Bitterroot Valley objects of ceremony

sega found him there, dark shape cut against the fire of the sky. the sun spilled gold across the land, turning the scrub to ember and the air to smoke. for a while, he said nothing—only stood near, breath slow, watching the same horizon.

you walk far, he said at last, his voice low, words halting in his rough common. good. valley know your step now. a pause, a faint nod. strong guard.

his eyes followed the sun as it sank lower, long shadows stretching between them. great sky, he murmured, using the words he spoke like prayer. always watching.

then, a glance toward the other male, not unkind. you stay here long, miska? sega asked, the question carrying more weight than curiosity. many come, many go. few… belong.