By Eitros Tixe, Friend of the Tari, Former Templar of Abalach-Re

The tari had survived worse than this. That’s what Rabekela reminded everyone as the leaders of the mountain packs gathered in a dim cavern beneath the highest peak of Okarath. Yet, every piece of dried meat, every kernel of grain, every drop of water was now counted and rationed more carefully than before. Rabekela presided when the leader’s voices raised in heated debate, but even she had no easy solution to offer. She looked tired, far older than she had even a few weeks ago.

“We cannot hunt more than we already do,” one pack leader argued. “The mastyrial numbers are balanced; if we over-hunt, they will dwindle - then we will all starve.”

“Then we must send scouts further,” another countered. “There are places beyond the dunes we have never touched. Ruins swallowed by the sands. Perhaps there is food to be found there.”

“Perhaps there is death there,” Rabekela snapped. “We do not throw our lives away on maybes.”

In the end, the refugees were divided among the existing tari bands, each family assigned to a pack that could best use their skills. The best hunters, no matter their previous allegiances, were recruited into the scouting parties that would push deeper into the mountains for new game.

And then there were the pioneers, those willing to leave the relative safety of their camp and expand into the Okarath mountains to forge a new home deeper into the surrounding territory.

Kino and Krikhi
It did not surprise me that Kino and Krikhi found each other quickly. Time was a luxury, and those who waited for the right moment often found it had passed them by. They were both young, both restless. Kino had always been quick with a joke, always looking toward the future with wide eyes and boundless energy. Krikhi, for all the hardships she had endured in Raam, still carried that same spark.

At first, it was just small things: how they always found reasons to be near each other, how Krikhi would roll her eyes at Kino’s bad jokes but never stop listening, how Kino’s usual reckless energy softened when he spoke to her. Then it became something undeniable. Their hands always found each other in the dim tunnels, their tails curled close as they whispered long into the night, dreaming of things beyond these caves.

It was a beautiful thing, and everyone in the pack knew it. I wanted to be happy for them. I was happy for them. But with that happiness came something sharp and painful, something I did not want to name.

The first time I saw Krikhi nudge Kino in the ribs when she thought no one was looking, I couldn’t help myself.

“You’re doomed,” I told him, grinning.

Kino blinked at me, feigning innocence. “Doomed?”

“Completely,” I said. “Finished. Snared. May as well carve your name into the cave walls now, so future generations will know this is where you fell.”

He groaned dramatically, rubbing his face. “You hear this?” he asked Krikhi, who was smirking beside him. “The great and wise Tail-less, Prophet of Doom.”

“I only speak the truth,” I said, placing a hand over my heart. Then, leaning in conspiratorially, I added, “But don’t worry. It’s a good way to go.”

Krikhi chuckled, and Kino groaned louder for show, but the way his tail flicked against hers, the way she softened when she looked at him; I knew it was real.

Life was hard. Too hard. If Kino and Krikhi had managed to carve out something beautiful amidst all the suffering, then I would celebrate it. We all would. Even Rabekela, who rarely indulged in sentimentality, cracked a rare, genuine smile when she caught them whispering together by the fire.

It was one of the few bright things in a time full of darkness. But even that happiness turned bitter in my mouth when I found out Kino was entertaining the idea of joining the new colony effort. This was the stinging pain and fear that had haunted me.

He did not say it outright, and he did not need to. I could see it in the way his excitement barely masked his nervousness when he spoke about the uncharted caves up the hills. About the possibility of founding a new colony, one that could expand our food supply.

“It’s a chance,” he said, trying to sound confident. “A real chance. We found signs of underground water, Eitros. Water! We could farm, maybe even breed erdlu. We could change everything.”

The Farewell
The news didn’t come as a shock.

We all knew the situation in the caves wasn’t sustainable. The food was being rationed more strictly with each passing week, and no matter how efficient the pack leaders were, no amount of careful planning would change the fact that we simply didn’t have enough for everyone.

A new colony was needed. A fresh start, away from the already-strained resources of Okarath.

And Kino, of course, had volunteered.

I wasn’t surprised, or angry.

But I was sad.

Not because I didn’t believe in him. I knew he would make it work. If anyone could help carve out something new in the mountains, it was Kino.

But I also knew that my life here, as I had known it, was ending.

“You sure about this?” I asked him one night, sitting side by side near the mouth of the caves.

Kino snorted. “What kind of question is that?”

I shrugged. “A selfish one, probably.”

His expression softened. “Eitros,” he said, bumping his shoulder against mine, “you know this is what we have to do.”

I nodded. “I know.” I choked out, swallowing the sob that clawed at my throat.

“And you also know you’d hate it.”

I huffed out a laugh. “I do know that.”

I gave a small, sad smile and shook my head.

I had spent over a year in Okarath, and still, the caves felt suffocating. I struggled even in a well-established home. How could I ever live in a raw, uncarved colony, built from nothing but struggle and willpower?

Kino knew it too. He nodded but said nothing.

I clasped his shoulder. “You’ll make it work,” I said. “You always do.”

His tail flicked nervously. “And if I don’t?”

I forced a grin. “Then you’ll come running back with that shameful tail of yours.”

He laughed, but there was something in his eyes, sadness.

We fell into comfortable silence, watching the stars overhead.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” I said eventually.

Kino turned to look at me, and whatever smart remark he had died on his tongue.

“You’ll do good out there,” I continued. “You and Krikhi both. I hope you get a whole litter of little brats, just as annoying as you.”

That got a laugh out of him. “You would wish that on me.”

“Of course,” I said. “And when I visit, I’ll tell them all the stories about how their father was the second-best tari in old Okarath.”

Kino squinted. “Second-best?”

I grinned. “You think you outrank Rabekela?”

He groaned. “Fair.”