"Silent Hunt: Shadows of the Longhouse"

The dawn mist clung low to the forest floor as Wanenhsí:io led the war party through the ancient trails of the eastern woodlands. His name meant "Beautiful Spirit," but there was nothing gentle in the set of his jaw this morning. Red war paint streaked his face—a mark of mourning and vengeance. Two moons ago, a British trader’s greed had cost the lives of two children from his village, and justice now walked on silent feet behind him.

Each step was deliberate. The ground beneath his feet remembered his ancestors—Mohawk scouts who once protected these same lands. Today, he moved with their spirit in his limbs, every sinew tight with purpose. Behind him, three trusted warriors followed, each with eyes sharp as a hawk's and hearts tied to the same grief.

In his grip was a steel-headed tomahawk passed down from his grandfather, the blade polished smooth by time and blood. Wanenhsí:io did not seek war lightly, but peace without justice was no peace at all.