Elara froze at the sound of boots crunching through fresh snow outside the cabin.

Through the frosted window, shapes formed out of the whiteout—mounted riders, rifles slung low, moving with the quiet certainty of men who expected violence to be answered without question.

She stepped back instinctively, hand drifting toward her late husband’s rifle above the hearth.

But before she could reach it—

A weak breath broke the silence behind her.

The Lakota warrior had opened his eyes.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Just stared at the firelight as if trying to remember whether he was alive or still trapped in the storm. Then his gaze shifted—slowly—toward Elara.

Outside, a sharp knock hit the door.

Once.

Then again.

A man’s voice followed, cold and controlled.
“We know he’s inside.”

Elara’s breath caught.

The warrior pushed himself up slightly, pain tightening his face, but his hand moved first—not toward her, not toward the door—but toward the space between them, as if silently asking a question without language.

“Are they yours?” he rasped.

Elara shook her head immediately.

Another knock. Harder this time. Wood shuddered in its frame.

The warrior’s expression changed.

Not fear.

Recognition.

“They didn’t come for me,” he whispered. “They came for what I saw.”

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Elara’s grip tightened on the table.

“What did you see?” she asked.

The fire popped loudly.

And for a moment, he didn’t answer—because the men outside began counting.

Slowly.

Like a warning.

Inside the cabin, the warrior finally looked toward the door.

And said only one thing.

“They’re already too late.”