The days had grown shorter, but the true bite of winter had not yet come. Autumn lingered with its golden haze, the air fragrant with smoke from drying herbs and roasting grains. The village moved with steady rhythm—children helping to gather fallen leaves for bedding, men repairing hunting spears, women laying strips of meat upon racks to dry.
In the council house, the circle of matriarchs gathered, their voices rising and falling like the weaving of threads. Charlisa sat close by, listening intently, a basket of late-harvest roots on her lap. Each matriarch spoke with the weight of seasons carried in their bones.
"Store the pulses first," said Marona, her voice clear as a bell. "Lentils and beans hold the body's fire when the frost comes."
"Do not forget the bitter herbs," added Yevra, tapping her walking stick. "When winter stagnates the blood, bitterness clears it. Dry them now, while the sun still lends its strength."
Another leaned forward, her hands gnarled but graceful. "Meat may fill the belly, but grains keep the people steady. Grind more than you think you need. Hunger grows deeper in the dark months."
Charlisa took each word to heart, noting not only the practical wisdom but the rhythm hidden beneath it—an order to their labor that gave shape to the village's survival.
Then the talk shifted, as it often did, toward the cycles of life itself. The eldest of them all, Matron Seraya, fixed Charlisa with eyes that seemed to see further than the room. "Autumn is when the earth ripens with quiet fullness. If a woman wishes to call a child into her womb, this is the season. The winds are gentle, the stores are fresh, and the heart is not yet burdened by the weight of winter."
The others murmured in agreement. "Yes. Conceiving in autumn lets the child grow strong while the mother is well-fed. By spring, new life stirs with the earth's awakening."
Charlisa's cheeks warmed as their words seemed to rest on her shoulders. She lowered her gaze to her basket, fingers tracing the ridges of a root. It was not the first time the elders had spoken of it, but each mention made her heart flutter.
After the gathering, as villagers spilled out into the dusky light, Charlisa lingered by the door. The crisp air smelled of drying leaves and hearth smoke. She caught Kael's figure across the square, laughing with another hunter as they stacked bundles of wood. Strong, sure, yet gentle when his gaze found her.
The matriarchs' voices echoed in her mind. Autumn is the season of beginnings.
Later, when they sat together by the fire, Charlisa shared the council's words. Kael listened quietly, then smiled in that way of his—half playful, half resolute. "If autumn is best, then we should not waste its blessings."
She laughed softly, pressing her shoulder into his. "You make it sound like a hunt."
"And perhaps it is," he teased. "A hunt for the future."
Outside, autumn leaves still clung to the branches, trembling in the cool wind. Inside, warmth flickered in the hearth, in their laughter, and in the unspoken hope that soon their lives would hold more than the two of them.