Chapter 4 – The Speaking Trees
That night, the rain arrived without ceremony.
It fell in heavy sheets, hammering against the tin roof of the farmhouse until the sound filled every corner, relentless and loud enough to blur thought into rhythm. Water spilled from the gutters in shining curtains, and the earth drank deeply, greedily, as though it had been waiting for this moment all along.
Sleep would not come.
Aeloria lay awake, staring into the dark, her senses stretched thin. Beneath the roar of rain, she heard something else—softer, threaded through the storm. A calling. Her name, carried from trunk to trunk, leaf to leaf.
Aeloria.
The trees were speaking.
She rose quietly and wrapped a wool shawl around her shoulders. The house felt too small, too still, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. She slipped outside, the door closing behind her with a muted click.
The storm swallowed her whole.
Rain soaked her hair within seconds, chilled her skin, yet she barely noticed. The acacias bent low under the weight of water and wind, their branches twisting and swaying like restless limbs. Leaves shuddered, whispering urgently, their voices layered and insistent.
We warned you.
The words were not spoken, yet they pressed against her thoughts with unmistakable clarity.
They draw closer.
"I hear you," Aeloria whispered, rain running down her face like tears. "Show me."
The wind surged in response, pushing her gaze toward the eastern slope. Lightning tore across the sky, turning night into stark white brilliance for a heartbeat. In that instant, the ground revealed its truth.
Tracks.
Deep impressions marred the softened earth—boot prints, sharp-edged and deliberate. Not hooves. Not paws. Human. Fresh.
Poachers.
Already inside the boundary.
Her chest tightened as thunder cracked overhead, so close it rattled her bones. The Highlands had spoken true again, and the danger had crossed from warning into presence.
From the direction of the toolshed came the slow creak of a door. A lantern's glow cut through the rain, warm and steady. Kael stepped into the storm, water darkening his coat, the light haloing his face and catching in his storm-grey eyes.
"You shouldn't be out here," he said, raising his voice over the rain.
"They're coming," Aeloria replied, turning toward him. "The mountains told me."
For a moment, she wondered if this would be where doubt crept in—where questions rose, where explanations were demanded. Instead, Kael only studied her face, as if weighing something unspoken.
Then he reached back, checked the strap of his rifle, and nodded once.
"Then we watch."
No disbelief. No mockery. Just acceptance.
They moved together along the fence line, the rain cloaking their footsteps. Lightning flared again, and in its brief, harsh light Aeloria glimpsed shapes beyond the wire—Gazella grazing calmly, heads lifted but unafraid. Their silhouettes were serene against the storm, as though they knew what the humans did not: that the land itself was awake.
Thunder rolled, lower now, more distant, and the trees seemed to straighten slightly, their whispers easing into something steadier, more resolute. The Highlands were not frightened. They were alert.
Hours later, the rain softened to a steady patter. When dawn finally crept over the ridges, pale and quiet, the storm had washed the land clean. The boot prints were gone, erased by water and time, leaving only smooth mud and shining grass behind.
But the unease remained.
Aeloria stood at the edge of the field, damp and weary, watching mist lift from the ground. The trees were silent now—but not at rest.
The Highlands were waiting.