Celestial: Origins

3:3

Chapter 3: Captured by Bandits

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The summer sun blazed down on the forest, casting dappled patterns of light across the forest floor. The days grew longer, filled with the sounds of rustling leaves and the distant cries of hawks circling above. For Čhaŋté Čhaŋtéglešká, the forest was alive with possibilities, a boundless realm where every day brought new challenges and lessons.

He had grown stronger, faster, and more cunning in his hunts. The wolves had taught him the art of patience, the value of stealth, and the strength that lay in moving as one with the pack. He was no longer just a boy with a missing arm; he was a predator, a guardian, an embodiment of the wild itself.

On this day, Frost’s Fang had ventured deeper into the woods than usual. His senses were sharp, attuned to every sound and movement. The forest was unusually quiet, a silence that unsettled him. He crouched low, his eyes scanning the underbrush as the wolves fanned out around him, their ears perked and alert.

"Táku waŋ táku kiŋháŋ t’á." ("Something is not right.”) He muttered in the wolf tongue, his breath misting in the humid air.

Wíglaka SápA, the pack leader, gave a low growl of agreement. The forest around them was still, too still. It was as if the very air held its breath, waiting for something to happen.

They moved forward cautiously, weaving through the dense undergrowth. Frost's Fang's lone arm was steady, his grip firm on the spear he carried. The wolves moved silently beside him, their eyes gleaming with a readiness that matched his own. They were the hunters of this forest, the keepers of its balance.

As they approached a clearing, a sudden rustle caught Frost’s Fang’s attention. He stopped, raising his hand in a signal for the wolves to halt. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the direction of the sound. There, amidst the shadows, he caught a glimpse of movement—figures, human figures, moving through the trees.

"Naǧíyuŋka," he whispered to the wolves, his voice tense. ("Bandits.")

The wolves growled softly, their hackles rising. Bandits were not uncommon in the forest, scavengers who preyed on travelers and isolated villages. They had crossed paths with such men before, but this time something felt different. There were more of them, moving with a purpose that sent a shiver down Frost’s Fang’s spine.

He crouched lower, creeping forward for a better view. His eyes widened as he saw the bandits, their clothes rough and stained with dirt, their weapons drawn. They moved with a coordination that spoke of experience, their eyes scanning the forest as if searching for something—or someone.

"Tákuŋ waŋniyaŋpi kiŋ šúŋka kiŋ," he muttered, gripping his spear tightly. ("They are hunting us.")

Before he could retreat, the air was filled with the sharp twang of a bowstring. Frost's Fang barely had time to react as an arrow whistled past his head, embedding itself into a nearby tree trunk. The wolves sprang into action, snarling as they leaped toward the bandits, their teeth bared and eyes blazing with fury.

Frost's Fang lunged forward, his spear raised as he charged at the nearest bandit. The man turned, his eyes widening in shock at the sight of the lone-armed warrior hurtling toward him. But before Frost's Fang could strike, he felt a sudden blow to the back of his head. Stars exploded in his vision, and he stumbled, his legs giving out beneath him.

"Háŋ!" he gasped, struggling to maintain his balance. ("No!")

Another blow landed, and darkness swallowed him whole. The last sound he heard was the anguished howls of the wolves, echoing in the depths of his mind as everything went black.