The morning shimmered in hues of lavender and gold as the first light of Thareon's ringlight pierced through the vine-curtained entryway of Nerissa's home. Dappled rainbows danced gently on the curved stone walls, moving like living paint across her slumbering face.
Her lashes fluttered. A breath. A soft stretch beneath a woven blanket. And then—
"Nerissa, my star!" came the warm voice of her father, followed by the tickle of strong arms lifting her effortlessly into the air.
She giggled, legs kicking as Fen swung her once, then cradled her close. "The star has risen, the dragon sleeps, and your first day of learning begins. How could you still be dreaming?"
She grinned sleepily, resting her head on his shoulder. "I was flying."
"Of course you were," Fen replied with a smirk. "Only a star could fly before she's even had her morning stew."
The scent of seared root and lake herbs met them as they moved toward the hearth, where Lira crouched over a clay bowl, stirring with practiced ease.
"There she is," Lira said, turning with a smile as radiant as the ringlight outside. "Our little scholar. Are you ready?"
Nerissa, now seated beside the fire, nodded with a glowing smile and wide eyes. "Yes!"
Lira leaned closer, brushing back a strand of her daughter's hair. "Good. Let your heart be open and your questions bold."
Nerissa looked around, her gaze drifting to the empty reed mat near the back wall. "Where's Aunt Belligarde?"
Lira's smile faltered, just slightly.
"She had to go back to the outer ridge," Fen answered gently, exchanging a glance with Lira. "Important work."
Nerissa frowned. "But she promised to tell me more stories."
"She will," Lira said softly. "When she returns."
—
The valley narrowed and shifted into jagged terrain as Belligarde ascended toward the outermost ridge. Her boots crunched against brittle stone, the sky vast and cool above her. The morning wind pulled at her cloak, the metallic object still wrapped and strapped to her back.
Her mind wandered, replaying the firelit conversation from the night before.
Chief Maelhan had been measured in tone, but the weight of worry was evident.
"You mustn't speak of this—not yet," he'd warned. "The people will panic if they think outsiders are nearing our borders. If they believe Alfazar's domain is no longer safe…"
"Then their faith will crack," Belligarde had said, her voice low.
Maelhan nodded. "And faith, once broken, is hard to mend. Go. Return to the site. If there are more signs—more objects—bring them to me. But do not return until you are certain the ridge is secure."
So she had gone. Past the spires. Beyond the moss curtains. Across tranquil cliffs.
Ten Offerings had come and gone.
The villagers still waited for her return.
—
Within the Circle of Teaching, ringlight bathed the monolithic stone at the center, casting the draconic runes into soft relief. Nerissa sat cross-legged on the warm floor, her eyes bright with focus. Though not very adept on learning the practical skills, she absorbed language lessons like moss takes to rain.
Elder Talyri watched from her seat in the crescent, her silver-threaded hair bound in cords of woven reed. A historian, guardian of the village's oldest memories, she had taught the Language of the Scale longer than any living soul.
And she had never seen a child learn it so quickly.
Nerissa did not just memorize the symbols. She felt them. She traced arcs in the air, whispered meanings between breaths, and occasionally paused as if listening—as though the runes themselves spoke back.
Talyri, curious and cautious, began spending more time with the girl. Lessons extended past the usual mornings. They walked together after class. Sat near the central hearth reading together as Nerissa asked questions few others dared pose. Over time, the bond that formed was more than pupil and teacher—it was one of kinship. A meeting of minds, generations apart but linked by something ancient.
And one morning, Talyri decided to show her something old.
—
The archive chamber lay beneath the Circle itself—a stone spiral descending into silence. Here, the oldest stone tablets were kept. Each one etched with the Language of the Scale, each one a story passed from Alfazar to the chiefs and their chosen historians.
It was a sacred ritual. When a chief stepped down or passed into the next world, the Ancient One would ascend from his den and await the new leader. At the edge of his cavern, Alfazar would slowly, deliberately point to the symbols etched into the stone walls—telling a story only he remembered.
The Elder Historian would be there, kneeling beside the new Chief, to watch, learn, and carve the tale into a fresh tablet.
These stories were not legends. They were warnings. Teachings. Truths gifted from dragon to human to ensure survival.
Talyri held one such tablet now, the stone cool and veined with age.
"I want you to read this," she said, placing it before Nerissa. "Tell me what you see."
Nerissa ran her fingers along the etched lines, her brow furrowed in focus. The symbols danced behind her eyes, shifted, reordered.
"It speaks of a time before dragons ruled the skies," she murmured. "When fire fell from above. When beings not of Thareon came on wings of metal."
Talyri blinked. "Go on."
Nerissa pointed to a curved cluster of runes. "It calls them… Starborn. They came from the light beyond the light."
Talyri stared. "That word. Starborn—I never read it that way."
"It's in the older part of the script," Nerissa said, unaware of her own brilliance. "The deep roots."
Far across the valley, beyond the cliffs and the wind, Belligarde knelt near a narrow stream, unwrapping the mysterious artifact once more. The symbols etched into its metal surface pulsed faintly as if waking.
Talyri knelt beside Nerissa, breath caught. She touched the tablet again, eyes narrowing. There—faint, almost missed—was the same symbol etched onto the handle of the strange weapon Belligarde had carried.
The same word.
Starborn.