A child peeked from behind a tree trunk. An elderly beastwoman with silver fur and a feathered cloak narrowed her eyes, then gave a single nod toward Kael.

  Charlisa stood still, heart steady but aware. She bowed slightly, palms pressed together—a respectful gesture she had learned during her travels back home.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  One of the villagers—a young wolf-beast woman—stepped forward and offered a small clay bowl of water. Charlisa accepted with both hands and drank, then returned the bowl.

  No words were spoken, but a murmur passed among them. Acceptance, not celebration.

  Charlisa exhaled slowly. She knew she hadn't been fully welcomed yet—but the door had opened.

  And she intended to earn her place beyond it.

  They were wary but not cruel. Charlisa observed more than she spoke. She accepted what food they gave—dried roots, smoked meat, wild berries. She cleaned her plate and always offered thanks. She didn't complain, didn't demand, didn't try to "fix" them. And so they let her stay.