The morning air in Druvkaur did not carry its usual scent of baked earth and fire. Instead, a heavy, metallic tang hung over the village, the kind that preceded a mountain storm.
Zekar was sharpening his arrows on the porch, his mind drifting toward the blue dress Emery had worn the day before, when the sound of thundering hooves shattered the silence.
A rider, clad in the reinforced leathers of the Zathrîkul tribe, tore through the main thoroughfare. His horse was lathered in sweat, its sides heaving as the messenger pulled up sharply before the elders.
"Zas pethra zûn!" [1] the messenger roared, his voice carrying the booming resonance of the Thunder-folk. "Eldharûn has mobilized the Caelorth! The Hawks have left the peaks!"
Zekar stood, the whetstone slipping from his hand. He watched as his mother emerged from the house, her red eyes—usually so full of fire and sharp wit—suddenly dimming. She gripped the doorframe, her knuckles turning white against the dark wood.
"The Caelorth scouts do not fly because they want to," Mama whispered in Drk, her voice trembling for the first time in Zekar's memory. "If the Emperor has sent the hawks, it means there is trouble."
The Caelorth tribe were under the Empire of Eldharûn far away from Varnathian. They were dark skinned sky creatures which shape shifted into hawks, either to vdeliver a message or give warnings.
Baba joined her, his expression turning to one of grim stone. "They seek the borders," he grunted in their native tongue. "They seek to see where the fire is weakest."
Zekar felt a surge of cold fury, but it was not the pride of a Druvkaur warrior. His first thought was of a silver-white head of hair and a manor house made of glass and silk. If the Caelorths were moving, they would see Velanthri first. They would see the "Jewel of the Empire" and they would want to crush it.
"I am going out," Zekar stated, his voice tight.
"Zekar, the village is on alert," his mother warned in Drk. "Stay close."
"I have a hunt to finish," he lied, his eyes flashing with a golden heat that brooked no argument. He grabbed his bow and disappeared into the trees before she could protest further.
He ran. He didn't move with cautious today; he moved with the frantic speed of a man needing to rescue his lover. Every shadow of a hawk in the sky made his skin crawl. He reached the Gem Stream just as the sun began to dip, the water looking less like diamonds and more like cold, grey steel under the gathering clouds.
Emery was already there, sitting on their mossy stone, unaware of the shadow spreading from the north. She looked up as he crashed through the underbrush, a bright smile lighting her face.
"Zekar! You are early," she said in English, her voice as melodic as ever.
He didn't smile back. He didn't offer his usual wolfish grin. He marched up to her, his chest heaving, his eyes searching the horizon behind her.
"Emery. Danger," he said, the English word feeling heavy and jagged. "Bad men. From sky. They come."
Emery blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Bad men? You mean the traders? There is always talk of disagreement at the borders, Zekar, but Father says—"
"No traders!" Zekar interrupted, his frustration mounting. He spoke rapidly in Drk for a moment, describing the silver-winged hawks of the Caelorth and the ruthlessness of the Eldharûn Emperor, before realizing she couldn't understand the depth of his warning. He forced himself back into her tongue. "Eldharûn. Soldiers. They... move. Like fire in dry grass."
Emery stood, smoothing her skirts. She reached out to touch his arm, her expression one of gentle pity. "Zekar, you worry too much. The Velanthri diplomats left for the capital three days ago. My father says a song can soothe a king's heart. We provide the beauty of the world. Why would they destroy the music?"
Zekar felt a growl build in his throat. He reached out and grabbed her shoulders. His grip was firm, born of a desperate need to make her see the truth, yet he was careful not to bruise her delicate skin.
"Diplomats do not stop fire," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intense rumble. He shook his head, his eyes burning into hers. "Words... just air. Swords... are real. You must go. Hide. Tell father... to... to get steel."
"You are hurting my shoulders," Emery whispered, though she didn't pull away. She looked up at him, her blue eyes still stubbornly clear of the fear he felt. "The Empire has been at peace for generations. My people are protected by the treaties. We are the Song of the Waves, Zekar. We are not a threat to anyone."
"You are... beautiful," Zekar countered, his grip loosening but his intensity remaining. "Men kill... for beauty. They burn... for beauty."
He was losing the battle with the language. He wanted to tell her that the world she lived in was a dream, a fragile bubble of silk and glass that was about to be stepped on by an iron boot. He wanted to tell her that the people in her house were right to be afraid, even if they were wrong about him.
Emery saw the genuine agony in his expression, the way his golden eyes seemed to flicker with a helpless sort of love. She reached up, taking his large, calloused hands in hers and pulling them away from her shoulders. Slowly, she guided one of his palms and placed it directly against her heart.
The contact was electric. Zekar froze, his entire body going still as he felt the steady, rapid thrum of her heart beneath the silk of her dress. It was a fragile beat, yet so full of life.
"Do you feel that?" she asked softly. "It is not afraid. Because you are here."
Zekar's breath hitched. In that moment, the sounds of the distant scouts and the rumors of war faded. There was only the heat of his palm against her chest and the overwhelming realization of what she was to him. He realized that if the world did burn—if the Eldharûn Emperor brought his steel and his ash to these woods—Zekar would not be a warrior for his tribe. He would be the one to carry this girl through the flames, even if he had to turn to ash himself to keep her cool.
"I keep... you," he whispered, his thumb brushing the side of her hand. "Always."
He reached into his tunic and finally pulled out the cord of dragon-glass. He didn't wait for her to ask. He stepped behind her, his hands trembling slightly as he looped the braided sinew around her neck. The black shard rested against the pale blue of her dress, right over the spot where her heart beat against his palm moments before.
"Thiir draa'len dor'thal niir[2].", he said in Drk, before translating the best he could. "My heart... Inside." He gestured vaguely to the heirloom. "If cold... it keep you warm. A promise, Emery."
Emery touched the sharp, cool edge of the glass, her eyes shimmering with a sudden, deeper understanding. She didn't know the full weight of the Druvkaur tradition, but she felt the gravity of his soul in the gift.
"It is beautiful," she murmured. "I will never take it off."
The tension in the air softened, though the grey clouds still loomed above the trees. They sat together on the mossy stone, the dark stone of the necklace catching what little light was left in the day.
"Teach me more," Zekar said, leaning his head back against a cedar trunk. "Teach me... 'Safe'."
Emery smiled and took his hand, tracing the lines of his palm. "Safe," she repeated clearly. She then asked him, "What does it sound like, in Drk?"
"Vael'thir," he replied.
"Vael'thir," she tried, her melodic voice making the harsh Drk syllables sound like a lullaby.
They spent the next hour in a quiet exchange of souls and sounds. He taught her the word for 'Protect'—Thaal'ven—and she taught him the Veel word for 'Wait'—Aelun.
"Aelun." Zekar whispered.
"You, learn the Drk alphabet more," Zekar told her, gesturing to the charcoal pencil she still carried. "If I cannot come... I write."
"I will learn," Emery promised. "I have already filled three sheets with your name."
Zekar's wolfish smile finally returned. He stood as the first drops of rain began to fall, the Gem Stream hissing as the cool water hit the warm stones.
"Go now," he told her, his voice firm. "Watch the sky, Emery. Not the stars. The sky."
"I will watch for you," she countered.
He watched her disappear into the woods, the dragon-glass glowing a faint, crystalline red against her chest as she moved. He stayed until the rain was coming down in earnest, soaking his hair and cooling the fever in his blood. He looked toward the north, where the Caelorth were flying, and felt the first true itch of power in his shoulder blades.
He wasn't ready to fly. He wasn't a dragon yet. But as he turned back toward Druvkaur, he knew that for her, he would learn to be anything. He would learn to be the fire that guarded, rather than the fire that consumed.
"I am coming back for you," he whispered softly in Drk, before walking towards where he came from.
[1] ENGLISH: The skies are changing!
[2] ENGLISH: This is from my home