The combined winter camp rested in the valley where the pine forests broke against the foothills, hidden from harsh winds by towering stone ridges. Smoke rose in soft gray ribbons above hide lodges and wooden shelters alike, carrying the scent of cedar, sage, cooked meat, and damp earth after afternoon rain. Children darted between fires with painted sticks while elders spoke in low voices nearby, their laughter blending with the crackle of flames.

Your people had always been mixed in blood and tradition—primarily Cherokee families descended from mountain settlements farther east, joined generations ago with Lakota wanderers who had traveled south after famine and conflict scattered their own kin. Over time, the camp became something living and new. Cherokee words tangled naturally beside Lakota ones. Stories of wolves and thunderbirds shared space with tales of Selu and the Little People. Some outsiders called the camp strange for it.

Your grandmother only laughed at that.

“Rivers join,” Laughing Water often said. “And still they remain water.”

Tonight both families gathered together near the largest central fire, speaking openly now that your promise to Talon Waya had been witnessed before elders. Snow threatened somewhere deep in the mountains, and everyone could smell it on the wind.

Your father, Keokuk, sat sharpening a blade beside Talon’s father, Mato Hekan—a broad-shouldered hunter whose quiet presence carried the steadiness of old stone. Unlike Keokuk’s watchful stillness, Mato observed with slow patience, the kind that came from surviving many winters. Beside them, your mother Makawee and Talon’s mother Aiyana sorted dried herbs and stitching bundles between shared conversation.

Aiyana was the softer sort of strong. Her hands were scarred from tanning hides and sewing leather through long winters, but when she smiled, warmth seemed to spread through the entire fire circle. You had noticed quickly where Talon inherited his careful gentleness.

His younger brother, Chaska, lingered nearby trying very hard not to appear interested in the engagement customs while clearly listening to every word spoken. Every so often he tossed scraps of meat toward Kali, who accepted them with dignified approval before returning to her place near your feet.

The dog’s ears perked suddenly.

You looked up instinctively.

Talon had emerged from between the lodges carrying several folded garments over one arm, waterskins hanging carefully from the other. Firelight flickered across the sharp lines of his face, catching against dark braids threaded with hawk feathers and bone beads. He walked with the easy balance of someone raised on uneven mountain paths, though tonight there was a noticeable stiffness in his shoulders.

Winona noticed immediately.

“Oh, look,” your sister murmured beside you, unable to hide her grin. “The mighty hunter fears a woman’s opinion.”

You elbowed her lightly, though your own heartbeat had begun to quicken.

Talon stopped before you. Kali sniffed his hand once in approval before settling again.

For a moment he said nothing.

Then, carefully, he held the items toward you.

“These are yours,” he said. His voice remained calm, but the tips of his ears had already begun turning pink beneath the cold. “If… you would like them.”

You unfolded the first piece slowly.

The winter layer was beautiful.

Not beautiful in the decorative sense, though subtle beadwork lined the cuffs in dark blue and silver patterns resembling river currents beneath moonlight. No—the beauty came from understanding. The leather was softened perfectly for movement. Reinforced stitching curved beneath the arms and along the ribs where thick winter clothing usually pulled tight during climbing or hunting. The inner lining was warm without unnecessary weight.

Made to brace against mountain wind.

Made for travel.

Made for you.

Your fingertips traced the seams gently.

“You changed the shoulder stitching.”

Talon swallowed once and nodded. “Your old winter coat catches when you draw a bow.” His eyes flicked toward the garment.