Corvin glanced over her shoulder. The valley behind them was full of horses. Some of the riders held bundles or rolled blankets. Others wore ordinary working clothes dusty from travel. There were elders and younger adults, not the faceless army his fear had made him imagine when he first opened the door. A few had brought small children who waited quietly on family horses farther back from the road.
"Yes," Corvin said. "You're welcome. But I don't have water for that many animals."
Mara translated. Tomas listened and gave a short answer. To Corvin's surprise, Mara smiled.
"He says we know this valley is dry. We brought water skins and supplies for our own journey. We have not come to empty your well."
Corvin felt the heat rise beneath the sunburn on his cheeks.
"I didn't mean to insult anybody."
"You did not," Mara said. "You were honest."
Tomas stepped forward and spoke in his own language. The riders behind him quieted, not because of a shouted order but because the people nearest him turned to listen. He spoke for nearly a minute, with the measured pace of a man who wanted every word understood. Mara waited until he finished.
"Yesterday," she translated, "my nephew was hurt and could not reach home. A man found him who did not know his family. That man had little water and could have kept it for himself. Instead he stayed, shared what he had, and made sure Elias did not die alone in the heat. Our people heard about it before sunset. They wished to come and thank him. My father says a good act does not become less important because it is small in the eyes of the person who did it."
Corvin looked from her to the faces behind her. He had expected a demand, perhaps an accusation or some misunderstanding that would end with blood on the dust. He had not expected gratitude. He had certainly not expected hundreds of people to ride through a cold night simply because he had refused to leave a stranger on the ground.
"I don't know what to say," he admitted.
Tomas regarded him, then turned to Mara again.
"He says you may begin with your name. Yesterday you gave it to Elias, but he wishes to hear it himself."
"Corvin Torne."
The chief repeated it carefully. Then he extended his hand. Corvin crossed the last few feet of ground and took it. Tomas's grip was warm and firm. Behind him, people began to dismount. A few smiled openly. Someone brought forward a woven bundle containing dried meat, cornmeal, and a small bag of beans. Another led a spare packhorse carrying oats and hay. These were not riches, but Corvin knew what they cost in a season when nobody had enough of anything.
"You don't owe me a thing," he said.
Mara translated and waited for Tomas's reply.
"He knows," she said. "That is why it is a gift."
The answer was so simple that Corvin could find no respectable way to argue with it. He accepted the bundle with both hands. People greeted one another, watered their own horses, and exchanged quiet words. What had looked like an army from a distance became what it was: a community that had come to acknowledge a life returned to them.