Son. The word echoed in Rastaban’s mind all that summer, through the ceremony declaring him a man to the final hunt of winter. He didn’t know if Dravi ever heard it, but Dravi didn’t matter, because Rastaban knew. He was Rami’s son.
It was almost winter when they reached the valley where Rami’s people lived. They returned to the valley each winter, and Rastaban had missed it fiercely. He’d set off for sentry duty up the mountain, posted in a cave that overlooked their encampment. He knew Dravi was behind him the whole time.
“Orphan,” Dravi began.
He was wrong.
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