Three days had passed.
In the middle of the day, when the sun had reached its highest point, Peter left the camp and headed into the forest. He hadn't managed to stabilize his position in the tribe — but he was still looking. For any sign, any clue that might tell him how to get back to his own time.
Along the way, he crossed paths with an enormous herd of small creatures sprinting in the opposite direction. He dove immediately into a patch of tall grass nearby, holding his breath with everything he had.
The herd didn't even glance at him.
I want to go home — but I have to survive long enough to do it, he thought, pressing deeper into the forest, a dagger his only weapon.
After more than three hours of fruitless searching, he stopped in the shade of a tree that towered above all the others.
If I climb it, I'll get a better view, he thought, eyeing the canopy with something that, against all logic, still resembled curiosity.
He gripped the trunk and climbed — hand over hand, forehead slick with sweat. At one point his grip slipped and he nearly fell. On instinct, he yanked the dagger from his hip and drove it into the bark, using it as a hold. He kept going.
When he finally reached the top, he breathed like a man who had run for miles without water. He stood upright, steadied himself — and then forgot everything else.
Trees. Hundreds of thousands of trees, rolling outward in every direction, carrying a freshness completely unlike anything in his cave. The world was vast and untouched and alive.
Then his internal interface flickered.
— Connection quality: Average.
— Fragment of energy prototype detected within a 20 km radius.
"A prototype? Here? What is a prototype doing in the middle of prehistory?"
He looked down at Oonak's legs.
"Then again — so am I. And one thing is certain: this is not a coincidence."
Before he could finish the thought, a cluster of flying creatures burst from the branches behind him.
Peter barely reacted. The wildlife seems restless today, he thought.
But then the animals on the ground began to move too — all of them, all at once, all in the same direction.
They were all running from the same thing.
The air thickened. A metallic smell crept in. The sky dimmed. The wind bent the trees. The one Peter stood in shuddered violently — he grabbed a branch and held on. In the distance, a low rumble reached up through the earth itself.
Something large and violent was coming.
A storm. A prehistoric storm.
His chest tightened. He had read once that during this era, storms had been catastrophic — wiping out significant portions of entire populations in a matter of hours.
In one fluid motion, he leapt from the tree and landed with bent knees, absorbing the impact cleanly. No damage — Oonak's stocky feet had their uses. He broke into a run toward the camp, faster than he had moved since arriving in this body. The dust rose behind him across the plain.
He crossed the camp threshold still running and shouted:
"A storm! There's a storm coming! Find shelter — now!"
No one moved.
No one even looked at him.
Peter didn't wait. He ran for his cave. From up there, he was safe. The others, in their huts of skin and branches — they weren't.
The storm hit before he had even caught his breath.
Wind screamed through the camp, tearing at the rooftops. Rain crashed down in torrents, turning the ground to mud within minutes.
Peter watched from the cave entrance.
Serves them right, he thought. They should have listened.
Then a voice cut through — not from outside, but from somewhere inside him.
Rule #5 for time explorers: Do not let your emotions override the mission.
He had completely abandoned his purpose. If Oonak were here — the real Oonak — he would be fighting for his clan right now. And the truth was, it was Peter's fault that he had lost their trust in the first place. It was time to earn it back.
He stepped out of the cave and into the rain.
"The shelters!" he shouted, scanning the warriors. "Reinforce the edges with stones to weigh them down! Dig channels around them so the water doesn't flood inside!"
Silence.
"Now."
It was Oudra who moved first. He picked up two stones and pressed them against the base of the nearest shelter. That one gesture — coming from him — unlocked something. Other warriors followed. Then the women. Then the entire camp was in motion, with the quiet efficiency of people who know how to work together when someone finally shows them the direction.
Peter moved from shelter to shelter — supervising, correcting, helping. He wasn't giving orders. He was showing.
When the storm eased an hour later, the camp emerged into a different kind of silence. People stepped out slowly, looked around. The skin rooftops held. The channels had done their job. The ground was mud — but the structures were standing.
Someone said something quietly. Another answered. Then a third. Eyes began to turn — toward a single point.
Toward Peter.
They came without being asked. First in small groups, then all together. No cheering, no cries. Just that slow, collective movement of people who recognize something in someone — even before they have words for it.
An old woman placed her hand briefly on Peter's arm as she passed. An elder warrior nodded in his direction. Even some of those who had looked away since the failed hunt were standing a few steps from him now — upright in the mud, not moving to leave.
Oudra came and stood to his right. He said nothing. He didn't need to.
For the first time since the hunt, Peter felt the weight that had been crushing him for days shift slightly. Not disappear. Just move. Like a stone you can't yet lift — but that you've finally managed to roll.