Lion Head Mesa lokma, manda

the sound of his call carried through the pass—low and rich, a sound that filled the bones, that pulled her from her work like a tide drawing toward the moon.

margarida lifted her head from where she’d been sorting herbs into neat little bundles, their stems bound with dry grass and twine. already, the caches were ready; the pelts—soft, treated, smelling of smoke and resin—lay folded with care, just as her mãe had taught her. it was the art of a wife. the art of a woman who would make a kingdom thrive.

she listened until the last note faded into the dusk, her breath held as if to catch the echo before it slipped away. then she smiled. faint, knowing.

so it was true.

verapaz had a heart, and it beat in kemal’s chest.

her paws moved before thought could stop them, the pelts tied to her back, her head high. she answered in brief. a honeyed tone of song. she walked as her mother once had. graceful, clean, carrying the quiet pride of one who knew her purpose.