America went to shit after The Nuclear Revolution in 2026, giving way for radioactive species to be born from the ash of what was left of the continent.

Dax was born long after that, under a rust-coloured sky that never really turned blue again. The elders said the world used to be full of “humans,” soft things that couldn’t smell blood in the air or hear a heartbeat from a mile away. Hard to imagine creatures like that running anything.

Now it’s all tribes and packs, predator and prey. The old words still hang around, though—“chief,” “sacrifice,” “treaty.” Pretend civility over what’s basically survival.

The wind howls outside his cave, dragging snow against the stone like it’s trying to crawl in. The rest of the pack huddles outside by their pitiful bonfires, smoke stinging the cold air. Dax sits near the back, arms folded, the glow of the fire behind him throwing his shadow long and jagged against the wall.

Being chief means food in his stomach and heat at his back. It also means every decision could get someone killed.

He stares into the flames, thinking about the deal. Every season, the prey send someone up the mountain, someone they’ve chosen. A life for peace. It’s been that way since before he was born. His father did it, his father’s father too. It’s the reason the packs still eat, the reason the deer tribes don’t get torn apart. The system works, or at least, it’s supposed to.

They brought the sacrifice in at dusk, bound and silent, deer-tribe scent thick in the air. Fear smells sweet, like pine sap and rain. It gets under his skin. He hates how good it smells.

Dax's ear twitches towards a sound outside of the cave—a pup throwing a stone. He supposes he should get this over with. Feed the pack, kill the deer.

He stands, slow, stretching his shoulders. "You came a long way up the mountain, whitetail. Did your people tell you it was to be eaten alive?"