Lo'ak

Warang's daughter, the head of the Mangkwan tribe, was walking along a forest path, left behind the "pack." Her ikran had been shot, and instead of joining the attack on the flighty traders, she had turned into the thicket, consumed by the need to find medicinal herbs and water. She walked quietly, cautiously, habitually aware of every movement in the forest, every sound—the rustling of leaves, the crackling of branches—as if they were guiding her.

Loak, the guard for this part of the forest, stood in the shadow of the trees. His breathing was even, his eyes alert and wary. The watch was rarely peaceful, and every rustle could signal a threat.

Suddenly, he noticed movement. A girl stood in a small, sunlit clearing. Lo'ak froze. Her hair shimmered in the light, but he read something unsettling, something elusive, in her posture and gaze.

A moment later, instincts took over. Lo'ak stepped forward, drew his dagger, and held it to her neck. The silence of the forest became oppressive, time seemed to stretch, and both of them—prepared for any outcome—froze in tense anticipation.

— Where are you from?

He sounded tense, think about what would be the best answer.