Riddles and Whispers

The fireplace still crackled with gentle heat, casting flickering shadows across the walls of Cheyenne’s cabin as the group sat circled around the low coffee table, pages of scrawled notes and old books spread across every available surface. The atmosphere had mellowed from panicked deciphering to something a bit more focused—but still chaotic.

Tora blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Okay, so we’ve narrowed the prophecy down to… vague doom, probable fire, and maybe baby dragon apocalypse.”

“Love that journey for us,” Cheyenne muttered, flopping back onto the oversized beanbag in the corner. “I’d like to officially file a complaint with the universe. This is not the kind of epic Guardian problem I signed up for.”

Before anyone could respond, Chelsea stood abruptly and pointed at her. “You. Come with me.”

Cheyenne blinked. “I didn’t steal your snacks this time, I swear.”

“This is not about snacks, though now that you mention it…” Chelsea shook her head. “No. This is about someone who actually knows how to read prophecies without us spending six hours trying to figure out if ‘the river’s heart’ is literal or metaphorical.”

Cheyenne followed her out into the crisp evening air, brushing off a few crumbs from her hoodie. “You’re thinking Charlie.”

Chelsea nodded. “The man’s older than dirt and probably invented at least one of the languages Grammy wrote in. If anyone can help, it’s him.”

“You just want an excuse to summon someone to figure out what you can’t without having to say the words out loud.”

“I mean…” Chelsea tilted her head. “Fair. But also he’s a walking magical encyclopedia. And I’m tired.”

“Fine,” Cheyenne said with a sigh. “But I’m calling dibs on popcorn duty if this turns into one of his classic cryptic lectures.”

“Deal.”

Twenty Minutes Later…

Charlie arrived in a shimmer of gold and smoke, stepping through the protective wards like they were silk curtains. He was dressed in his usual charcoal robes, long silver hair tied back at the nape of his neck, and a calm expression that never boded well.

“Well,” he said, taking in the room with a slow glance. “Either someone found a new prophecy, or you accidentally opened a portal to the underworld again.”

Ben lifted a hand. “For the record, that was one time and the goat wasn’t even that demonic.”

Charlie chuckled and stepped forward, his attention landing on Serenya and the golden shimmer of Solana shining around her like a silent sentinel.

“You must be the new one,” he said softly. “The one the wind whispered about.”

Serenya straightened. “I am. Serenya, of the First Herd.”

Charlie offered a slow bow. “Welcome, Guardian. And greetings to you, Solana, Guardian of the Wild Veil. It’s an honor.”

Solana dipped her head in return, eyes glowing.

Cheyenne shoved a notebook at Charlie, already filled with scribbled lines of the prophecy and half-baked theories. “Okay, wise old man, save us from ourselves. We’ve hit that point where Tora suggested using an Ouija board and I’m one sarcastic comment away from flipping the coffee table.”

Charlie’s brow rose. “Did you really?”

“It was a joke,” Tora muttered. “Kind of.”

Charlie took the notebook and moved to the table, calmly reading through the transcription. He said nothing at first, which was somehow worse than if he’d started yelling.

After a few long minutes, he finally looked up. “You’ve done well. Your instincts aren’t wrong. But you’re approaching this prophecy like it’s a puzzle to solve.”

Chelsea folded her arms. “It’s literally a puzzle. Look at it.”

“No.” Charlie smiled faintly. “It’s a mirror. It’s not meant to tell you what will happen—it’s meant to reflect what might, and force you to confront your path. Prophecies are rarely fixed points. They bend. Shift. They’re living things.”

“So…” Isolde’s brow furrowed. “You’re saying the river line might not even be about an actual river?”

“Or it could be,” Charlie said unhelpfully. “That’s the beauty and chaos of prophecy. You must approach it with intuition, not logic.”

Jax groaned. “We are so screwed.”

Charlie walked them through each line, offering alternate interpretations for every theory they’d developed. Every time they thought they were close to a breakthrough, he’d ask a question that unraveled the entire thread and sent them spiraling in another direction.

“The mountain’s crown” could be literal. Or it could be a metaphor for power—someone at the top, about to fall.

“The spirit of wild” might not be just Serenya—it might be her child, her mate, or the entire lost herd rising again.

“Blood from the river’s heart” could mean ancestral magic, not violence.

“Stars turning red” might mean a celestial alignment, or the literal blood of a guardian falling.

By the time he was done, there were six more pages of notes… and twice as much confusion.

Serenya pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is worse than when the Chief made me take spirit history class.”

Cheyenne leaned over and whispered, “See? Told you. Cryptic wizard lectures, every time.”

Chelsea sighed. “So we know nothing. Just vibes. Magical vibes and chaos.”

“That,” Charlie said, straightening, “is prophecy. It does not promise clarity—it prepares you for choices. And now that all of you are connected, your choices will echo louder than ever.”

“So what now?” Tora asked, spinning her pen between her fingers. “Wait for something to explode?”

“Stay vigilant,” Charlie said, giving them all a nod. “Stay together. That’s the one thing prophecy always underestimates. The bond between guardians. And the chaos you lot tend to bring.”

Ben grinned. “That felt like a compliment and an insult at the same time.”

“It was,” Charlie said, then turned to Serenya. “And you, young one. Do not fear the path ahead. The wind whispers to you for a reason. When the time is right, it will speak again.”

As Charlie turned to leave in a swirl of magic, Cheyenne collapsed onto her beanbag again with a groan. “So to recap: We’ve got a prophecy, a buckskin goddess-horse guardian, no solid answers, and we’re supposed to vibe our way to saving the world.”

Tora leaned against the wall. “Wouldn’t be the weirdest Tuesday we’ve had.”

A hush settled in the cabin after Charlie’s dramatic exit. The soft thump of the door swinging shut behind him was the only sound.

Until—

“Wait…” Serenya’s voice cut sharply through the quiet, her tone suddenly laced with tension.

Everyone turned to look at her.

“What did he just say?” she asked, her eyes wide and fixed on the spot Charlie had stood moments ago. “He said the entire lost herd rising again.”

“Yeah?” Cheyenne tilted her head, blinking up from her beanbag. “Honestly I stopped listening after he started waxing poetic about destiny and metaphors.”

“No.” Serenya took a shaky step forward, her entire body coiled like a bowstring. “No, no, you don’t get it. That’s not just prophecy fluff. That’s a story from my people.”

Chelsea sat up straighter, instantly alert. “Okay, now you have our attention.”

Serenya’s breath came fast, but her voice was steady. “When I was a kid, my chief used to tell us bedtime stories. Not the sweet kind. The real ones—the kind that taught you who you were and where you came from. He always said we were the last of the Horseborn. The final herd. That we’d been hunted nearly to extinction centuries ago, until only our tribe remained.”

Her hands curled into fists. “We lived like ghosts. Hidden. Isolated. Because we thought we were all that was left.”

“And you believed him?” Isolde asked softly.

Serenya looked away, swallowing hard. “I had no reason not to. No one ever came. No other herds. Just us. And then—after the attack—I thought maybe that was fate finishing the job.”

Gunner leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But what if it wasn’t?”

“What if Charlie’s right?” Ben added. “What if the prophecy really is talking about more like you?”

“You’re saying there could be others,” Nalia said gently, voice full of wonder.

“Or descendants,” Chelsea added. “Bloodlines that hid even deeper than yours. Maybe in other forms. Other regions. Hell, maybe some don’t even know what they are yet.”

Serenya blinked hard, her throat tightening as a hundred memories flickered through her mind—faces of friends lost in the attack, elders whose voices still echoed in her dreams, the desperate stories whispered around campfires when they thought the world had forgotten them.

Her voice cracked as she spoke. “We mourned the idea that we were alone. We carried that weight for generations. But if there’s even a chance—”

Cheyenne stood slowly, crossing the room to put a hand on her shoulder. “Then we find them.”

Serenya met her eyes, the weight of purpose blooming in her chest again. “I have to.”

Cheyenne nodded. “We all do now. This isn’t just your fight anymore.”

Tora rose next, her expression fierce and certain. “You’re one of us, Serenya. Which means your people are our people now, too.”

“And if there’s any chance they’re still out there,” Chelsea added, “we’ll raise the entire world to bring them home.”

Solana stepped forward from where she had been standing quietly in the back of Serenya’s mind, her golden coat shimmering even in the low light, her head lifted high with pride.

Koa’s voice stirred in Cheyenne’s mind. The Guardian of the Wild Veil will not walk alone.

“No,” Cheyenne whispered aloud, squeezing Serenya’s arm. “You’re not alone anymore.”

The girls stood in a quiet circle around her, the firelight dancing between them like something sacred.

“I don’t know where to begin,” Serenya admitted, her voice breaking.

“We’ll figure it out together,” Nalia promised, her hand resting on her chest, just above her phoenix mark.

Isolde smirked slightly. “Besides, if there are more Horseborn, we’re going to need more wine.”

Everyone laughed softly, the tension loosening just a bit—but the purpose remained.

Because now there was a new mission.

A new thread in the prophecy that none of them had anticipated.

And the whisper of wind that had guided Serenya across continents now stirred again, faint and patient, as if waiting.