Whitebeard stood at the cliff's edge and stared down at the human houses below. Smoke rose from their chimneys. Their fences cut across the valley that once fed his herd. His ancestors had grazed these lands for generations, but now wooden walls blocked the old paths. He turned away from the view and walked inland. His hooves clicked against the rocky ground. The cliffside wind pushed at his white beard. He needed a place to gather his scattered herd, somewhere they could stand together and plan their return to the valley. Through the morning mist, he spotted it—a castle of twisted trees and pale birch wood that reached up into the clouds. Vines wrapped around its walls. Seagulls nested in the highest branches and called out as he approached. This was where he would unite them. This was where they would begin.

Whitebeard pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the birch castle. Dust floated in the light that pierced through gaps in the vines above. The main hall stretched wide enough for twenty centaurs to stand shoulder to shoulder. His hooves echoed against the stone floor as he walked to the center. This place would work. He needed to send word to the scattered members of his herd, to call them here so they could plan together. He pulled a piece of charcoal from his satchel and scratched symbols onto a flat stone—the old markers that every centaur knew. When his people saw these signs posted along the forest paths, they would understand. They would come. Before he left to place the markers, Whitebeard circled the castle grounds. His people would need fresh water when they arrived. They might stay for days while they planned. He found a stone cistern half-buried in moss near the castle's outer wall. Purple gems lined its rim, and horse motifs covered its sides in careful detail. The carvings showed centaurs drinking under stars. His ancestors had built this place, he realized. They had prepared for gatherings like the one he planned now. He cleared debris from the wide opening and tested the depth with his walking stick. Deep enough to hold water for a dozen centaurs through a week of meetings. He straightened up and gripped the marker stone tight in his hand. The first step was ready. Now he had to bring his scattered herd home.