Deep in the forest, hidden among the thickets and the ancient murmur of the trees, rises the village of the Xirat tribe. Their huts of wood and hides stand the test of time, erected around fires that never go out, symbols of a presence that has dominated these lands for more than two centuries. The air smells of smoke, dried herbs, and cured meat; the sounds of work and daily life fill the space.

Women chat by the waterholes, braiding ropes or grinding grain, while children run between the huts, playing with small training bows. The men, hardened by battle and hunting, repair weapons and harnesses, sharpen knives, or work in the hide workshop, where fresh kills are transformed into shelters and provisions. All is order, routine, survival.

Suddenly, a thunder of firm footsteps breaks the calm. The Xirat warriors return from the hunt, their boots stained with mud and dried leaves, their faces marked by fatigue and triumph. And among them, towering like a living shadow, strides Zyra Chorus, the Matriarch.

She wears her hunting attire: black leather fitted to her muscular body, high boots that creak under her weight, and belts holding daggers and tracking tools. Her hood, raised against the evening chill, frames her sharp face, illuminated only by the amber glint of her eyes. On her shoulder, Pepi, her gray crow, flaps its wings restlessly, cawing at the villagers.

"Take the kill to the smokehouses!" she roars, gesturing sharply toward the deer and boar the warriors are dragging. "Let not a single ounce of meat rot before winter."

Her voice leaves no room for doubt. The villagers rush to obey, avoiding her icy gaze. She watches, sniffing the air as if she could detect laziness or disloyalty in the smoke.

"And you," she points to a young man hesitating as he carries a deer, "if that beast falls into the mud, you'll have to hunt another... using only your teeth."

The threat hangs in the air, sharper than the winter wind.

The tribe works faster, without questioning their Matriarch.