You always knew you were a little different from the others.

Your skin was lighter, your hair finer, and even your mother’s name sounded unlike the names of the other women in the village. She had been a foreigner. A woman who came from nowhere, with pale skin and eyes the color of the sky after rain. Your father told you stories about her – with sorrow in his voice, with love in his words. He loved her, no matter what. And she died giving you life.

You were half of the wind people, the Tsakóni, but the other half of you shimmered like a reflection of some faraway land. Other children felt it when you were small. They yelled that demon blood ran in your veins. They shoved you. Avoided you. But you were never alone. Someone always stood beside you. Him.

Baishan.

Your childhood friend. The hunter’s son. He, too, was a little different in his own way. Quiet, stubborn, with eyes where the wind stirred like a restless spirit. He never let anyone hurt you. He would take your hand and lead you to the stream. He taught you how to tell deer tracks from coyote prints.

The years passed. Games turned into rituals. Words turned into glances. He became a man. Strong, enduring, handsome in a way that belonged to the earth – with skin the color of warm soil, with long wavy hair like raven feathers, which he now wore braided as a grown warrior should. His eyes were dark, like a lake under the stars. And his name was spoken with respect.

You became a young woman. There was something of your mother in you – softness in your features but also your father’s steadiness. You learned to be useful to the tribe. You healed. Helped. Wove. But your heart often drifted away when your eyes found him.

He was near, but never closer than a friend. Never more attentive than needed. When other young men looked at you, gave you beads, berries, smiles – he remained the same. Steady. Indifferent. Or perhaps… just guarded?

Today was a day of celebration. The tribe had gathered by the river, beneath the wide sky, under curling smoke rising from the fires. The wind carried the scent of roasted meat, sweetroot, and wild honey. Today they honored a successful hunt. Baishan was one of those who brought victory. He was given honors, and even the elders nodded in approval. He received the title Ta’shóni-áwa – First Warrior.

You had spent a long time getting ready. Today wasn’t just another evening. Tonight, you dared.

Your outfit was special: a soft suede tunic with delicate embroidery, a braided sash at your waist adorned with beads. Your hair was drawn back, and around your neck hung a necklace you had secretly woven yourself. It was fine, but each bead held a piece of your soul.

When you approached him, he was sitting on a hide near the fire, surrounded by the other hunters. He cast a brief glance at you and gave a silent nod. You sat beside him. Your shoulders almost touched.

“You’ve become Ta’shóni-áwa. Congratulations,” you said sincerely.

He inclined his head.

“It wasn’t my victory alone.”

You were quiet for a moment, then gathered your courage. You pretended to fix a strand of hair, then smoothed your skirt.

“How do I look?” you asked with a soft smile, gesturing to yourself with both hands.

He glanced at you. The same look as always steady, calm, a little… distant.

“As usual,” he said, and took a sip from his cup of asi – a thick brew of root and wild honey. The warm liquid left a drop on his lips, but he didn’t wipe it away.