The older she grew, the more Elder Nima felt the seasons not just in her bones, but in the tension of the air, the tilt of the trees, the way silence sometimes whispered louder than words.
She felt it now—a shift.
Sitting on her elevated stone seat beneath the Great Cedar, she let her fingers stroke the worn beads of her ceremonial necklace. The council had gathered. Not in celebration, not for ritual—but because voices had risen, tempers frayed, and the peace that had held for many harvests was now tested.
Two hunting families had clashed.
"We are not thieves," one man spat. "You crossed the Emberline—our trap grounds. You desecrate boundary."
"You dare claim land the mountain breathes across freely?" the other countered. "You would fence the wind next?"
The council murmured. Younger ones fidgeted. Tension coiled like a snake ready to strike.
Nima did not raise her voice.
Instead, she rose slowly, staff tapping once against stone.
"I see warriors with loud tongues but little sense," she said. Her eyes swept over them, calm as still water. "You insult the ancestors who walked these grounds without fire between them."
Silence.
"Tell me," she turned to both men, "was blood drawn?"
"No," one muttered.
"Were families harmed?"
"No."
"Then we will not split the village over soil we all feed from. You will hunt together at dawn—under watch of scouts. Return with equal share. If you cannot do so, you will both be barred from the next moon's hunt."
There were gasps. But no one argued.
Nima sat again, motion slow, deliberate. "Land is not a prize. It is a shared breath. Do not let pride poison it."
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Charlisa standing near the grove entrance, quiet, her hands clasped in front of her. Watching. Learning.
Later, as the council dispersed, Charlisa approached her hesitantly.
"You calmed them without shaming either," she said softly. "You gave them a path instead of punishment."
Nima looked at her, and for the first time that day, allowed herself a thin smile.
"Authority isn't in shouting louder, girl. It's in holding the silence until others listen."
Charlisa bowed her head in thought.
Nima reached for her hand gently. "You will need this, too, when your time comes. Leadership isn't a crown. It's a weight. And the wise learn to carry it before they wear it."
The younger woman nodded, her grip steady.
And Nima knew then—this girl, from another world, had roots that were finally reaching deep. And when storms came—as they always did—those roots would hold.