That evening, the village elders convene in a wide, hollowed-out chamber carved into the trunk of what must be the oldest tree in the settlement, the wood inside worn smooth and dark with age, faintly ridged where countless generations of claws have traced the same familiar grooves. A fire pit sunk into the center throws warm, flickering light across a dozen weathered, attentive faces.
Serenith drifts near the ceiling, arms crossed, watching the proceedings with the same quiet interest she shows to every one of these meetings now, and Kamiko settles onto a cushion beside Lucien with the easy familiarity of someone who's done this exact routine in a dozen other villages already.
Lucien and Kamiko lay out their plans for the tribelands in careful detail.
