Whitebeard the Ancient's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

Whitebeard planted the final marker stone along the eastern trail and brushed dirt from his hands. The symbols would guide his herd to the birch castle within three days. He turned toward the coast, where the old observatory hill rose against the sky. His hooves carried him there without thought, following a path worn deep by forty years of nightly climbs. The fishing huts came into view first—rough wood structures built from stones that once mapped the stars. Humans shouted and laughed near their nets. Whitebeard's jaw tightened. This sacred ground, where his dam had shown him whale-songs in the green aurora, now reeked of fish and cheap wine. But he climbed anyway, as he always did, because the star-swimmers still passed overhead. Their ancient paths didn't care about human borders or stolen land. Tonight he would watch them, and tomorrow his herd would begin to take back what belonged to them. Dawn broke gray and cold. Whitebeard descended from the ruins and walked toward the human settlement. He needed to understand what they said about boundaries, about who claimed which lands. A weathered stone gazebo stood at the edge of their territory, its peaked roof covered in purple vines. Wooden railings lined its sides, and papers fluttered there in the breeze. Humans gathered beneath it—merchants arguing over fish prices, travelers complaining about muddy roads. Whitebeard stopped at the gazebo's edge and listened. One man spoke of expanding the settlement north, toward the valley. Another mentioned clearing more trees for lumber. Their words lit a fire in Whitebeard's chest. They planned to take more land, land his herd had grazed for generations. He turned away before his anger could show. His people would arrive in three days. By then, he would know exactly what the humans intended, and his herd would be ready to stop them.