In the wild lands of the Old West, an unexpected twist of fate will intertwine the destinies of a captive girl and a warrior tribe. What happens by the river will shape not only the life of a child, but also the destiny of the entire tribe.

The sun beat down relentlessly on the plains of Texas that summer of 1857. The Comanches of the great Chief Iron Eagle had set up camp near the Brazos River, where water was plentiful and shelter was generous. Among the buffalo-hide tents, the chief’s five-year-old son, the swift Hawk, ran about chasing other children of the tribe.

 

In a secluded tent, guarded by two warriors, Sara Mitell tried to adjust to her new life. Captured just three months earlier during an attack on the wagon train in which she was traveling with her family to California, the 20-year-old was now a prisoner of the Comanches. Her blonde hair and blue eyes made her an anomaly among the tribe, and although most regarded her with suspicion, she had been allowed to live because of her healing abilities, discovered when she tended to a wounded warrior during the journey to camp. “Eat!” one of them ordered.

An old woman named Night Flower placed a bowl of dried meat and wild berries on the table. “You need strength,” she said. Sara nodded without looking up. She had learned that silent obedience was her best ally. “The chief is watching you,” the old woman continued in rudimentary Spanish, which served as their common language.

She says your hands hold good medicine. If you show courage, perhaps one day you will be free. I will never be free, Sara murmured. My family is dead and my home destroyed. Night Flower sat across from her. I too was captured many moons ago. I was Apache, now I am Comanche. Life goes on, white woman. Outside, the joyful shouts of children mingled with the murmur of the camp.

Sara approached the tent entrance, where she could see the chief’s son playing. There was something about that boy that reminded her of her little brother, killed in the attack. The chief’s son, Night Flower explained. Swift Hawk. His mother died in childbirth. The chief protects him like his own heart. Iron Eagle was returning from a hunt with several warriors.

His imposing figure, mounted on a magnificent pinto horse, exuded authority. Seeing him, Sara felt a chill. He was the man who had ordered her family killed, but also the one who had stopped a warrior when he tried to assassinate her.

That night, while the tribe celebrated the successful hunt, Sara stayed in her tent listening to the drums and chants. Suddenly, a desperate cry broke the harmony. She recognized Night Flower’s voice. “The boy has disappeared!” Without thinking, Sara left the tent. The warriors were moving in all directions, and the women were calling for the little boy, Swift Hawk.

The Iron Eagle chief shouted orders, his face contorted with worry. “I saw him running toward the river,” an older boy said. Sara looked toward the bank of the stream, which was running turbulent from the recent rains. A feeling of foreboding washed over her.

Without anyone stopping her, she ran toward the water just as the moon illuminated a small figure struggling against the current. “He’s in the river!” Sara shouted as she threw off the shawl that covered her shoulders. The Comanches ran after her, but Sara had already plunged into the water. The current was stronger than she expected, but she swam with all her might toward the boy who would disappear and resurface.

She managed to reach him just as he was about to sink for the last time. “I’ve got you,” she whispered, holding him to her chest as she tried to swim back to shore. The current was pulling them up. Sara felt her strength waning, but she refused to let go of the little boy. Suddenly, she felt someone grab hold of her. It was Iron Eagle, who had jumped into the water and was now pulling them toward the shore with powerful strokes.

When they reached land, Sara laid the child on the sand. He wasn’t breathing. Without wasting a moment, she pressed on his small chest and blew air into his mouth, a technique she had learned from her doctor father. The Comanches watched in silence, some murmuring that the white woman was stealing the child’s soul. “Live, little one,” Sara pleaded. “Live.”

After agonizing moments, Swift Hawk coughed, spitting up water. His eyes opened, disoriented. A collective sigh swept through the tribe. Iron Eagle scooped his son into his arms, hugging him tightly. Then he looked at Sara, soaked and exhausted. For the first time, his eyes held neither hatred nor distrust, but something Sara couldn’t decipher.

“You saved my son,” she said in Spanish. The Comanches do not forget. That night, Sara was moved to a better tent and, for the first time since her capture, was allowed to share a meal with the rest of the tribe. As the fire illuminated their faces, she felt their gazes upon her, different from before.

Iron Eagle, sitting on the other side of the fire with his recovered son in his lap, never took his eyes off her. Sara knew something had changed. She wasn’t free, but she wasn’t the same prisoner either. The river had carried more than just water that night. Two moons had passed since Swifthawk’s rescue.

Sara’s position in the tribe had changed drastically; she was no longer constantly watched, and although she was still a captive, she was allowed to move with relative freedom around the camp. The small, swift hawk followed her like a shadow, fascinated by the woman who had saved it from the turbulent waters.

One morning, while Sara was helping the women prepare hides, Nightflower approached. “The chief wants to see you,” the old woman announced. “He’s waiting for you in his tent.” Sara felt a knot in her stomach. Since the night of the rescue, she had barely exchanged a word with Iron Eagle, though she felt his watchful gaze from afar. The chief’s tent was the largest in the camp, decorated with sacred symbols and war trophies. Iron Eagle was sitting on buffalo hides with his son playing beside him.

Upon seeing her enter, the boy ran to her, hugging her legs. “Sit down,” the chief ordered, indicating a place in front of him. Sara obeyed, her heart pounding. Iron Eagle observed her silently before speaking. “My son says you have powers, that your eyes are like the sky and your hands like the gentle wind.” Sara lowered her gaze, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

I only did what anyone would have done. No, no captive would have risked her life for the son of the man who killed her family. The chief paused. Why did you do it? The question took her by surprise. He was a child in danger. I didn’t think of anything else. Iron Eagle nodded slowly.

The white people call us savages, but you showed a heart that understands the value of a life, even that of an enemy. He stood imposingly. “I want you to teach my son, to teach him your language and your knowledge of medicine.” It wasn’t a request, but an order. Sara nodded, aware that this new responsibility was both a privilege and a burden.

 

“You will also learn our customs,” the chief continued. “Night Flower will teach you. A good healer knows all the paths of healing.” Thus began a new routine for Sara. In the mornings, she taught Swifthawk words in English and Spanish and basic reading principles using drawings in the dirt.

In the afternoons, Night Flower would take her to gather herbs, teaching her about their medicinal properties and Comanche traditions. “The chief looks at you differently,” Night Flower remarked one day as they crushed roots for an ointment. “He looks at you the way he looked at White Moon, Swift Hawk’s mother.” Sara pretended not to hear, concentrating on her task.

She had noticed the iron-eagle stares, but refused to think about what they might mean. The Comanche camp moved twice that summer, following the buffalo herds. Sara learned to ride Comanche-style and to efficiently take down and rebuild a tent. Her once soft hands grew strong and calloused.

One afternoon, while gathering fences with a swift falcon, they heard the sound of horses’ hooves approaching at high speed. Several warriors were returning to the camp. “Soldiers!” they shouted, “The bluecoats are coming!” The entire camp mobilized. The women gathered essential belongings. The elders organized the evacuation.

The warriors readied their weapons. Iron Eagle emerged from his battle-painted tent. “Take my son,” he ordered Sara. “Nightflower will show you where to hide if the soldiers arrive. Don’t let them find him.” Sara felt her heart break. The soldiers weren’t her chance at freedom. She could escape, return to civilization, leave captivity behind.

But when she looked at the swift little falcon, clinging to her hand with absolute trust, she knew she couldn’t betray him. “I will protect him with my life,” she vowed. Iron Eagle gazed intently at her. Then, in a gesture that astonished everyone present, he cupped her face in his hands and rested his forehead against hers.

I trust you, Sara Mitell. It was the first time he had called her by name. The warriors left to confront the soldiers far from the camp. Sara, swift hawk and night flower, along with other women, children, and elders, hid in a cave among the nearby cliffs.

From there they could see the smoke from gunfire in the distance. “Will my father return?” Alc Veloz asked in Spanish, a language he now spoke fluently. “Your father is the bravest warrior of all,” Sara replied, embracing him. “He will return for you.” The battle lasted until nightfall.

When they finally saw the warriors returning, Sara anxiously counted the horses. Many were back, but some were missing. Iron Eagle led the group with one arm bloodied, but still alive. Swift Hawk ran to his father, who lifted him up with his good arm. Then his eyes searched for Sara. “The bluecoats are gone,” he announced. “We lost three brave warriors.”

That night, as Sara tended to the chief’s wound in his tent, he broke the silence. “You could have gone with them. The soldiers would have taken you back to your people.” Sara applied an herbal ointment to the deep cut before replying. “I promised to protect his son. A promise to an enemy is worthless to white people. I don’t consider him my enemy.”

“No,” Sara answered honestly. Then, gathering her courage, she asked, “Would you have let me go if the soldiers had found me?” Iron Eagle held her gaze. “No.” The direct, unadorned answer stirred conflicting emotions in Sara. Resentment at the confirmation of her captivity, but also a strange sense of belonging that she didn’t want to examine too closely. “Why?” he persisted. “Because my son needs you.”

She paused. “And why have you earned a place among us?” As she bandaged his injured arm, Sara realized how much he had changed. She no longer dreamed of escaping every night. Customs that had seemed barbaric now made sense. Faces that once terrified her now seemed familiar.

“Tomorrow we will celebrate the victory,” Iron Eagle said. “You will dance with the women of the tribe.” It wasn’t an invitation, but an acknowledgment of her new status. Sara nodded, aware that with each passing day, the Sara Michel who had arrived as a captive was fading a little more, and a new woman, neither entirely white nor entirely Comanche, was taking her place.

Autumn arrived on the plains, painting the grasslands gold and red. The Iron Eagle tribe had moved to their winter encampment, a sheltered valley nestled among hills where the cold winds didn’t blow as fiercely. Sara, now known among the Comanches as Sky Eyes, had earned the tribe’s respect, not only for saving Swifthawk, but also for her medicinal knowledge, which had helped many during a fever epidemic at the end of summer.

The chief had officially appointed her the tribe’s healer, a position she shared with Nightflower. The two women worked together, combining Sara’s Western knowledge with the Comanche elder’s ancestral wisdom. One cold morning, while Sara was teaching Swifthawk to read using markings on a piece of bark, Iron Eagle entered the tent she now shared with Nightflower. “Mexican traders have arrived.

“They want to trade goods,” she announced. “Come with us, we need your Spanish.” Sara followed the chief to the edge of the camp, where several Mexican men were waiting with mules loaded with goods. Upon seeing her, the traders didn’t hide their surprise. “A white woman among the Comanches?” asked the one who appeared to be the leader, a burly man with a thick mustache.

“Are you a captive, ma’am? Could we help you?” Sara translated his words for Iron Eagle, omitting the offer of help. The chief replied, “Tell them you are part of our tribe now, that your place is here.” Sara hesitated a moment before relaying the message. “I live with the Comanches by choice,” she said in Spanish. “I am a healer of the tribe.”

“It wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t entirely false either. The months of captivity had evolved into something different, something she herself couldn’t define. The trader looked at her skeptically, but didn’t press the issue. Negotiations began with Sara translating between Spanish and the Comanche language.”

The Mexicans offered textiles, metal tools, coffee, and sugar in exchange for buffalo hides and horses. As the men discussed the terms, one of the younger traders approached Sara. “My name is Miguel,” he said quietly. “If you need help escaping, we could take you with us when we leave. We have a ranch near San Antonio.”

Sara felt her heart race. It was a tempting offer, perhaps her last chance to return to civilization. She glanced over at Swift Hawk playing with other children and then at Iron Eagle, towering and proud as he negotiated. “Thank you,” she finally replied, “but my place is here now.”

The words tumbled from her mouth before she could think them, and she was surprised to find they felt sincere. The exchange concluded successfully. Among the goods acquired was a small mirror, which Iron Eagle gave to Sara. “So you can see what we all see,” he said enigmatically. That night, by the light of the bonfire, Sara gazed at her reflection for the first time in months.

He barely recognized the woman who stared back at him. Her skin was tanned by the sun, her blonde hair longer and adorned with small Comanche-style braids, her blue eyes deeper and more serene. She was no longer the frightened captive, nor the refined doctor’s daughter who had left for California. Iron Eagle sat beside her, watching her reaction.

The merchants offered you a ride, didn’t they? Sara nodded, surprised by her insight. Why did you stay? It was the question she’d been asking herself all day. I don’t know for sure, she confessed. Perhaps because I’ve found a purpose here. I help people with my medical knowledge.

Swift Hawk needs me, and he hesitated before continuing. I no longer see the Comanches as enemies. What about me? Iron Eagle asked. His voice was softer than usual. How do you see me, the one who ordered the attack where your family died? The question hit Sara like a punch. For months she had avoided thinking about it, separating the Iron Eagle she knew now from the warrior who had destroyed her former life. “I can’t forget what happened,” she answered honestly.

But I also see the man who protects his people, who loves his son, who let me live when he could have killed me. He paused. Life is full of contradictions. I’ve learned that here. Iron Eagle nodded, satisfied with his answer. Tomorrow we’re going hunting. The winter will be harsh, and we need more meat. I want you to come with us.

“Women don’t marry among the Comanches. You are not an ordinary Comanche woman,” he replied with a slight smile. “You will come as a healer, and because I want you to learn all our ways.” The hunt proved to be a transformative experience for Sara. For five days she accompanied the warriors, observing the coordination and skill with which they stalked and brought down the buffalo.

She learned to ride like them, effortlessly, feeling the horse’s movement as an extension of her own body. One afternoon, while the men were chasing a herd, Sara separated from the group to gather medicinal herbs she had spotted. Without realizing it, she ventured into unfamiliar territory.

When she tried to return, she realized she was lost. Panic began to grip her as the sun set. She remembered the teachings of the night-flower: observe the sky, the plants, the signs of the earth. She tried to get her bearings, but anxiety clouded her judgment. Suddenly, she heard hooves approaching.

Her relief turned to terror when she realized they weren’t Comanches, but Kyoguas, an occasionally hostile tribe. Three warriors surrounded her, speaking in a language she didn’t understand. “I am a healer of the Comanches,” she said in Spanish, then in Comanche, hoping they would understand one of the two languages.

One of the Kowa warriors, with eagle feathers in his hair, answered in rudimentary Comanche. White woman with Comanches. Strange. I belong to the Iron Eagle tribe, Sara insisted, mentioning the chief by his full Comanche name. The Kyowas exchanged glances. The name of the feared Comanche chief seemed to have impressed them, but not enough. The Comanche-speaking warrior took her arm.

You’ll come with us, good rescue. Sara tried to resist, but it was useless against three warriors. They put her on a horse and rode off quickly. As they rode, Sara watched the horizon, memorizing landmarks, looking for any sign of the Comanche camp.

At nightfall, when the Kaiowas paused briefly to rest, she heard a familiar sound, the call of an owl, but with a pattern Iron Eagle used to communicate with her warriors. Her heart raced. The Comanches were close, searching for her. Stealthily, she picked up a small stone and threw it at a distant tree. The noise momentarily distracted the Kaiowas.

Sara seized the opportunity to emit the response sound she had learned during the hunt. Seconds later, chaos erupted. Comanche warriors emerged from the darkness like vengeful spirits. Iron Eagle led the attack, his face painted for war, his eyes burning with fury.

The Koguas, outnumbered, were soon subdued. Iron Eagle leaped off and ran to Sara. “Are you hurt?” he asked, examining her with his eyes. “I’m fine,” she replied, trembling with relief. “How did you find me?” “I followed your trail since you separated from the group,” explained a Comanche who never loses what belongs to him.

The possessive yet protective words stirred a wave of emotions in Sara. Iron Eagle helped her mount her own horse and ordered the return to home camp. That night, while the others slept, the chief sat beside her by the fire. “Today you showed courage,” he said. “And cunning—you recognized my call and answered correctly. I have learned much from you,” Sara replied.

Iron Eagle took her hand, an unusually tender gesture for the stern warrior. “When we return to camp, I want you to be my wife.” The direct, unadorned proposal left Sara speechless. Part of her wanted to refuse, remembering the pain of her lost family. Another part acknowledged the feelings that had grown within her.

“I need time,” she said. Finally, “You have until we get back,” he granted, respecting her request. During the two-day journey back, Sara reflected deeply. “Could I love the man who had destroyed my former life? Or was that man already someone different in her mind? And wasn’t she, too, a different person now?”

Upon seeing the winter camp, with the smoke from the campfires rising into the gray sky, Sara made her decision. Snow fell softly on the Comanche camp. When Sara awoke in the tent she now shared with Iron Eagle, three moons had passed since their wedding, celebrated according to the tribe’s traditions.

She remembered clearly the moment she had accepted the chief’s proposal. Standing before him, in front of the entire camp, dressed in a ceremonial deerskin gown adorned with beads that the women had crafted for her. “I will be your wife,” she had said in perfect Comanche, prompting murmurs of approval from those present. Nightflower, who had become her mentor and friend, had wept with joy.

Swifthawk had run to embrace her, overjoyed that the woman who had saved him was now officially his mother. Now, as she watched the iron eagle sleep beside her, Sara reflected on the extraordinary turn her life had taken, from captive to chief’s wife, from foreigner to respected member of the tribe. Her knowledge of medicine, combined with the teachings of night-blooming flower, had made her a healer revered by all.

She got up quietly and went outside to watch the sunrise. The camp was beginning to stir, with women lighting fires and children venturing out to play in the fresh snow. This was her home now, so different from the brick house in San Luis where she had grown up, but just as real. “Good morning, sky eyes,” a woman called out as she passed by carrying water.

“Good morning, swift servant,” Sara replied with a smile. She no longer thought of herself as Sara Michel, though she kept that name in her heart as a reminder of her former life. To the tribe, she was Eyes of Sky, wife of Iron Eagle, mother of Swift Hawk, healer of the Comanches.

Swift Hawk emerged from the tent, rubbing his sleepy eyes. At almost six years old, he was a strong and agile boy, a perfect blend of his father’s bravery and the curiosity Sara had instilled in him. “Mother,” he said in Comanche, taking her hand. “Today we’ll continue with the lessons.” Sara taught him not only English and Spanish, but also basic principles of mathematics and science, using natural materials as learning tools.

Iron Eagle supported this education, recognizing that the world was changing and his son would need to know the ways of both the Comanches and the white men. “Of course,” he replied, stroking her black hair. After helping your father with the hunt, the morning passed with the usual routine. Sara helped prepare food. Then she tended to an elderly man with joint pain.

At midday, she noticed several warriors hurrying back to the camp. Iron Eagle greeted them with a grave expression. “What’s wrong?” Sara asked, seeing his worried face. “Soldiers,” he replied, “many more than last time. With cannons.” A chill ran down Sara’s spine. The clashes between the Comanches and the U.S. Army had intensified in recent months.

New settlements were springing up in traditionally Comanche territory, and tensions were rising. How much time do we have? Not much. They’re camped halfway from here. They could arrive tomorrow. The tribe mobilized quickly. The women began taking down tents and packing essential belongings.

The elders were organizing the evacuation to the western mountains, more difficult terrain where the soldiers with their heavy equipment would have trouble following them. While helping with the preparations, Sara overheard two young warriors arguing. “We should attack them tonight while they sleep,” one suggested. “There are too many of them,” the other replied. “It would be suicide.” Iron Eagle intervened.

We will not seek battle this time; we will protect our families. Victory lies in surviving to fight another day. It was a wise decision, but Sara sensed the pain in his voice. For a proud Comanche warrior, retreating without a fight was difficult to accept. At nightfall, when much of the camp had already set out, a scout arrived with alarming news.

A group of soldiers has broken away from the main force. They’re coming from the east. They’ll cut off our passage to the mountains. Iron Eagle has gathered his best warriors. We must divide the tribe. The elders, women, and children will continue north, flanking the soldiers. The warriors will engage the eastern group to buy us time. Sara approached him as he gave instructions.

“Let me speak to them,” she proposed. “I’m white. Perhaps they’ll listen.” Iron Eagle looked at her in surprise. “Speak? Bluecoats don’t come to talk, but to kill or capture. But if I can convince them to find another route, that the tribe poses no threat.” “It’s too dangerous,” he replied categorically. “You’ll go with Swifthawk and the others, no.”

The firmness in Sara’s voice surprised everyone. “I’ve learned to be a Comanche, to make difficult decisions for the good of the tribe. This is my decision.” Iron Eagle looked at her with a mixture of pride and concern. Finally, he nodded. “Three warriors will escort you a certain distance. If the soldiers capture you, they won’t,” Sara assured him.

Before leaving, he knelt before Swifthawk. “Obey Nightflower,” he said, embracing him. “Soon we will be together again.” The boy nodded, tears welling in his eyes, but without crying, showing the composure of a true chief’s son. The farewell with Ironhawk was brief, but intense. He cupped his face in his hands.

“Return to me, sky-eyes,” he said, using her name. “I will,” she promised. She rode east, accompanied by three warriors who stopped when they spotted the campfires of the military encampment. Sara continued alone, her heart pounding. She had tied a white handkerchief to a branch, a universal sign of peace.

“Halt!” shouted a sentry as he saw her approaching. Soon she was surrounded by soldiers who stared at her in astonishment. “I’m Sara Michel,” she announced. She requested to speak with their commanding officer. She was led before a middle-aged man in a captain’s uniform. Upon seeing her, his expression shifted from surprise to disbelief.

A white woman among savages. “I live with the Iron Eagle Comanche tribe,” Sara replied with dignity. “And I have come to prevent unnecessary bloodshed.” The captain invited her to sit by the fire. Sara briefly explained her story, omitting personal details, presenting herself as a mediator between the two worlds. “The tribe is withdrawing peacefully,” she explained.

They’re not looking for a fight, they’re just asking for free passage north. “We have orders to take all the Comanches to the reservation,” the captain replied. “It’s government policy.” “I know,” Sara said. “But this tribe hasn’t attacked any settlements in months. They’re willing to stay off settler routes if they’re allowed to keep some of their traditional territory.”

The negotiation dragged on for hours. Sara used all her knowledge of both cultures to build bridges of understanding. She spoke of Comanche dignity, but also of the inevitability of the white advance. She proposed compromises that could at least minimally satisfy both sides. “You could come back with us,” the captain suggested at one point.

Reintegration into civilized society. Sara smiled sadly. My place is with them now, Captain. I have a son and a Comanche husband. Finally, the officer made a decision. I will order a change of course. We will not pursue your tribe if you remain north of the Colorado River for the next six months.

After that time, they will have to consider moving to their assigned reserve. It wasn’t a complete victory, but it was a valuable respite. “Thank you, Captain,” Sara said, standing up. “I’ll pass on your terms, ma’am,” the officer interrupted. “You should know that this agreement is temporary. The world is changing. The Comanches won’t be able to maintain their way of life much longer.”

“I know,” she replied calmly. “But every day of freedom is precious.” At dawn, Sara rode back to the rendezvous point agreed upon with Iron Eagle. She found him waiting anxiously with several warriors. “The soldiers will change their route,” he announced. “We have six months of peace if we stay north of the Colorado River.” The relief on the chief’s face was evident.

“You’ve gotten more than we expected. It’s only borrowed time,” Sara warned. The captain made it clear that eventually all the Comanches would have to go to the reservations. Iron Eagle nodded gravely. “We know, but we’ll use that time wisely.” They rode together to the new temporary camp where the rest of the tribe awaited them.

Swift Hawk ran toward them as soon as he saw them, and Sara dismounted to embrace him. “I missed you, Mother,” the boy said. “I missed you too, little hawk,” she replied, kissing his forehead. That night, while the tribe celebrated the success of the negotiation and the avoidance of a bloody confrontation, Sara and Iron Eagle sat apart, gazing at the stars.

When I was captured, Sara reflected, I thought my life was over. Now I know it was just beginning. The Great Spirit has mysterious ways, he replied. He brought an enemy to make her the heart of our tribe. Sara rested her head on her husband’s shoulder.

What will we do when the time comes to make the toughest decisions? When the reservation becomes inevitable, we will survive, Iron Eagle replied with determination. The Comanches always survive, and you have taught us that adapting doesn’t mean surrendering. Sara thought about the future. A future where Swifthawk would grow up between two worlds, where Comanche traditions would have to coexist with the new reality.

It would be difficult, sometimes painful, but not impossible. We are stronger together,” he said, intertwining his fingers with Iron Eagle’s. Neither completely white nor completely Comanche, but something new. The chief smiled. A rare smile on his usually stern face. Something new and powerful like you. Eyes of the sky.

As the flames of the bonfire danced before them, Sara Michel, now under the gaze of heaven, contemplated the tribe that had become her family. The path that had led her there had been arduous and marked by pain, but also by discovery, learning, and ultimately, love. The future was uncertain, as it always had been, but she had her husband, her son, and a community that valued her not for her origins, but for her actions.

And that’s what she discovered; it was more than many white people or Comanches could say. “Tomorrow we will continue our journey,” Iron Eagle said, pointing toward the northern horizon. “Tomorrow and every day to come,” Sara replied, with the certainty of someone who has finally found her place in the world, even if that place wasn’t the one she had imagined for herself.

The snow began to fall again, covering the camp with a white blanket that erased the traces of the past and offered a blank canvas on which to write the future. A future that Sara Michel, once a captive and now sky-eyed, wife of an iron eagle, was ready to face.