The sky over the Valley of Ryn had shifted into soft golden hues as the ringlight thinned toward midday, signaling the end of the offering ceremony. Alfazar had eaten in silence, his great form now hidden once more within the folds of his mountain cavern. The tremors of his movement had long since faded into the memory of stone.
In the village, life returned to its rhythm.
Fisherfolk hauled empty nets for mending, farmers combed mossy gardens between stone paths, and children chased each other through stalk-fields under the watchful gaze of elders perched in shaded thresholds. At the edge of the village, the sound of small footsteps tapping on star-warmed rock marked the approach of Nerissa and her mother.
She clung to her hand as they made their way toward the Circle of Teaching—a great circular hut built around a singular monolithic stone that jutted from the ground like a mountain's tooth. Woven reed panels formed the walls, but the structure had no true roof—only beams crisscrossing overhead where cloth banners fluttered in the breeze. The open top allowed the ringlight to shine directly onto the central stone, making it gleam faintly with hues of lavender and jade.
Inside, five elders waited in a crescent of carved stone seats, their robes adorned with fishbone, woven symbols, and polished lake stones. Behind them, the great stone at the center bore old etchings—lines, spirals, and jagged runes that had been copied and taught for generations.
The chief, Elder Maelhan, stood as Nerissa and her mother entered. His voice was weathered like wind through reeds, but clear.
"Nerissa of Lira and Fen," he said with a soft smile. "The time has come. You are welcomed to our care, for a morning each day, until your learning roots are deep and your mind grows strong. Come tomorrow, and the teaching shall begin."
Nerissa bowed her head, eyes wide with reverence. Her mother squeezed her hand once before stepping back, pride gleaming in her eyes.
In the Valley of Ryn, children were not raised only by family, but by the village itself.
From early seasons, they learned the rhythm of the lake—the tug of a net, the glint of scales in the shallows, the patience required to harvest the fertile soil along the water's edge. Gathering, building, weaving, healing—each child was taught to contribute, not simply survive.
But above all practical knowledge, the most sacred of teachings was language.
Not the common tongue spoken between families, but the Language of the Scale—draconic symbols passed down from the time of the first settlers. The tale told that the leader of the wandering ancestors once stood before Alfazar at the edge of the dragon's cavern.
There, carved by claw into the stone threshold of the den, were the runes—symbols ancient and beautiful. Arcs and slashes, spirals and circles, each vibrating with the essence of power and memory. Alfazar had shown them not how to hunt or to fight—but how to record, how to remember.
From those markings, the villagers had created a written tongue. It was not used lightly. Only the elders, historians, and young initiates learning their first symbols were allowed to handle the precious stone tablets etched with the draconic script. It was a gift. A trust. Perhaps even a test.
Tomorrow, Nerissa would begin learning those very symbols.
But the day still had one surprise left.
As Nerissa and her mother walked the path homeward from the Circle, ringlight caught the edge of a shadow moving swiftly across the red rocks. A figure approached from the outer hills—broad, cloaked in dusty leather, star-darkened skin glinting with sweat, a smirk tugging at her lips.
"Aunt Belligarde!" Nerissa cried.
The woman swept the child into her arms with a theatrical spin, drawing a laugh from both niece and mother.
"You're early," Nerissa's mother said, crossing her arms with finesse.
"I'm always early when I smell celebration," Belligarde winked. "Or mystery. Or trouble."
Belligarde was unlike any other in the valley. While the village moved like a song of tradition, she walked to the beat of stories untold. Her arms bore the faint scars of thorned climbs, her boots were worn from paths far beyond the valley's rim. And though she often earned stern words from the elders, none could deny her bravery—or the spark of curiosity she carried like a flame.
Rumors followed her like dust. Some said she had already crept into Alfazar's den as a child and laid eyes on the dragon's pit. Others claimed she'd found paths beyond the cliffs to forgotten ruins. Belligarde never confirmed any of it. But she always smiled when asked.
Nerissa adored her.
Perhaps it was the same flicker in her own spirit—the unspoken pull toward the unknown.
As they walked together back toward the village huts, Belligarde looked down at her niece, her eyes alight.
"So," she said softly, "you start your learning tomorrow. The Circle of Teaching, hmm?"
Nerissa nodded eagerly.
"Well, keep your ears open. And your eyes sharper. And maybe, just maybe—I'll tell you a secret soon. About the places where the wind sings through bones and the stones whisper old names."
The girl gasped. "Really?"
Belligarde only grinned.
As the ringlight faded toward dusk and the long shadows of the red rocks stretched across the valley, the three of them disappeared into the warmth of home.
But the wind carried a promise, rustling the trees with quiet anticipation.
There were stories still waiting to be told.
And Belligarde would not let them sleep for long.