The Elven Language:

> Wati-Asala: elk protector

>

> Ris-Asala: tribe protector

>

> Riselu: tribe member

>

> Ma areth: my thanks

>

> Ma nesi: my apologies

>

> Mataelu: sibling

>

> Ris-Amethan: tribal tattoos

>

> Ris-Loresa: a tribe's storyteller

Behind her, the wooden beams of the caravans creaked. Their cloth awnings rapped like drums in the grasp of the wind. She could hear the bone chimes clattering, their sound music to her ears.

As she worked her way silently between the intricately decorated caravans, avoiding anyone who got too close.

At the edge of camp, the elk grazed greedily in an open clearing. The Wati-Asala, the elk herders, were lounging in the grass watching over them. The elk were just as much a part of the tribe as they were.

In the opposite direction, the tribe’s children laughed noisily. They were free. They were unafraid among the vast wilderness of The Golden Wilds.

Someone cleared their throat behind her. For a split second, she thought it was Ris-Asala. But after years of being chastised by the old woman, she knew the sound was too deep to be the tribe’s leader.

She straightened up and turned around to see who caught her sneaking off this time. She let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Lafayon. You scared me. I thought—”

“You shouldn’t do this again,” he chastised her but the smirk playing out on his lips told her otherwise.

“The air in the caravan is so stuffy.” She almost placed her hands over her heart to plead with him. “Just a quick walk around and then I’ll get back to studying.”

He chuckled, knowing full well it was a lie. “Sure, riselu.”

“Ma areth,” she sighed.

“Zahirana,” he called out to her, something shifting in his tone. He reached into his leather chest piece and brought out a string decorated with sheer white bones. “Take this.” He reached out, grabbed her hand, and dropped the item into her palm.

She stared at the thin carvings etched into the bones before sweeping her gaze up at him. “What is this?”

“A necklace,” he laughed. “I, uh, want you to have it. I made it from the deer I hunted last month.”

Her cheeks began to flush at the intimate gift. “Lafayon, you know I can’t accept this.”

His lips quivered as he tried to keep his smile firmly in place. “Of course you can.”

“I’m the next Ris-Asala. Tribe leaders aren’t allowed to marry. We’re not even allowed to keep personal names.”

She remembered asking Ris-Asala about it, whining that she wanted to keep her name. The older woman smirked, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “My child, when we become Ris-Asala, we no longer need a name. We become the tribe itself and throw aside our individuality. It is an act of love.”

Lafayon turned his head away, chuckling breathily. “Maybe for now. But when you take over you can do whatever you want, right?”

“No,” she muttered, gently scooping up his hand. “Ma nesi, riselu. I thought you understood when I told you what we had could only be physical. It would eventually have to end.”

He ducked his head away but she caught a glimpse of his brows furrowing and his lips thinning into a grimace. “Of course.” He laughed but he refused to meet her gaze. “Go. Run off before Ris-Asala drags you back.”

She reached out to comfort him but decided it was better to let him mull over his thoughts alone. “We can talk more tonight.”

Zahirana snuck over the last hill out of camp, her bare feet quiet across the plush moss of the wilds. She was as light and quiet as the wild cats that hunted The Golden Wilds. Her breaths were perfectly timed so that not even elven ears could pick up the sound of her movements.

She pushed her guilt down, shoving away any thoughts that might distract her. For now, she couldn’t worry about Lafayon

As she drew closer to her target, it took everything in her not to giggle. Her lips were beginning to pull wide and if she didn’t make her attack soon she would lose composure.

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She crouched down and steadied her toes and fingers into the earth. She filled her lungs and when she could no longer contain herself, she leapt forward. “Sarlen!”

He spun around, losing his footing and stumbling back against the tree he had been leaning into. He hissed but she couldn’t hear it over her loud barks of laughter.

“You should have seen your face.”

“Thanks, mataelu. That’s exactly what I needed this morning. A heart attack.”

She chuckled and smiled teasingly. “That’s what sisters are for.”

“What are you even doing out here? Shouldn’t you be studying tomes with Ris-Asala?”

The young elf rolled her head back and groaned. “Can’t she find someone else to take her place as chieftain?”

“No,” he laughed. “The gods chose you.”

“That’s hardly a proper system of government, don’t you think?”

Sarlen tossed his hands up to the canopy overhead. “Take it up with the gods?”

She raised her chin and peered down her nose at him. “Fine. Let’s take a look at those temple ruins we passed. I can make my complaints there.” She wagged an eyebrow at him. “I bet we could find something for the tribe as well.”

He huffed and folded his arms. He turned away from her and leaned into the tree closest to him. “Not a chance. You always get me into trouble. And this time, I’m staying put.” His gaze lowered to his arms as he pretended to examine the Ris-Amethan, the holy tattoos, etched into his skin.

She crept forward and batted her eyes. “My dear older brother.”

“I have guard duty. I’m protecting the tribe.”

“Imagine if we found old relics and brought them back to Ris-Loresa. He might reward us.”

Sarlen stared sideways at her. His stony expression cracked however and he began to smirk. “Guarding the tribe could mean checking the area for threats.”

Zahirana nodded firmly. “Exactly. You can’t foresee incoming attacks unless you patrol around more.”

“A wicked sister you are, mataelu.” Sarlen scowled but he marched into the wilds towards the ruins. “We can’t keep doing this, you know. You’re supposed to be a leader.”

“I am leading,” she muttered.

“Ris-Asala only wants what’s best for you. You know that, right?” He looked over his shoulder for brief a moment but she saw the softness in his eyes.

She sighed and nodded. Her voice was softer, “I’m a better marksman than a healer. Maybe they read the signs wrong. Maybe the gods chose you instead.”

He snorted. “I can’t use magic.”

“Have you tried,” she mused.

Sarlen reached over and quickly flicked her in the head.

“Traitor,” she cursed but chuckled soon after.

Zahirana quickened her pace to avoid further discussion of her responsibilities. “I think the ruins are just over here. They looked like maybe they were dedicated to O’fayon.”

“The wind god,” said Sarlen with a rising tone. “That’s odd, isn’t it?”

She hummed her agreement. “His temples are usually on mountains or in valleys.” Zahirana waved her hand about to push aside any concerns. “Who cares, mataelu. It doesn’t matter which god it is. Perhaps we’ll find an old relic or a piece of history.”

Sarlen dropped his hand on top of her head. “I know you don’t care about history.”

“No. But I do like adventures.” She tugged at the leather strap across her chest and shook the quiver on her back. “I even brought my bow in case we run into trouble.”

His hand fell away and his steps slowed.

Zahirana turned around to find him standing stiffly. “What is it?”

He scratched at his head, dark wavy hair barely tied back with a strip of leather. Sarlen got most of their mother’s features, her wavy hair and golden brown eyes. Zahirana often found herself looking at him with a slight spark of jealousy.

Sarlen mumbled, “Aren’t you too old for this? Aren’t we too old for this?”

Her eyes fluttered. “Too old to rummage around an old ruin?”

His brows flattened and the corners of his mouth pinched. “It’s been almost twenty-five autumns since your birth.”

She looked down at her leather vambraces, made from the hides of deer. She had hunted them herself years ago. The tribe’s craftsman first taught her how to care for the hide and properly tan it when she was only ten. Now she could easily hunt and clothe the whole tribe if she needed to.

Sarlen stepped forward and grabbed her shoulders. “I know you hate reading old, dusty books. I know you hate studying history and whatever else chieftains study…”

Zahirana laughed but it faded because she knew. She knew Sarlen was right. She was too old to be dragging her older brother into trouble. She was too old to be abandoning her responsibilities for the childish pursuit of digging around for treasure.

She looked through the bright verdant green of the wilds. Sunlight poured between the open canopy above. Thick vines strangled tree trunks and hung limply from branches. Above the birds chattered in a flock of colors as various as the flowers between them.

“It’s just so beautiful,” she whispered. “Who cares about the past when we have all this?”

Sarlen squeezed her shoulders. For a moment, she thought he would argue with her, convince her to turn around. But he sighed. “Let’s check out this ruin. But after this, promise me you’ll try.”

She forced a smile and rolled her eyes. “I’ll try.” Her expression hardened and her eyes narrowed. “You’re only two years older than me, you know.”

“And I’m more responsible by far.”

“I’m a better hunter by far.” She raised her chin and before Sarlen could flick her in the forehead again, she raced off in the direction of the temple. Her laughter and the wind drowned out whatever curses her brother was spitting at her.