Page 25 of The Huntmaster

I sat on one of the low, carved wooden benches, feeling suddenly very small and very pale against the vibrant greens and deep coppers of the nest. But before the isolation could sink in, a familiar, melodic voice drifted through the clearing.

"The charcoal suits you, star-woman. It makes you look less like a ghost and more like a predator."

Sora appeared from a nearby dwelling, her arms full of silver-thread fibres. She saw my visible relief and offered a small, knowing smile that reached her amber eyes. "I will keep her company, brother. Go. The Elders are not known for their patience."

Toren gave a stiff, respectful nod and vanished down a vine ladder with a speed that defied his size.

As Sora sat beside me, she began to show me how they wove the fibres into the resilient cloth the tribe used. We chatted about the Tree and the way the water was pumped through the roots, but I found my attention drifting to a small movement near my boots.

A youngling—a toddler by human standards—was crouched a few feet away. He had oversized, liquid amber eyes and tiny, flickering gold markings on his cheeks that pulsed with his rapid heartbeat. He moved with the jerky, cautious curiosity of a woodland creature, his nose twitching as he caught the unfamiliar scent of my skin.

"He is curious," Sora whispered, her hands never stopping their work. "He has never seen skin that looks like the dawn. To him, you are a creature of myth."

"How do I say hello?" I asked, my heart melting at the sight of the little boy. "I want him to know I’m not... whatever they think I am. I want to be nice."

Sora’s eyes softened. "Say 'K'sha'—it is a soft greeting. It translates to 'I am peace' or 'I bring no sting'."

I leaned forward slowly, making sure my hands were empty and visible. I mimicked Sora’s pronunciation as best I could, keeping my voice a low, soothing hum. "K'sha," I whispered, holding out a hand, palm up.

The youngling froze, his tail puffing up for a split second, then he let out a strange, musical trill. It was a high-frequency sound that seemed to vibrate in the air. Within moments, three more small heads popped out from behind the mossy benches and hanging vines. Emboldened by the first, they scurried over on all fours before standing upright, surrounding me in a tight circle of wide eyes and twitching ears

One of them, a little girl with tiny, budding claws, reached out and tentatively touched a lock of my golden hair. She gasped as it slipped through her fingers, chirping to her friends about the texture. Another took my hand, turning it over to compare my blunt, soft nails to its own sharp ones. They began to chatter in a rapid-fire sequence of clicks and trills, their little hands exploring the leather of my bandeau and the strange, smooth surface of my skin.

The first little boy pointed to my face and made a questioning sound.

"He wants to know how to thank you for letting them touch," Sora said.

"Teach me that too," I said eagerly. "And how to say I'm sorry if I startle them."

"Thank you is 'Ma-una'," Sora instructed. "And if you step on a tail or frighten a soul, you say 'Zha-lo'."

I looked at the little boy and smiled, my eyes crinkling. "Ma-una," I said softly. He beamed, a row of small, pointed teeth showing in a wide grin.

One of the older younglings tilted her head, walking behind me to peer at my lower back. She looked utterly confused and chirped something to Sora that sounded like a frantic question.

Sora burst into a genuine, warm laugh. "She asks where your tail is, Ly-ra. She is worried that a great beast bit it off and wants to know if it hurt when you lost it."

I laughed with her—a light, clear sound that seemed to delight the children. "Tell her I was just born this way. I’m a bit defective."

Sora translated, and the children let out a collective ooh of sympathy, one of them even patting my leg as if to comfort me for my lack of an appendage. For the next hour, I sat on the moss, completely surrounded. I showed them how my fingers could wiggle independently, and I practised my new words over and over. Every time I said 'Zha-lo' after accidentally bumping one of them, they giggled and trilled.

For the first time since my ship went down, the crushing weight of being an alien, a prisoner, and a "poison" lifted. I wasn't an invader to them; I was just someone new to play with. I felt a sense of peace I hadn't thought possible on this world—a small, fragile connection to the life-force Sora called the Pulse.

Chapter 17

Kaelen-Thul

The Council of Elders had been a choir of jagged thorns. For hours, I had sat beneath the Great Root, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and ancient, stagnant thoughts. I had defended my decision to keep the star-woman alive while the eldest among us spoke of omens, fractured pulses, and the growing shadow of the Vakras clan. My head throbbed with a dull ache, and my skin felt too tight, my markings simmering a frustrated, burnt orange that I couldn't seem to cool.

I needed silence. I needed to be away from the scent of old wood and the suffocating weight of tribal politics.

I climbed toward the communal fork, my movements heavy and silent. I expected to find the platform empty or perhaps see Toren standing guard over a shivering, miserable captive who was counting the seconds until her execution.

Instead, I stopped dead at the edge of the clearing, my hand tightening on a thick vine until the bark crumbled beneath my claws.

The afternoon sun bled through the canopy in thick, honey-coloured shafts, turning the rising mist into a haze of gold. In the centre of the mossy floor sat Lyra. She was sitting cross-legged, her golden hair a halo of fire against the dark, charcoal Haka-hide. She was completely submerged in a sea of small bodies.

A youngling was perched precariously on her shoulder, tugging curiously at the bone clasp of her shawl, while two others were intently studying her bare feet, their small tails twitching in delight as they compared her blunt toes to their own. Lyra was laughing—a sound I hadn't truly heard from her yet. It wasn't the terrified breath of the springs or the sharp sass she used as a shield; it was a clear, melodic ring that seemed to vibrate through the very wood of the tree.