Chapter 1 The encounter
1727, Ouisconsin
The river carried him farther than any road ever could.
Jean-Baptiste Lavigne stood at the bow of his narrow canoe as it cut through the quiet current of the Fox River, its dark waters reflecting a sky just beginning to pale with morning. Mist clung low over the surface, curling and shifting like something alive. He had learned, in his years traveling west from Montreal, that the land did not wake all at once. It breathed itself into day—slow, watchful, and patient.
He preferred it that way.
Behind him, his trade partner Étienne still slept, slumped against a bundle of pelts—beaver, mostly, bound tight and smelling faintly of smoke and river water. They had come far for those pelts, deeper into the territory of New France than most men dared travel now. The war had changed things. It had made the forests quieter in some places, more dangerous in others.
Jean-Baptiste dipped his paddle lightly, guiding the canoe toward the riverbank where tall reeds whispered together in the early breeze. Somewhere beyond them lay a village he had only heard of in fragments—spoken by traders in low voices, or mentioned by missionaries who never stayed long enough to truly know the people they claimed to serve.
He did not trust secondhand stories.
As the canoe brushed softly against the muddy edge, he stilled it with practiced ease and stepped into the shallows. The water was cold enough to bite, even through his worn boots. He pulled the canoe farther onto shore, careful, quiet—instinct more than thought guiding him now.
It was then he felt it.
Not danger, exactly. Not yet. But presence.
He straightened slowly, eyes scanning the tree line where the forest rose dense and green beyond the reeds. The world had gone very still. Even the birds seemed to hold their breath.
And then he saw her.
She stood just within the shadow of the trees, as if the forest itself had shaped her from light and silence. A bow rested in her hand, not raised, but ready. Her dark hair was braided and fell over one shoulder, and though the distance between them was not great, he could not yet read her expression—only the steadiness of her gaze.
Jean-Baptiste did not reach for the knife at his belt.
Instead, he lifted one hand, slowly, palm open.
“I mean no harm,” he said in careful words, first in French, then again in the trade tongue he had learned along the waterways.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Then she stepped forward, just enough for the light to touch her face. There was no fear in it. Only caution—and something else he could not yet name.
“You are far from where your kind usually travels,” she said.
Her voice was calm, but not unkind.
Jean-Baptiste felt, strangely, as though the river had carried him to this exact moment—not by chance, but by design.
“I could say the same,” he replied, a faint smile touching his mouth despite himself.
The corner of her lips shifted—almost a smile, though she did not give it fully.
Behind him, Étienne stirred, muttering as he woke, unaware that something had already changed.
Jean-Baptiste did not look back.
He had the distinct sense that if he did, even for a moment, she might disappear into the forest—and whatever path had just opened before him would vanish with her.
Instead, he held her gaze.
And the day, at last, began.
