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 Posted: Tue May 20, 2025 11:51 am
[ Soft Frost Morning ]
Cleome awoke to silence.
Not the usual quiet of the upper canopy before dawn—no, this silence was different. It pressed around her like the soft skin of a fruit not yet split. No birdcalls echoed through the emerald vastness. No rustling wings disturbed the sleep of leaf or vine. Even the ever-chirping vine beetles, who never seemed to rest, had gone mute. The cold had muzzled everything.
Wrapped in a cocoon of woven mosses, bark-fiber, and her father's favorite Oban fabrics, Cleome blinked her wide, ruby eyes and peered through the small slit in the bark wall of her hollow. A faint blue-gray light bathed the rainforest in a strange glow. She pressed her small hand to the wall. It was cold. Truly cold—not the chill of early rains, not the dampness that made her curls cling to her forehead. This was sharp and dry, like the breath of the mountain gods.
Her fathers were off, most likely hunting in regard to Crocus and socializing per her father Svadra. Her sister was still wrapped deep in her own bedding, and Cleome resisted the desire to wake her up and drag her out. Instead, she decided to take this adventure on her own.
Curious, she slipped out of her nest and tiptoed through the trunk-spiral staircase that led downward, careful not to wake the elder sisters who meditated in the lower hollows. The bark was slick beneath her bare feet, but not with the usual humidity. It felt... crisp.
Reaching the root-level, Cleome stepped out into the undergrowth—and gasped.
The world had turned to silver.
The rich, endless green of Jauhar was muted under a veil of frost. Every blade of grass was edged in glimmering white. Leaves drooped with the weight of delicate crystals, and the twisted vines that dangled like lazy snakes from the trees above sparkled like they’d been dipped in powdered moonlight. Even the air smelled different—less of compost and spice, more like the clear emptiness after a lightning strike.
She bent low, touching a leaf with reverence. It crunched softly under her fingertips, and she jerked her hand back, giggling despite herself. It was so strange—like the world had been wrapped in thin, invisible skin overnight. The frost melted into a drop of water that trickled down her finger, and she licked it, curious. It tasted like nothing. Like sky.
She turned toward the roots of her home-tree—one of the tallest in the grove, with smooth violet bark that shimmered faintly, even under the frost. The frost clung to its base like a lace shawl. Her people, the Alkidike, were born of the sacred tree Aisha, and all the trees of Jauhar were her children. Cleome had never seen them cold before. She had never imagined they could be cold.
"Aisha," she whispered, brushing a patch of frost from the roots. "Are you cold, too?"
As if in response, a low creaking groan echoed through the forest—a sound ancient and patient. Somewhere, a heavy branch shifted, and frost fell like a silver rain. Cleome laughed, skipping out into the clearing, arms stretched wide. Her breath came out in little clouds. She made patterns in the frost with her toes and then her fingers, giggling each time the cold nipped at her skin.
But after a while, the silence began to settle in again, like a weight. Cleome stood in the middle of the clearing, suddenly very small beneath the frost-painted giants of Jauhar. Her joy wavered.
She knew the others whispered about her. Her darker skin, her bright, ruby eyes. They said she was not fully Alkidike, that her fathers had continued down a path often not encouraged by the sisterhood. Cleome didn’t like the words other said about her and her fathers, believing her family was strong. But others...with their pale skin and green markings argued otherwise.
Cleome didn’t care much about that, but sometimes... sometimes she felt it. Like now, standing under the cold, quiet canopy. Different.
A rustling made her turn. From behind a curtain of low vines stepped Ngome, one of the elder sentries. Her skin shimmered a pale yellow, and her white hair was bound in coils that clinked softly with beads made from canopy shellfruit. Her eyes were sharp and amused.
“You’re up early, frost-baby.”
Cleome blinked. “It’s all silver. Everything.”
Ngome knelt beside her, brushing her fingers across the frosted grass. “Yes. It’s been many years since Jauhar has worn a silver robe. You’re lucky to see it.”
“Does it mean something?”
Ngome'a smile faded. “Perhaps. The old trees say it is a warning. Change rides in on strange winds. But change isn’t always bad.”
Cleome looked down at her hands. “Do the trees mind? The frost?”
“They endure,” Ngome said. “Like we do.”
They stood together in silence. Then Ngome reached into the pouch at her waist and pulled out a small, shimmering leaf—a frostberry frond, rare and hard to find.
“For you,” she said. “A charm to mark your first frost.”
Cleome took it, her eyes wide. “Thank you.”
“You are of Aisha,” Ngome said quietly. “Dark or light, flower or frost—you are hers. Don’t forget that.”
As the sun finally began to rise, melting the edges of the frost and sending golden light slanting through the canopy, Cleome tucked the leaf behind her ear. She stood tall.
The frost might vanish by midday. The silence might break. The Shifters might return, and the battles might rage again.
But she had seen the silver forest. She had touched the cold skin of the land—and it had not turned her away.
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Posted: Tue May 20, 2025 12:00 pm
[ Radaku Roar ]
The mid-morning sun filtered through the dense canopy above, sending dappled gold across the forest floor. The air buzzed with the lazy hum of insects and the distant calls of Spitorogs, but in the clearing known as Tah’i-Mwana, there was another kind of music—laughter, breathless squeals, and the thump-thump of bare feet on the soft, mossy ground.
Cleome ducked, rolled, and leapt all in one motion, just barely dodging a sweeping leg. Her body, still small and lithe from childhood, moved with instinct and rhythm. A rush of pride warmed her chest. She was doing well today. It had been a long time coming, but she finally felt like a sister worthy of defending Aisha.
"Good, Cleome!" called Elder Niani, standing tall and statuesque at the edge of the ring. Her long arms were crossed, but her eyes missed nothing. “Stay light. Mind your core.”
Cleome straightened, grinning, her locks damp with sweat. Around her, six other girls from the violet-tree hollows circled, breath rising like steam. They were all Alkidike younglings, not yet fully trained, but old enough to learn the roots of combat. Play-fighting, they called it, but it was more than that. It was preparation. A way to learn discipline, awareness, control.
And respect.
"You’re not supposed to dodge like a Spitorog," came a sneering voice beside her.
Cleome turned just as a sharp shoulder bumped into hers—harder than necessary. It was Anetra, tall and broad-shouldered, with pale moonlight eyes and a perpetual smirk. She was the oldest of the group by nearly a year and never let anyone forget it. Even though she was a hybrid, she still stood out and demanded they respect her Alkidike side.
“That was a feint, not a dodge,” Cleome said, trying to keep her voice neutral.
Anetra snorted. “It was weak.”
The others shuffled awkwardly, exchanging glances. No one said anything. Cleome looked down at her feet. The moss shifted beneath her toes.
Elder Niani clapped once, sharp and commanding. “Next match. Pairs of two. No strikes to the head. Honor the form.”
Anetra’s eyes locked with Cleome’s.
“Let’s go, darkroot,” she said.
A pulse of anger bloomed behind Cleome’s ribs, hot and unfamiliar. She opened her mouth, then closed it. The name wasn’t new—it had been whispered before, sometimes behind hands, sometimes not. Darkroot. A reminder of her difference. Her darker skin. Her mixed bloodline. More hybrid than not. Even the other hybrids found her as a weakling to attack.
And today, it stung more than usual.
They faced off in the center of the circle. Cleome lowered her stance, recalling the form—Prowl of the Radaku. One hand forward, open. One hand back, curled. Knees bent. Eyes soft.
Anetra lunged without warning.
Their bodies collided, hands slapping, feet pivoting, elbows checking shoulders. Cleome flowed through the first few motions, dodging and redirecting. But Anetra was playing too rough. Her movements lacked control. Twice, she struck Cleome harder than the training allowed.
“Watch it,” Cleome hissed under her breath.
Anetra grinned. “What, can’t take a hit?”
Then a third blow came—a forearm jab to the ribs that sent Cleome stumbling backward.
“Enough!” Elder Niani’s voice cut through the clearing.
The sparring circle went still.
Cleome stood, catching her breath, fury rising in her chest like wildfire. Her heart pounded. Her ribs ached.
“Anetra, return to the line,” Niani ordered. “Cleome, as well.”
They returned to the edge. Anetra wore a smug expression, but Niani’s eyes were on Cleome.
“Do you yield?” the elder asked calmly.
Cleome blinked. “No.”
“Then why did you stop?”
Cleome hesitated. Her fists clenched. “She wasn’t following the form. She was just trying to hurt me.”
A murmur moved through the others. Niani tilted her head.
“And what would the Radaku do when its opponent becomes a Sermal?”
Cleome felt her throat tighten. “Fight back?”
“Not with rage,” Niani said. “With clarity. The Radaku is not afraid. But it does not strike blindly.”
Cleome stared at the ground, jaw set.
Anetra snorted softly. “Figures.”
Cleome’s head snapped up. She took a step forward. “Say it again.”
Anetra looked surprised. “What?”
“You’re not better than me,” Cleome said, her voice trembling but steady. “You just fight meaner. You don’t respect the form. You don’t respect anyone.”
The other girls fell silent.
Anetra narrowed her eyes. “You want another round?”
Cleome stepped fully into the circle. “Yes. But this time, you follow the form. Or you forfeit.”
Niani raised her hand, pausing the tension in the air like a conductor halting a storm.
“Well said, Cleome. This is what we must teach our younglings—not just strength, but stance.”
She looked to Anetra. “Do you accept?”
Anetra’s face twitched. For a heartbeat, Cleome thought she would refuse. Then the older girl gave a jerky nod.
They fought again.
This time, Cleome stayed calm. She didn’t rush. She didn’t flinch. She moved like water over stone, refusing to be shaped by Anetra’s aggression. She landed no heavy blows, but she didn’t need to. Her balance was perfect. Her stance, unshaken.
By the end, Anetra had worn herself out chasing her shadow.
When the final clap came, the circle erupted in cheers—not loud, not mocking, but proud. Cleome stood tall, breathing heavily, sweat tracing her spine.
Niani approached and placed a hand on her shoulder. “The Radaku does not need to roar to be heard.”
Cleome met her gaze. For the first time in a long while, she believed that.
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Posted: Tue May 20, 2025 12:11 pm
[ Seren's Light ]
The forest was quiet in that peculiar, expectant way it often was just after rain. Beads of water clung to the ends of fronds and vines, glinting like jewels in the filtered sunlight. Cleome had wandered farther than usual today, drawn by a pulse of restless energy in her chest. Training had ended early, and rather than returning to her hollow, she’d slipped away along the moss-covered ridges, leaping root to root with nimble feet.
She didn’t have a destination in mind—only the need to move, to feel the trees breathing beneath her and the open canopy above. Her hands trailed across bark, her eyes scanning for signs of anything unusual. That’s when she heard it.
A low, rhythmic chirrup-chirrup, like the sound of a frog trying to sing through a flute. At first she thought it was just a branch creaking in the breeze, but then she heard it again—higher-pitched, more insistent.
Curious, Cleome followed the sound to the base of an old jumbura tree, its bark deeply grooved and dotted with clusters of ferns. A fallen branch, thick and hollowed by time, lay across a shallow dip in the forest floor. The chirping was louder now, urgent.
She crouched low and peered into the hollow.
Inside, nestled among a tangled bed of dry moss and shredded bark, were three tiny creatures, no bigger than her hand. Their bodies were sleek and lizard-like, with soft, bright scales that shimmered in hues of green, gold, and azure. But most striking of all were the stones at the tips of their long, curling tails—each one glowing softly, pulsing in rhythm with their breathing.
“Sitara…” Cleome whispered, awestruck.
Seren’s Lights. She’d only ever seen them from afar—perched on elders’ shoulders or gliding between branches at twilight. They were known to be difficult to tame unless caught very young, and even then, one had to be chosen. But this… this was a nest.
One of the Sitaras noticed her and let out a surprised squeak. Its siblings scattered deeper into the hollow, but it remained where it was, watching her with wide, silvery eyes.
“Hey,” Cleome said gently, inching forward. She held out a hand, palm open, her movements slow and respectful.
The creature sniffed the air, then took a cautious step forward. It chirped, blinking its eyes slowly—curious, but unafraid.
“You’re not scared,” she murmured.
With a gentle motion, she offered a dried fruit strip from her pouch. The Sitara crept forward, chirped again, and snatched the treat with delicate teeth. Its tail glowed brighter, the color shifting to a warm, buttery yellow.
Cleome’s heart fluttered. “Do you want to come with me?”
The Sitara tilted its head. Then, without warning, it hopped onto her forearm, tail curling lightly around her wrist, its tiny claws pressing gently into her skin. It let out a high-pitched trill—happy, she thought—and nuzzled against her collarbone.
She laughed, startled but delighted.
When she returned to the hollow of her home-tree, Cleome found Elder Niani waiting, arms folded.
“You wandered far.”
Cleome held up her arm. “Look.”
Niani’s eyes widened as she took in the tiny glowing creature now nestled comfortably on Cleome’s shoulder. “A Sitara? From the wild?”
“I didn’t take it,” Cleome said quickly. “It chose me.”
The elder studied her for a long moment. Then, to Cleome’s surprise, she smiled.
“Then Aisha smiles upon you,” she said, reaching forward to gently stroke the Sitara’s back. It chirped in response.
That night, Cleome lay curled in her hammock of bark-woven cloth, the Sitara resting above her heart. Its tail-stone pulsed softly, casting golden light on the hollow’s walls. She had never owned a pet before, and certainly never expected to be chosen by a Sitara.
She named it Mweko, after the dusk-light that glimmered over Chibale Island in her mother’s stories.
And for the first time in many moons, as she drifted off to sleep to the sound of Mweko’s gentle chirps, Cleome felt a little less alone—and a little more like she belonged.
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