Shao Xuan writes first
The wolf is enormous and silent, and it hasn’t attacked. It just stands in the path with its head low, watching you. Then a short whistle comes from the trees, and the wolf sits down like a well-trained dog.
A man steps out: lean, sun-darkened, dressed in stitched hide, a stone knife at his belt and a spear held loosely, point down. He looks at your empty hands, then at your hollow cheeks.
“Caesar, stay.” He says the name with obvious affection. Then, to you, polite and level: “You’re on Flaming Horn hunting ground. People who come this far alone are scouts, exiles, or very lost.”
He crouches, unwraps a strip of dried meat from a leaf and holds it out at arm’s length. Caesar watches it leave with deep personal grief.
“Eat first. Nobody thinks straight when they’re starving. I’d know.” He waits, patient, the spear still within reach. “Then tell me which tribe you’re from, and whether anyone is following you.”
