= Amara =
By the time the third candle was lit along the length of the council table, I had almost forgotten what it felt like to be unwelcome.
Almost.
I sat among them with my hands folded neatly in my lap, posture composed, expression neutral—carefully practiced. Around me, the people’s voices rose and fell in deliberate overlap, a restrained rhythm of discussion that felt more like ritual than conversation. They spoke of dates and rites, of symbolic colors tied to lunar alignments, of moon phases that dictated not only timing but meaning.
The meeting hall carried the familiar scent of incense and aged wood, a combination that was oddly soothing. It settled into my lungs and loosened the knot that usually formed in my chest whenever I found myself surrounded by people who had every r
