He dreamed of ruins.

  Pottery shards in museum glass. Foundation stones proving the Xia dynasty had been real. The discovery that came once in a generation.

  But he wasn’t in a museum. He was dying in a hide shelter with no medicine, no surgery, no way home.

  The dream shifted. He saw himself wrapped in furs, buried in unmarked earth. Grass grows over the spot within a season. No stone. No marker. Forgotten.

  Then: an old man with grey hair, dying of a cold at forty. Dying without leaving a trace because there was no writing here. No way to be remembered.

  Is this what you want?

  Golden light. A figure on a mountaintop, teaching people who knelt below. The Yellow Emperor—Huangdi. The Ancestor who had taught humanity language, writing, agriculture, and medicine. Who had taken scattered tribes and forged civilisation.

  Mythology, they called it.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  You have two lifetimes in one skull. Use them. Become what they need.

  The ruins of Xia shimmered—whole, vibrant, alive. A civilisation risen from nothing because someone had chosen to build.

  You can’t go back. That life ended. So choose: die forgotten, or become someone they’ll remember.

  The decision settled like a stone dropped into still water.

  Jason Valentine dissolved.

  Teshar remained.

  I am Teshar. This is my life. These are my people. And I will make them remember.

  Fingers closed around his ankle through the fur wrap.

  “Wake up. Be quiet.”

  Naro’s whisper pulled him into the grey dawn.

  Teshar’s eyes opened. No confusion. No disorientation. Just a morning, and work is waiting.

  Naro’s hand stayed clamped until Teshar moved. In the half-dark, his eyes shone with excitement.

  Kelon sat up already, cloak bunched around his knees. He shifted his weight in small adjustments, careful not to elbow anyone awake.

  Teshar eased out of the pile of bodies. Smoke and sweat and damp hide filled the shelter. Someone’s heel slid off his shin. A child muttered and went still.

  He reached for the hide flap.

  The mark on his brow itched under dried ochre. He pressed his thumb into his sleeve seam until the thread bit.

  Naro grinned at him. “Still there.”

  Teshar pushed through the flap. Cold hit his face.

  The camp sat in that grey hour before true dawn. The central fire had sunk to coals. Smoke rose thin, then drifted sideways.

  The shelters looked different. High in the hide roofs, new slits showed where smoke could escape. A woman stepped out, saw the slit above her, and crossed to the fire without speaking.

  Another man fed a stick into the coals as if sudden movement might wake trouble.

  Teshar walked with arms crossed, hands hidden in sleeves.

  Arulan sat by the coals, staff across his knees. Grey threaded his hair. Smoke had stained his skin at the eye corners.

  Siramae crouched nearby with a stone bowl between her knees, grinding dried leaves. Her hands were dark with plant juice.

  Varek stood beyond them, stick in hand, staring at split wood as if it had failed him personally.

  Naro dipped his head too deeply. Kelon kept his shoulders square. Teshar matched Kelon’s posture.

  Arulan’s gaze swept over them—faces, hands, the mark on Teshar’s brow.

  “River,” Arulan said.

  Naro’s mouth opened. “We’ll bring—”

  Arulan lifted two fingers.

  Naro stopped.

  Siramae reached beside her and picked up a bone hook, worn smooth. She held it out.

  “Teshar. If Kelon catches, you tie it. If Naro splashes, step on his foot.”

  Naro’s face pinched. “Siramae—”

  Siramae lifted her eyes.

  Naro’s mouth shut.

  Teshar took the hook. Bone, polished pale. Point sharpened to a needle.

  Arulan tapped his staff once. “Two. For children.”

  Nobody argued.

  The camp moved around them. Bowls drawn closer. Legs shifted. A path made.

  At the thorn ring’s gap, brambles snagged their cloaks. Beyond, the ground opened damp and pale. Reed-sweetness mixed with river mud and rot.

  Naro started talking as soon as they cleared the thorns.

  “Two fish isn’t hard. Kelon will spear one, I’ll spear one, and you can hold the basket and look marked.”

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  Teshar kept half a pace behind Kelon. His feet found firm ground without asking.

  Naro’s heel slid on a slick patch. He caught himself with a hiss.

  Kelon made a small sound. Warning.

  Naro quieted for three steps. Started again.

  Teshar let it wash over him.

  The first sign came on the air: dung warm under morning damp, heavy musk clinging to grass.

  Naro stopped like someone had grabbed his throat.

  Kelon lifted a hand. Palm down.

  They dropped into a crouch. Reeds closed over their shoulders.

  Teshar parted the stalks with two fingers.

  Two aurochs stood in the shallows, dark bodies steaming. Horns swept wide from their skulls, edges chipped and scarred. One lowered its head to drink. The other kept watch, weight set through its forelegs.

  Naro mouthed: Biggest.

  Kelon’s lips barely moved. “Big horns. Great anger.”

  Teshar’s neck hair lifted.

  Kelon’s shoulders rose a fraction. His grip shifted on the spear shaft.

  His voice came from the corner of his mouth. “Move. Back.”

  They began to slide away—slow, bodies low—

  The reeds behind them pressed aside.

  A wolf’s shoulder pushed through wet stalks. Water trembled in a shallow pool beside its paw.

  Kelon didn’t look back. “Run.”

  Naro went first. Kelon went second. Teshar’s legs snapped into motion.

  No shouting. Noise belonged to predators.

  Mud sucked at heels. Reed stems lashed shins. Breath tore cold and sharp. Behind came the sound that mattered—feet through wet earth, steady—and the click of claws on stones.

  Aurochs bellowed. The sound rolled across the grassland.

  Teshar ran harder.

  Kelon cut toward thicker reeds, angled back toward open stones. Smart.

  Naro nearly went down. Kelon’s hand caught his shoulder and shoved him forward.

  The reeds thickened. Ground dipped. A rise of scrub broke the line of sight.

  Kelon threw himself down.

  Naro collapsed beside him, chest heaving.

  Teshar slid in on the other side, palms sinking into damp soil.

  He clamped his mouth shut. Breathed through his nose.

  Footfalls shifted nearby. A low huff came through the reeds. Not hurried. Measuring.

  Teshar’s hand found a stone. He closed around it.

  The sound moved off.

  Naro spat into the soil, shaking. “What was that?”

  Kelon kept his eyes on the reeds. “Wolves.”

  “I know it’s wolves. I mean—why—”

  He started to rise. Kelon grabbed his cloak and yanked him back down.

  Kelon’s mouth tightened. “They don’t hunt alone.”

  Teshar leaned forward. Mud held a clear print: narrow pad, toes splayed, claw marks pressed clean. Another beside it, smaller. Water still seeped at the edges.

  Naro leaned close. “How far did we go?”

  Kelon squinted upstream. “Not far. River bends. Camp’s above it.”

  Naro’s fear drained into stubborn hunger. “We’re here. Might as well try. Arulan wants two.”

  Kelon’s eyes flicked to the reeds. To the mud. To the water. He nodded.

  They moved again, slower, keeping to the bank where stones broke the surface. Mist still clung low. Sunlight slid through, turning the water bright in patches.

  Fish flashed in shadows.

  Kelon waded in first, spear low, body still.

  Naro splashed in after, impatience turning every step into noise.

  Kelon snapped. “Stop stomping. They feel you.”

  Naro bristled. “I’ll walk how I want.”

  “Then you’ll eat nothing.”

  Teshar eased in last. Cold punched through leather into bone.

  He tried with his hands first, fingers spread, moving slowly. Each time he closed his hands, water slipped through, and the fish were gone.

  Minutes dragged. Cold climbed higher.

  Naro’s effort turned sloppy.

  Kelon stayed still until the opportunity came. One controlled step, spear tip dipping—

  A flash.

  The spear moved.

  A fish jerked and hung on the point, twisting.

  Naro made a sound. “One.”

  Kelon lifted it out. He pinned the tail against the basket rim, slid the point free, and dropped the fish in.

  It flopped twice. Went still.

  Teshar watched shadows under the surface. Fish held where the current slowed, near stones and silt.

  A picture rose.

  Stones set into a V. Water guided into a narrow mouth. A basket trap at the tip.

  Simple. Patient.

  But he pressed his thumb into his sleeve seam until the thread scraped skin.

  Kelon’s gaze flicked to him. Question without words.

  Teshar tipped his chin toward the bank.

  Kelon nodded.

  They backed out. Cold peeled off legs in sheets.

  Naro shook his hands hard.

  Kelon looked at him.

  Naro stopped.

  They took the path back at a brisk pace. Eyes moving. Ears working.

  At the thorn ring’s gap, brambles caught Kelon’s cloak and tore a strip loose. He didn’t stop.

  Inside the ring, warmth hit them.

  Smoke drifted up through the new slits, thin enough not to claw throats.

  Arulan sat by the coals. Varek had moved closer. His stick tapped once as the boys approached.

  Naro stepped forward first, thrusting the basket out. “We got one. There were—”

  Arulan lifted two fingers.

  Naro’s mouth shut.

  Arulan looked at Kelon. “You did it.”

  Kelon dipped his head. “Yes.”

  Arulan’s gaze shifted to Teshar. It read the mark, took note, and moved on.

  “And you.”

  Teshar kept his voice level. “Aurochs at the shallows. Wolves in the reeds.”

  Adults near the fire went still. A woman’s bowl paused mid-stir, resumed.

  Siramae’s pestle slowed. She glanced up and met Teshar’s stare. A check: Are you whole?

  Teshar gave a small nod.

  Arulan planted his staff in ash. “Children stay inside the ring today. Older hands watch the gap.”

  No panic. Just an adjustment.

  A woman scooped up a toddler and carried it toward the shelter. An older boy drifted toward the thorn gap, expression shifting into duty.

  Arulan looked back at them. “Warm yourselves. Work after.”

  The basket went to the pot. The day moved on.

  Teshar stood apart from the fire. He held hands pressed against palms inside sleeves, nails digging into skin. His legs still carried river cold deep in bone.

  Varek’s eyes passed over him once.

  Teshar kept his face still. He watched smoke lift clean through the slits. Watched the thorn ring sit stubbornly around them.

  The picture of the fish trap came back.

  He crouched at the ash edge, dragged a finger through it. Two lines narrowing to a point.

  He stared at it.

  Added a small circle at the point. A basket.

  Let them see it. Let them wonder.

  A shadow fell over him.

  Varek, stick in hand, looking down at the marks.

  Teshar’s heart hammered. He met Varek’s eyes. Waited.

  Varek studied the lines. His jaw worked once. He grunted and walked away.

  No approval. Not condemnation. Acknowledgment.

  Teshar stood, brushed ash from fingers onto his leggings.

  He looked once toward the reeds beyond the ring where wolves moved when they chose.

  The world had shown its teeth this morning.

  It hadn’t finished choosing what to take.

  But neither had he.