“May I?” she asks.
“Yes.”
Her paws move slowly, delicately gathering the strands. Her claws don’t snag or scrape my scalp but glide through my hair as she begins to braid it. It’s so soothing. It is strange, this feeling. Mother used to braid my hair when I was a child. Once, she even wove blue roses from our garden into the braid, complimenting how thick my hair is.
It hurts so much to remember that.
“In a braid, there are three parts,” Aïna begins, her voice low and gentle, like the hum of the glade itself, “woven tightly together. It is a symbol of balance—body, mind, and soul.”
I glance down at the ground, moving my toes.
“Each strand alone is weak,” she says. “Fragile. But together, they become something strong. Whole. Complete.”
“No one ever told me that,” I admit.
She hums again, this time even quieter, almost amused. “Most do not know. They follow tradition without understanding its purpose. But you are not like most, Noël. You carry the weight of knowing. And that weight can break you, or it can guide you.”
As Aïna finishes the braid, she drapes it over my shoulder. Her paw stays there for a few moments before she steps around to face me. She looks at the braid, sleek and smooth under my fingers, then into my eyes.
“This is who we are. And when we begin to understand that,” she says, taking my hand in her paw, “we begin to understand that the world knows only one word. Yes.”
I glance down at our hands... and paws, then back at her face. I stare at her, then at the orbs still circling me, their glowreflecting in her pale eyes. “My mother used to say that I must master my body, mind, and soul.”
Aïna tilts her head, her expression remaining calm, though her white eyes seem to sharpen. “She knew that?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding as I look away, my fingers still brushing the braid. “She used to say it when she worked in our garden. She always seemed to know so much, more than I ever realized. And now...” My throat tightens. “Now I’m only beginning to understand how much she knew, and she’s not here anymore.”
“It is rare for humans to hold on to such wisdom. Most of your kind lost their connection to spirit long ago.”
“She did. She knew so much,” I murmur. “But she never told me everything. She always spoke in riddles or gave me pieces of things I didn’t understand. And now it’s too late to ask her why.”
Aïna studies me, her gaze searching. “Perhaps she knew you would need to find the answers yourself.”
I swallow hard, shaking my head. “It doesn’t feel that way. It feels like she left me with more questions than I can handle.”
“Tell me, what did she teach you, aside from this wisdom?”
“She taught me how to fight,” I say. “She taught me to be strong, to defend myself. But she never explained why. She only said I’d need it one day.”
Aïna nods, her eyes narrowing as if she’s considering my words. “And what of the spirit? Did she teach you how to nurture the soul?”
The question catches me off guard again. It seems like I can never expect her next turn.
“She... taught me to trust the goddesses,” I say. “But it was always in riddles, never direct answers. She focused more on my body and mind than anything else.”
“That is because she knew the soul is something you must awaken on your own,” she says with a hum, combing her claws through her mane. “But it is clear to me, Noël, that yourconnection to spirit is... faint. Like a thread barely holding. Do you feel it?”
I look down, shame prickling at my chest. I don’t like not being good at something.
“I tried to speak to the goddesses,” I admit. “Here, in this glade. Just before you came, I begged them to give me answers, but nothing happened. They didn’t respond.”
“Do you know why?”
I shake my head again, swallowing the lump in my throat and whispering, “No, why?”
“Because the goddesses do not answer to the mind alone, nor to the body. They speak to the soul. And until you learn to quiet the noise within you—your fears, your anger, your grief—they cannot reach you. The connection is there, Noël, but you are the one who must strengthen it.”
My chest tightens with frustration. “How am I supposed to do that?” I ask, looking up at her, desperation creeping into my voice. “I don’t know how. I don’t even know where to start.”
