Book Five: Chapter 189

A maternal feeling overwhelmed him as more images came, not as flashes this time but as full, aching moments that pressed in on all sides. He felt them settle into him the way grief did—heavy, intimate, unavoidable. He saw the Nirumbi hunting deer in the woods, their movements careful and reverent, never taking more than they needed. He felt the cold earth beneath their feet and the shared satisfaction of a successful hunt meant survival, not triumph. He saw them sitting in a loose circle around the owl as she told them stories, her wings half-spread, her voice low and rhythmic. The stories were old—older than spoken language—and yet they laughed at the familiar parts, leaned closer at the frightening ones.

He watched as they let her play with their children. Small, careful hands tugged at her feathers, clumsy fingers exploring the curve of her beak. She laughed, a strange clicking sound that carried warmth rather than thre