Chapter 8
Foreshadowing Storms
Elder Maeve shares cryptic warnings, her words laced with the mountain's ancient lore. She speaks of balance, of respect, and of the slumbering power that lies dormant within the peaks, a power that could awaken with devastating force.
The air in Elder Maeve's small, stone dwelling was thick with the scent of dried herbs and woodsmoke, a comforting aroma that usually settled Jannah’s spirit. But today, a prickle of unease traced its way up her spine. Elder Maeve, her face a roadmap of a thousand seasons, sat by the hearth, her gnarled hands twisting a length of roughspun wool. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, were fixed on Jannah, and there was a gravity in them that Jannah had rarely seen.
“The mountain,” Elder Maeve began, her voice a low murmur, like the rustling of leaves in a forgotten grove, “it dreams, child. And its dreams are not always of sunshine and gentle streams.”
Jannah shifted on the rough-hewn stool, her gaze flicking to the small window that framed a sliver of the towering peaks. They were her world, her haven, her silent companions. “What do you mean, Elder?” she asked, her own voice barely a whisper.
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