November, Month of Frostfall.
On the windswept grasslands, every blade of grass had withered, and goose-feather snow poured down from the sky. That winter was especially brutal for the Toquenin lionfolk. Their expedition had failed, internal struggles showed no sign of ending, and the clan leaders constantly shifted blame and quarreled. Rumors claimed that some regions to the south and west had fallen into an eternal night. Large numbers of cattle and sheep had died in the blizzards, while refugees flooded in from every direction, making the situation even worse.
Inside the thick cowhide tent, it was as warm as spring.
Bright flames danced on the firewood with a crackling sound. Sparks occasionally rose and crawled up along the blackened bottom of the pot. A mutton rib was boiling inside, bubbles rolling through a thick layer of fat, while the air was filled with the savory scent of meat mixed with fragrant plant tubers.
Nair's gaze was somewhat vacant.
The lionfolk reckoned the years somewhat differently from the other civilizations. Since their people lacked an agrarian culture, they divided the year's most important seasons according to the flourishing and withering of plants. Once the grass and trees on the plains withered and flourished, a year had passed.
It seemed as though it had happened only recently. During the most prosperous season of the year, the tribesmen had been full of ambition, and he had just completed his coming-of-age ceremony. He had tied his white mane into braids, determined to become the greatest warrior of the lionfolk—to reclaim Toquenin's long-lost honor, just as his ancestors had done.
Back then, everything seemed to be developing in the best possible direction.
But in the blink of an eye, they had lost everything. He had lost his childhood playmate, his father, and countless other