A scout returned, panting, with burrs tangled in his cloak. "Tracks," he said. "Large ones. Near the western water path. Not beasts. Not fully."
A hush fell.
"Beastfolk?" Kael asked, voice tightening.
"Possibly feral. They left blood and stripped bark."
The matriarch stepped forward. "The dry winds bring both bloom and blight," she said. "Tonight, we double our watch. Tomorrow, we dig channels toward the northern creek. Water must be preserved."
Despite the tension, the villagers resumed the ceremony. Lanterns were lit in shades of ochre and green, symbolizing root and stem. A great feast followed—roasted groundfruit, honeyed mushrooms, and crisp flatbread with fermented root butter.
That night, Charlisa sat with Kael near their fire, watching the lanterns bob above the fields.
"I understand now," she said softly. "This isn't just tradition—it's survival wrapped in reverence."
Kael nodded. "You're one of us more than you know."
And as the wind continued to blow, not just across the treetops but deep into the soil, the seeds of both harvest and destiny stirred quietly beneath the surface.
They had been planted. Now, they would wait—and grow.