The fire was the first thing they noticed.
Not its size—though it was large, sunk deep into a ring of packed earth and stone—but the way it behaved. The flames burned low and steady, fed by resin-rich wood that released a scent unlike anything from Deepway. Moss and sap and something faintly sweet clung to the smoke, grounding rather than choking. It rolled upward in slow, disciplined plumes, never flaring, never sputtering.
The Moss-Badger clan was already seated when the human delegation arrived.
No late arrivals scrambling for space or milling about and no raised voices.
The instinctive pace of the group slowed without instruction, boots finding the ground more carefully, bodies tightening in response to rules no one had explained but everyone could feel. This wasn't a celebration that welcomed chaos. This was a gathering that expected awareness.
Women were present, children too and Elders sat openly among them, not clustered apart. But it didn't take long to realise there was still separation—just not by gender or age.
It was by role.
Children sat farthest from the fire, but not unattended. Older ones flanked younger siblings, alert eyes tracking the crowd. None ran and none shouted. A few whispered, but even that was restrained, their voices swallowed quickly by the earth. This was not a place for play.
The fire was a classroom.
The raised stone platform beyond the flame confirmed the rest.
The Moss-Badger Lord was already seated, broad-backed and still, his presence anchoring the space without dominating it. His immediate family occupied the stone dais beside him, separated by low partitions that allowed privacy without concealment. There was a deliberate gap at the front—an opening that made the platform visible from every angle.
Talia was guided to that space.
She paused for a fraction of a second before stepping up, aware of every eye on her back. The elevation felt wrong and necessary all at once. She did not look down immediately. She waited until she was seated, until her spine aligned with the stone beneath her, until her breath slowed enough to match the fire's rhythm.
From below, she could feel the weight of being seen.
Dav was seated next, just below the dais, among the sentinels and elders. His posture shifted the moment he realised it—shoulders squaring, gaze lifting, instincts aligning with unfamiliar geometry. This was not honorary placement, this was a function, just unknown to them.
The elders around him sat rigid, alert even with bowls already placed before them. Their movements were economical, expressions unreadable. They ate as if readiness was a state, not a task.
Below them sat the warriors.
Broad-shouldered, scar-latticed, relaxed in a way that only came from certainty. Their weapons were not on their bodies, but they weren't far either—stacked behind them in orderly rows. Not intimidation but a reminder.
Dom settled among them, spine loose, eyes sharp. He leaned slightly toward the other guards and murmured, barely audible, "They're not threatening, they're guiding us."
The fourth tier filled most of the ring.
Adults sat in family clusters, men and women sharing food without distinction. Older teens sat here too—not with the warriors, not with children. They were close enough to observe, far enough to be reminded they were not there yet.
Annika watched hands as much as faces, noting the way bowls were passed, how portions were divided without argument. Even during the meal, trade gestures flickered—small exchanges of items, subtle acknowledgements of future obligations.
The children sat last.
Not abandoned. Not ignored. Furthest from the fire, but shielded by bodies on all sides. Younger ones leaned into elders or siblings. Older children watched everything. Every movement. Every pause. Learning without being told.
Tegan's gaze lingered there, tracking nutrition, posture and energy. The children were smaller than she expected. Lean but Hardy. Their eyes were bright, their movements precise, there was no excess or softness.
Food was served in sequence. Not all at once or rushed.
It flowed down the platform tiers, Lord, Sentinels, Elders and so on. The human team noticed that immediately. No one reached for their bowl until the Lord had begun. When they did, it wasn't reverent. It was practical. Respect born of understanding, not fear.
Children were served before the adults who ate last, but not scraps. There was just enough food for a serving each, showing how precise and accurate the cooking teams were.
Meat was carved communally, portions distributed deliberately. There was no waste. No hoarding. No second servings until every bowl had been cleared once.
The silence was not oppressive, it was attentive.
The Moss-Badger Lord did not mingle and neither did his family.
Talia understood it instantly—not as aloofness, but restraint. Outsiders were present. Tonight was not for casual authority. Whispers later rippled through the clan, carried low and brief.
"He would have walked the fire ring himself."
The comment was not complaint. It was an observation.
Gender dynamics revealed themselves slowly, through motion rather than declaration. Elder women spoke freely, voices carrying authority earned over time. Younger men deferred automatically. No one shushed them. No one corrected them. The expectations were internalised.
Tegan noted the contrast with several human refugee groups, where authority had to be asserted repeatedly, loudly, often at emotional cost.
Here, it simply existed.
When the meal ended, it ended cleanly, no lingering clusters and no aimless chatter.
The fire was banked, not extinguished. Warriors stood first and departed in quiet groups. Children were escorted away, not hurried, not indulged. Elders remained briefly, heads bent together, voices low.
The human delegation was guided back to their quarters with the same politeness—and firmness—that had framed the entire evening.
Later, behind stone walls that muted the mountain's breath, the debrief began.
Dav spoke first, voice low but steady. He talked about territory borders, about how the seating itself mirrored defensive doctrine and daily battle preparations. "They don't wait for threats," he said. "They shape space so threats don't form."
Evan followed, fingers tapping once against his knee before stilling. Trade routes were hierarchical, he said, not opportunistic. Reliability mattered more than profit. Certain goods were never traded publicly—status items, identity markers. Late-autumn caravans weren't just markets. They were events that carried weight and reputation.
Annika nodded along, adding that reputation here functioned like currency. One breach echoed for years.
The soldiers followed with how rune usage was restrained and integrated into daily function rather than flashed. How the hierarchy is an everyday thing and that their system flows flawlessly with no visible discontent.
Tegan spoke last. She mentioned that the medical system is poor and they rely too much on rune healing. That medical research is going to need to help solve our winter medical issues. She did note that the children were healthier than expected, they had a strong immune response but elders bore signs she recognised too well—accepted decline. Untreated winter illness and no concept of long-term care beyond function.
"They don't fight the end," she said quietly. "They prepare for it."
Talia listened to all of it without interruption.
When she finally spoke, it wasn't analysis. It was synthesis.
"Authority flows downward here," she said. "Responsibility flows up. Their Lord embodies restraint, not indulgence. Faith is present—but not weaponised. Deity values are visible without being named."
The room fell quiet, no jokes followed and no one tried to break the tension.
Someone said softly, "They're not cruel. They're… prepared."
Later, as the others slept, Talia lay awake.
The firelight was still visible through the cave opening, distant now, steady. Somewhere deeper in the burrows, Moss-Badger children laughed—brief, contained, joyful in a way that didn't spill.
Her last thought before sleep took her was simple, and heavy.
If this is how they eat together…
What does it mean to fight them?