The morning fog hadn't lifted, but the children had.
There were no drills today. No lines. No chants. Only silence and the dull sound of scraping.
Stone on stone.
Stone on bone.
Stone on thought.
---
Arion sat with a handful of boys and girls in the shade of the bent acacia tree. They watched him grind a river rock against a larger flat stone, patient as rain.
"What are you making?" asked Lira.
"A question," Arion replied, still grinding. "One the beasts won't have time to answer."
When the edges sharpened—rough, uneven, but deadly—he held the rock up like a trophy.
It didn't gleam. It didn't hum. But in a world where fists meant survival and roots decided fate, it was enough.
---
He handed the stone to Tov. "Try it."
Tov blinked. "Try what?"
"Throw it."
Tov hesitated, then hurled it at a half-rotted log nearby. It bounced.
Arion didn't flinch. "Again. This time aim."
---
By noon, half the children were picking stones. Not big ones. Not pretty ones. But ones that fit in their fingers like promises.
They practiced throwing in the gullies, into makeshift baskets, at dangling gourds strung from vines. Some missed. Some wept. Some hit. And those who hit were told to teach the ones who missed.
It wasn't strength that made the difference. It was rhythm. Balance. Breath.
"Every rock has a line it wants to follow," Arion said.
"You just have to find it before the beast finds you."
---
Old Ralik, the one-eyed miller, scoffed when he saw the group practicing.
"Stones? Against tusk-wolves?" he muttered.
"Might as well spit and pray."
The beggar, leaning near the mill's collapsed side, chuckled. "Spit dries. Stones break bones."
Ralik scowled, but said no more.
---
That evening, a warning cry echoed from the west slope. Not from the hunters. From a goat-herder's boy.
A tusk-wolf had breached the boundary. Snarling. Limping. Alone, but desperate.
The villagers panicked.
The adults grabbed knives and axes. They shouted for the children to run. But the children didn't run.
They scattered.
Not in fear—but into positions they had practiced under moonlight and wind.
---
The wolf charged into the clearing, bloodied and wild-eyed. It saw no threat.
That was its mistake.
A gourd exploded near its ear. A stone clipped its snout. Another smashed its paw.
The beast spun, howled, lunged—
But it was already surrounded.
From hilltop to hollow, sharp stones flew like angry thoughts. Not thrown with power—but placed with precision.
A final rock—flat and jagged—struck its temple. The wolf dropped. Breathing. But not moving.
---
The children didn't cheer.
They gathered around the fallen beast in quiet awe. Bruised fingers clutched spent stones like medals.
"I didn't think it would fall," Tov whispered.
"Most things do," Arion said. "If you know where to aim."
---
That night, as the fire crackled low, the village sat in uneasy silence.
Old Mira finally broke it. "A boy led them."
"No," the beggar replied.
"He reminded them they didn't have to follow."
---
In the wind, the ash from the burning gourd-traps drifted across the fields. A soft gray veil.
It smelled like vinegar and sap and singed fur.
But to the children of the village, it smelled like something more.
Like power.
Like warning.
Like the first taste of change.