*Echo Riders of the Bitterhorn Pass*

As early summer curled through Bitterhorn Pass, the Painted Lodge warriors rode with unwavering resolve. Their Appaloosa and paint horses splashed through the glacial waters of the northern stream, their reflections dancing in ripples of sunlight and snowmelt. Cloaked warpaint they moved as one—silent save for the steady drumming of hooves and the swaying of feathers in rhythm.

At their lead rode Two Feathers, a young war chief whose painted face bore the twin marks of both protector and hunter. His lance, crowned with red-dyed feathers, cut the dawn air like a prophecy fulfilled. Behind him, shields emblazoned with sacred animals and storm motifs clattered softly against the flanks of riders determined to reclaim a valley once theirs—a place where ancestors sang and buffalo once thundered.

The journey was more than war. It was a return to what was theirs. As the sun crowned the snow-laced peaks, the riders passed into legend, shadows on the ice and flame in their hearts.