They came at mid-day.
Not from the forest paths the tribe used, but straight through the open space between huts, loud, careless. I heard the voices before I saw them — sharp, mocking, wrong for this place.
My body knew before my mind did.
Him.
My ex-fiancé walked first, shoulders wide, chin lifted like he owned the ground beneath his feet. Two others followed, laughing, eyes scanning the village like predators counting weakness. Their clothes were wrong here, their movements too confident, too sure that nothing would stop them.
The village went quiet.
No shouting. No running. People simply stopped. Hands stilled. Children were gently pulled back. Men stood, not threatening, just present. Women watched from doorways, eyes dark, unreadable.
He laughed.
"Well," he said, spreading his arms, voice dripping with mockery. "Look at this."
He kicked over a basket of fruit with his foot. Fruit rolled into the dirt. He didn't even look down.
"So this is how you live now?" His eyes slid to me. "Playing tribe girl?"
My heart hammered, but my feet didn't move.
One of the men reached for hanging meat, tore off a strip, bit into it without asking. Grease ran down his fingers. He chewed loudly, exaggerated pleasure.
"Not bad," he said. "Free food, huh?"
Still no aggression.
That seemed to amuse him even more.
My ex stepped closer to the fire, grabbed a pot, sniffed it, wrinkled his nose like a child. "You really fell this low," he said. "No house. No rules. Just savages."
He came closer to me then.
Too close.
I could smell him — sweat, arrogance, that familiar scent that once meant safety and now made my stomach twist. He leaned down, invaded my space like he always used to, like the world bent around him by default.
His fingers came up fast and grabbed my chin, hard enough to hurt, forcing my face up.
"There you are," he said softly, smiling. Not a kind smile. A claiming one. "Still pretending you don't need someone in charge."
The tribe watched.
No one moved — but every eye was on him now.
"You'll come back," he continued, thumb pressing into my jaw. "You always do. I'll be the boss here too, don't worry. I'll teach them how things work."
For a heartbeat, the old fear tried to rise.
Then I saw Kate at the edge of the hut, frozen, watching.
Something snapped into place.
I slapped his hand away.
Not dramatic. Not loud. Just final.
"Don't touch me."
The smile faltered — just for a second — then widened, uglier than before.
"Oh?" he laughed. "Look at you. Learned some courage, did you?"
Behind him, I heard movement. Not rushing. Not attacking.
Positioning.
Men stepped closer to the fire. Women closed ranks near the children. Kehnu stood slightly behind him now, silent, calm, unblinking.
The tribe still showed no aggression.
But they were no longer passive.
And for the first time since he arrived, my ex noticed it.
His laughter thinned.
"What," he scoffed, glancing around, trying to reclaim control. "You think they'll protect you?"
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
Because this place was no longer something he could mock and take.
And he was standing in the middle of it — surrounded — without realizing how close he was to crossing a line he could never step back from.
I asked, "How many of you survived?"
He smiled.
"Oh, just us. Three." His lips curled, slow and crooked. "The others were floated away by the wave of water."
The two behind him glanced at each other and smiled too — quick, sharp looks, like shared jokes that didn't need words.
I knew then.
Not all of them were taken by water.
Some were taken by hands.
They wouldn't have survived until now otherwise. Not with food so scarce, not with fear gnawing at the edges. Survival like that leaves stains you don't wash away.
I looked at him properly for the first time.
He wasn't good-looking anymore.
Rags hung from him, torn and stiff with dried mud. His skin was drawn tight over bone, cheeks hollow, eyes too bright in a face made sharp by hunger. Dirt lived in the lines of his hands, under his nails, ground into his clothes. He smelled of old sweat and something sour.
But his attitude hadn't changed.
He still stood like he owned the air. Still smiled like the world owed him obedience. Still believed hunger gave him the right to take.
"You see?" he said, spreading his arms. "Strong ones live. Weak ones don't."
The tribe listened in silence.
Fire cracked softly beside us.
For the first time, I didn't feel smaller than him.
I felt older.
And I understood something clearly, cold and steady in my chest — whatever he was now, whatever he had done to survive, it had cost him more than hunger ever could.
And this place — this tribe — would not bend to him the way I once had.
how to be quiet.
Grease ran down his fingers as he tore at the meat, chewing with his mouth open, smacking his lips, laughing when fat dripped onto the ground. He spoke while chewing, crumbs and fibers spraying, as if the noise itself was a performance. One of the others copied him, louder than needed, crunching bones between his teeth. The third watched the village instead of his food, eyes moving, measuring.
My daughter was on the other side of the clearing, playing with the other children. I kept my eyes flicking toward her without meaning to. She was laughing. Safe. For now.
The tribe reacted in a way that unsettled me more than fear would have.
No shouting.
No weapons raised.
Those who needed to hunt or fish drifted closer together, hands busy with ordinary tasks — sharpening stone, checking nets, tying cords. Women kept working with clay and salt, movements calm, deliberate. A few elders sat and simply watched, faces unreadable. It was as if the village had decided to become a still pond, waiting to see what stones would be thrown.
I didn't know if this was wisdom or danger.
The way these three had entered — loud, entitled, already taking — felt wrong. Predatory.
When the food was gone, my former fiancé stood up.
Too fast.
He wiped his hands on his rags and walked straight toward me, smile already forming, that same smile I once mistook for charm. Before I could step back, he grabbed my arm and yanked me against his chest.
"Oh, honey," he said loudly, breath hot and sour near my ear. "How I missed you."
My body reacted before my thoughts caught up.
"Let me go," I said, pushing at him. "Stop it."
He laughed and tightened his grip.
That was when Kehnu moved.
No rush. No shout.
He stepped in close and wrapped his hand around the man's shoulder — not gentle, not explosive either — and pulled him away from me in one sharp motion. The contact was clean, controlled. The air seemed to crack.
For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
My ex-fiancé twisted free and spun on him, eyes blazing, face splitting into something ugly and familiar.
"So this is it?" he sneered, looking from Kehnu to the village, then back to me. "This is what you are now?"
His gaze dragged over my clothes, the clay-stained hands, the fire, the people around us.
"Are you this primitive plaything now, Anne?"
Silence answered him.
Not submissive.
Not afraid.
Waiting.