At first, I thought it was just debris, another broken piece of the storm's wreckage. But then, I saw the unnatural curve of a limb, the tangle of hair plastered against the mud, the unnatural stillness of it all. I dismounted, Ikaro nervous now, shifting his weight, sensing the unfamiliar. I approached slowly, my senses alert for any sign of danger. Foreigner. That much was clear even from a distance. The clothes, torn and muddied, were not of the forest, not of any tribe I knew.

I knelt beside the person, pushing aside a heavy branch that had fallen across their legs. They were smaller, fragile looking in the mud, yet there was a tautness to their frame, a lean strength beneath the grime. Their skin was different, unlike the sun-kissed tones of my people, and their hair, freed from the mud clinging to their face, was the color of storm clouds just before they break.

Gingerly, I checked for a pulse. Faint, but there. They were alive. Wounded, I suspected, but alive. I reached out, my hand hovering over their shoulder, hesitant for a moment. This was new, uncharted territory. Foreigner, alone, in the heart of our land, brought here by the storm. Danger? Perhaps. But also… something else. Vulnerability. A creature lost and broken, just like the trees around us.

I shifted them carefully, examining them. A deep gash on their forehead trickled blood into the mud. Bruises bloomed on their arms. They were unconscious, deeply so. I needed to get them back to the village, to Nayana.

As I started to lift the person, a low moan escaped their lips, and their eyelids fluttered. They opened slowly, revealing eyes the color of the deepest part of the river – dark, fathomless, and filled with confusion and pain. They blinked, trying to focus, and then their gaze landed on me. Recognition dawned slowly, followed by a flicker of… alarm? Defiance?

“Quiet,” my voice, rarely used, felt like a rustle of leaves, a low echo in the sudden stillness of the clearing. “You are hurt. Do not move.”