There were nights when Tirasha Village felt more ancient than the stars above it. Tonight was one of them.
The moon hung low and coppery, and the warm scent of crushed cedar needles drifted on the wind as Charlisa followed Elder Shyara past the outer cooking circles and toward a place she'd only glimpsed from afar: the House of Bones.
It was a long, silent structure, flanked by carved poles wrapped in dyed cloth and knotted charms. Bones—some bleached white, others gilded or etched—hung from the eaves like wind chimes, murmuring with every breeze. They were not morbid. Not trophies. They were memories.
Inside, firelight danced across smoothed stone and polished wood. No dust. No mess. It was a temple of order. Of remembrance.
The women seated there did not speak at first. They simply looked at her.
Charlisa stood quietly, letting her gaze drift over the figures gathered. Matriarch Yelara, tall and solemn, was seated in the central place, her long silver braids bound with ivory rings. Her skin was deep brown, etched with fine, ritual tattoos that glowed softly with a powdered resin—veins of silver tracing down from her eyes like tears turned to wisdom.
Around her sat the Blood Matriarchs, their expressions lined with age and dignity. Some wore simple hides, others robes dyed with indigo and bark ink. But all had presence, a quiet gravity that demanded nothing and yet weighed everything.
"Come closer, child," Yelara said.
Charlisa did.
That night, she listened more than she spoke. The Matriarchs did not debate loudly; they wove thoughts together like threads in a loom. They spoke of the scouts who had recently trespassed. Of boundaries and symbols. Of omens found in bird droppings and soil patterns. But even deeper than all this, they spoke of balance.
In Tirasha, power did not sit in closed fists, but in open hands that knew how to weigh grain and blade alike.
The structure of the village was simple but elegant in its own rhythm. The eldest women, past childbearing years, carried the final say. Their memories stretched generations, and their voices shaped the laws. Women in their prime years were the stewards—healers, growers, protectors of the future. And then there were the maidens, still unbound, who learned by listening, crafting, and watching the seasons.
Men were never lesser.
Charlisa had feared that at first—how easily her old world had twisted "matriarchal" into something unjust. But here, men were honored, their strength necessary, their roles proud. They held the village's outer walls with spear and bone, they carved, built, hunted. Some, like Kael, were trusted not only for their brawn but for their hearts.
She remembered asking him once, nervously, if he resented women's leadership.
He had laughed, deep and unbothered. "You don't put the sun in the riverbed and wonder why it doesn't shine the same. We are not each meant to lead the same way."
It had stayed with her.
Still, the differences between her and the others weren't just cultural. She was human, fully so. Her body moved differently—less fluid than the beastfolk women who walked with the grace of panthers and the swiftness of stags. Their senses were sharper, their limbs just slightly too strong, too flexible. Their eyes caught the moonlight like silver pools.
Charlisa had once seen a beastwoman give birth, her body working with instinctual precision and speed that startled her. Their cycles were tied to the earth's pulse, the rise and fall of a certain moon. And when they bonded, it was not lightly. The entire village marked it.
Kael—beastfolk through and through—was a fascinating paradox. Towering and proud, with that chestnut skin and untamable dark hair, he moved like a predator who chose not to pounce. ,and a striking face framed by dark hair streaked naturally with silver near the temples. His lavender-hued eyes—gentle, watchful—were often the first to soften when he saw her approach. The faint scent of crushed lavender always clung to him, like something the wind would lion-like, gleaming with warmth and possession when they landed on her. Yet his touch was always careful, reverent even, as if her fragility was sacred.
And still, she belonged now. Slowly, certainly.
That night, after the council dispersed, Elder Shyara placed a carved pendant in her hand. Smooth and warm, shaped like a seed unfurling into flame.
"You are neither guest nor beast," the elder whispered. "You are something new. And the land will learn your name as it learned ours."
Charlisa stood under the starlight, heart pounding—not from fear, but from the weight of acceptance.
Not human. Not beast. But bridge.
And the world was watching.