The council fire crackled and spat, sending coils of smoke twisting into the dusk.
Around it sat the elders of the valley tribes, hunters, mothers, chiefs, and lore keepers. Their faces were drawn tight with anger and fear.
Behind them, younger warriors stood in restless silence, arms crossed, weapons within reach.
Nokomis stood alone, her shadow cast long by the flame, the wolf-tooth necklace at her collarbone gleaming faintly.
"He must be stopped," a grizzled elder growled. "This White Wolf; he burns the earth, tears up the trees, enslaves our sons to raise his stone walls like tombs."
"He poisons the rivers with ash!" cried a young huntress. "He drives away the caribou, frightens the birds. Even the spirits are leaving!"
"Then let us make him leave," spat another. "This is our land. Our home. We are not his slaves, not his beasts to plow fields for a foreign king."
A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd.
Nokomis let it rise. Then, calmly, she raised her hand.
