The caravan smelled wrong.
Smoke, sweat, leather, fur, and something sweet she didn't recognize clung to the air, mixing in a way that made her nose wrinkle. Every step brought a new scent, a new noise, a new set of eyes turning toward her.
The tall wolf who had found her led the way, his pace steady and unhurried. He didn't touch her — none of them did — but she could feel his presence like a shield. Behind her, the striped-cheek boy kept just far enough away that his scent didn't brush against hers, yet close enough that she could hear the soft crunch of his footsteps.
They passed wagons heavy with goods: sacks of grain, bundles of dried herbs, crates bound tight with rope. Broad-shouldered ox beastmen moved between them, carrying heavy loads with practiced ease. The air was alive with movement — children weaving between wagon wheels, merchants calling out as they unpacked, the steady creak of cart axles.
Above, winged beastmen cut through the sunlight, their feathers flashing silver or black as they banked between wagons. Some carried messages or small bundles, others simply patrolled from above. Nyara's ears twitched at every wingbeat, her instincts urging her to stay in the shadows.
The noise pressed in on her. She had grown up with the quiet patience of the forest — here, nothing was still. Even the ground seemed to tremble with the weight of so many feet.
A fox woman stacking baskets paused to watch her pass. Her gaze lingered on Nyara's ears, her tail, then her small frame. She gave a polite smile, but Nyara didn't miss the flicker of curiosity — and something else — in her eyes. Others didn't hide their interest. A pair of young girls whispered openly. A bull-headed male slowed to look at her before his companion tugged him away.
Finally, the wolf stopped at a small fire where a thick blanket had been spread on the grass. "Sit," he said simply.
Nyara lowered herself to the blanket, tucking her knees in tight. Someone placed a steaming wooden bowl before her — strips of meat in a rich broth, softened roots, and a sprinkling of fresh greens. The scent was warm and filling, but her stomach was knotted too tight to eat.
The striped-cheek boy crouched across the fire, keeping a respectful distance. His gaze moved between her and the crowd passing nearby, as if quietly guarding her without making it obvious.
"What's your name?" he asked after a pause.
Nyara hesitated, claws curling into the weave of the blanket. "...Nyara."
He nodded. "I'm Luro."
She didn't reply. Instead, her eyes drifted toward the bustle around them. The flicker of wings overhead. The hiss of fat dripping into a fire. The laughter of children chasing each other between wagons.
For the first time since her mother had left her in the hollow, she realized she didn't know what tomorrow would look like.
And she wasn't sure if that frightened her... or made her want to keep watching.