Sweat crept down Acoti’s left temple and tickled his eyebrow as he stabbed his knife into the tree bark. He withdrew the blade and used it to smear the thick, sanguine resin against the wound in his neck. His skin burned as he rubbed it in with his finger. He knew the resin of the dragon’s blood tree would help heal his wound, but he feared it couldn’t counter the poison.

Why had he been targeted? He hadn’t seen the person who’d blown the dart, only heard his attacker sneer, “You poisoned me first,” before disappearing among the mist and leaves.

Now Acoti knelt, dug his fingers into the soggy dirt, and yelled, “I never poisoned anyone!” His voice echoed off the mountainside. The cloud forest around him rustled in apparent mockery. The constant mist at this altitude sent beads of water sliding down the tree trunks and pooling on the orchids, like his sweat from the poison fever.

He heard footsteps approaching. His friend Pamba appeared through the mist clutching a jar with both hands, her stone bracelets clacking against the hard clay and her dark hair swishing. She spotted him, gasped, and rushed over, sloshing water over her wrists as she ran.

“Acoti, you’re so pale,” she said. She set the jar down against the tree trunk and tried unsuccessfully to help him up. The cool water on her hands felt soothing against his fevered arms. “I heard you yell,” she said. “What happened?”

He pointed to the puncture wound in his neck, which the resin had temporarily stained a muddy red. “A surprise this morning.”

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