Minah | Nala

A few hours of walking brought us to Nala.

“Itzel, take Minah to the house. Nayeli’s expecting you,” she said before heading off.

As soon as she left, Itzel glanced over. “That’s my older sister, Nayeli. I’m the middle one— then I’ve got a younger sister and two little brothers.”

I was still wondering about Sae when she added, “She took us in after our parents died. She’s not really our aunt, but we treat her like family.”

The streets narrowed. Clotheslines crisscrossed overhead, voices spilled from windows—laughing, arguing, living.

Not sure why, I let it slip: “During the attack, I lost my family.” Saying it aloud, the words echoed back, cutting deep. I stopped walking.

Itzel froze. The street buzzed on—barking dogs, shouting vendors, clinking pots—but everything between us went still.

She looked at me but didn’t speak. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed again. I could see her searching for words and finding none.

“I didn’t mean—” she started.

I looked away and got my legs moving again.

We turned a corner where the walls were stained with years of rain and sun. I kept my eyes on the ground.

The door creaked open, heat spilling out—thick with the smell of stewed beans, peppers, and something charred. Voices overlapped—footsteps, chairs scraping, something dull thudding against a wall.

Nayeli stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted towel. She gave Itzel a small nod but studied me a beat—expression unreadable—then stepped aside.

“Come in. Shut the door before the little ones tear the house down.”

Inside was louder. Cramped but alive. Boots tumbled by the door, cloaks hanging in rows. A staircase hugged the wall, winding up to the second floor. Charms, crooked sketches, a warped mirror, and bundles of dried herbs crowded the walls.

In the kitchen, two small children chased each other around the table—one laughing, the other brandishing a wooden spoon. A girl with tight braids sat on the counter, dropping peas into a dented bowl.

Nayeli breezed past. “Kima, off the counter. Tavo, stop swinging that before someone loses an eye.”

Kima glanced at me. “What happened to your eye?” Tavo bumped into a chair leg and fell with an oomph.

“Minah, ignore Kima.”

“Itzel,” Nayeli said, half-turning. “Good timing. Stir this.”

Itzel dropped her bag and slid into place, grabbing a wooden spoon like she’d never left.

I hovered near the door, unsure.

“I… can help,” I said quickly. The words felt too loud. “If that’s alright.”

Nayeli looked over, paused mid-slice with a bundle of scallions, then nodded.

“You good with a knife?”

I nodded.

Her brow lifted, but she handed me the scallions. “Help with these.”

I moved to the table. My hands shook a little, but I focused: grip, slice, slide.

The house pulsed with energy—people brushing past, always in motion, talking over each other. It felt like standing inside a living thing.

“Sae said you’ll be staying the night,” Nayeli said, not looking up.

“Just the day,” Itzel replied. “We’re heading back tomorrow. She wanted to swing by and collect some things.”

I nodded, quiet.

Kima had stopped shelling peas and was watching me. “You’re quiet.”

I didn’t answer.

“She’s tired,” Itzel said.

Kima frowned, unconvinced.

Nayeli dumped the scallions into the stew. “That’ll do. Sit. Food’s nearly ready.”

I set the knife down, unsure where to go.

Then Tavo toddled over, grabbed my hand, and tugged me toward a stool by the hearth.

“Here,” he said, like it had always been mine.

The house had finally quieted.

The little ones had drifted to sleep in a bundle of limbs and breathy snores. Somewhere above, I could hear the creak of boards as someone shifted in bed. The scent of ash and spice still lingered in the air, along with something faintly sweet—pear jam, perhaps.

I lay on a woven mat near the hearth, facing the wall. My blanket was pulled up high, and I kept quiet, trying to fall asleep.

The murmur of voices came from the other side of the room, low and familiar.

“I still can’t believe it,” Nayeli whispered. “You’re saying she saw the moon bear?”

“Sae believes her,” Itzel replied softly. “She found her and a boy that were just attacked by a night-wolf. Minah said something big killed the night-wolf and left them alone.”

There was a pause.

“She wants to train her.”

Something tight twisted in my stomach. Itzel’s voice was calm, but I could feel the weight in it. The way she said it. Like it meant something more than just training.

“Poor thing, and with only one eye?” Nayeli asked after a moment.

“Yeah,” Itzel said. “The boy was hurt too, we were fortunate to have some healing stones, he almost lost his arm. After we patched him up he went to the capital with a caravan.”

There was a short silence, broken only by the crackle of cooling embers in the hearth.

“She doesn’t have anyone left,” Itzel continued, quieter now. “She told me earlier today that her whole family is dead.”

Nayeli exhaled sharply. “Gods.”

“I didn’t know what to say either,” Itzel murmured.

I kept still. My chest felt hollow.

“I heard something the other day,” Nayeli said, her voice low. “From one of the patrols coming back from the southern ridge. They said a village was burned down. They found all the adults dead and the children gone—just gone. People think it’s the Silent Choir.”

My pulse skipped. I knew. I knew.

“They’re taking kids?” Itzel asked, voice tense now.

Nayeli didn’t answer right away. “That’s what they say. Maybe not openly. But something’s happening, and the temple knights aren’t stopping it.”

The room fell quiet.

Outside, wind brushed softly against the window slats.

“I don’t know what Minah’s been through,” Nayeli said finally. “But if Sae thinks she’s worth training... maybe she knows something.”

I closed my good eye and let the tears roll silently into the pillow.