BANDITS OF THE RIVER VALLEY

“Mist sat low over the Caribbean, thick enough in places to make the horizon disappear. Eya kept one hand on the wheel and the other near the weathered navigation tablet strapped beside him. The little yacht complained with every rise and fall of the water. Whoever owned it before the Only Cataclysm had either abandoned it or died trying to reach somewhere safer. Eya had stopped wondering which. The boat floated. That was enough. He was a cartographer and a warrior before he was anything else that morning. Chief, father, ambassador, survivor — all of those titles still mattered, but none of them worked without discipline. His work looked simple on paper: document who remained, map where they lived, note which routes were still open, and learn where the land itself had become dangerous. In practice, every route demanded the same thing the Watas demanded in training — observe first, move with purpose, and be ready when observation turned into a fight.”