The village was alive with its usual rhythms—the echo of hammers against stone, the soft rustle of women weaving in shaded courtyards, the sharp laughter of children darting between narrow paths. To Amara, each sound carried a reminder: she was still an outsider here. Even though the elders had accepted her presence, even though Nysa stood beside her like a silent shield, Myraea had not yet embraced her.
Amara often walked the village paths to quiet her restless mind. The people glanced at her, their eyes curious but guarded. Some offered small nods, others simply turned away. They had lived their entire lives under the bond-law—an outsider like her was a disruption, a thread not woven into their design.
That evening, the sky blushed with streaks of rose and gold. Amara found herself wandering further than usual, near the edge of the forest where shadows lengthened and the air carried the scent of damp earth. She paused by a carved well, running her fingers over its weathered stone. Here, away from the bustle, she could almost breathe.
"Amara."
The sound froze her.
Her heart lurched, slamming against her ribs. It wasn't Nysa's voice—firm, low, threaded with unspoken authority. Nor was it the elder's, which always weighed heavy with judgment. This voice was unfamiliar—gentle yet sharp, as if it carried both question and command.
Slowly, Amara turned.
A woman stood a few paces away. She was tall, her frame lean but tense, like a bowstring pulled taut. A hood shadowed most of her face, but the fading light caught the curve of her jaw and the glimmer of dark eyes that studied Amara with unnerving calm.
For a moment, neither moved.
Amara swallowed. "I… don't know you."
The stranger tilted her head, as though amused. "Not yet."
Her words were simple, but something in the way she spoke them—measured, deliberate—sent a shiver creeping up Amara's spine.
No one had ever approached her in Myraea without reason. Women here rarely wasted words. They looked at her with suspicion, with distance, but not… this. Not directness.
"Who are you?" Amara asked, voice thinner than she intended.
The stranger stepped closer, her boots barely stirring the dust. "A listener. A watcher. Someone who has seen you wandering these paths alone, wearing a fear you try to bury."
Amara stiffened. She hadn't realized anyone noticed her so closely. Her solitude was her shield—no one was supposed to look past it.
"You're mistaken," she managed. "I'm fine."
The stranger gave a faint smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Lies taste the same in every world."
Amara's stomach knotted. How did this woman speak so easily, so confidently, as if she already knew her?
Before Amara could respond, the stranger shifted, lowering her hood. Her hair spilled free—dark, braided in intricate patterns that caught the light like threads of obsidian. Her eyes, sharp and steady, seemed to pierce through Amara's defenses.
"What do you want from me?" Amara whispered.
The woman's gaze softened for just a moment, almost human, almost kind. Then it hardened again. "Not yet. But soon, you'll have questions no one else will answer. When that time comes, you'll seek me."
She turned as if to leave.
Panic prickled through Amara. "Wait! At least tell me your name."
The woman glanced back over her shoulder, the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. "Call me Selene."
And with that, she disappeared into the deepening shadows of the forest path, her figure swallowed by dusk.
Amara stood rooted, pulse racing. The air around her seemed heavier, as though Selene had left a mark simply by standing there.
Her mind spun. Why had this woman spoken to her? How did she know her name? And what did she mean—questions no one else would answer?
Amara's first instinct was to run back to the safety of the square, to Nysa's presence, to the predictability of routine. Yet her feet would not move. She lingered, staring into the path where Selene had vanished.
Something about her felt dangerous. But beneath that danger was… something else. A promise? A warning? A thread leading to truths Amara wasn't ready to grasp.
Finally, she forced herself to return to the village. The sky had darkened fully, stars trembling awake above the rooftops. She walked faster, almost stumbling, her thoughts a storm.
When she reached the hearth where Nysa waited, she paused to steady her breathing. The warrior looked up, her eyes narrowing with that unspoken instinct of hers—always alert, always reading her.
"You're late," Nysa said evenly.
Amara forced a smile. "I lost track of time."
Nysa studied her for a long moment, as though weighing whether to press further. Then she gave a slow nod and turned back to the fire.
Amara sat near her, the warmth licking her chilled skin. Yet the heat could not thaw the cold lodged in her chest—the echo of Selene's voice, the weight of her gaze.
For the first time since entering Myraea, Amara realized her story here was no longer just about surviving the bond-law. Something else had entered her path, something she could not yet name.
And though she wished to push it away, she knew: Selene would return. And
when she did, Amara's world would shift again—whether she was ready or not.