The mornings began earlier now.
The air, dry and sharp, seemed to slice through the skin before the sun even crested the trees. Charlisa awoke with her throat parched and her eyes gritty. Even the birds no longer sang as they used to. The village was changing, not in form—but in mood.
The Dry Winds had begun their reign.
Children bickered more than they played. The women weaving near the hearth argued over thread tension and color placement. A usually patient elder snapped at a younger boy for spilling a cup of water—just a cup, but now every drop mattered.
Charlisa noticed the subtle signs: Kael's shoulders tense for longer, a mother's sharp sigh as she sat in the shade and rubbed her cracked feet, the way her own thoughts had grown brittle.
"It's the wind," said Elder Tija, when Charlisa asked. "It dries more than the land. It pulls moisture from the mind too. That's why we fast. That's why we sing. The land doesn't just test the body. It tests the soul."
In response, the village shifted into ritual mode.
Water fasting began, not from scarcity—but discipline. Those not doing hard labor drank only as needed. It kept tempers soft. Every evening, at the village center, a wind song was chanted—a slow, almost mournful melody of breath and rhythm, carried by drums and reed flutes. Charlisa found herself humming it in the heat of the day, unconsciously soothing herself.
Soothing pastes made from mashed root and herbal oils were rubbed on cracked lips and fingers. Soft-leafed plants were woven into undergarments to prevent chafing from sweatless skin. People rested in shifts, and even conversations were timed—brief, careful, purposeful.
One afternoon, a young couple erupted into a screaming match near the wells. The woman threw a basket at the man; he stormed off swearing. No one scolded them. Instead, the matriarchs brought out the cooling stones—smooth, dark rocks soaked in spring water. People gathered. They sat in silence, one by one placing a hand on the stone and sharing a quiet thought or apology.
Charlisa was moved. Conflict wasn't punished. It was... acknowledged, cooled, and cleansed.
She saw Kael sit with the children that evening, teaching them how to craft wind charms out of dried reeds. One boy began crying quietly—missing a goat that had died last week of heatstroke. Kael pulled him close and let the boy bury his face against his side.
Later, Charlisa touched Kael's arm and whispered, "You're always watching out for others. Who watches out for you?"
His lips tilted in a faint smile, and he whispered back, "You do."
That night, as the wind howled louder than before and the cracks widened in the drying walls, Charlisa placed a wet leaf-wrapped stone near the bed, a gesture she'd learned from the elders. It would cool the air. It would help them sleep.
And as Kael curled beside her, weary but warm, she knew this season would pass.
Because they were not weathering it alone.