Charlisa rested her hands on her knees and stared at the stream.
She had negotiated. She had listened. She had stood her ground without raising her voice. She had learned how the world beyond Rootvale worked—how it pressed, traded, waited.
She had done well.
But none of that was what settled in her chest now.
What she felt was something smaller. Quieter. More dangerous.
She imagined a child sitting where she sat now—throwing stones into the water, asking why streams curved the way they did, refusing to accept vague answers. A child who would know this land not as duty, but as home.
Not an heir.
Not a symbol.
Not a future leader.
Just…hers.
The thought surprised her enough that she laughed softly.
"So that's what this is," she said to no one.
It wasn't expectation.
Rootvale did not demand children from its women—not quickly, not loudly. The elders believed timing was personal. The land never hurried life.
No one had asked Charlisa when.
Not Yelara.
Not the matriarchs.
Not even Kael.
Which made the realization sharper.
She wanted this.
Not to complete something.
Not to prove readiness.
Not because the gathering had gone well.
But because the world had quieted enough for her to hear herself.
A splash broke her thoughts.
She turned just in time to see two children arguing over a stick far too large for either of them. One slipped, soaked from knee to ankle, and froze in horror.
Charlisa bit back a smile.
"Don't move," she called. "If you stand still, the cold forgets you."
The child blinked. Considered. Then nodded solemnly, as if this were excellent advice.
By the time the other child ran for help, Charlisa was already rising, laughing under her breath.
Somewhere behind her, Kael would be looking for her soon.
She brushed dirt from her palms and took one last look at the stream.
The desire stayed.
Quiet.
Warm.
Entirely her own.