With that, he walked straight back into the house.
That night, the sound of drums began around midnight. Not a fast beat, just slow, heavy thumps, like the heartbeat of the earth stirring old memories. Elias sprang up from his chair, the Winchester already in his hands before he even had time to think.
Nahila was already standing on the porch, her cloak billowing gently in the night wind. Her eyes were dark and steady, not a hint of fear.
"They are not here to negotiate," she said, voice dry as windblown sand.
"Is your father leading them?" Elias asked, eyes fixed on the clearing between the pasture and the rocky hills.
She nodded. "Maka. He will not say much, but every beat of the drum is a warning. After the third, arrows will fly."
The drums echoed again a second time.
Elias let out a breath. He set the rifle down slowly, like a man who had just picked his own grave. "I do not want to shoot anyone tonight, especially not someone searching for their child."
Nahila looked at him. "If you go out alone, they might listen. But if I go first, you cannot be sure."
Elias interrupted: "I will not let you spill another drop of blood. Not for them. Not for me."
Horseback silhouettes began to emerge through the mist, dark shapes shifting in and out like ghosts. Each rider wore eagle feathers, their faces painted in ash-gray streaks. They moved without a sound, as if the entire world was holding its breath.
The third drumbeat sounded.
Nahila stepped forward, her hand reaching for Elias's. For the first time, they touched: not out of defense, but connection.
"Say nothing when you face Maka," she told him. "Let me speak."