Qeya River the north remembers

still-warm blood seeps between his teeth, thick, iron-rich. his jaws are tight about the ram's heart, taken from an old buck he'd felled upon the ridge only half an hour ago.

he stops at the river's edge, watching light as it refracts from the moon's touch. carefully, he sets the heart upon the ice, listening to the sound of his own breathing. flanks falling up, down, up, down. the onyx man watches the steam coil from the offering, rising to his god, to the dead.

he bows his head, but does not kneel. his speech discernible only to those who spoke his blood's tongue.

i have not forgotten.

the words are low, guttural, for no ears but his god’s.

you watch. you wait.

red eyes gleam in the dark.

then take.

the river moves. the wind howls. the heart lies still.