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T he wind carried scents—resin of tashin pines, dry rock dust, but also that faint, wrong acrid undertone, stronger with each patrol.

I stood motionless on the western ridge, taking in every signal. The ground felt subtly off beneath my hide-wrapped boots, a vibration that didn't match known patterns.

Something was changing in Arenix. Something that shouldn't be.

I scanned the valley. Tashin pines showed muted edges, their green dulled.

My morning patrol revealed the same anomalies: the wrong scent like stressed metal, stressed vegetation, and most concerning, the erratic flight patterns of the Shardwings. They circled confusedly to the west, searching or avoiding.

The subtle ground tremors beneath my feet didn't match typical pre-storm activity. A discordant note. A warning.

The human, Jen, would likely attribute the Shardwing patterns to complex communication. I'd heard of her theories, her insistence on visualized patterns derived from her salvaged tech.

Flawed interpretations, colored by her strange perspective. Sound echoes, distorts. Physical signs—scent, leaves—do not lie. My fingers traced the faint ridges beneath my skin, noting their unusual warmth.

A distant Shardwing cry carried over the valley. To my ears, simply the call of a hunting creature affected by environmental changes. A reaction to planetary stress. Nothing more.

I noted disturbed kryll-moss—recent passage of large creatures, likely lurazi moving higher. Another sign of instability.

My duty was tracking tangible signs. The human could chase her sound patterns.

I turned back when the alarm sounded—the arrival alert, unheard in many cycles.

I descended the ridge quickly, body responding automatically despite the subtle wrongness beneath my feet.

Approaching the main gate, I saw the commotion—guards taking position, others gathering.

I pushed through just as a figure collapsed. Blood scented the air, fear-sweat, exhaustion.

The fallen Nyxari wore clothing from the oldest teachings—rough weave, earth tones. Fainter lifelines, different patterns. A worn Shardwing totem around his neck.

"Aerie Kin," I breathed. Legends made flesh.

I reached him as Lazrin and Mirelle arrived, Kavan close behind. "Aerie Kin," Lazrin confirmed.

The youth was pallid, breathing shallow. Bone showed through a leg wound; multiple lacerations marred his body. He'd traveled far, through great danger.

"Aerie... Shardwings... mountain groans..." Gasps between pained breaths.

Kavan assessed swiftly. "Exhaustion, severe dehydration, compound fracture... that leg won't bear weight for many cycles, even with accelerated healing. He needs immediate attention."

"The mountain groans... the Shardwings..." The youth's words connected instantly with my observations.

Erratic Shardwings, environmental stress, tremors—all centered west, where teachings placed the Aerie settlements. Confirmation. The disturbance extended further, into their hidden ranges. The seismic instability was widespread.

My gaze swept the crowd, landing on the small human female. I’d heard the other humans call her a strange name.

Jen.

Her focus on the fallen Aerie Kin was absolute, expression intense. Silver markings at her temples were visible. My tail gave an involuntary flick, as our eyes met briefly. Recognition? Determination? A shared witness to something significant. Then Lazrin issued orders, and the moment passed.

Guards lifted the injured Aerie Kin. Whispers followed—wonder, concern, speculation about "mountain groans."

To me, the meaning was clear: seismic instability, affecting Shardwing grounds. Not complex communication, but planetary shift.

I needed to report to the Council. My observations had new context, new urgency.

I noticed the human still watching the direction the youth was taken, expression thoughtful. What patterns did she think she heard, coaxed from her strange machines?

Despite my skepticism, her unique perception might offer a different angle.

I turned away, organizing my thoughts. Physical evidence must lead—scents, flora, flight paths, tremors. Facts.

But I found myself wondering if, this time, our differing approaches might be two paths to the same truth. The weight of potential contact with lost kin facing a crisis settled on me.

The Council would need every perspective.

The mountain spoke, and we had to listen—each in our own way.