Older than fire

It was true. Mortals were practiced at lying and seeing liars. Ryn barely understood what their faces meant most of the time, and they could divine her every mood based on the tics of her mouth or tone of voice. She’d never realized until now how strangely good people were at interacting with one another—maybe twice across her countless centuries of life had she socialized with a human. “I will try.”
“You say that now. Sixteen months ago, you knocked a tooth out of an orderly. I liked that orderly.”
“He smelled wrong.”
“And from now on when people smell bad, you will use your words.”
Except Ryn could not. She could do many things without effort—anything at all with her hands or body, or with the acuity of her senses. But after observing the human species from the fringes of its campfires for as long as it had built campfires, Ryn had concluded they were not meant to be understood by something like her.


Chapter 3, Page 32