A cowherd gave his only horse to a wounded Apache; The next day, 70 warriors the unthinkable…

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 the bridle of his horse that he had had made to measure with some very characteristic silver conchos that his father had given him. But the leather was now decorated with small painted symbols that were definitely not there yesterday.

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

From the crest came a new sound, a song, high-pitched voices that intertwined in a harmony that bristled the beauty of Sterling’s arms. But it was not a war song. I had heard Apache war songs before and they were nothing like this.

This melody conveyed celebration, gratitude, and something else that I 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 expected. He put the bridle in his bag and took out something else, a second white feather identical to the O carried by the other warriors.

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

The moment his fingers touched it, the warrior nodded in deep satisfaction and turned to make a sign to the others. Immediately the entire formation began to move, not towards Sterling, but parallel to his position, as if preparing to escort him somewhere. But, escorting him to where and why accepting a simple pen made you feel like you’d signed a contract written in a language you couldn’t read? The singing continued and Sterling noticed with growing uneasiness that the melody was approaching, more voices joining in from somewhere behind him. When he turned around,

His heart almost stopped. Emerging from a canyon he 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 by the old man, but moving slowly because of his injured leg, it was flattened.

She was alive, conscious, and looking directly at Licidas Stande Sterling with an expression that mixed gratitude with something that eerily resembled pity. The old man, wearing the elaborate headdress, approached Sterling with steps that suggested both ceremony and determination. His weathered face had the authority given to him by decades to make decisions that affected entire tribes.

Behind him, the procession of women and children continued to sing, but Sterling could see that they were watching his every movement with intense curiosity. Ayana limped forward, favoring her injured leg, but moving with determination. When he arrived at Sterling, he spoke to him in careful English, with a marked accent, but with clear words.

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

Ayana nodded and turned to Sterling with her serious dark eyes. My grandfather says your words aren’t true. Most men wouldn’t have helped. Most white men would have passed by or worse. But you have given up your most valuable possession to save the life of an enemy. This is not something that anyone would do. It is the action of someone who follows the old ones. Codes.

The old man came over and put his hand on Sterling’s shoulder. When he spoke again, his voice transmitted. A deep emotion that transcended language barriers. Ayana listened carefully before translating. He says, “You have honored the sacred law of the gift of the horse. When a warrior gives up his varor 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 should be honored. Sterling’s mouth went dry. Connected. How? What does that mean exactly? The chanting stopped abruptly, and the sudden silence felt ominous.

The old man studied Sterling’s face for a long moment and then uttered 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 than just respect. Ayana’s expression turned to worry as she translated. He says, “Connection requires a choice.

Sacred law requires the donor of the horse to demonstrate now whether his heart really matches his actions. If so, join the tribe as a family. Sio paused and looked nervously at the armed warriors around them. If not, what? asked Sterling. 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. Your horse would be returned, 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, an unwavering look and Ayana’s worried face.

He was caught between two options that he didn’t fully understand and 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 that he wasn’t prepared for at all.

The old man spoke again, and this time his words had a definite tone. Ayana’s translation hit Sterling like a physical blow. The election 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. Hidden in a natural basin between imposing rock formations. It consisted of traditional dwellings arranged in precise patterns that spoke of generations of careful planning. What struck him most was the total absence of hostility. The children looked at him curiously, the women nodded respectfully as he passed, and the men studied him with expressions that suggested they were measuring something he couldn’t identify. Ayana walked beside him with the most pronounced limp now,

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

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

The previous old man waited inside, sitting on a woven mat with various objects in front of him. Sterling recognized the bridle of his horse between them, but there were other objects as well, a knife with an ornate handle, a small earthenware pot filled with what looked like paint, and a bundle of sage tied with senue.

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

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

She picked up the ornate knife and held it so that the blade reflected the sush, light filtering through the doorway of the house. Then she spoke in Apache in a low, ceremonious tone. Ayana’s face turned pale 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 put in a situation where only the mercy of the tribe will save you. 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 you were ready or not, outside the sun had shifted considerably toward the western horizon. Sterling realized with growing fear that he might have two hours to decide whether to undergo a test that could easily kill him or attempt to flee on foot across the open field while being pursued by 70 warriors on horseback.

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 rested on him like a stone.

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

The old man’s eyes were non-judgmental, they only showed the constant attention that comes from a life dedicated to watching people face impossible decisions. When SERling finally drew the same symbol on the forehead that the old man was wearing, he nodded with something that might have been relief. You have chosen to entrust your life to us. Ayana translated lascian.

Now we must prepare you for what is to come at sunset. They took Sterling outside, where the whole town seemed to be on the move. The men placed stones in a large circle. Women wove long ropes from plant fibers, and children collected specific types of wood that Sterling did not 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 that this ceremony was not routine. “How often does this happen?” Sterling asked Ayana as they walked toward the stone circle.

The horse gift ceremony, not very often, maybe 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 stopped studying his face or brave enough. Three young warriors approached wearing what appeared to be ceremonial clothing. The old man spoke to them briefly and then turned to Sterling.

through Ayana she explained that she should wear traditional Pache clothing during the ceremony, as her own clothes represented the world she was choosing to leave behind. As Sterling changed his clothes, he noticed from Quantly that the 70 warriors on the ridge had been positioned 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 the bridles of their horses, creating an eerie visual reminder of Sterling’s engagement.

“Tell me about the first tryout,” Sterling told Ayana as she helped him adjust the unfamiliar garments, which was to prove that my gift was authentic. Ayana hesitated and looked at her car. That with waited, grandfather, before answering, you must tell the truth about why you helped me, but not only 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 things designed to bring to light any ulterior motive, any selfishness, any lie you tell yourself about your own goodness. Sterling felt a knot in his stomach.

And if they decide that I was lying to myself about my motives, then the ceremony will end immediately and you will be taken to the edge of our territory and released. Your horse will be returned to you and you will be free to leave. 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 is. The sun had dropped noticeably, casting longer shadows over the village. Sterling could see that the circle of stones 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 look in his direction with an intensity that gave him goosebumps. What happens if I pass the first test?” asked Sterling, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Ayana’s expression became gloomy. “Then you will face the second test, the test of sacrifice.

And that, my new friend, it’s much more dangerous for your motives to be questioned.” The sun was touching the horizon when Sterling found himself sitting in the center of the stone circle. His hands were tied behind his back with a rope that seemed stronger than leather. The whole village had gathered around with their faces lit by torches casting dancing shadows over the assembled crowd.

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

The old man, who was Ayana’s grandfather, sat in his judges’ co-room, the center, flanked by two men and two women, their weathered faces spoke of decades spent making life-or-death decisions for their people. Anne was standing next to her grandfather, ready to translate, but Sterling sensed that some of these old men understood English better than they appeared.

The way they looked at his face when he spoke suggested that they were reading more than his words. The interrogation began gently. Why had he been in Apache territory? Sterling explained that he was looking for new grazing land after drought had destroyed his small ranch. Where was his family? He was gone. He told them sincerely.

His parents had died of fever and his sister had no wife or children from complications in childbirth. Then the questions became more direct. he had helped Ayana because he hoped to get something from the Apache people. Sterling denied it 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 good,” he finally said. “I just know that letting someone die when I could help them seemed wrong to me.” The old woman to his left spoke quickly in Apache. His tone was sharp and defiant. Ayana reluctantly translated.

“He asks you why you didn’t try to take me to yours so that they could attend to me. Why surrender to the Apaches when you could have been considered a hero among the whites for saving me? Sterling felt like he was starting to sweat despite the cool night air. The question broke, something he hadn’t thoroughly examined in his own mind, because she belonged to his people, and to take her away from everything he knew would have been another kind of cruelty.

The old man on his right leaned forward and uttered a single sentence in Apache. Allana’s eyes widened as she translated. He says, “You talk about cruelty, but you condemned yourself to walk 20 miles through dangerous territory, with no horse, no weapons, and little water.

Was that kindness to yourself or a 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, the graves of his parents he had abandoned when the ranch failed, all the parents, times he had chosen the safe path instead of the right one.

Saving Aana was either an act of redemption or just another way to hurt herself. 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 gave nothing away.

Finally, Ayana’s grandfather stood up and addressed the crowd in a ceremonious tone that was heard throughout the village. When he finished speaking, Ayana approached Sterling with tears in her eyes. Have you passed the first test? The elders believe that 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 what they are about to ask of you.

Even I don’t know if I could do it. Two young Apache men approached Sterling with a wooden box that 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 band of a different color and a small piece of leather with symbols painted on it.

The old man lifted the leather and showed it to the crowd, speaking in a ceremonious tone that echoed throughout the silent village. When he finished, Ayana approached Sterling with obvious reluctance. The test of sacrifice requires that you choose a member of our tribe who will face danger to prove your worth,” he said in a voice barely higher than a whisper.

Five of our men 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. aghast. The arrows. I don’t get it. I’m supposed to choose someone else who will risk their life for me. That’s not sacrifice, that’s cruelty.

That is 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 someone else’s risk is an acceptable price 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 the five trials yourself. This has never been done because no one can survive the 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 willing Apaches 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 reminded him painfully of his dead sister, and a man his own age with a wife and small children visible in the crowd behind him.

What does the evidence consist of, Sterling asked, though he suspected that the answer would not help him make a decision. Allana pointed to each arrow in turn. The red arrow means to cross the rapids of the canyon at night. The black arrow means to enter the cave where the wildcat’s den is located and retrieve a stone from the deepest chamber.

The white arrow means to climb the cliff, which no one has managed to climb in the memory of the living. The yellow arrow means to enter the CONSX alone, territory of the rival tribe that killed three of our own last spring and return with evidence of peaceful contact. The blue arrow means he stopped with a slightly broken voice. The blue arrow means to be bitten by a rattlesnake and to rely on traditional medicine to save one’s life. Each test represented almost certain death and Sterling was expected to choose which innocent person

He 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 with their white feathers now looking less like a decoration and more markers of a funeral that had not yet taken place.

Sterling closed his eyes and thought of his sister’s last words. She had told him that true courage was not in not being afraid, but in doing the right thing, even when fear consumed you. He had also told her that some things deserved death 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 bikes, these tests to get accepted, it will be me. Tonight’s five tests. Lelers’ expression didn’t change, but something moved in his eyes that could 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 the most. In unison they removed the white feathers from the bridles of their horses and lifted them above their heads, creating a forest of pale feathers against the darkened sky. He, Ayana’s grandfather, slowly rose from his seat with a weathered face, showing deep emotion as he studied Sterling’s resolute expression.

The old man spoke in Apache and his voice echoed in the silent village with the authority in absolute 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 Earth itself. Ayana stepped forward with tears streaming down her face as she translated her grandfather’s words.

He says, “No man in the history of our people has ever offered 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 running through your veins is Apache or not. The old man continued to speak, and his next words caused a visible commotion among the assembled crowd. Ayana’s voice trembled as she translated.

He says the testing is over. You have already 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 of our tribe. Sterling felt a mixture of confusion and relief, but he hadn’t really done anything yet.

He had only said that he would. The old man smiled for the first time. Ever since Sterling had known him. And when he spoke again, his words conveyed a gentle wisdom. Through Ayana explained, “Tests exist to reveal the heart, not to cause death. A man who chooses certain death rather than causing harm to 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 to walk towards the stone circle. As they approached, each knelt down and placed his white feather at Sterling’s feet and then took something from his belt or saddle bag.

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

Brother White, we’ve come here to witness the trial. We hoped to take a corpse with us to bury or escort a new tribesman to our camps in the mountains. We did not expect to find a man worthy of the highest honor that our people can bestow.

What honor, Sterling asked, overwhelmed by the pros Sterling, magnitude, of what was happening. You are invited to bring the protection of 70 families. Each feather represents a warrior’s promise that your safety is just as important as that of your own children. Each gift represents a home that will shelter, feed and defend you 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 was not born among us. Ayana’s grandfather walked up to Sterling and put both hands on his shoulders. When he spoke, his voice had the weight of a sacred ceremony. He says, “You came to us as a stranger bringing a gift. You leave as a brother who has received 70 gifts in return.

Your horse has been returned to you with marks of honor 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 courage and sacrifice.

Sterling mounted his horse feeling the weight of the 70 white feathers strapped 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 bid him farewell with faces that showed a respect impossible to imagine just hours before. Ayana walked over to her horse. For the last time.

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

The 70 warriors mounted their horses and formed an escort of honor as Sterling left the village. His presence around him made him feel protected in family and at home, all at the same time. The white feathers of his chair reflected the starlight, marking him forever, as a man who had been tested by fire and had emerged as something greater than he had ever imagined.