Silence stretched again in Makeh's hut, thick and uneasy. The fire crackled softly behind her, light dancing across the walls, catching on strange symbols etched into the old stone.
Darius sat stiffly on one of the chairs, posture too formal for a place that smelled of herbs and simmering broth. But he was the one who finally broke the quiet.
"The ones outside," he said slowly, nodding toward the entrance. "The small ones. Who—or what—are they?"
Ah. The quafars.
Makeh glanced toward the entrance as if she could see through the walls. Her lips curved into something not quite a smile.
"I told Sage this once," she said. "But perhaps it's time someone else knew."
At least she deigned to call me Sage. Maybe not to ruffle my feathers any more than was necessary?
She rose and stirred the pot with a long wooden ladle, movements steady and slow, like she wasn't about to unravel some secret.
