The sun had barely risen above the horizon when the warriors of the Na?aru tribe armed themselves with spears and set out to hunt.

  There were about a dozen of them—tall elves clad in animal skins. They said goodbye to their wives, left the sacred lands of their tribe, and made their way into the thicket. At first they walked without a care, chatting, smiling, even chuckling; gradually, however, the hunters grew quieter. Eventually they fell completely silent and began to peer warily in every direction. Their long ears quivered at the faintest flutter of the leaves around them.

  They walked for a long time through the dark forest. Then one of them, a particularly tall elf with green?tinged hair, stepped forward and halted before a massive oak. He looked it over and shouted:

  "Nara!"

  Suddenly something rustled in the treetop, and a boy appeared on one of the branches. He looked to be about nine years old. His face was smooth, oval, and fair, and his tousled hair resembled silver moss.

  The elven hunters relaxed at the sight of him. The frown on their leader's face softened into a smile. He approached the tree, looked up at the boy, and asked:

  "Have you seen anyone approach, Nara?"

  "No, Uncle Tyr," the boy replied. He sat down on the oak branch and began to swing his legs.

  "But you have been watching, right?"

  The boy nodded.

  "Right."

  "Good. Remember, if you ever see warriors from another tribe, you must tell us as soon as possible. You are our sentry, after all."

  The boy nodded with a serious look on his face. Tyr, the leader of the hunting party, smiled. He always enjoyed seeing Nara, his nephew and the grandson of the current Na of their tribe, take something seriously.

  Nara had been extraordinary from the moment he was born. He learned to walk before he was even a month old. At three—an age when most children would burst into tears if separated from their mothers for even a moment—he wandered alone through the forest and climbed trees. By five, he had already learned to swim and attempted to cross the lake and reach the sacred island.

  By the age of seven, he knew the lands of his tribe almost as well as any hunter.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Several years later, during a feast at his brother's hut, Tyr noticed his nephew sitting apart from the others. A look of detachment and boredom clouded the boy's fair face. Curious, Tyr asked why he was not playing with the other children.

  "It's boring," Nara said.

  "Playing with the other children is boring? What about swimming? And climbing trees? Are those boring too?"

  The boy nodded.

  "Yes."

  "Is there anything that won't be boring for you?" Tyr asked.

  "Being a hunter won't be boring. I guess."

  "Why do you think that?"

  "Hunters are allowed to leave the tribe. I want that—so I want to be a hunter," Nara said.

  "I see…" Tyr scratched his chin as he studied his nephew's face. He had seen many children dream of becoming hunters, unaware of how exhausting and dangerous the hunts truly were.

  Nara's declaration, however, felt different. His voice was steady and serious, and his eyes were as clear as a cloudless sky. Tyr recalled how his brother sometimes complained that a shiver ran down his spine whenever he looked into the boy's eyes for too long.

  "Well, it's a bit early for you to go hunting," Tyr said.

  "I know," Nara replied with a shrug.

  "Although there is one task even a child can do."

  "What task?" The boy gave him a puzzled look.

  "Being a sentry. You would hide at the very edge of our lands and make sure no one approaches. If someone does, you give a signal. You'd need to be responsible and attentive for that task—but you are, aren't you? I can speak to your father about letting you try it. What do you think? It wouldn't be boring for you, would it?"

  The boy slowly shook his head.

  In the end, Tyr kept his promise. It had been about a year since Nara became a sentry, and so far he had carried out his duty with the utmost care, though there had been no incidents during that time that required him to act.

  Recalling that conversation, Tyr glanced again at his nephew, who sat perched on the oak branch, and said:

  "Good. We'll be back soon. Maybe we'll even catch the Great Wolf today!"

  With that, he led the hunters deeper into the forest.

  Nara stayed on the branch, watching them depart with a faintly longing gaze. He still wished to be one of them—a hunter—but not because he longed for the hunt itself. He simply wanted to leave the dull lands of his tribe, lands he knew by heart, and see what lay beyond: to discover how far the great green sea of trees stretched. To learn whether it had an end, or whether it was as endless as the sky above his head.

  Nara sighed, took several pebbles from the tree's hollow, and began rubbing them together, narrowing and sharpening them. The great forest was a dangerous place; at any moment, one could run into a warrior from another tribe. To be fully prepared, Nara intended to make himself a throwing spear. He had already found a sturdy stick to serve as the shaft. Now he needed to shape the tip.

  The boy worked diligently for several hours, pausing only occasionally to rest his hands. At one point, a large white bird alighted on a branch beside him. Nara wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and turned to face it. For a moment, envy flickered in his gaze.

  The bird had wings; it could go wherever it wished. No boundary could contain it—unlike him. Nara knew that he would not survive long if he dared to leave the tribe's lands and venture alone into the forest.

  Nara sighed.

  At that moment, the bird opened its beak… and spoke.

  "Hello, Nara."

  The boy's eyes immediately went wide.