The morning's sparring match still tingles in my muscles as we walk toward the Grand River for our weekly fishing expedition. But what lingers most is the memory of Kai's eyes on mine when he helped me up after our match. Something has shifted between us that I can't quite name, though I feel it when his shoulder accidentally brushes mine on the forest path.
The expedition moves through the trees in small groups, villagers carrying their elegant fishing spears and talking in the easy voices of people participating in a beloved tradition. I try to focus on the familiar beauty of our forest home—the way morning light filters through ancient leaves, the soft carpet of moss beneath our feet, the distant song of birds celebrating another dawn. But my attention keeps drifting to the man walking beside me.
"Remember the time you fell in the river chasing that fish?" I tease, trying to ease the strange tension building between us.
"I was seven years old," Kai protests with mock indignation, but there's something distracted in his voice. "And I caught the fish, didn't I?"
When I counter that his father had to fish him out of the current, his laugh is genuine but brief. I catch him looking at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. The ancient trees filter the midday sunlight into dancing patterns around us, and everything feels different today.
We walk in comfortable silence for a while, following the well-worn path that connects our village to the sacred waters. Other groups are scattered ahead and behind us, their voices creating a gentle murmur that blends with the forest's eternal song. Children dart between the adults, their excited chatter about the day's fishing mixing with more serious conversations about techniques and river conditions.
But underneath the familiar rhythm of community activity, I sense something else. An undercurrent of tension in the adults' voices, meaningful glances exchanged between the experienced warriors, conversations that pause when younger villagers pass by.
The Grand River appears through the trees like liquid silver, wide and clear and powerful. It flows through our forest like a highway that connects our isolated world to places I can barely imagine. The water is so pure I can see fish swimming in its depths, their movements graceful and unhurried.
I position myself on a fallen log that extends into the current, my fishing spear balanced in my hands with the casual expertise of someone who has done this since childhood. When a large fish ventures within range, my strike is swift and true. The spear point finds its target with satisfying precision that sends ripples across the water's surface.
The rhythm of fishing gives me time to process the morning's events while engaging in one of my favorite traditions. Though I find my attention drifting repeatedly toward where Kai stands knee-deep in the current a dozen yards away, his own spear poised with focused intensity.
While I wait for my next catch, a conversation between Leira and two other villagers drifts across the water. Their words carry an undertone of concern that makes my tail twitch with unease.
"I saw them myself on the morning patrol," one of the men is saying, his voice tight with wariness. "Humans with a large cage, claiming to be hunting exotic birds, but they seemed nervous. Avoided eye contact with our scouts, kept looking over their shoulders like they expected trouble."
The other man's response is grimly practical: "Humans with cages near our borders—nothing good comes from that combination. Bird hunters don't need that kind of armament, and real hunters would have tried to trade or at least been polite. These ones scattered when they saw us approaching, like they had something to hide."
Their words plant seeds of anxiety in my mind that I try to dismiss but can't quite shake. There's something about the description that connects to stories I've heard whispered among the adults when they think the younger generation isn't listening. Stories about beast-people who venture too far from the forest's protection and are never seen again.
Kai notices my distraction as we prepare to return to the village, our catch successful but my mood darkened.
"Everything alright?" he asks with genuine concern.
"Just something they said about strange humans near the border," I reply, glancing toward Leira, who's helping organize our return journey. "It's probably nothing."
But even as I say the words, the unease lingers.
The fishing expedition returns to our village successful and content, carrying our catch and the satisfaction that comes from maintaining ancient traditions. But as we approach the familiar platforms and walkways of home, I notice an unusual bustle of activity around the communal kitchen areas.
More villagers than usual are gathered around the large cooking fires, their voices carrying the animated energy of special preparations rather than the calm efficiency of daily meal routines. The smell of roasting meat and baking bread fills the air with rich aromas that speak of celebration. I catch glimpses of special ingredients being prepared—fruits reserved for festivals, spices traded from distant merchants.
"Looks like someone's planning something special," Kai observes, but there's something carefully neutral in his tone that makes me glance at him suspiciously.
When I ask if he knows what's happening, he shrugs with unconvincing casualness and mumbles something about needing to "check on something" before disappearing into the crowd with hasty efficiency.
His sudden departure leaves me curious and slightly hurt. But before I can follow him, Leira appears at my elbow with the day's catch and a knowing smile.
"Come on," she says, steering me toward the kitchen areas. "They could use an extra pair of hands."
The communal kitchen area buzzes with activity as villagers work together to prepare what is clearly an elaborate feast. I find myself drawn into the preparations almost immediately, my hands finding familiar tasks. Chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency, tending the fires that roast whole birds seasoned with forest herbs, stirring great pots of stew that fill the air with savory steam.
The work is satisfying and communal, filled with easy conversation and shared laughter. But I notice the way conversations pause when I approach, the meaningful glances exchanged between the adults, the poorly suppressed smiles that suggest I'm the subject of whatever secret they're keeping.
"Leiko!" The familiar voice makes me turn as Kyo appears at my elbow, practically vibrating with excitement and bursting with news he clearly can't wait to share.
"You missed the most amazing thing while you were fishing!" he announces, his amber eyes bright with enthusiasm as he gestures dramatically. "Human merchants came to trade—real ones, from the south, with pack animals and everything. They only stayed a few hours, but Papa got to trade with them, and I got to watch the whole thing!"
As we work side by side preparing vegetables for the feast, Kyo recounts his encounter with the merchants.
"They seemed really nervous," he explains, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Kept looking over their shoulders and asking questions about the roads north, like they were worried about being followed. And they left much earlier than they planned—well, they arrived much earlier too. Papa said they weren't supposed to come until next week, but here they were, six days early and in a hurry. One of them mentioned something about needing to be out of Shadrazel before dark, which is weird because merchant caravans usually travel during the day and camp at night."
The more details he shares, the more my unease grows. Combined with the conversation I overheard at the river, a picture is emerging of increased human activity around our borders.
But Kyo's next revelation drives away my immediate concerns with pure excitement: "And Papa bought books from them, Leiko! Real human books, including some kind of poetry collection that made his eyes light up when he saw it. He said it was perfect timing since it's your birthday."
The knowledge that there are new books waiting for me sends a thrill through me that temporarily overshadows my worries.
"But there's other news too," Kyo continues, his excitement dimming as he shares the darker information the merchants brought. "They told Papa about demon scouts being seen near Orrakhan—not just rumors this time, but actual sightings confirmed by multiple sources."
"What exactly did they say about Orrakhan?" I ask, setting down my knife to focus entirely on him.
Kyo glances around to make sure no one else is listening before continuing in a lower voice. "The merchants said demon forces have been testing the southern defenses for weeks now. Small groups, probing attacks, like they're looking for weaknesses. The fortress commanders are taking it seriously—they've called up additional troops and sent warnings to all the outlying settlements."
The words send a chill through me despite the warmth of the cooking fires. Orrakhan represents the great fortress city that guards the southern approaches to our region, humanity's strongest bulwark against the chaotic wastelands where demons dwell.
I can see the worry in Kyo's amber eyes. I set down my knife and turn to face him fully.
"Listen, Kyo," I say gently but firmly, "even if there's truth to these demon sightings, we're safer here than almost anywhere else. Orrakhan isn't just any fortress—it's been the southern shield for centuries, with walls that have never been breached and defenders who train their entire lives for this kind of threat. The humans there know their business when it comes to fighting demons."
"But what if something happens to the fortress?" he asks, his voice smaller now.
"Even if something impossible happened to Orrakhan," I continue, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, "the southern reaches of our forest are protected by dozens of bearkin and wolfkin villages. You know what that means—raw physical power combined with incredible agility, fighting on their home ground in terrain they've known since childhood. No army that's ever existed could fight through those woods against defenders like that."
As I speak, I watch Kyo's expression gradually relax, his trust in my judgment helping to ease his fears.
Despite the day's undercurrent of disturbing news, the kitchen preparations continue with determined cheerfulness. Villagers work together to create what I now realize is definitely a surprise celebration in my honor.
The cooking fires create pools of warm light among the trees as darkness falls. Other villagers keep shooting me meaningful glances and poorly suppressed smiles. Their attempts at secrecy are so obvious that I can't help but be touched by their efforts even as I wonder where Kai has gone.
When Elder Maeve approaches and suggests I might want to wash up before the evening meal, her tone carries gentle authority and knowing eyes. I realize that whatever celebration they've planned is about to begin.
When villagers guide me to the main gathering hut with barely contained excitement, I discover a small birthday celebration arranged in my honor. I settle my sword in its accustomed place on the communal weapon rack before joining the festivities. The space is warmly lit with extra lanterns and decorated with forest flowers that fill the air with sweet fragrance.
The sight of gifts arranged on the central table makes my throat tighten with emotion. Papa and Kyo have given me new books acquired from the day's merchants, including what appears to be a collection of human poetry. The leather binding is worn but well-maintained, and I can see pressed flowers between some of the pages.
Leira steps forward with uncharacteristic shyness to present beautifully crafted leather arm guards made from the hide of a boar we took last month.
"These are for you," she says, her weathered face showing pride in her work. "Should serve you well in training and... other times." She leans closer, lowering her voice with a knowing smile. "You know, we don't usually make such a fuss over birthdays, but Kai was quite insistent. Said it was important to mark this one properly."
I can see the hours of careful craftsmanship that went into their creation. The leather is supple but strong, reinforced at the joints and decorated with subtle tooling that transforms functional protection into art.
Other friends present carved wooden items that show similar care and attention—a new spear with perfect balance, a drinking horn engraved with forest motifs, a small knife with a handle shaped to fit my grip exactly. Each gift is a tangible expression of the love and acceptance that have always surrounded me in this place.
But it's the absence of one particular person that makes my chest ache with disappointment. Where is Kai?
Just as I'm wondering if Kai has chosen to avoid the celebration entirely, he appears in the hut's entrance with something hidden behind his back and a shy smile that makes my heart skip unexpectedly.
"Sorry I'm late," he says, his voice carrying an undertone of nervous energy. "I had something important to finish."
When he steps forward to present his gift, I see it's a beautifully carved wooden pendant in the shape of a crescent moon. Polished to a warm glow and suspended on a leather cord. The craftsmanship is exquisite—smooth curves and perfect proportions that speak of hours of careful work.
"It's beautiful," I say, examining the pendant's warm surface and noting how it catches the lantern light. "You made this?"
His nod is accompanied by words that make my cheeks warm: "I wanted to give you something that would remind you of... good times."
When he offers to help me fasten it around my neck, his fingers brush against my skin as he works with the leather cord, sending shivers down my spine. The pendant settles against my throat with comfortable weight.
Overwhelmed by the kindness and attention, and needing a moment to process the confusing emotions stirring in my chest, I step outside for air and solitude. I find myself on a terrace of the gathering hut that overlooks the moonlit forest canopy.
The night is alive with familiar sounds—rustling leaves, distant animal calls, the ever-present whisper of wind through branches. But everything feels different now.
When Kai follows me into the silvery darkness, I'm not surprised, though my pulse quickens at his approach.
"Leiko," he begins, his voice soft but determined, "I need to tell you something I should have said long ago."
The confession that follows comes in halting words made beautiful by their sincerity. He's cared for me for years, watching me grow from a curious girl into a woman who fills his thoughts and shapes his dreams. Feelings that have deepened beyond friendship into something he can no longer keep to himself.
"I know this might change things between us," he continues, "and I know you might not feel the same way. But I couldn't let another day pass without telling you how I feel."
When he moves closer and asks permission with his eyes, I don't resist, letting him kiss me with gentle tenderness that sends warmth spreading through my entire body.
The kiss starts soft, tentative, as if he's afraid I might pull away. But when I respond, when my hands find their way to his shoulders and I press closer, something shifts between us. Years of friendship and unspoken longing crystallize into this moment of perfect connection.
As our kiss deepens, his hands begin to explore—tracing along my arms, settling at my waist, pulling me closer against him. I find myself responding with an intensity that both thrills and frightens me. When his touch becomes more intimate, his fingers finding the fastenings of my clothes with growing urgency, I feel the stirring of desires I wasn't prepared to confront.
The warmth of his hands on my skin, the way he whispers my name against my neck, makes my body respond in ways that leave me breathless. But when he starts to guide me toward more intimate contact, I suddenly feel overwhelmed.
"Wait," I whisper, placing my hands against his chest. "I care for you, Kai, I do, but my heart... I'm not ready for this yet. I need time to be sure of what I'm feeling."
Kai's hands still immediately, and he pulls back enough to meet my eyes. His expression is gentle despite the evident desire still burning there.
"Of course," he says softly, his voice carrying no trace of frustration or disappointment, only understanding. "I don't want to rush you, Leiko. What we have... it's worth waiting for."
He presses a tender kiss to my forehead before settling beside me on the terrace, his arm around my shoulders as we both turn to look out over our village below. The sight spread before us is achingly beautiful—lanterns glowing warmly in windows, the soft murmur of voices carrying on the night air, families settling in for peaceful sleep in the homes they've known for generations.
Everything looks so safe, so permanent, bathed in moonlight. I lean against Kai's warmth, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing, the weight of his pendant against my throat. I allow myself to imagine a future where moments like this could stretch on forever.
Our private moment of budding romance is shattered by sudden commotion from the gathering hut—shouts, running footsteps, and the unmistakable sound of crisis that transforms the peaceful night in the space of a heartbeat.
A wolfkin messenger bursts through the trees and into the hut, bloodied and exhausted and bearing the unmistakable marks of someone who has traveled far and fast through dangerous territory. His clothes are torn and matted with blood, speaking of desperate combat and narrow escape.
The sight of him freezes everyone in place for a heartbeat. Then chaos erupts as the implications of his appearance sink in—no one arrives in such condition with good news.
I clutch Kai's pendant against my palm, feeling its smooth wood warm from my body heat as I watch Papa's expression transform from celebrating father to community leader in the space of seconds.
In the space between one heartbeat and the next, everything is about to change forever.