The box was lopsided and wrapped in layers of palm fronds, some of them singed at the edges, others carefully braided into small patterns that resembled stars. Tucked beneath the binding string made of dried seaweed was a tiny seashell, bleached white and painted with an uneven streak of purple dye. Nayyara turned it over in her hands, her brow furrowed. There was no name. No scent marking. No glyph etched into the shell to suggest who sent it.

She sat cross-legged beneath the canopy, her back resting against one of the thick roots of the mother tree. Around her, the air was thick with the earthy scent of wet wood and salt carried by the breeze. Celebrations had been modest this year—everyone a little distracted by the sudden chill and the way it crept into joints unaccustomed to the cold. Still, the end-of-year offerings had come: bundles of fruit, beadwork, wooden carvings, and even a fresh, pale green cloak she suspected came from her mother, though Zayana had the audacity to say nothing and act surprised when Nayyara wore it.

But this… this odd little gift was something else.

She peeled back the wrapping slowly, careful not to damage the strange handiwork. Inside was a small figurine made from hardened mud and dried flower petals. It had no distinct face, just two dot-like indentations where eyes should be and an exaggerated swirl on its chest made from crushed seeds. Four legs, a tail, possibly wings—Nayyara wasn’t sure. The head was too big for the body, and it wobbled when she set it down on the root beside her.

She stared at it, blinking.

“What are you?” she muttered.

It didn’t answer. Of course.

She sat in silence for a while, turning it over, looking for some hidden symbol or clue. Nothing. Just muddy hands, childish intent, and too much imagination.

Then she remembered.

The younglings. The small circle of sisters she’d told stories to during the coldest week of the snap. They’d clung to her words like vines to a branch, asked a thousand questions about snow, deserts, mountains, and starlight. They had listened wide-eyed, gasped when she spoke of frost flowers, laughed when she told them how her nose nearly froze off in the Zena mountains.

She exhaled a slow breath, her lips curling into a small smile. It had to be from them.

“It’s a… snow cat?” she guessed, tilting the figurine. “Or a frost spirit?”

She wasn’t sure. The truth was, she didn’t know what it was supposed to be. But it was made with care. Carefully pinched shapes, little flowers pressed into the back like scales or armor. And the eyes—even if they were just dots—felt like they were looking at her with a kind of secret joy. The kind children shared between themselves when they invented names for clouds or turned tree hollows into dragon lairs.

She had forgotten what it was like to see that way. To believe that something made from mud and hope could mean more than a thousand crafted gifts. Her heart softened.

Nayyara leaned back again and let her gaze drift up into the leaves.

She had spent so much of her life training to protect. To travel. To carry blades and bear stories. She had learned the rhythm of the land, the language of the wind, the scent of danger before it appeared. She had spoken with elders at Chiume, danced at the roots of Aisha, and crossed the misty trails of Elzira. But somewhere along the way, she had grown older in spirit. Wiser, perhaps. Sharper. And a little less… magical.

Holding the gift again, she felt something stir in her chest. Not quite longing, but something close. A warmth. A question.

Would she ever have a child of her own?

It wasn’t a thought she dwelled on often. She had seen others raise younglings—Zayana had done so with purpose and patience—but Nayyara had always seen herself as the wanderer, the protector, the sword. But now, with this strange little creature in her hands, a piece of imagination molded by tiny fingers and given without expectation, she wondered what it might be like to raise a child who saw the world not as it was, but as it could be.

Would her child make little gifts like this? Ask why stars blink or where frost sleeps in the summer? Would they beg for stories by firelight and laugh at the idea of a snow cat made of mud?

She smiled again, this time fully, and cradled the figurine in her palms as if it were something sacred.

There was still so much she wanted to see. So much she hadn’t done. But perhaps one day, she could return to the root, not just as a Blade, not just as a protector—but as a guide to someone small. Someone who saw dragons in clouds and monsters in mangroves. Someone who would remind her, every day, how to see the world like it was new.

For now, she set the gift on her windowsill, where the light of the setting sun made the petals glow like fire.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Not because she knew what it was.

But because she knew what it meant.