Chapter 5 – When Rivers Remember
The river did not return to its banks after the storm.
It swelled instead, broad and heavy, rolling through the lowlands with a slow, deliberate strength, its waters thick with silt and broken branches torn free by the night's rain. Tree limbs bobbed along its surface like discarded bones, leaves clinging stubbornly as if refusing to let go of where they had grown. The current whispered and churned, restless but purposeful.
Aeloria knelt at the river's edge, her skirts darkening where they brushed the wet sand. She leaned forward and trailed her fingers through the water.
It was warm.
Not sun-warmed—this was deeper than that. The heat came from within, pulsing beneath the surface in slow, steady rhythms that echoed against her skin. The moment her hand entered the river, the world around her softened, sound dulling as if wrapped in cloth.
We carry memory, the river seemed to murmur.
We carry warning.
Aeloria closed her eyes.
The voice was older than stone, older than the mountains that cradled its winding path. It carried layers—flood and drought, blood and ash, hoofbeats and bare feet, grief and joy braided together in endless flow.
"I hear you," she whispered.
The water tugged gently at her fingers, not pulling, but inviting. Images surfaced unbidden: men wading across with rifles held high, animals scattering in panic, the river stained dark where bodies fell. She gasped softly and withdrew her hand, heart pounding.
Beside her, a Gazella stepped into view, delicate hooves sinking into the soft mud. It lowered its head to drink, unafraid, its ears flicking once before settling. The animal's calm steadied her breath.
Across the water, an Ellipsiprymnus stood knee-deep in the shallows, massive and still. Its long horns caught the morning sun, gleaming like polished ivory. It watched her with dark, thoughtful eyes, ancient and knowing.
The air smelled of mud and green life—fresh leaves, broken reeds, the rich scent of earth newly turned. Fish leapt in silver flashes—carp and tilapia darting through the shallows. A broad-headed catfish broke the surface once, slow and deliberate, its mouth opening as if sighing before it slipped back beneath the current.
Life, everywhere. Watching. Remembering.
Footsteps approached behind her, slow and careful. Kael's boots sank softly into the wet sand as he came to stand a few paces away. He paused, as though sensing the gravity of the moment, then moved closer and crouched beside her.
"You speak to the river too?" he asked quietly.
Aeloria glanced at him, then back to the water. "It speaks to whoever listens."
Kael studied the current, his gaze sharp but respectful. "Then what's it saying?"
She hesitated. Saying the truth aloud felt like releasing it into the world, giving it shape and weight.
"That change is near," she said finally. "And that it remembers the last time men came here with guns."
His jaw tightened. The easy stillness he carried most of the time fractured, replaced by something harder, more guarded. "Then we prepare."
She nodded, grateful he did not ask how the river could remember such things—or how she could hear them.
The land answered before either of them could speak again.
From the ridge above came a low rumble, deep and rhythmic. Not thunder. Not the shifting of stone. This sound carried intention.
Hooves.
Aeloria rose slowly, her breath catching as she turned toward the skyline. Kael followed her gaze, one hand resting instinctively near his rifle.
The drumming grew louder, steadier. Then they appeared.
Giraffes.
Not the earthbound kind that browsed the far plains, but the winged ones spoken of only in the oldest stories—keepers of peace, watchers of balance. Their long necks cut elegant silhouettes against the brightening sky as their wings unfurled, vast and pale, catching the light in sweeping arcs.
They moved as if the air itself welcomed them.
Slow. Graceful. Impossible.
Each beat of their wings stirred the wind, carrying the scent of rain and stone and something electric, something that raised the hairs along Aeloria's arms. They crossed the ridge in a wide arc, then descended toward the far side of the river. As they landed, their wings folded neatly against their sides, becoming once more creatures of earth.
Silence followed—thick, reverent.
Aeloria felt tears gather without warning. "They don't fly unless the world is out of balance," she whispered.
Kael looked at her, rainlight reflected in his eyes. "Then maybe they're warning us."
The river surged, as if in agreement.
They stood together for a long moment, watching the giraffes disappear into the trees beyond the far bank. The Ellipsiprymnus lowered its head, waded out of the river, and vanished into the reeds. The Gazella lifted its muzzle, ears flicking, then bounded away with effortless grace.
Life resumed—but differently now. Sharper. Watchful.
Kael broke the silence. "Where I come from," he said slowly, "we say the land turns against those who forget they're guests."
Aeloria studied him. "Is that why you left?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he picked up a smooth stone from the riverbank and rolled it between his fingers. "I left because staying would have made me complicit."
She felt the weight beneath his words but did not press. The river had taught her patience. Truth surfaced when it was ready.
They walked back along the bank together, the ground still soft beneath their feet. As they passed a bend in the river, Aeloria paused again, a sudden pull tightening in her chest.
"Wait."
She knelt once more, this time pressing both palms flat into the water. The warmth surged upward, stronger now, threading through her arms and into her heart. The river's voice rose, clearer than before.
The last time they came, it said, many died. Not only beasts.
Her breath stuttered. Images flared again—fires along the banks, screams swallowed by rushing water, blood washing downstream.
"Kael," she whispered. "This isn't just about animals."
He crouched beside her instantly. "Tell me."
"The river remembers people dying here. Innocents. Not just once—many times."
His expression darkened. "Then whoever's coming won't stop with poaching."
"No," she said. "They never do."
The warmth ebbed as she pulled her hands free. She swayed slightly, dizzy from the intensity of it all. Kael steadied her without hesitation, his hand firm at her elbow. The contact sent a strange, quiet jolt through her—like two currents meeting.
"You shouldn't carry this alone," he said softly.
"I don't know how not to," she replied.
Something passed between them then—not quite trust, not quite fear. Recognition, perhaps. As if the Highlands themselves were testing the strength of what stood between them.
They returned to the farmhouse as the sun climbed higher, burning away the last of the storm's remnants. Birds returned to the trees, their calls bright and insistent. The land looked peaceful again, almost deceptively so.
But the river still murmured behind them.
That afternoon, Aeloria found herself restless. She moved through her chores with half her attention elsewhere, listening constantly—to the wind, the trees, the faint pull of water even from this distance. The Highlands were alive with tension, stretched taut like a bowstring.
As evening approached, she walked back toward the river alone.
The light had softened, gilding the surface of the water. She sat where she had earlier, letting the quiet seep into her bones. This time, the river did not overwhelm her. It simply flowed, steady and enduring.
Remember, it whispered.
And be ready.
She pressed her palm to the damp earth. "I will," she promised.
Behind her, unseen but unmistakable, the land listened—and held her to her word.