Chapter 1 – The Whispers of Monte Highlands
Morning unfolded across Monte Highlands like a patient breath, slow and deliberate, washing the land in layers of gold and amber. Mist clung to the lower valleys, curling around the riverbeds and slipping between the acacia trees as if reluctant to leave. The sun had not yet climbed high enough to burn it away, and in that gentle in-between hour, the world felt awake but not yet watching.
Aeloria walked the boundary line where grass softened into thorn and root, her bare feet following a path worn smooth by memory. This was the route her mother had walked every dawn—checking the land, greeting the cattle, listening. The earth here was cool, damp with night's retreat, and she let her toes sink into it, grounding herself with every step.
She breathed in deeply. The air smelled of dust and river water, of crushed leaves and distant rain. Every sound felt sharper at this hour: the rhythmic chirr of insects hidden in the grass, the low groan of cattle shifting in their pens, the quiet slap of palm fronds stirring near the riverbanks. Even the silence had texture.
The Highlands spoke in these sounds. They always had. Soft, layered, endless. Most days, Aeloria listened without thinking, the way one listens to a heartbeat. But this morning, the whispers followed her more closely, brushing against her thoughts like unseen fingers.
"Not the cattle again," she murmured, a faint smile touching her lips. Last season, the herd had broken through the eastern fence twice, as if drawn by something beyond the hills.
The wind answered her, slipping past her ear like a secret it wasn't ready to share. It tugged gently at the loose strands of her hair, warm and scented with river reeds.
She stopped walking.
Something had shifted.
At first, she thought it was the light—mist and sun playing tricks on tired eyes. Then she saw it: a pale shape moving between the trees. Tall. Still. Watching.
Her pulse quickened.
As the mist thinned, curved horns caught the light, smooth and gleaming. An Ellipsiprymnus—one of the great waterbucks—stood just beyond the acacias, its body half-hidden by shadow and leaf. It was larger than any she had seen in months, its coat almost silver in the dawn glow.
The old stories stirred in her mind. The elders said the river spirits watched through the eyes of such creatures, judging those who forgot their place in the balance of things.
Aeloria bowed her head instinctively.
"I mean no harm," she whispered, her voice barely more than breath.
The waterbuck snorted softly, its nostrils flaring, then turned away. Its hooves sank soundlessly into the wet soil as it moved toward the river. Relief loosened her shoulders—until the creature paused.
Slowly, it turned its head back toward her.
Not startled. Not wary.
Listening.
The air changed.
From deep within the mountains came a low murmur, so faint she felt it more than heard it. Stones shifted beneath unseen weight. Trees creaked, though no wind stirred their branches. The sound rolled outward, through soil and root, through bone and blood.
The earth was speaking.
Aeloria's breath caught. She dropped to one knee, pressing her palm flat against the ground. The soil was warm now, alive beneath her skin. A pulse throbbed upward, steady and strong, like a second heart syncing itself with her own.
Her vision blurred. The sounds of the morning faded, replaced by a deep, resonant hum that filled her chest. Images flickered behind her eyes—shadows moving where they should not, fires burning too close to sacred ground, a storm gathering without rain.
Then the words formed, not spoken aloud but clear as song within her mind.
Guard the Highlands.
A shadow moves.
The pulse surged once more, then fell away.
Aeloria gasped, fingers curling into the soil as if she might lose herself if she let go. Her heart hammered, each beat echoing the warning she had just received. When she lifted her head, tears clung to her lashes, unbidden and hot.
The waterbuck was gone.
Behind her, the river caught the strengthening light, its wide surface glimmering as fish darted beneath—carp and tilapia flashing like quicksilver in the shallows. Life went on, oblivious. Beautiful. Fragile.
She rose slowly, brushing dirt from her hand, though the warmth lingered in her palm. This was no passing fancy, no dream carried on morning mist. The Highlands had never lied to her. Not once. When they spoke, they did so with purpose.
Change was coming.
Aeloria turned toward the distant peaks, their silhouettes dark against the brightening sky. Somewhere beyond them, something had begun to move—something that did not belong.
She squared her shoulders, the weight of the warning settling into her bones. Whatever shadow crept toward Monte Highlands, it would not find the land unguarded.
The earth remembered her.
And she would remember it.