The morning dawned with the usual grace of Thareon's celestial beauty. The planetary rings arched over the sky like divine brushstrokes, painting the valley with hues of violet and blue. But beneath this stillness, something had shifted.
Small, winged reptiles took flight too early. Cold-blooded herds wandered far from their seasonal paths. And far beyond the lush embrace of the Valley of Ryn, the remains of wyverns—lesser predators—were found lifeless, their corpses shattered unnaturally in blackened soil. Each shattered flesh cauterized.
The disturbance was subtle, but in Alfazar's breathless silence, it sang like a warning.
From deep within his cavern, the old dragon stirred. Distant growls echoed from the mountain's heart even though no Offering was due. The villagers whispered of it with unease—his voice did not rise with anger, but restlessness. The kind of unease felt before a great storm.
Chief Maelhan convened a quiet council in the dim corners of the Long Hall. Elder Talyri arrived solemnly, the stone tablet clutched to her chest like a sacred relic. She placed it gently between them, her eyes weary.
"Nerissa. She found something in the language," she murmured. "Something none of us ever saw."
Maelhan did not look at the symbols. "We must be careful what knowledge we let pass unchecked. Especially now."
Far from the warmth of council and hearth, Belligarde stood on cursed soil. Obsidian-black and brittle, it cracked beneath her boots as she approached the scattered corpses of three wyverns—powerful creatures brought down by something efficient, and merciless.
Nearby, her sharp eyes caught a glimmer—a trail of crystal shards faintly pulsing with light. Her breath caught as she knelt beside them. They were not unfamiliar.
From her travel pack, she unslung the weapon she had carried since that fateful night—the artifact of sleek metal and etched glyphs. Its side bore dimmed sockets where similar shards had once glowed. A shiver danced down her spine.
One shard. Just one. She hesitated only briefly before fitting it into the weapon's socket.
As the shard clicked into place with a quiet finality. It came alive.
A low hum pulsed through the air. The glyphs along its hilt ignited, flowing with radiant blue light. The soil around her seemed to recoil. And for a breathless second, the air around her shimmered with heat.
She stood frozen, gaze fixed on the glowing weapon. The symbols burned brighter—but she did not try to read them. Not yet.
Not until she saw Alfazar.
A sharper thought stirred: Maybe the answers aren't in the wilds… but in the dragon's den itself. Where the ancient glyphs of the Language of the Scale had first come from.
In the Circle of Teaching, Nerissa stood alone before the towering monolith. The ringlight filtered through high vents above, catching the dust and the soft shimmer of stone.
Her fingers traced a rune, whispering softly in the Language of the Scale.
The rune glowed.
Only faintly, but undeniably.
Hidden in the shadows beyond the arch, Elder Talyri stared, stunned. "She awakens them," she breathed. "By voice alone..."
Was it a prophecy? Or something older?
That afternoon, an emergency meeting filled the Long Hall with tense voices.
"She is too young to bear this!" barked one elder.
"Too powerful to ignore," replied another.
"She speaks to Alfazar," said Talyri, calm but firm. "We must listen—she may understand what we never could."
Maelhan listened quietly. When he finally spoke, his words danced between truth and silence.
"Belligarde found signs of outsiders. An abandoned camp. No tracks leading out."
The news unsettled the council. He said nothing of the weapon. But Talyri saw the shadow pass over his eyes.
Then came dusk.
The ground trembled. From the cavern, Alfazar's roar rose—not a battle-cry, but a lament. Deep, layered, and ancient.
Not a sound. An emotion.
The villagers froze. Children cried. And panic rippled across the plaza like wind through dry leaves.
Fen was in the center of it—startled, eyes darting as voices rose and hands grabbed for loved ones. He turned toward the distant sound of Alfazar's voice, then back toward his home.
Lira. Nerissa.
He sprinted, shoulder-checking through a rushing crowd. A man tripped in front of him—he helped him up without stopping. Breathless, he shoved through the final gate and ran across the narrow bridge toward their home, chest pounding.
Inside, he found them.
Lira knelt on the floor, arms tightly wrapped around Nerissa, who was curled in her lap, her hands over her ears.
"I feel him," Nerissa whispered through the noise.
On the ridge, Belligarde was already running. Alfazar's cry had reached even there, vibrating through her bones.
But then, something stopped her.
A light.
Far across the opposite ridge, a winged metal vessel—not wyvern, not craft—rose like a shard of starlight. It hovered, then began to glide swiftly toward the valley.
She froze. Her breath caught.
She ran harder. Her eyes wide, heart burning with urgency.
Towards the valley. Towards her family.
But the presence in the sky moved faster.