When Isabella stepped outside, the sun had already begun to dip, casting warm orange light over the village. The air smelled faintly of herbs, earth, and faint smoke from scattered cooking fires. Glimora was nestled in her arms, her white fluff glowing like something out of a dream, tail flicking lazily with every bounce of Isabella's confident stride.
And there they were—lined up near the central stone ring, the women.
Stone Age beauties? Surprisingly, yes. And judging by the way they strut in—with bare feet, wild hair, and glowing skin—they knew it. Their beauty wasn't polished or delicate. It was raw, sun-kissed, and full of potential. Like wildflowers growing through cracked stone. Maybe they didn't have glamor or jewels, but the way they held themselves? Confident. Unapologetic. Each step screamed, I belong here. And honestly, Isabella had to respect it.
