Chapter Three: She Who Swallowed the Moon

Content Warnings

Hints at death; Please let me know if there are any triggers you need me to add!

The Elven Language

Ris-Asala: tribe protector

Riselu: tribe member

Ris-Loresa: a tribe's storyteller

Zahirana leapt across the tribe’s perimeter, her claws stampeding into the earth. She raced past wide-eyed elves. She didn’t stop until she found the chieftain in the middle of the campgrounds. She bowed her head and let the wolf’s fur fall away. She trembled as the power of the wilds drained out of her and left her cold even in the heat of the rainforest.

“Ris-Asala,” she rasped, chest heaving with each breath. “Sarlen. Temple. Demons.”

The old woman raised her chin, scowl hard pressed and hands clenched. “We heard your howl in the wind. I already sent some scouts ahead.” Her gaze moved to the tribe gathering around. “Hunters, you’re with me. Anyone who can fight, grab your gear.”

The tribe moved with precision. They were used to packing up camp with quickness in case humans or bandits tried to attack. They were prepared for nearly any emergency.

Ris-Asala’s voice lowered, raspy with age, “You disappoint me, riselu. Guide the tribe away from danger.”

“I can fight.”

She retorted bitterly, “You are chosen to lead.” Her eyes softened for a moment. She tried to soften her tone as well, “Protect the tribe with your life. Promise me, riselu.”

“Yes, Ris-Asala.” She bowed her head in submission. “I promise.”

Without a second glance, the old elf marched to join the others as they left the tribe’s encampment.

One of the elves rushed over with a robe and draped it over Zahirana’s naked form.

“Ris-Asala,” the elf pleaded. “Can I help you with anything?”

Her stomach churned. She didn’t want the title. Not yet. Not ever.

Zahirana shook her head. “Prepare the caravans.” She slid into the robes while marching towards her family’s caravan. She threw open the chest outside and grabbed one of the leather cuirasses. She strapped it over her vestments and watched as some of her tribe got the first of the elk harnessed.

It let out a high-pitched cry; it could feel the danger in the air.

Zahirana felt it too. She wanted to race back to the temple to find Sarlen but she couldn’t disobey Ris-Asala’s orders. Not again. She entered into the organized frenzy of the tribe to help steer the children into a caravan together. She helped the craftsmen pack their supplies and materials into their caravan. Every scrap was precious.

When the elk herders finished with the harnesses, they took their seats and sounded off their movements with whistles and clicks. The elk stomped forward. The wheels groaned, wood clattering against wood. Everyone grew quiet. Their ears strained to hear any sounds that hinted at danger.

Zahirana looked around the abandoned clearing to ensure nothing valuable was left behind. Then she raced after the tribe as they snaked through the narrow trails of the wilds. Zahirana marched along the line of caravans and wagons. She looked at their faces as she hurried to the head of the group. The children were wide-eyed and stiff. Even the rowdy, snarky ones were quiet.

The elders in the tribe glowered at her. What is it this time, they likely wondered. What did she do? She could feel their disappointment burrowing down in her chest.

“Zahi,” one of the tribe’s children called. Anise, her voice as quiet as a mouse sneaking through camp, leaned closer out the back of the caravan’s window. “Are we in danger?”

She quickened her pace to keep up with the marching elk. “No,” she promised firmly. “We’re moving away from the danger.”

Her already quiet voice dropped to a harsh whisper, “Humans?”

“Wolves,” the lie fell from her tongue before she realized it. “Direwolves.” Zahirana cupped her palm against the child’s plump face. “Our tribe’s hunters are the best in all the Wilds.”

Her lips curled into a small smile. She nodded firmly. Without needing any other lies or comfort, she ducked back into the caravan with the other children.

Zahirana raked her fingers into her braided hair and sighed. It was the first lie of many more lies to come.

She continued along the trail to the head caravan. Ris-Loresa, the tribe’s storyteller, stood at attention on the back step. He was an old man and usually quite gentle with Zahirana. But she found that even he was glowering.

“What happened, riselu?”

She opened her mouth to speak but her gaze trickled down. “We found a temple. O’fayon’s temple.”

“The one we passed yesterday?”

Her head bobbed.

“I’ve been there many times.” His gaze trailed to the line of caravans, each one handmade and carved by the tribe’s craftsmen. Some were hundreds of years old, passed down through the generations. And when Zahirana looked them over she could feel the weight of her tribe’s gaze on her.

Ris-Loresa sighed. “Was it bandits?”

She shook her head sharply. “No. It was…” She searched for a word but there wasn’t any way to describe it. She walked closer with the caravan, her voice low so that no one else might hear, “Elves. Undead elves. They came out of the ground. Are there stories like that?”

He jolted. His eyes were wide and then he hid his fear behind a mask. “There are, yes. Was there anything else?”

Zahirana squeezed her hands in front of her. “A monster. It was large. There was a mural in a tunnel. The sun…”

“The sun will rip open the sky.” His jaw clenched. “I had no idea…” He looked past her into a memory as if he were searching it for details. “There’s a legend, riselu, but it was not O’fayon’s temple… It was Or’hira’s.”

“Or’hira, the sun goddess.”

He nodded solemnly. “It is strange that such a curse could be here in these wilds in a wind god’s temple.”

“Curse?” Her voice rose and she had to hold her breath to calm herself. “Is that what the mural was?”

“Let us talk more when we are at a safe distance.” He nudged his head to the front of the caravan. “Scout ahead, riselu. Lead us to the meeting point.”

“Yes, Ris-Loresa.”