Pü placed the bead back between his fingers, determined to properly work the rim of the receptacle. Once finished, he would go and finish ornamenting the tiara he had been working on in secret for several weeks, and which he intended for his mother. This jewel was the missing piece. And as he was about to make his move, it was not his hand that trembled, but his arm: the jolt did not come from him. The Zoraï put down the unfinished piece with his tools and hurried out of his workshop. He took a few steps and raised his head, staring at the bark ceiling of the sky-tree from which the astral rays filtered. The ground shook slightly again. Until then, the huge felled stump had always been able to protect the village, both from natural threats and from homins. It was the refuge of many animal species, especially birds that nested in the highest strata, but also their. The tribe had settled at ground level, but had also built a number of dwellings on bark-sides and high roots, preferring however the ancestral building techniques' archaism to the pagan innovation of karavaneer magnetism. Be that as it may, for Pü, it was impossible to imagine that the rain tree would fail in its ancestral mission of protection. As if to prove him wrong, the ground shook more strongly, and the first cries were heard. Worried, he started to run towards the family home located at about ten meters, hoping to find his mother there. He tried to analyze the situation. The first hypothesis that came to mind was that of a homin attack. After all, their enemies were numerous. But the new, more violent tremors overcame this idea. As far as he knew, no homin had the power to shake the bark in this way. The threat seemed to come from below. The Prime Roots, under the Jungle, were made up of huge bioluminescent caves, real ecosystems inhabited by gigantic herbivores. Perhaps a herd of pachyderms was passing under the village? His mind wandered from hypothesis to hypothesis, trying as best it could to rationally deal with the facts. Arriving in front of his home, he hurriedly drew the drapes, calling out to his mother and brother. Not any answer. His mother was probably at Grandmother Bä-Bä's. And as he drew breath to start back up to the top of the village, his lungs burned. An aggressive toxic veil had just poisoned the atmosphere. Never had the young Zoraï smelled so acerbic an odor. This terrible scent announced the worst, he was certain of that. Squinting, he grabbed a sword from his father's rack and slipped out of the hut as quickly as he had entered it.

Pü placed the bead back between his fingers, determined to properly work the rim of the receptacle. Once finished, he would go and finish ornamenting the tiara he had been working on in secret for several weeks, and which he intended for his mother. This jewel was the missing piece. And as he was about to make his move, it was not his hand that trembled, but his arm: the jolt did not come from him. The Zoraï put down the unfinished piece with his tools and hurried out of his workshop. He took a few steps and raised his head, staring at the bark ceiling of the sky-tree from which the astral rays filtered. The ground shook slightly again. Until then, the huge felled stump had always been able to protect the village, both from natural threats and from homins. It was the refuge of many animal species, especially birds that nested in the highest strata, but also their. The tribe had settled at ground level, but had also built a number of dwellings on bark-sides and high roots, preferring however the ancestral building techniques' archaism to the pagan innovation of karavaneer magnetism. Be that as it may, for Pü, it was impossible to imagine that the rain tree would fail in its ancestral mission of protection. As if to prove him wrong, the ground shook more strongly, and the first cries were heard. Worried, he started to run towards the family home located at about ten meters, hoping to find his mother there. He tried to analyze the situation. The first hypothesis that came to mind was that of a homin attack. After all, their enemies were numerous. But the new, more violent tremors overcame this idea. As far as he knew, no homin had the power to shake the bark in this way. The threat seemed to come from below. The Prime Roots, under the Jungle, were made up of huge bioluminescent caves, real ecosystems inhabited by gigantic herbivores. Perhaps a herd of pachyderms was passing under the village? His mind wandered from hypothesis to hypothesis, trying as best it could to rationally deal with the facts. Arriving in front of his home, he hurriedly drew the drapes, calling out to his mother and brother. Not any answer. His mother was probably at Grandmother Bä-Bä's. And as he drew breath to start back up to the top of the village, his lungs burned. An aggressive toxic veil had just poisoned the atmosphere. Never had the young Zoraï smelled so acerbic an odor. This terrible scent announced the worst, he was certain of that. Squinting, he grabbed a sword from his father's rack and slipped out of the hut as quickly as he had entered it.

Pü's heart rose and his neck sank between his shoulders. He felt every muscle in his body contract, his jaw tighten and a cold sweat run down his spine. It had been many years since he had felt fear. Every inch of his body was screming to him to be careful. To face this threat, three different reactions were programmed deep in his cells, selected by life long before he and his ancestors were born. Atavistic, prehistoric reflexes, anchored in his flesh until death: immobility, flight and attack. Pü was a born warrior, conditioned since his earliest childhood. So it was by pure automatism that his arm drew his father's sword and struck the horrible apparition. The amber blade struck the scaly armor of the kipesta without succeeding in piercing it, but ricocheted towards one of its stringy wings, which it sliced through. The creature gave a repulsive squeak and fled into the sawdust mist from which it had emerged. At that moment at least, fear had changed sides.  

Pü's heart rose and his neck sank between his shoulders. He felt every muscle in his body contract, his jaw tighten and a cold sweat run down his spine. It had been many years since he had felt fear. Every inch of his body was screming to him to be careful. To face this threat, three different reactions were programmed deep in his cells, selected by life long before he and his ancestors were born. Atavistic, prehistoric reflexes, anchored in his flesh until death: immobility, flight and attack. Pü was a born warrior, conditioned since his earliest childhood. So it was by pure automatism that his arm drew his father's sword and struck the horrible apparition. The amber blade struck the scaly armor of the kipesta without succeeding in piercing it, but ricocheted towards one of its stringy wings, which it sliced through. The creature gave a repulsive squeak and fled into the sawdust mist from which it had emerged. At that moment at least, fear had changed sides.