The days after the bonding ceremony passed in a golden warmth. Charlisa woke each morning wrapped in Kael's arms, their hut perfumed with lavender and smoke from the village cookfires. The air was beginning to shift; the gentle breeze carried the scent of ripening fruit and mossy bark, signaling the approach of harvest season.
Charlisa had always loved food—not for gluttony, but for the science and comfort behind its preparation. She had grown up with her grandmother Vina's warm lentil stews and her father's foraged herb omelets. Here, food meant something deeper: survival, unity, celebration.
Kael took her on a morning walk to a hidden spot few knew about—a shaded ledge on the mountain above the village, where damp stone and filtered light created the perfect microclimate. Tucked beneath flat, slate-colored rocks were clusters of mushrooms.
"These are firecap bloomers," he said, brushing aside a leafy cover to reveal thick, red-flecked caps. "Rare. Only fruit after bonding moons."
Charlisa knelt to examine them. "These are bioluminescent," she said, eyes wide. "High in protein and antimicrobial, too. Incredible."
They harvested carefully, only taking mature ones and leaving the smaller bulbs to grow. Kael admired how Charlisa respected the forest's balance.
Back in the village, she joined the communal cookfires near the central courtyard. Wide stone hearths surrounded by raised platforms served as kitchens, with elder cooks tending bubbling pots and roasting roots on spit forks. The air was heavy with spice—smoked pepperroot, sun-dried basilleaf, and fragrant tubers.
Charlisa brought the mushrooms to Mae and another elder, Ivoan, who examined them with curious delight. "You know how to prepare?" Ivoan asked.
"With garlic-bark oil and sap-salt. Pan seared until the edges crisp."
She was given a cooking stone, heated over coals, and began to sauté the mushrooms with crushed herbs, adding thin slices of sunfruit for sweetness. A few villagers gathered around, watching her sprinkle dried roots over the sizzling mixture. The earthy aroma made mouths water.
Kael appeared beside her, his arm resting lightly at her waist. "They're watching you," he said with a smirk.
Charlisa smiled. "Let them. They've never had mushroom stir-fry with caramelized sunfruit."
They sat to eat together—Charlisa, Kael, Mae, and several children who peeked curiously at the colorful dish. One bold child asked, "Are all mountain mushrooms safe?"
Charlisa shook her head. "Not all. Some make you sick. Some make you sleep. Some help you heal. You have to learn their language."
The child looked amazed. "They talk?"
"In their own way," Kael added, smiling at her. "She listens."
By evening, the dish was declared a favorite, and Mae invited her to teach more village youth about "plant listening."
Charlisa's heart swelled. Through food and knowledge, she wasn't just surviving—she was becoming part of the fabric of this world. And with Kael beside her, every day felt like a gift gently unwrapped.
That night, in the glow of the cookfires, she pressed a kiss to Kael's cheek and whispered, "Thank you for showing me where the mushrooms grow."
He grinned. "Thank you for making them taste like home."