The next morning dawned soft and golden, as if the land itself was trying to offer a reprieve from the unease of the scouts' discovery. The village moved with quiet purpose—repairs to fences, weaving of new slings, sharpening of bone-tipped spears. Even the children were quieter than usual.
Charlisa spent the early hours sorting dried herbs in the communal hut, and then, as if guided by instinct, made her way to the Matriarch's dwelling.
The home of Elder Shyara was unlike any other. Built low and wide, its walls were of woven reeds and clay, shaded by the large leaves of fan-palm trees. Strange symbols adorned the outside—circles within squares, lines spiraling into themselves, painted with ash and crushed berries.
Charlisa had passed the place many times, but today, Elder Shyara's voice called gently from within. "Come, child of the stars."
Charlisa stepped inside. The air was rich with the scent of burning resin and crushed wild mint. Woven tapestries hung from the ceiling beams—depicting stars, animals, a woman with one foot in a forest and another in flame.
"You've been watching me?" Charlisa asked.
"I've been listening," Shyara replied, motioning to the space beside her. "To the trees. To the wind. And yes, to you."
Charlisa sat, folding her legs beneath her. Shyara handed her a woven mat and a basket of dyed threads.
"You wish me to weave?"
"To remember," the elder said. "And to belong."
Charlisa hesitated, but her fingers soon found rhythm. Shyara's hands moved with calm wisdom, threading color and meaning into each knot.
"You remind me of my grandmother," Charlisa murmured. "Vina. She spoke to plants like they were old friends. She said roots carried stories."
Shyara nodded. "They do. And so do we. But roots are not only of the earth. They are also the ties we carry in our blood, even when we cross worlds."
They worked in silence for a while. Then Charlisa asked, "Do you fear what's coming?"
The elder's hands paused briefly. "Fear is like fire. It can burn your home or light your way. I choose to let it light mine."
Charlisa looked down at her half-finished pattern. Without realizing it, she had woven lavender into the design. She smiled.
"I want to protect this village. Not just survive, but thrive. Like my parents taught me. My father taught me how animals protect their mates. My mother taught me how plants defend their young. There's meaning in everything."
Shyara leaned forward and pressed a stone bead into Charlisa's hand. It was carved with the spiral-and-star symbol she had seen on the elder's wall.
"This is yours now," Shyara said. "Not because you ask to belong—but because you already do. Wear it in the days to come. And when the wind grows cold, you will remember who you are."
Charlisa held the bead tightly, gratitude swelling in her chest. She rose to leave.
But just as she stepped outside, a young boy came running up the path, panting, his face pale with fear.
"Elder Shyara—Kael sent me. You must come quickly. There's… there's something by the eastern ridge."
Shyara's eyes darkened. "What did he see?"
The boy swallowed hard. "He said it wasn't beastfolk. It wasn't a beast either. He said… it was watching."
Charlisa and Shyara exchanged a look.
Something had crossed into their borders. And it wasn't just passing through.