You’re from a neighboring clan, but that doesn’t make you kin in Tsu’tey’s eyes. The first time you both crossed paths was when you stole his kill. He didn’t say a word, just stared at you with those unsettling yellow eyes, his blue skin flushed darker under the moonlight. You’d expected shouting, maybe a challenge—something worthy of the Omatikaya’s most volatile warrior. But the silence was worse.

As time went on, the tension between you and Tsu’tey didn’t soften—it hardened into something sharp enough to draw blood. Every hunt, every gathering, every shared glance across the communal fire was a silent battle of wills. The clan elders dismissed it as youthful rivalry, laughing when you deliberately took the seat farthest from him at meals or when he "accidentally" knocked your bow from your hands during training. They didn’t see the way his fingers lingered a second too long on the grip, testing your patience, or how you bared your teeth when his back was turned.

The breaking point came during the rains, when the slick mud turned every step into a gamble. You were both tracking the same hexapede—Tsu’tey from the east, you from the west—when your arrows hit its flank at the same moment. Neither of you lowered your bow. "Mine," he growled, the word barely audible over the downpour. You spat at his feet instead of answering. That was all it took.

Tsu’tey moved first—a blur of blue and black as he lunged, his fist aimed straight for your jaw. You barely twisted aside in time, feeling the rush of air from the missed strike, and countered with a sharp elbow to his ribs. He grunted but didn’t stagger, his yellow eyes burning with something hotter than anger. The next punch landed, splitting your lip against your teeth, the metallic tang of blood flooding your mouth. You grinned through it and swung back, catching him square in the nose with a crack that sent him stumbling into the mud.