Noah
The morning sun spills golden light through the wooden shutters, warm against my face. I blink awake slowly, the faint crackle of Kael's hearth still burning from the night before. The smell of smoke and roasted herbs clings to the air, a scent that is slowly becoming familiar, almost comforting.
I rise quietly, pulling on the simple tunic Serenya gave me. It's a little loose around the shoulders, but softer than anything I owned back home. I run a hand over the fabric, strange yet comforting, like being wrapped in borrowed kindness.
Outside, Tyuinwood hums with life. Children dart between thatched houses, laughter spilling across the narrow paths. The villagers are gathering for something, I can hear drums, soft but steady, like the heartbeat of the village itself.
Lyraea appears at my side, her copper hair catching the sunlight. She beams. "You're awake! Come on, you'll want to see this."
I follow her down the worn dirt path into the village square. The air buzzes with energy, stalls piled high with roasted roots, spiced meats, woven charms that shimmer faintly with mana. The villagers wear bright sashes, dyed in greens and deep reds, and their laughter rises with the rhythm of the drums.
"It's the Harvest Bloom," Lyraea explains, tugging me closer. "We celebrate the first flowering of the skyroots. Without them, Tyuinwood wouldn't survive."
I nod, pretending I understand, but my gaze is fixed elsewhere. The people. The Thyridyns.
They move with an easy strength, their gestures sharp, their words layered with old cadences that roll off the tongue like embers. And I notice something else: the men, Kael, and the others who've lived long enough to bear scars... each have scales faintly etched at the edges of their eyelids. Emerald, bronze, sapphire… gleaming like whispers of dragons.
I can't look away. My father had scales like that.
For a moment, the ache in my chest tightens, but instead of crushing me, it steadies me. This is his homeland. His people. By seeing them, it feels as if I'm piecing together fragments of him I never truly understood.
But not every gaze that falls on me is welcoming.
Two older women standing by a stall whisper behind their palms, their eyes narrowing as they glance at me. A hunter, tall and broad-shouldered, passes by with his bow slung across his back. His gaze lingers on me, sharp and unkind, before he spits to the side.
I pretend not to notice, but the knot in my stomach hardens.
Lyraea must've noticed, because she bumps her shoulder against mine and whispers, "Ignore them. Some people don't like outsiders. They'll come around."
I wish I believed her.
The drums grow louder, and the villagers gather around a great fire pit at the center of the square. Kael stands among the hunters, his scarred face stern, but his eyes soften when they meet mine. Serenya joins him, her voice calm and warm as she helps direct the children into neat rows for the opening chant.
I edge closer, watching as the flames leap higher. One of the elders raises his staff, marked with dragon motifs, and begins to speak. I don't understand all the words, but I catch fragments: gratitude… strength… unity. The villagers respond in unison, their voices weaving together like a living song.
For the first time since I arrived in Tharidya, I feel the pull of belonging. Not fully, not yet... but enough that my chest warms.
When the chanting ends, food and drink spill into eager hands. Lyraea presses a roasted skewer into mine before darting off to dance with the other children. I stay near the fire, watching, tasting the strange spices that burn and sweeten on my tongue.
Then, I hear it.
"He's dangerous," a low voice mutters nearby. "Did you see his eyes? There's something in them. He doesn't belong here."
"Kael should know better than to harbor strays," another answers, sharp and bitter. "What if the beasts followed him? What if he draws their wrath?"
The words sink into me like hooks. I grip the skewer tighter, my appetite gone.
I turn slightly, catching sight of the two hunters from earlier. Their gazes are hard, their whispers like poison carried on the wind.
Part of me wants to shout.... that I didn't choose this, that I lost everything, that I'm just a boy trying to survive. But the words stick in my throat.
Instead, I step back, away from the fire, the music, the laughter. The world tilts, the shadows colder now.
A small hand slips into mine.
Lyraea. She looks up at me, her face flushed from dancing, her smile wide. "Don't listen," she says softly, almost like she read my thoughts. "Father trusts you. I trust you. That's enough."
Her words loosen something inside me, enough that I can breathe again.
Later, as the sun dips low and lanterns bloom like stars in the village square, I sit on the edge of the gathering with Kael. He doesn't speak at first, just watches the villagers with his usual calm.
"They don't like me," I say finally. The words slip out before I can stop them.
Kael exhales slowly, the firelight glinting off the faint scales at his temples. "Some don't. Suspicion is easy. Trust is harder."
"Because I'm an outsider?"
"Because you're different," he answers simply. "And difference unsettles people. But listen well, Noah, belonging is not given. It's earned. Not by blood or birthplace, but by how you choose to live among others."
I stare at the fire, his words heavy in my chest. Earned. The thought feels both daunting and… possible.
Kael studies me for a moment longer before adding, "They'll see your strength one day. Just as I already do."
His voice is firm, not unkind. The knot in my chest loosens.
When the festival finally quiets, and villagers drift back to their homes, I find myself lying on the cot Serenya made for me. The lantern's glow flickers against the wooden walls, casting shadows that dance like restless dreams.
I think of my parents, of the moment they sent me through the portal. I think of the scales glinting at the corners of Kael's eyes, the whispers of the villagers, Lyraea's hand clutching mine.
This world is strange and sharp, full of kindness and suspicion both. But as my eyes grow heavy, I realize something:
For the first time since losing everything, I don't feel completely alone.
And that, maybe, is enough to begin again.
End of Chapter.