NASHOBA | + TYSM FOR 1000 SUBS

The forest was bleeding.

For countless cycles of the moon, Dinétah—the sacred land of the Navajo—had breathed in harmony with the spirits, the Yei. Now, every breath tasted of ash, iron, and rotting wood. The invaders had come like a plague of locusts. Pale-skinned men with eyes the color of ice and hearts hollowed out by greed. They did not walk the paths; they tore them open. They did not ask the spirits of the sacred pines for forgiveness when they felled them; they hacked at the trunks until the forest groaned, leaving deep, festering wounds in the earth.

Nashoba had watched them for weeks, blending into the shadows as only the Wolf could. He had crouched atop the high ridge, his amber-flecked eyes unblinking, tracking their movements. They were weak individually, slow and clumsy, stumbling over roots and recoiling at the hoot of an owl. But there were too many of them. Worse, they brought with them a terrible, unnatural magic.

When a scouting party of Navajo warriors had ventured too close to the pale faces' newly built wooden fort, the invaders had not fought with knives or stones. Nashoba had heard the booming thunder—a crack so loud it made the canopy violently shudder—and seen invisible, flying stones tear right through bone and flesh from a hundred paces away. Three good men had died before they ever unslung their bows.

Nashoba knew what the pale-skinned men were: a sickness. And a sickness did not leave until it had consumed the body entirely.

The time for watching had passed. Silence was no longer protection; it was a slow death.

The fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows against the rocky walls of the hidden canyon. The air was thick with tension, smelling of burning cedar and tightly coiled anger. Nastas "Broken Arrow" paced in front of the flames, his chest heaving, his scarred face twisted in a snarl. With sweeping gestures, he rallied the younger, hot-blooded warriors, his voice a harsh bark echoing off the stone. He spoke of honor, of the sacred groves being turned into flat wooden planks for the pale-faces’ structures. Tomorrow, a large group of the invaders would move deep into the ancient thicket to cut down the oldest pines. Nastas wanted blood.

Nashoba sat on his haunches near the edge of the light, entirely motionless. His thick, messy mane of black hair hung over his shoulders, the few eagle feathers tucked at the back swaying gently in the night draft. He didn't care for Nastas’s speeches. Nastas was a barking dog, eager to throw himself into the jaws of a bear just to prove he wasn't afraid.

At the center of the gathering stood Ahiga. Tall, noble, and marked as the future war chief, Ahiga raised his hands, trying to calm the storm Nastas was brewing. He spoke reasonably, warning them of the thunder-sticks, reminding them that their father, Nabahi, had not authorized this strike.

Nashoba watched his brother. He could see the conflict in Ahiga’s dark eyes. Ahiga knew that if he forbade them to go, Nastas would lead them into a massacre anyway, fracturing the tribe. To save them, Ahiga would have to lead them. He would have to walk into the fire.

As the council dispersed, leaving only a tense resolve hanging in the air, Nashoba pushed himself up from the dirt. He moved silently, his moccasins making zero sound, until he stood beside his brother.

"T'áá hwó' ajít'éego," Nashoba growled softly, his voice a low, vibrating rumble in the quiet night.

Every man is responsible for himself.

Ahiga turned, a tired, knowing smile touching his lips. He reached out and grasped Nashoba’s shoulder, a gesture Nashoba would tolerate from no one else on earth. "Sik'is, doo bił heeshchaa'góó éí dínóonééł," Ahiga said, his voice heavy with responsibility. "Dił naazkaadgo hooghandi doo sédáa da doo."

Brother, if I do not guide them, they will die. I cannot sit in the Hogan while blood is spilled.

Nashoba’s jaw tightened. The charcoal mask smeared across his eyes made his glare look demonic in the firelight. The Wolf inside him was already pacing, already tasting the copper of the coming hunt. He didn't care about Nastas. He didn't care about the hot-headed fools who thought bravery could deflect bullets.

"Doo ni'níłchxosh da," Nashoba replied, his tone final.

I will not let you go alone.

To send his brother into the woods alone was unthinkable. To leave Ahiga surrounded by idiots was a death sentence. The Wolf protected its own.

The assault began at high sun, just as the cacophony of metal axes biting into sacred wood reached a deafening crescendo.

The pale faces were separated, working in groups of three around the massive trunks. Nashoba was a blur of dark leather and painted skin, launching from the underbrush with the explosive power of a coiled spring. There were no battle cries, no soaring speeches. Only the visceral, wet thud of bone knives finding throats and the frantic, terrified screams of the invaders.

But the pale-skinned men were not entirely foolish. They had guards.

The deafening CRACK of the thunder-sticks shattered the forest’s ancient silence. Acrid, white smoke filled the air, stinging Nashoba's sensitive nose, blinding the Navajo warriors.

Chaos erupted. A warrior to Nashoba's left collapsed, half of his chest simply erased by a blast. Nastas was roaring somewhere in the smoke. Nashoba spun, his bone knife slick to the hilt, scanning the haze. Suddenly, he heard it—a sharp grunt of pain, unmistakably familiar.

"Ahiga!"

Nashoba tore through the smoke, his heart hammering against his ribs. The world narrowed to a single, hyper-focused point. He saw his brother stumble, a rapidly blossoming circle of dark crimson staining the side of his tunic. A pale face in a blue coat was hastily pouring black powder down the barrel of his weapon, raising it for a second shot directly at Ahiga’s head.

A primal, inhuman roar ripped from Nashoba’s throat. The beast beneath his skin surged, flooding his veins with pure, blinding rage. He lunged, launching a terrifying distance through the air to intercept the gunman.

A sudden, blinding flare of white-hot agony exploded in Nashoba’s side.

The force of the lead ball slamming into his ribs knocked him off his trajectory. He hit the dirt hard, tumbling through the bloody ferns. He gasped, his lungs refusing to expand, the world instantly tilting on its axis. Desperately, he tried to claw his way forward, fighting through the overwhelming, suffocating pain. His vision blurred, swimming with shadows. Through the haze, he saw Ahiga writhing on the earth, bleeding out, defenseless. The instinct to protect, to tear, to kill, screamed in Nashoba's fading consciousness, demanding he rise, demanding the transition into the beast.

But a shadow loomed over him. Before the Wolf could fully take the reins, the heavy wooden stock of a rifle came down with crushing force against his skull.

The world went violently black. The Wolf had failed.

Heat. Oppressive, agonizing heat beating down on his face.

Nashoba groaned, the sound raw and broken. His eyelids fluttered, every movement of a muscle sending a sharp, sickening spike of pain through his skull and his ribcage. Slowly, the blurry shapes coalesced into harsh reality.

He was sitting in the dirt. His arms were wrenched backward, bound brutally tight around a thick wooden post. The rough, fibrous ropes dug into his wrists, cutting off circulation. He tried to shift, but the thick, blood-crusted bandages wrapping his naked torso pulled sickeningly at his bullet wound, forcing a sharp hiss through his clenched teeth. His throat felt like it was lined with pulverized sand. He was dehydrated, feverish, and severely disoriented.

When his amber-flecked eyes finally adjusted to the glaring sunlight, the magnitude of his failure hit him like a physical blow. He wasn't in the forest. He couldn't smell the damp earth or the pine sap. He smelled unwashed bodies, horse manure, and the sickening stench of cheap tobacco.

He was in the center of the pale faces' wooden fortress. Captured. Alone. Surrounded by the enemy.

The noise of the camp buzzed around him—metal clanking, boots marching, unfamiliar guttural voices laughing. Panic tried to claw its way up his throat, but the Wolf crushed it instantly, replacing it with a cold, murderous fury. Where was Ahiga? Was he dead? The uncertainty gnawed at him far worse than the lead ball in his side.

Footsteps crunched on the dry dirt, approaching his post. Nashoba slowly lifted his head. The horrific bear-claw scar across his chest stood out starkly against his sweat-slicked, copper skin.

A pale-skinned soldier in a dusty uniform paused a few feet away, breaking off from a group of his laughing comrades. He held a leather canteen in his hands. The man shook the canteen, the sound of water sloshing inside unbearably loud to Nashoba's hypersensitive ears.

"Thirsty, savage?" the soldier taunted, popping the cork and taking a slow, exaggerated gulp. Water spilled down his chin, hitting the dirt directly in front of Nashoba’s boots. "Beg for it. Come on. Say please."

Nashoba didn't shrink. He didn't beg. He simply stared up at the man. His dark eyes, framed by the stark black charcoal smear across his face, were utterly devoid of humanity. It was the unblinking, dead-aim stare of an apex predator.

When the soldier leaned in slightly closer, emboldened by the ropes holding the prisoner, Nashoba struck.

With a terrifying surge of explosive power, ignoring the tearing pain in his ribs, Nashoba kicked his right leg out. His thick-soled moccasin slammed directly into the side of the soldier's knee with a sickening pop.

The man shrieked, collapsing into the dust and clutching his leg, spitting curses. Nashoba breathed heavily through his nose, his lips curling back over his teeth in a silent, vicious snarl.

The soldier scrambled awkwardly to his remaining good foot, his face purple with rage. Without hesitation, he drew his boot back and kicked Nashoba squarely in the jaw.

Nashoba’s head snapped to the side. The metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth. He didn't make a sound, only slowly turned his head back, spitting a glob of bright red blood into the dirt near the soldier's boots.

The soldier rubbed his jaw, breathing hard, looking down at the captive with disgust.

"Lady Archer was a fool to beg the Colonel for better conditions for you, you rabid dog," the soldier spat, his voice trembling with anger. "Oh, yes. The poor savage needs a private tent away from the sun so he can heal. If it were up to me, I’d strangle you with these bare hands right now."

The soldier limped away, muttering curses about the Colonel's daughter, leaving Nashoba alone in the brutalizing heat.

Lady? Tent? The unfamiliar words meant little to his feverish brain. All he knew was that someone in this camp was responsible for keeping him alive. If they thought tying him to a post would break him, they did not know the beast they had captured.

A moment later, a shadow fell over him, blocking out the scorching sun. Soft footsteps, lighter than the boots of the soldiers, halted just at the edge of his vision. The faint, clean scent of something foreign—soap, maybe, and lavender—cut through the stench of the camp.

A hand hesitantly extended into his line of sight, offering a fresh, uncorked bottle of water.

Nashoba slowly raised his head. He looked past the water, his fierce, feral eyes locking instantly onto the female figure standing before him. His chest heaved painfully against the bandages. The Wolf inside him snarled, recognizing the scent of the enemy, warning him that everything in this place was a trap.

He bared his teeth, his voice a gravelly, broken rumble as he forced the clumsy, hated language out of his mouth.

"Go... away."

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