Chapter 1
On the western side of the mountains stood a settlement that always felt too crowded.
Not because there were too many people.
But because there was too little land left to live on.
The cliffs had cracked over the years. Soil had thinned. The once-powerful waterfall that carved life into the valley had weakened into a narrow stream clinging stubbornly to stone.
Water meant survival.
And survival had grown scarce.
Yet on that particular day, the settlement heard something that did not belong to drought or fear.
A newborn's cry.
It came from a small wooden house built near the base of the dying waterfall. The structure was simple, reinforced by hands that had repaired it too many times. Inside, beneath the echo of thinning water, a child took his first breath.
His cry was strong.
Defiant.
Alive.
That child was Luze.
The sound carried through the valley, bouncing off tired stone and weary hearts. For a moment, people paused in their labor. A birth meant hope. Even in a shrinking world.
But before the sound faded—
Another cry rose.
Higher along the ridge, near the old watchtower that no longer watched anything, another child was born.
This cry was sharper.
Shorter.
And then—
A scream followed.
Not of joy.
Not of celebration.
But of loss.
The wind carried that sound farther than the baby's cry.
That child was Fude.
The settlement did not understand it yet.
But beneath the nearly-dry waterfall and beside the silent tower, two lives had begun—lives that would one day change what little remained of their world.
Eight Years Later
The waterfall had not recovered.
If anything, it had grown weaker.
The stream that once fed the village reservoir now dripped with reluctance. Wooden containers were lined carefully along the rock face, waiting for water that came slower each week.
Children were taught not to waste a single drop.
Luze carried a bucket carefully down the narrow path toward his home. His steps were steady, deliberate. Even at eight years old, he walked as if the world required patience.
"Careful," his mother, Elira Zuberias, reminded him gently from the doorway.
He nodded.
"I know."
Inside their small house, warmth lingered. His father, Arven Zuberias, repaired tools by the window, quiet but attentive.
Luze liked the quiet.
He liked that his home felt full, even when the storage barrels were nearly empty.
Outside, the air felt different.
Sharper.
More desperate.
Near the ridge, Fude Melzhy sat alone on a flat stone, staring at the nearly-dry stream below.
His hands were busy dismantling a broken water valve salvaged from the reservoir system. He had taken it apart twice already.
It still did not work.
"Fude."
The voice came from behind.
Lean Melzhy stood at the doorway of their house. His expression was not unkind. Just… tired.
"You should come inside."
"I'm fine," Fude replied without looking up.
Lean hesitated.
"You don't need to fix everything."
Fude's fingers tightened around the metal piece.
"I know."
But he didn't believe it.
He remembered the whispers from years ago. He remembered understanding far too early that his mother had not survived the day he was born.
No one had said it directly.
But children understood more than adults thought.
If he had not been born—
He pushed the thought away.
The metal snapped in his hand.
He exhaled sharply.
Across the slope, Luze noticed.
He walked closer, careful not to spill the bucket.
"You'll cut yourself," Luze said.
"I won't."
"You already did."
Fude glanced down. A thin line of blood traced his knuckle.
"It's nothing."
Luze placed the bucket down.
"You can use some water."
Fude stiffened.
"I don't need it."
"It's just a little."
"I said I don't need it."
Silence hung between them.
Luze did not argue.
He simply dipped a cloth into the bucket and held it out.
After a long pause—
Fude took it.
Neither of them mentioned it.
Above them, the waterfall made a weak, almost embarrassed sound.
The village bell rang in the distance.
Water distribution had been reduced again.
People gathered near the reservoir with worried expressions.
That night, the air felt heavier than usual.
The containers placed beneath the cliff remained nearly empty.
Luze stood outside with his father, staring at the thin stream.
"It used to be loud," Luze said quietly.
Arven nodded.
"Yes."
"Will it come back?"
Arven did not answer immediately.
"I don't know."
Higher up the ridge, Fude stood alone again.
He watched the cliff face carefully, as if waiting for it to confess something.
The stream flickered.
Then thinned.
Then—
Stopped.
No splash.
No final roar.
Just silence.
The kind of silence that did not feel temporary.
The wind passed through the empty channel where water had once fallen freely.
People began murmuring.
Someone ran toward the reservoir.
Someone else shouted for the elders.
Luze stared at the dry stone.
Fude clenched his fists.
The mountain had always given them something.
Even when it grew weaker.
But now—
There was nothing.
The waterfall had whispered for years before it died.
That night, it did not whisper at all.
And in the silence that followed, two boys felt something shift inside them.
Not fear.
Not yet.
But something that would not allow them to remain the same.
The settlement stood beneath a lifeless cliff.
And for the first time, the drought no longer felt like a season.
It felt like an ending.