for—what, two weeks? Three? He'd lost track. But alone had been his constant companion since waking in that grave. Alone and silence and the endless work of survival.

  Now there were voices. Laughter. Children.

  His eyes prickled. He blinked rapidly, forced himself to breathe.

  You're not alone anymore. You're on the edge. But you're here. With people.

  He watched the children play. Watched a woman call them for a meal. Watched Dorn being greeted by friends, clapped on the back, led to the fire.

  And for the first time since arriving in this world, Theron felt something he'd almost forgotten.

  Hope.