Episode 64

The air hung thick and heavy, not with the usual scent of pine and damp earth, but with a cloying, metallic tang that no amount of wind could scour away. It was the smell of fear, of suffering, and of death. For weeks, the Umatilla encampment had been a place of hushed whispers and averted gazes. The sickness, a swift and merciless invader, had swept through their people like a wildfire. It had begun subtly, a fever here, a cough there, dismissed at first as the common ailments of the season. But then, it had exploded.

Old Man Hemlock, his face a roadmap of wrinkles deepened by grief, sat by the dying embers of his fire. His granddaughter, once a vibrant spark, now lay still and cold in her lodge, her small hand still clutched in his. He remembered the stories his own grandfather had told him, tales of ancient plagues that had swept across the land long before the memory of man, but this felt different. This felt like a targeted strike, a weapon wielded by unseen hands.

The traders, with their strange cloths and even stranger metal tools, had been gone for moons, but their shadow lingered. They had brought gifts, yes, but also a trail of unseen enemies. The Umatilla had traded furs for beads, for knives that made their work easier, but had they also traded for this silent, invisible killer? The whispers grew louder with each new loss, each mournful cry that echoed through the gathering dusk.