It’s not quite a homecoming. Our tribe crossed the strait when I was twelve, and we’ve moved around too much for me to really feel like I belong anywhere. Still, Monyar’s bamboo forests are a welcome sight. The Dara villagers live in the valleys and foothills, and I avoid them, since they’ve shown their belly to the empire. Instead, I hike deep into the mountains, wandering the bamboo groves, gaining strength day by day. The hunting’s good once I knap a rough knife and throw together some snares, and there are a few small caves where I can conceal a cooking fire. I don’t bother trying to look for my people. The Shidadi have always been good at staying hidden, and with the empire coming down harder on us every day, we’ve had to become ghosts.

Even ghosts leave traces though, and little by little, I see signs that they’re still here—the ashes of a campfire not quite scattered, telltale divots where a snare had been placed. Every sight ignites a new spark of hope. I wonder about my fellow fighters. Are they alive? Have they given me up for dead? I let myself hope, just a little. Several times I see crows flying in unnaturally straight paths. I whistle to them, though none come down to me. Still, it’s another sign that my people are around. If I wander these forests long enough, they’ll find me.

It happens on my fifth day back. I’m walking the trails when a voice above me calls out. “Who are you, stranger? Speak your name.” The words are Amparan, but I smile and reply in Shidadi. “Dineas, son of Youtab and Artabanos, fighter for Gatha.” I don’t look up, because any motion would invite at least five arrows to loose from their bows.

“Pull back the hood of your cloak,” comes the voice again. Very slowly, I draw my hood back. A caw splits the air. A familiar black blur launches from the leaves, makes two circles around my head, then lands on my shoulder. The feel of claws digging into my shoulder is the best welcome I could hope for.

“Good lad, Preener,” I say.

The crow, whom I’d raised and trained from the shell, flaps his wings in reply. Finally, I raise my head to see archers perched in the bamboo above me.

And then a familiar voice calls out. “Neju’s sword, it really is Dineas.”

I know that voice. I’ve drilled so often to her commands that I could follow her orders in my sleep. I scan the forest until a short muscular woman steps out from the shadows. Gatha looks older than when I left her. There’s more gray in her short cropped hair, and she sports a fresh scar on her face, but I recognize the fierce grin she directs right at me.