To save his people, Kale must must break his village's most sacred taboo, one that has a death penalty: he must chop down a tree.
 

Kale picked up a twig. He crushed it in his wrapped hand, and it fell apart with barely a sound. He flung the remains aside and said, “More brittle than last year; not even worth burning.”

     Wren gave a grunt and said, “Same luck with the others, I bet.”

     “Winter’ll be rough this year,” said Kale. “The last wood-gathering before the snow comes, and we barely have enough to keep warm, let alone cook our meat.”

     “Or trade for steel,” added Wren. He rubbed his finger along the worn edge of his flint spearhead. “Too bad; was looking forward to having a real weapon for next year’s hunt. This damn head’s almost had its last sharpening.”

     Kale tapped his skit with his boot, then crossed his arms and leaned against a massive oak, “You’d think these trees would at least have the decency to drop good wood for once.”

     “Aye,” said Wren. He scratched his beard; his downcast brows formed more wrinkles than what were already on his forehead. “Be nice if one of these grand oaks fell like last winter when the ice rain came. We’d have plenty wood for certain then.”

     Kale rubbed the blade of his steel axe and said, “We could make one fall; wouldn’t take many strikes to do it.”

     “That’s blasphemy talk there lad,” said Wren. “I told you before about that. I won’t warn you again.”