Blood always returned to Anarica before peace ever dared to follow.
The sound of Anarican footsteps thundered across the plains, shaking the earth itself.
It meant only one thing—the hunters had returned.
Jozma spread her arms wide and turned to the children.
“Hurry,” she said, her voice alive with urgency. “Go, welcome Etna and Ema.”
The children ran, laughter and excitement spilling from them as they rushed toward the returning hunters, who carried upon their shoulders a massive white tiger. At the sight of the great beast, instinct took over—small fangs bared, voices rose in wild celebration.
It was a grand prize.
Enough to feed the entire clan.
Men and women alike bore the tiger’s colossal body—three times their own size—necks stretched high, steps heavy and proud as they struck the ground in rhythm, chanting the Song of Spring. Their voices rolled across the plains, thick with triumph.
The children reached the hunters, stretching eager hands to touch the tiger’s fur.
The beast was laid at the heart of the settlement, where the clan always gathered as one.
Behind the bringers of triumph came others—those wounded, and those who would never walk again.
Such was life in Anarica.
Birth, fate, and death were threads tightly woven—impossible to unravel.
The dead were placed beside the clearing, laid upon freshly sprouted black wheat.
In Anarica, children belonged to the entire clan.
Yet there was always an Etna or an Ema whose presence stirred the heart more deeply.
Bafal knew this well.
His anxious eyes searched the crowd until they found Etna—alive, strong, and smiling. Relief flowed through him like warmth.
Etna sat beside a hut, sharpening his wooden spear with his fangs.
Bafal approached quietly and sat near him. Etna’s immense form cast a long shadow over the child.
Without lifting his gaze, Etna spoke.
“I see you still live. So—was it as terrifying as you imagined?”
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Bafal pleaded softly, “Take me with you next time. I have sharp teeth—I can tear anything. I don’t want to go to Jozma. Please, Etna…”
Etna finally looked at him. Seeing Bafal bar his small fangs, he burst into laughter.
“One day,” Etna said, rising to his feet, “I will take you. But first, you must eat. Strength comes before glory.”
He turned toward the gathering.
“Come. Fresh tiger flesh awaits.”
They passed the fallen Anaricans—blood-soaked bodies, shattered skulls, torn limbs.
Bafal froze, staring.
Etna noticed. He knelt, resting a hand on the child’s head.
“You are old enough now to witness the Rite of Saman,” he said calmly.
“Do not fear these fathers and mothers. Their bodies have ended—but their path continues. As the Moons once brought them here, so destiny now calls them back.”
Bafal followed Etna’s gaze—to the Moons watching above.
Feasting was never mere sustenance in Anarica.
It was ritual.
Men, women, elders, and children gathered around the kill, tearing flesh with claws and fangs. Blood painted their white fur red. Water and gore flowed together across the pale ground, forming strange, living patterns.
Adults fed the children.
Infants were placed in the bloodstreams, tasting life itself.
They ate until faces were drenched crimson—until only white eyes betrayed their forms.
Full and dazed, Bafal dragged himself aside and collapsed upon the young shoots of wheat. His heavy eyes followed the cranes as they crossed the sky.
Then he saw them—his two older brothers—washing blood from their hands by the stream.
One laughed.
“Hey, Kisa… isn’t that Bafal?”
“Show us your fangs!” Kisa mocked.
They laughed loudly.
Shame and rage surged through Bafal. He hurled a stone.
The laughter died.
The brothers bared their fangs and charged.
Bafal’s heart pounded. He grabbed a stick, trembling, teeth bared in fear.
They lunged—
—and suddenly, a roar thundered behind them.
Both froze.
Bafal turned toward the sound.
