The Heights of Vosk

The Voskovian village seemed suspended between two worlds—one of stars, the other of roots.  
Massive trees stretched into dizzying heights, their trunks linked by bridges woven from vines and fibers. Platforms of living wood swayed beneath footsteps as if they breathed. Natural lanterns, filled with glowing blue fireflies, floated above the homes. The air carried the scent of moss and ancient tranquility.  
The villagers watched from a distance. Tall, graceful, draped in translucent veils, the Voskovians resembled mirages adorned in feathers. Their faces remained hidden, their movements almost too slow to be natural—as if they existed at a different rhythm than the world.  
Matt felt foreign. Silent. Out of place.  
Then, something caught his attention—a weathered bridge creaking under the steps of a child. The rope suddenly snapped. Without thinking, Matt lunged forward, catching the child mid-fall and crashing heavily onto a lower platform.  
A hushed stillness followed. Then a murmur. And, above all, a gaze.  
Keeh'r Makum, one of the elders, stepped forward with deliberate, measured movements, his feathers trembling slightly.  
"You are… an engineer, aren't you?" he asked in hesitant Shivenar.  
Matt nodded, wondering how the elder knew his language. Keeh'r Makum explained that the Voskovians could speak directly to the minds of others. He also shared that ancient structures in their village were in dire need of repair and that a helping hand would be welcome.  
Matt accepted. After all, they had offered him hospitality.  
Soon, tools were placed in his hands—or what passed for them.  
For days, he worked tirelessly. The materials were primitive, but the structures held potential. He repaired, adjusted, and innovated. He reinforced bridges with sun-heated resin and plant fibers. He strengthened foundations using a blend of roots and hollow stones. He learned to harness spores from luminous trees to power the village's lamps.  
Children gathered to watch, their eyes wide with curiosity. Sometimes, Sehr’mana sat above, legs crossed, watching with quiet pride.  
"You do this with your Zelvar… mind… not with a Kru'ven… weapon," she said one evening.  
"Sometimes, fixing is better than conquering," he replied with a smile.  
Sehr’mana learned to play with the young Voskovians. She imitated their ritual dances, sang with them in Shivenar. At one point, a boy climbed onto her shoulders and shouted, "Zhe’naar Resonaa!"—Princess of the Shivenars.  
Matt laughed aloud.  
At night, they shared meals at the heart of the great central tree. The dishes were unfamiliar—roots boiled in bark honey, fruits that glowed in the dark, crunchy spores with earthy aromas. Matt grimaced often, and Sehr’mana teased him with each bite.  
But gradually, he began to appreciate them.  
One morning, Matt completed repairs on the Grand Winch, a colossal organic lift designed to transport water from the misty lakes below. When he activated the mechanism, a light rain rose from the ground and spilled into channels carved into the branches.  
The Voskovians watched in awe. An elder woman murmured a blessing in their language. Others nodded in quiet approval. Keeh'r Makum stepped forward, solemn.  
"You have given us something we lost—trust… in the Matal."  
Few humans—or even Shivenars—had been welcomed here for generations.  
That evening, a small group guided them to a vast suspended clearing at the peak of a sacred tree. The leaves shimmered faintly, as if brushed by the sky itself.  
At its center stood a Kravakh.  
The creature was magnificent—its form resembled that of a stag but was covered in supple scales with golden-green hues. Twisted antlers curled upward like spiraled vines. Its large, intelligent eyes studied Matt and Sehr’mana with quiet certainty.  
"It is yours," Keeh'r Makum announced. "It will carry you beyond our forests, if you respect it."  
They were also given a bundle of provisions wrapped in tree silk, a hand-painted bark map, and a seed of eternal fire to keep them warm.  
Matt stood silent for a moment before bowing deeply.  
"Shaar…" he said, his voice unsteady.  "Uvari’ temene."  
His accent was imperfect, but his words carried raw sincerity.  
Keeh'r Makum studied him, surprised. Then, for the first time… he smiled.  
"No Matal… and no Zhe’naar… has been welcomed here for centuries. May your path be light."  
They left the village at dawn. The Kravakh moved without sound, leaping effortlessly from tree to tree like a spirit of the forest. Sehr’mana clung to Matt, her hair whipping in the wind, her gaze fixed on the horizon. She seemed thoughtful, almost melancholic.  
"Kel'maar ravi dumeh ka so Zhelen?" she asked. He understood—she was wondering if they would ever see their new friends again.  
Matt hesitated, then glanced back. The village was already only a memory among the branches.  
"If they opened their hearts once… then maybe other paths will open too."  
She nodded softly.  And, without a word, placed her hand over his.