Sterling Madox stared at the horizon, where 70 Apache warriors stood motionless on their horses watching him. They had been there since dawn, silent as carved stones, neither moving forward nor backward, just watching. He touched the empty holster beside him, not looking for a weapon he didn’t have, but looking for a security he also lacked.

Yesterday this same ridge was empty. Yesterday he had made a decision that seemed simple. Yesterday he had given his only horse to take an injured Apache woman to a safe place, leaving him abandoned 32 km from the nearest settlement. Now those 70 warriors were holding something in their hands that didn’t make sense. Each carried a single white feather.

But Sterling had never seen the Apaches wear white feathers at all, not as war paint, not in the ceremonies he had heard about, not at all. The woman, who had whispered his name before she lost consciousness, was nowhere to be seen among them.

Sterling had waited for arrows, he had expected war cries, he had expected to pay to cross Apache territory, even with good intentions. Instead, they just looked at him. And that silence seemed more dangerous to him than any rallying cry, because in all his years on the frontier, Sterling had learned one thing that never changed.

The Apaches always had a reason for everything they did and whatever the reason was that had led 70 warriors to sit in perfect formation, holding white feathers while staring at a single unarmed cowboy. That reason was something I couldn’t even begin to understand.

But as the morning sun rose higher, casting long shadows between him and the silent warriors, Sterling began to realize what to deliver. His horse had started something that followed rules he didn’t know existed, something that would demand more from him than he had ever imagined possible. The question was not what they wanted from him.

The question was, what had he accepted without knowing it? The memory of the previous day burned in Sterling’s mind as he watched the motionless warriors. He had been riding through the canyon when he heard a soft moan echoing from the rock faces. Following the sound, he found her slumped next to the dry bed of a stream with blood leaking through a makeshift bandage around her leg. The wound looked infected, and the fever made his skin warm to the touch.

Any sensible man would have fled. Apache territory meant death for intruders, and helping one of their women could be considered an insult or worse, but something in Ayana’s dark eyes had stopped him in his tracks. It wasn’t exactly a plea, but a kind of resigned sestan fighter dignity that reminded him of his own sister in her final moments.

Sterling had put Ayana on his horse without saying a word. She was too weak to protest, drifting in and out of consciousness as he led the animal on foot across the rocky terrain. For 6 hours he walked alongside his horse as she slumped in the saddle, occasionally whispering words in Apache that he did not understand.

When they finally reached the boundary of their territory marked by three distinctive red stones, he helped her down and saw her stagger toward a cluster of traditional dwellings in the distance. So he did something that didn’t make sense to him yet. Instead of taking his horse, she slapped him on the side and sent him after her.

The horse followed Ayana like a faithful dog, and Sterling had stood there empty-handed, watching his only valuable possession disappear into Apache territory. Now, 18 hours later, his legs hurt from walking all night. He had almost no water left, and 70 Apache warriors treated him as if he were some kind of riddle they had to solve.

The white feathers reflected the morning light, but their meaning was still as mysterious as the silence that stretched between the ridge and where Sterling stood. One of the warriors, a man with gray streaks in his black hair, raised his hand slightly. The others responded instantly, changing the formation of their knights, without threatening, but deliberately, and calculating each move like pieces moving on a chessboard, according to rules that Sterling had never learned.

The warrior in the lead began to descend the crest, still holding the white feather. The others remained completely motionless, but Sterling could feel their attention. as a physical weight. All his instincts screamed at him to run, but where could he go and on foot in that infinite landscape. As the warrior approached, Sterling noticed something that made his blood run cold.

The man wore a necklace made of small bones, and from his belt hung a scalp of brown hair that was eerily familiar. The color matched your own hair exactly, but the warrior’s eyes showed no anger or bloodlust. Instead, they showed something much more disturbing.

They showed expectation, as if they expected Sterling to understand something that was completely escaping him. The warrior stopped 3 yards away and uttered a single word in Apache. Then he pointed directly at Sterling’s chest and repeated it with a strange note of reverence in his voice that made no sense at all.

The word Apache hung in the air between them as a challenge that Sterling could not accept. The warrior’s weathered face showed no aggression, but his eyes demanded some kind of response that Sterling didn’t know how to give. Behind him, the 70 mounted warriors stood motionless like statues with their white feathers, creating an eerie contrast to the harsh morning sky.

Sterling cleared his throat and tried the universal language of peace, slowly raising both hands. I don’t want problems. I helped your wife because she was hurt. That’s all. The warrior tilted his head slightly as if Sterling had said something interesting but wrong. He repeated the word Apache, this time placing his hand over his heart and then pointing toward the ridge where Ayana had disappeared.

Yesterday when Sterling still didn’t show that he understood it, the warrior did something unexpected. Smiled. It wasn’t a smile. Friendly was the kind of smile a man puts on when he learns a secret that will change everything. The warrior reached into a leather bag around his waist and pulled out an object that made Sterling’s stomach turn.

It was his horse’s bridle, which he had custom-made with some very distinctive silver conchos his father had given him. But the leather was now decorated with small painted symbols that definitely weren’t there yesterday.

The warrior lifted his bridle and spoke again, using different Apache words but with the same reverent tone. He pointed to Sterling, then to the painted symbols, and then back to Sterling. The meaning was unmistakable. Those symbols represented something Sterling had done, and that something was important enough to draw the attention of 70 warriors.

From the ridge came a new sound, a chant, high-pitched voices intertwining in a harmony that raised the hair on Sterling’s arms. But it wasn’t a war chant. He’d heard Apache war songs before, and they were nothing like this.

This melody conveyed celebration, gratitude, and something else he couldn’t identify, something that sounded almost like a lament. The warrior noticed Sterling’s confusion and nodded approvingly, as if Sterling’s ignorance was exactly what he’d expected. He put the bridle back in his pouch and took out something else, a second white feather identical to the ones the other warriors wore.

He offered it to Sterling with both hands, speaking in Apache softly. Sterling stared at the feather. Accepting it was like accepting something he didn’t understand, but rejecting it might be worse. The warrior waited patiently, still holding the feather between them, as the ridge’s edge grew louder and more complex. Finally, Sterling reached out and took the feather.

The moment his fingers touched it, the warrior nodded with deep satisfaction and turned to signal the others. Immediately, the entire formation began to move, not toward Sterling, but parallel to his position, as if preparing to escort him somewhere. But where, escorting him, and why did accepting a simple quill make you feel as if you’d signed a contract written in a language you couldn’t read? The chanting continued, and Sterling realized with growing unease that the melody was getting closer, more voices joining in from somewhere behind him. When he turned around,

Her heart nearly stopped. Emerging from a canyon she hadn’t even noticed, a procession of Apache women and children appeared, led by an old man wearing an elaborate feather headdress. And there, walking beside the old man, but moving slowly because of her injured leg, was Lisa.

She was alive, conscious, and staring directly at Licidas Stande Sterling with an expression that mixed gratitude with something eerily resembling pity. The old man, with the elaborate headdress, approached Sterling with steps that suggested both ceremony and determination. His weathered face held the authority that came from decades of making decisions that affected entire tribes.

Behind him, the procession of women and children continued to sing, but Sterling could see them watching his every move with intense curiosity. Ayana hobbled forward, favoring her injured leg, but moving with determination. When she reached Sterling, she spoke to him in careful English, with a thick accent, but with clear words.

My grandfather wishes to thank the white man who brought his granddaughter back to life. Sterling felt his confusion deepen. I only helped someone who was hurt. Anyone would have done the same. Ayana translated his words to the old man, who listened attentively and then responded in Raphenche. His tone suggested he was correcting something important.

Ayana nodded and turned to Sterling, her dark eyes serious. “My grandfather says your words aren’t true. Most men wouldn’t have helped. Most white men would have passed you by or worse. But you’ve given up your most valuable possession to save the life of an enemy. This isn’t something just anyone would do. It’s the action of someone who follows the ancient codes.”

The old man approached and placed his hand on Sterling’s shoulder. When he spoke again, his voice carried a deep emotion that transcended language barriers. Ayana listened carefully before translating. He said, “You have honored the sacred law of the gift of the horse. When a warrior gives his courage to save a life, he joins that life and the people of that life.”

You didn’t know this law, but ignorance doesn’t change the bond. You are now connected to our tribe in a way that must be honored. Sterling’s mouth went dry. Connected. How? What exactly does that mean? The chanting stopped abruptly, and the sudden silence felt ominous.

The old man studied Sterling’s face for a long moment, then spoke a single word in Apache. All the warriors on the ridge responded by raising their white feathers above their heads. The gesture seemed like a greeting, but Sterling sensed that there was more to it than simple respect. Ayana’s expression turned troubled as she translated. He said, “Connection requires a choice.

Sacred law demands that the horse donor must now prove whether their heart truly matches their actions. If so, they join the tribe as family. Sio paused and looked nervously at the armed warriors surrounding them. If not, what? Sterling asked. He asked, though he suspected he didn’t want to hear the answer.

If not, the gift was a lie, and lies about sacred things must be punished. They would return your horse, but your spirit would be considered poisoned. You would be branded as someone who steals honor with false generosity. Sterling looked at the 70 warriors, the elders, his unwavering gaze, and Ayana’s worried face.

He was caught between two choices he didn’t fully understand, ones that would change his life forever. Suddenly, the white feather in his hand seemed heavier than his missing horse, and he realized that his simple act of kindness had somehow triggered an ancient ritual he was completely unprepared for.

The old man spoke again, and this time his words had a definitive tone. Ayana’s translation hit Sterling like a physical blow. The choosing ceremony begins at sunset. Until then, you are our guest. After sunset, you will be our brother or our enemy. There is no third way.

The Apache village was unlike anything Sterling had imagined. Tucked into a natural basin between towering rock formations, it consisted of traditional dwellings arranged in precise patterns that spoke of generations of careful planning. What struck him most was the complete absence of hostility. Children looked at him curiously, women nodded respectfully as he passed, and men studied him with expressions that suggested they were sizing something up he couldn’t quite place. Ayana walked beside him, her limp more pronounced now,

but with unwavering determination. You wonder why no one shows fear or anger toward a white man in his sacred place,” Sterling observed. He nodded. The thought had crossed his mind. He had expected something different. Fear and anger are for enemies. You are not enemies, and you are not yet family.

You are between two worlds, which makes you a grade until the choosing ceremony reveals your true nature. He stopped beside a large bonfire where several women were preparing food. My grandfather wants you to understand what you will face at dusk. They approached Quento, masunaida, a dwelling larger than the others, decorated with symbols that seemed to tell stories Sterling couldn’t read.

The old man waited inside, sitting on a woven mat with several objects in front of him. Sterling recognized his horse’s bridle among them, but there were other objects as well: a knife with an ornate handle, a small clay pot filled with what looked like paint, and a bunch of sage tied with senue.

The old man motioned for Sterling to sit opposite him. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of ritual and tradition. Aana translated carefully, pausing frequently to ensure accuracy. He says the choosing ceremony has three parts. First, you must demonstrate that your gift comes from a genuine interest, not from a pursuit of advantage or glory.

Second, you must demonstrate that you understand the sacred nature of sacrifice by performing one yourself. Third, you must demonstrate that you can put the well-being of the tribe before your own survival. Sterling felt himself beginning to sweat despite the warmth of the dwelling. What kind of sacrifice, and how exactly do I demonstrate that last part? The elder seemed to understand English better than he spoke it because he answered before Ayana could translate.

He picked up the ornate knife and held it so that the blade reflected the sush, the light that filtered through the entrance to the house. Then he spoke in Apache in a deep, ceremonial tone. Ayana’s face paled as she listened. When she translated, her voice was barely a whisper.

Sacrifice is a test of trust. You must allow yourself to be bound and placed in a situation where only the tribe’s mercy will save your life. If your original gift was pure, they will save you. If it was false, they will let you die as punishment for dishonoring their sacred laws.

Sterling stared at the knife, understanding now why the 70 warriors seemed so calm and expectant. They weren’t there to fight him, they were there to judge him. And depending on that judgment, they would either welcome him as one of the family or watch him die for the crime of false generosity. The old man put down the knife and picked up the clay pot.

He dipped his finger in the paint and drew a symbol on his own forehead. Then he offered the vessel to Sterling. The message was clear. The ceremony had already begun. Whether he was ready or not, outside the sun had moved considerably toward the western horizon. Sterling realized with growing dread that he had perhaps two hours to decide whether to submit to a test that could easily kill him or attempt to flee on foot across open fields while being pursued by 70 mounted warriors.

Either option seemed like a path to death, but at least one would preserve his honor in the eyes of people who had already shown him more respect than he deserved. Sterling took the clay pot with trembling hands. The weight of his decision settled on him like a stone.

The paint was still warm from contact with the Ellers, and its earthy smell reminded him of the adobe church where his mother used to worship. He thought about her at that moment, wondering what she would have told him to do in a situation no Sunday sermon had prepared him for. The old man watched patiently as Sterling dipped his finger in the paint.

The old man’s eyes held no judgment, only the constant attention that comes from a life spent watching people face impossible choices. When SERling finally drew the same symbol on the old man’s forehead, he nodded with something that might have been relief. “You have chosen to trust us with your life.” Ayana translated for Lascian.

Now we must prepare you for what will come at dusk. They led Sterling outside, where the entire village seemed to be in motion. Men were placing stones in a large circle. Women were weaving long ropes from plant fibers, and children were collecting specific types of wood that Sterling didn’t recognize.

Everyone moved with the fluid efficiency of people who had performed these tasks many times before, but there was an underlying tension that suggested this ceremony wasn’t routine. “How often does this happen?” Sterling asked Ayana as they walked toward the stone circle.

The horse-gift ceremony, not very often, perhaps once in a generation, if it happens at all. Most people aren’t foolish enough to give away their only means of survival to a stranger. She paused, studying his face, or brave enough. Three young warriors approached, wearing what looked like ceremonial robes. The old man spoke to them briefly, then turned to Sterling.

Through Ayana, he explained that he must wear traditional Pache clothing during the ceremony, as his own clothes represented the world he was choosing to leave behind. As Sterling changed into his clothes, Quantly noticed that the 70 Crest Warriors had positioned themselves around the perimeter of the village.

They were no longer specifically watching him, but their presence sent an unmistakable message. There would be no escape once the ceremony began. The white feathers they wore were now tied to their horses’ bridles, creating a haunting visual reminder of Sterling’s engagement.

“Tell me about the first test,” Sterling said to Ayana as she helped him adjust the unfamiliar garments, the one that consisted of proving my gift was authentic. Ayana hesitated and looked at her carco. “Grandfather, before you answer, you must tell the truth about why you helped me, but not just with words.”

You must allow the wisest members of the tribe to interrogate you while you are bound and unable to defend yourself with anything but your words. They will ask you questions designed to bring out any hidden motives, any selfishness, any lies you tell yourself about your own goodness. Sterling felt a knot in his stomach.

And if they decide I was lying to myself about my motives, then the ceremony will end immediately, and they’ll take you to the edge of our territory and set you free. They’ll give you back your horse, and you’ll be free to go. But you’ll also be forever marked as someone who can’t be trusted.

And no Apache will ever help you again, no matter how desperate your situation. The sun had dropped noticeably, casting longer shadows over the village. Sterling could see that the stone circle was almost complete and that several elders had gathered near it, discussing something in low voices.

Their expressions were serious, and every now and then one of them would glance in her direction with an intensity that made her skin crawl. “What if I pass the first test?” Sterling asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Ayana’s expression turned grim. “Then you will face the second test, the test of sacrifice.”

And that, my new friend, is far more dangerous than having your motives questioned.” The sun was just touching the horizon when Sterling found himself sitting in the center of the stone circle. His hands were tied behind his back with rope that seemed tougher than leather. The entire village had gathered around, their faces lit by torches that cast dancing shadows over the gathered crowd.

The 70 warriors formed an outer circle, motionless like sentinels, their white feathers gently moving in the evening breeze. Five elders sat before Sterling, each with elaborate designs painted on their faces, marking their status as judges in this ancient procedure.

The old man, Ayana’s grandfather, sat in his judging panel, center, flanked by two men and two women, whose weathered faces spoke of decades spent making life-or-death decisions for their people. Ana stood beside her grandfather, ready to translate, but Sterling sensed that some of these elders understood English better than they let on.

The way they watched his face when he spoke suggested they were reading more than his words. The questioning began gently. Why had he been in Apache territory? Sterling explained that he was looking for new grazing lands after the drought had destroyed his small ranch. Where was his family? Gone. He told them truthfully.

His parents had died of a fever, and his sister, due to complications in childbirth, had no wife or children. Then the questions became more direct. Sterling had helped Ayana because he hoped to gain something from the Apache people. Sterling denied this and explained that he expected nothing but trouble for his actions. He considered himself a good man who deserved a reward for his kindness.

This question made Sterling pause because he wasn’t sure how to answer truthfully. “I don’t know if I’m any good,” he finally said. “I just know that letting someone die when I could have helped them felt wrong.” The old woman to his left spoke quickly in Apache. Her tone was sharp and defiant. Ayana reluctantly translated.

“She asks why you didn’t try to take me to your people for care. Why hand me over to the Apaches when you could have been considered a hero among the whites for saving me?” Sterling felt himself beginning to sweat despite the cool night air. The question touched on something he hadn’t fully examined in his own mind, because she belonged to his people, and taking her away from everything she knew would have been another kind of cruelty.

The old man on her right leaned forward and spoke a single sentence in Apache. Allana’s eyes widened as she translated. He said, “You speak of cruelty, yet you condemned yourself to walk 20 miles through dangerous territory, without a horse, without weapons, and with little water.

“Was that kindness to yourself or punishment for some guilt you carry?” The question hit Sterling like a physical blow. Images flashed through his mind—his sister’s face when she died because he couldn’t get her to a doctor in time, his parents’ graves he’d abandoned when the ranch failed—all the times he’d chosen the safe path instead of the high road.

Saving Aana was an act of redemption or just another way to hurt himself. Perhaps both, he whispered, and the honesty of his words surprised him. The five elders spoke to each other in low voices—too low for him to hear. Sterling watched their faces, trying to read expressions that revealed nothing.

Finally, Ayana’s grandfather stood and addressed the crowd in a solemn tone that echoed throughout the village. When he finished speaking, Ayana approached Sterling with tears in her eyes. “Have you passed the first test? The elders believe your heart was sincere when you helped me.” He paused and wiped his face. “But now comes the test of sacrifice, and I must warn you of what they are about to ask of you.”

I don’t even know if I could do it. Two young Apaches approached Sterling with a wooden box, which they placed beside him with reverent care. When Ayana’s grandfather opened it, Sterling saw the contents and felt his blood run cold. Inside were five arrows, each marked with a different colored band and a small piece of leather with symbols painted on it.

The old man held up the hide and showed it to the crowd, speaking in a ceremonious tone that resonated throughout the silent village. When he finished, Ayana approached Sterling with obvious reluctance. “The test of sacrifice requires you to choose a member of our tribe to face danger to prove your worth,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Five of our people have volunteered to risk their lives for your ceremony. The arrows represent different trials. All of them are dangerous, but they can be survived if the person is skilled and lucky. Sterling looked horrified. The arrows. I don’t understand. I’m supposed to choose someone else to risk their life for me. That’s not sacrifice, it’s cruelty.

That’s precisely the question, Ayana replied. The test measures whether you will allow others to suffer for your benefit or whether you will find another way. Many who undergo this test choose an arrow immediately, thinking that the risk to another person is an acceptable price to pay for their own acceptance into the tribe.

The old man spoke again, and Allana continued translating. But there is another option. You can refuse to choose an arrow and offer to face all five trials yourself. This has never been done because no one can survive all five trials alone. It would be certain death. Sterling felt the weight of an impossible decision crushing him.

Around the circle, he could see five Apache volunteers standing ready. There was a young man barely out of childhood, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, an older warrior with scars on his arms, a teenage girl who painfully reminded him of his dead sister, and a man his own age with a wife and young children visible in the crowd behind him.

“What are the trials?” Sterling asked, though he suspected the answer wouldn’t help him make a decision. Allana pointed to each arrow in turn. The red arrow means to cross the rapids in the canyon at night. The black arrow means to enter the cave where the bobcat lairs and retrieve a stone from the deepest chamber.

The white arrow means to climb the cliff, which no one has managed to climb in living memory. The yellow arrow means to enter alone into the CONSX, the territory of the rival tribe that killed three of our people last spring, and to return with proof of peaceful contact. The blue arrow means—he paused, his voice cracking slightly. The blue arrow means to allow himself to be bitten by a rattlesnake and rely on traditional medicine to save his life. Each trial represented almost certain death, and Sterling was expected to choose which innocent person.

would die to be accepted into a tribe he had never asked to join. The 70 warriors watched from their positions around the perimeter of the village, their white feathers now looking less like decoration and more like markers of a funeral that had yet to take place.

Sterling closed his eyes and thought about the last words his sister had said to him. She had told him that true courage wasn’t about not being afraid, but about doing the right thing, even when fear consumed you. She had also told him that some things were worth dying for, and that protecting innocent people was at the top of the list. When he opened his eyes, Sterling looked directly at Ayana’s grandfather.

I won’t choose an arrow. If anyone has to face these trials for acceptance, it will be me. Tonight’s five trials. Lelers’ expression didn’t change, but something moved in his eyes that might have been respect. The crowd murmured in surprise, and the five volunteers looked at Sterling with expressions ranging from relief to amazement.

But it was the reaction of the 70 warriors that surprised them most. In unison, they removed the white feathers from their horses’ bridles and raised them above their heads, creating a forest of pale feathers against the darkening sky. He, Ayana’s grandfather, slowly rose from his seat, his face weathered, showing deep emotion as he studied Sterling’s resolute expression.

The old man spoke in Apache, his voice echoing in the silent village with the authority of his decisions. When he finished, the 70 warriors responded with a sound Sterling had never heard before, a low, rhythmic chant that seemed to come from the Earth itself. Ayana stepped forward, tears streaming down her face as she translated her grandfather’s words.

He says, “No man in the history of our people has ever volunteered to face the five trials alone. That willingness to die rather than harm innocent people demonstrates a heart that is already Apache, regardless of whether the blood that runs through your veins is Apache or not.” The elder continued speaking, and his next words caused a visible stir among the gathered crowd. Ayana’s voice trembled as she translated.

He says the trials are over. You have now passed the test of sacrifice by proving that you would rather die than allow others to suffer for your sake. The law of the gift of the horse has been fulfilled, and you are declared a brother to our tribe. Sterling felt a mixture of confusion and relief, but he hadn’t really done anything yet.

He had only said he would. The old man smiled for the first time since Sterling had met him. And when he spoke again, his words carried a gentle wisdom. Through Ayana, he explained, “Trials are meant to reveal the heart, not cause death. A man who chooses certain death over harming others has shown his heart completely.”

No further proof is needed. What happened next took Sterling’s breath away. The 70 warriors dismounted in unison and began walking toward the stone circle. As they approached, each one knelt and placed their white feather at Sterling’s feet, then took something from their belt or saddle bag.

Sterling watched in awe as a pile of offerings grew before him. Before him were beautifully crafted knives, hand-woven blankets, carved jewelry, and finally, a warrior brought Sterling’s own horse, now adorned with a new Apache tunic decorated with symbols of honor and respect. The lead warrior, the same curly-haired man who had approached Sterling that morning, stepped forward and spoke in careful English.

Brother White, we have come here to witness the trial. We expected to take a corpse for burial or escort a new member of the tribe to our camps in the mountains. We did not expect to find a man worthy of the highest honor our people can bestow.

“What honor?” Sterling asked, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what was happening. “You are invited to carry the protection of 70 families. Each feather represents a warrior’s promise that your safety is as important as that of his own children. Each gift represents a home that will shelter you, feed you, and defend you for as long as you live.”

This has only been granted to three white men in our entire history, and never before to a man who wasn’t born among us. Ayana’s grandfather approached Sterling and placed both hands on his shoulders. When he spoke, his voice had the weight of a sacred ceremony. He said, “You came to us as a stranger bearing a gift. You leave as a brother who has received 70 gifts in return.

Your horse has been returned to you with honor marks that will guarantee you safe passage through any Apache territory. But more than that, you have shown our people that some white men understand the true meaning of valor and sacrifice.

Sterling mounted his horse, feeling the weight of the 70 white feathers tied to his saddle and the warmth of an acceptance he had never expected to find. As he prepared to leave the village, the entire tribe gathered to see him off, their faces displaying a respect impossible to imagine just a few hours before. Ayana approached his horse. For the last time.

Where will you go now, brother? Sterling looked toward the horizon where his old life awaited him. Then he looked back toward the Apache village, where he had discovered something about himself he’d never known existed. “I think I’ll head north toward the mountains. I’ve heard there’s good grazing land there, and it looks like I have some new neighbors to meet.”

The 70 warriors mounted their horses and formed an honor guard as Sterling rode out of the village. Their presence around him made him feel protected, like family and at home, all at once. The white feathers on his saddle reflected the starlight, marking him forever as a man who had been tested by fire and emerged as something greater than he could have ever imagined.