The morning light filters gently through the trees, casting long, slanted shadows that stretch like fingers over the cool earth of the forest floor. The air is crisp, the scent of pine mingling with the earthy undertones of the damp soil, each breath grounding me in the familiar scent of the Ridgeline that the houses are perched atop. The quiet rustle of leaves and the soft whisper of wind moving through the treetops remind me of the place I call home. The cabins that dot the compound stand like pillars of strength, some weathered by years of seasons, others new but equally sturdy and well-crafted, each one a reflection of its inhabitants' personalities.

  I pull my coat tighter around me, trying to hold in the warmth of my body, as I adjust the neckline of my turtleneck, the chill of October still clinging to the earth. The air holds a bite to it, a reminder that winter isn’t far off, its promise ever-looming in the distance. It’s a reminder that, despite the comfort of home, there is always work to be done. Today, after all that happened with Alistair, I can’t afford to be lost in thought for long.

  The work is a comfort, a way to reset my mind. I spend the morning working through reports, meeting with younger does in the compound, checking on the harvest numbers to ensure everything is running smoothly. Each task is a reminder of my role in the herd, necessary, steady, grounding. The rhythm of it, the way each small action builds into something larger, helps clear the clutter in my mind.

  There’s no room for hesitation. There’s only the work that needs to be done, and for that, I am grateful.

  I move through the herd's cabins, my thoughts preoccupied with the small but significant responsibilities that need attention. The cabins are clustered together, each one serving as a small village in the larger home of the herd. As I pass, I nod to familiar faces, my presence a small moment of recognition and respect. I can feel the unspoken tension though, that ever-present undercurrent of uncertainty. My encounter with Alistair had not gone unnoticed, and I know word will travel fast. A flicker of unease runs through me, but I push it down.

  I turn a corner and pause when I hear the soft clatter of dishes, a sound that calls me to one of the smaller cabins. I step inside and find my friend Alaina by the hearth, preparing a pot of tea. The familiar scents of dried herbs and fresh-baked bread fill the air around her, calming and familiar. Alaina is one of the few does my age, as the year I was born had resulted in many bucks. Our friendship is a quiet one, built on trust, humor and the shared understanding of our place in the herd.

  Her eyes meet mine with a careful glance, sharp and knowing. She doesn’t miss a thing.

  "Xo," she greets me, her voice gentle but her gaze carrying a hint of concern. "I’ve heard the reports and everything seems in order post-harvest. How are you feeling?"

  I give her a small, tight-lipped smile, the gesture not reaching my eyes. I don’t want to burden her with the weight of what lingers in my mind.

  "I’m fine," I say, my tone even, though the lie feels thick on my tongue. "I’ve been busy."

  Alaina doesn’t press, though I know the question is still hanging between us. She knows I’m not fine and that only makes me grateful for her silence. She’s a good friend, the kind who knows when to speak and when to let things be.

  "How is everything else?" I ask, changing the subject. "How’s the herd managing?"

  I move toward the small wooden table, noting the jar of honey and dried fruit laid out for breakfast. The scents in her cabin are comforting, homey, like a balm for the restless thoughts that plague me.

  "We’re managing," she replies, her voice quiet but heavy with underlying concern. "The harvest was good, but winter’s coming and the days are growing shorter, the cold will hit hard. Most of the does who conceived last year birthed twins. We’ll need to make sure we have enough storage for the extra food, and…well, some of the younger ones will soon be eating semi-solid foods."

  I nod, already considering logistics and storage. The Colorado winters are brutal, the chill seeping deep into our bones but we always persevere. Winters here can stretch long, the snow sometimes lasting until April and we have to be ready for it.

  "I’ll have someone check in on storage block C tomorrow," I say. "Make sure everything’s secure before the first frost hits."

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  Alaina doesn’t respond at first, though I catch a flicker of something in her eyes. Something between worry and exhaustion. She’s been working tirelessly, caring for the pregnant does and those who are sick. It’s a weight she bears quietly, the responsibilities of her new role in the medical staff heavy on her shoulders. She had completed her nursing degree this summer and has been quickly moving through the ranks of our medical staff with ease.

  Healing and caring for others just comes naturally to her.

  Before I can say more, her voice breaks the quiet again, this time hesitant. "Xo," she says softly, not meeting my gaze. "I know the herd is curious...about the bond. Did it take?"

  The question lands like a rock through a glass window in the pit of my stomach. I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, a voice calls out from the doorway, interrupting us.

  "Matriarch."

  I turn to find Elara standing in the doorway, her presence unmistakable. Elara is one of the oldest and wisest does in the herd, a friend of my grandmother’s and a constant source of guidance. Her voice, though gravelly with age, carries an undeniable authority that commands attention.

  Her cane taps lightly on the floor with each slow step she takes toward us, the movement deliberate. She’s in her partial shift form, the graying fur around her eyes a stark contrast to her otherwise still-pristine features. Her shifting form, a sign of her age, tells me all too clearly that her time is drawing near, as our kind prefers to pass in our deer-form.

  "Yes, Elara?" I ask, my voice steady but filled with a sense of duty.

  Her eyes flick between myself and Alaina, an unspoken understanding passing between us.

  "I’ve come to check on you," she says simply, her gaze full of quiet concern.

  "I’m well," I reply, though the words feel like an attempt to convince both of us, rather than a statement of truth.

  Elara nods, her gaze softening slightly, but she says nothing more. She turns toward the kitchen, her movements slow but purposeful. She takes a seat at the table, her eyes lingering on Alaina and she speaks again, her voice gentler now.

  "You," Elara says to Alaina, "should rest, there’s no need for you to work so hard."

  Alaina offers a faint smile, though I see the exhaustion in her eyes. She’s been pushing herself too hard lately, trying to care for everyone else, trying to hold everything together.

  "I’ll be fine," she says, but the words are laced with fatigue and I can hear the quiet weight she carries.

  I don’t say anything more; there’s nothing more to be said. Alaina will rest when she can. I prepare to leave, but Elara’s voice stops me once again, this time more serious.

  "There’s something else," she says, her tone weighted with the gravity of what she is about to say. "Your grandmother is asking for you."

  The words land like a blow. My stomach drops and the air around me seems to still. My grandmother, the Matriarch before me, the one who had always been a constant force in my life. My heart clenches at the thought of her. She had always been the rock that held our herd together, the foundation of everything.

  I nod without speaking, the weight of her illness pressing me to hurry.

  "I’ll go to her," I say, the words more for myself than anyone else.

  I force myself to walk out of Alaina’s cabin rather than run, feeling the weight of the day, the responsibility, the future pressing down on me.

  As I make my way up the ridge toward the last cabin, the world around me seems to blur. My grandmother’s illness has been a quiet shadow over the herd for some time now, but the fear I had tried to push away rises again. I knew she was growing frail, but now, now it seems the end is closer than I thought.

  I reach her cabin and the atmosphere shifts. It’s quieter here, more somber, as if the very air itself is heavy with the impending loss. I step through the entryway, my feet carrying me almost on instinct. The room is warm, the hearth crackling with a gentle fire, but there’s an oppressive stillness here. A heaviness that fills the space.

  I find her in her bed by the windowed wall, her frail form a stark contrast to the strong doe I had known growing up. The sight of her so small, so fragile, nearly breaks me. I kneel beside her, my heart heavy in my chest as I reach out, my fingers brushing against her hand. Her eyes are closed, but I know she feels me, knows I’m here.

  After a long moment, her eyes flutter open, and she gives me a faint, tired smile, the kind of smile that speaks of both love and resignation.

  "Matriarch," she whispers, her voice rough, fragile. "My time is near."

  Her words hit me with the force of a hammer. My throat tightens as I fight to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

  "No," I whisper. "You’ve been the heart of our herd. You can’t-"

  "Everyone has their time," she interrupts, her gaze steady despite the exhaustion that clings to her. "And yours is now, you’ve already stepped into your role, I’ve seen it. I’ve watched you."

  I want to protest, to beg her to stay, but I can’t find the words. Instead, I simply nod, the weight of her words settling deep within me. I will be the Matriarch now. There is no denying it.

  "I will lead," I promise, my voice strong despite the ache in my chest. "But I need you with me, for as long as you can."

  She smiles softly, her hand shaking slightly as it reaches out to rest on mine. "I will see you through your Ceremony," she says, her voice fading. "I’ll always be with you, my dear. Always."

  For the first time that day, a flicker of peace settles over me, and I know in my heart that she will make it to the Ceremony. She will. And when that day comes, I will be ready to honor her legacy and mine.