Herbalists' Cache dewclaw mountain

star eater nodded, her silvered gaze steady, approving.
the spirits will speak after you’ve proven yourself to the caribou.
it was the way of their people, the way of the lanzadoii. the caribou decided who belonged among them, who was worthy of carrying their legacy. other shore had much still to prove, but she had already taken her first steps.
at her next question, star eater’s ears pricked, her expression softening with something like amusement. she had forgotten how curious the young could be, how much they sought to learn.
yes, she answered, gaze flicking toward the distant horizon, as if recalling the places she had been. i speak a few.
her head tilted slightly, considering. the northern tongue that darukaal speaks. she had learned it long ago, in the days before she had a name. before she had a husband. my own tongue, alike no other.
there was a pause, brief but meaningful.
only the drakaryn line may know it.
her voice was quiet, reverent. it was a sacred thing, their language—spoken only by those of her bloodline, passed down from mother to daughter, from father to son. it belonged to them, and them alone.
one day, she mused, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips, perhaps you will hear it.