Swift Arrow's Stand

The air thrummed, not with the familiar song of the prairie wind, but with a low, guttural hum of unease that vibrated deep in Swift Arrow’s bones. He stood on the rise, the sun a molten disc bleeding into the western sky, painting the rolling hills in hues of bruised purple and fiery orange. Below, his people were a scattered collection of worried faces, their eyes fixed on the distant, glittering line that marked the approaching threat. Iron Hand’s men. They moved like a blight, a shadow creeping across the sacred land, their machines a harsh, mechanical counterpoint to the gentle breath of the grass.

Swift Arrow clenched his fists, the rough hide of his tunic a familiar comfort against his skin. He could feel the tremor in the earth, a faint echo of the fear that rippled through the herd grazing placidly in the distance, a fear they carried even in their magnificent, stoic presence. The sickness had taken too many. The old ones spoke of a time when the herds were so vast they swallowed the horizon, when the land sang with an untamed vitality. Now, each loss was a wound, a tear in the fabric of their world.

Beside him, Elder Willow’s voice, a dry rustle of leaves, broke the tense silence. “They come with iron and fire, Swift Arrow. They do not see the spirit in the dust, nor the life blood in the stream.”