Scene 1: The Lookout

  -Ryker-

  We walk the ridge path toward the lookout tower, boots sliding over frost-stiff grass, and my eyes catch on the dark red figure crouched above the parapet. A pyraeth. Scales the color of dried blood, the air around it rippling with heat even in the morning chill. It’s too still, watching the bend of the river like a drawn bow.

  Unease crawls my spine. Not because of the old memories—those I keep buried—but because something about this dragon is wrong in the quiet way a knife is wrong when you find it unsheathed on your table. I drop my gaze and keep walking, head down, shoulders tight. The hairs on my neck still rise.

  All we have to do is check in our hunt in the ledger and get back to the kingdom. Easy. It’s been a long week training Joren. Months, really. He’s done well—better than anyone from the miners’ guild has a right to, if you asked the old Hunters. He’s earned his calluses, his aim, his sense of silence. Maybe that’s why he feels like a brother now instead of an apprentice. I just hope that doesn’t cost him later.

  The guards at the tower door eye our haul as we set the rabbits and pheasants on the table. Not much, not nothing. Winter’s close enough to taste; anything helps. One of them grunts approval and marks the ledger. I let myself breathe.

  Then I see him.

  Drexen Veynar. The Hunters’ Guild Master’s son. Standing like he owns the walls, like the pyraeth above is his crown. He’s all polished leather and easy arrogance—muscles arranged for show, eyes like flint.

  “A burned hunter and a miner pup,” he says, voice smooth and venomous as oil over coals. “How interesting.”

  Heat sparks low in my neck and runs down beneath the wrap at my forearm. I tighten my grip on the spear until the cool metal stings my palm.

  Joren draws a breath that sounds like the start of trouble. I catch his eye and shake my head. Not this time.

  Drexen strolls closer, hooks a finger through a couple of our rabbits, and starts walking back toward the tower as if we aren’t standing there.

  Don’t, Joren.

  But he’s already speaking. “Don’t you know that’s for the people?”

  Drexen doesn’t slow. “Don’t worry,” he says, smiling over his shoulder. “My dragon will thank the guilds for the sacrifice. He eats before the people. He protects our lands. Surely you’ve heard.”

  I step between them, staff pressed lightly to Joren’s chest. “Weird,” I say. “Didn’t realize this was Feed-the-Dragon charity day.”

  Drexen stops. Turns. Black eyes glittering. Then a low whistle—soft as a knife unsheathing.

  The pyraeth drops from the parapet. The ground shakes. The air floods with heat, sudden and heavy. Its wing claw strikes stone. Smoke spills from its mouth like slow fog, curling along the ground until it coils around my boots like a thing alive.

  I don’t flinch. Not because I’m brave. Because I refuse to give him that. I meet Drexen’s gaze—not to challenge, just to stand—and keep my expression flat enough to hide behind.

  The dragon’s breath rolls across my shins. I can almost hear the skin of my wrap whisper. I don’t look. I can’t.

  I reach down, lift the pheasants off the table, and toss them to land at Joren’s feet and then grab the rabbits. “Let’s go,” I say, steady, eyes still on Drexen. “Now.”

  Joren nods. “Good idea.”

  We back away, step by step, until the trees swallow the clearing.

  For a while, neither of us speaks. The forest closes in—pine ribs, shadow ribs, the soft hiss of wind through needles. My pulse finally evens out, but my mind stays loud. Always does after a dragon’s breath.

  “You didn’t even flinch,” Joren says, falling into stride beside me. “Didn’t even look at it. What’s your deal with dragons, anyway? You ignore them like they’re not even there.”

  “Good eyes,” I say. “Might make you a hunter yet. Attention to detail matters.”

  “I’m serious.” He bumps my arm. “What would you do if a wild one came down on us? Started attacking?”

  He’s right to ask. The thought flashes too quick—dark, half-formed—and I force a laugh. “What would I do? I’d let you shoot it full of arrows while I ran.”

  He rolls his eyes and punches my shoulder. The hit lands on the wrap; heat pulses under it, alive. “Whatever.”

  We walk. The shadows stretch long and straight across the trail, and my mind follows them until the rhythm—step, breath, step—starts to wash the thoughts away. By late afternoon the forest thins, giving way to rolling grass.

  The world opens.

  Fields ripple gold in the wind, wheat bowing in slow waves. Farmers move like clockwork among them, backs bent, sleeves rolled. Their labor shows in the land like proof that something still works.

  “Council’s meeting soon,” I say. “You ready to switch guilds?”

  Joren squares his shoulders. “Yeah. I think so.”

  “You’re good with that bow,” I say. “Tracking too. Six months ago you couldn’t tell a fox trail from a fall branch. Now look at you.”

  He smiles, quiet. We’ve earned this peace between us—the kind that doesn’t need thanks. Most people avoid me. He didn’t. Maybe that’s why I keep trying to make sure he survives what I didn’t.

  My hand drifts to my wrapped arm. The heat underneath feels like something with its own heartbeat.

  The lake spreads behind us, mirroring forest and mountain. Then the horizon rises, and the thing I’ve come to admire comes into view.

  The Cliffside Kingdom.

  Even after the long walk, even with my legs aching, the sight pulls something deep inside me. Rune lights trace the upper walls of the castle, steady and white, like veins of captured lightning. Down below, torches begin to kindle, a thousand flames answering the coming dark. Dragons cross the sky—silhouettes against the setting sun—sweeping back toward their cliff nests. Their wings catch the last light like blades dipped in fire.

  Closer now, the city spreads wide across the terraces. Bridges span from tower to tower, banners crack against the sea wind, and the smell of salt and forge smoke rolls up from the lower markets. The castle itself crowns the cliffs, carved into the edge like the prow of a ship pointed up to the horizon. A city built on defiance. A kingdom held by bonds.

  We pass under the outer gate; guards nod us through. The streets smell of grain dust, rope, and the faint copper tang of lantern oil.

  The Hunters’ Hall waits ahead—a long, plain building of stone, its purpose written in simplicity. Inside, the air is warm and sharp with animal scent and iron. Green banners drape the rafters. Men at the tables count game, sharpen blades, mend gear.

  A young hunter at the far bench holds a cracked blade between two fingers, murmuring as he traces a small sigil with his finger. The metal flares blue—mend rune. The cracked steel seals itself, whole again. He exhales, proud, and the glow fades. The hum of runes lingers like a low chord beneath the chatter.

  Then the Hearthwarden turns. Ledger open. Quill in hand. His eyes find mine like he’s been waiting.

  “Stormridge,” he says, dry. “And the miner. It’s about time.”

  He flips a page with exaggerated care. “Is that all you’ve brought back? Were you even trying?”

  My father never liked this man. I don’t either. He’s the reason the whispers about me turned into orders, the reason the guild nearly cut me loose. Snake eyes, always measuring the soft spots.

  I learned long ago how to make him show his fangs.

  “That’s all there was,” I say. “Hard to sustain people behind walls when everyone wants to sit beside the fire.”

  The truth lands between us and stays there. He needs me more than I need him.

  His gaze slides to my arm. The corner of his mouth curls.

  “Speaking of fire,” he says softly. “Still trying to hide your mistake, Stormridge?”

  The sound of the word fire hits too hard. Heat flares under the wrap, bright and alive, and I clamp my hand over it until it stills. A very poisonous snake.

  Joren starts to step forward, but I cut him off. I straighten, spine locked, and force a smile that feels carved.

  “Actually,” I say. “I am. Trying to make sure my mistakes are hidden like yours.”

  For a breath, his grin cracks. Then the mask returns.

  “Sorry, Hearthwarden,” Joren blurts, quick and earnest, stepping between us. “We’ll try harder next hunt.”

  The Hearthwarden’s eyes move from him to me. He presses the quill to the page with too much force, ink blotting like a wound. “See that you do.”

  We turn away. The hall exhales with us.

  Outside, night has settled. Stars flicker through torn clouds; the air tastes of salt and iron. Joren grabs my shoulder, dragging me toward the alley’s shadow.

  “What are you thinking?” he hisses. “Going after the Hearthwarden like that? He sits on the Council. He could ruin you.”

  “I know.” The words come out low. My forearm burns under the wrap, the heat rhythmic, alive. I press against it until the pain steadies into something like calm. “He won’t. The guild still needs what I bring in. Even if it’s less this week.”

  Joren exhales, a mist of frustration. “Come on. The square’s alive tonight. Miners are gathering. Some of my friends will be there.”

  I nod, half from fatigue, half from wanting the noise. “Fine. Lead the way.”

  We move through narrow lanes where lanterns hang from ropes and laughter spills out of tavern doors. The sea booms below, steady as a heartbeat. Above us, the runes along the castle walls burn a soft, unwavering white—lines of protection against the night.

  I keep my head down and walk.

  The smell of smoke still clings to my boots. The Hearthwarden’s words still press behind my ribs. But the city is warm, and alive, and winter hasn’t taken it yet.

  I can breathe here.

  For now.

  Scene 2: A Scholar’s Lesson

  -Elara-

  I let my eyes wander through the cool blue glass and the world thins to two small wings. A young dragon loops the air outside the castle—green light catching its quick scales—followed not long after by a heavier Umbryx, its chest glittering like a word someone once tried to write in the dark. They ride the wind as if everything there belongs to them. The sight stirs a hollowness that uncoils, then clamps shut when my eyes slide past them to the lookout towers far in the distance.

  Towers are meant for safety; to the world they sing of watchfulness. To me they are bars, not watchmen—vertical lines that keep me measured in, counted, contained. I ask myself at once: was I forced into a cell, or have I built one of my own? The question tastes like iron against my tongue.

  Below, the city breathes. Market stalls bloom and fold in quick, busy gestures; horses strain through the gate, panniers full of grain that will be stored and counted and tucked away for winter. The castle sits on the cliff’s point, its slope unrolling like a promise that I cannot follow. I watch people moving through the ordinary elements of life, and the watching hurts with a kind of wanting I cannot name or have.

  A feather tickles my knee—Mira’s quill, exact as always. She knows the shape of my distraction and, as she always does, she returns me to the room as if she has pulled me back from an edge. She is the older sister the world gave me: steady, knowing, a hand that will not let me fall but will nudge me onward when the nudge is needed.

  The scholars argue at the front. “Runes are tools,” one insists, voice rough with certainty. “They are power made tangible—crafted, not sacred.”

  Another answers, quieter, “If they are tools, why do whole cultures fold themselves around them? Why is there talk of a Creator who wrote these marks long before?”

  “Even if He has not spoken for thousands of years?” another retorts.

  Eyes turn toward our table. “Mira—what do you think?”

  I have always loved to listen to her. She places words like stones—precise, chosen. Her memory is a hawk; she gathers and holds. I wonder, sometimes, why she does not do something more or take on greater responsibilities. Perhaps she prefers quiet authority. Perhaps she grows tired of petitions that ask nothing of her heart.

  She looks up from the codex she is copying—new runes pinned between pages—and says simply, “If runes are from a great maker, they matter beyond use. But why and how they matter is something I plan to understand. We keep studying, and we learn their place in our lives.”

  Her voice touches me; the last sentence is meant to include me. My thought is bittersweet. So it is, I think—I suppose meaning must be lived, not decreed.

  I answer, the words stumbling into steadier form the longer I speak: our libraries grow by the day, and with each recovered scroll, rune, or relic, we learn how small our knowing remains. Twenty or thirty activated runes, and yet hundreds whisper in the dark. How can we name what a rune is while so many of them sleep? How can we claim to understand the Father’s writing when we barely read the margin notes? And how come each mark feels older than language itself?

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The classroom door jerks open. My body tightens. Mira slides a palm along my arm and steadies me as if I were glass. Brannis walks in like he has been arguing with the air and lost. The man carries purpose as if it were a badge; and I suppose he has earned it, being the Lorewarden. The cream of his robe catches the draft and rides it. He paces to the altar of the lecture, and we arrange ourselves in ordered rows.

  His eyes find me as I pass. There is a tilt in his look, a weight that has nothing to do with the lesson: the kind of history that is patient and resentful. He favors Mira—of course he does. She has always fit the scholars’ need for memory. I fit their fear. I have been a thing to protect; I have been their condition, their quiet warning.

  It has been three years since Father petitioned the Council to hide us. I remember the way he avoided my hands the day I left—more order than apology. The scholar guild was the safest place they would offer: quiet corridors that folded memory into shelves, and Lorewarden Brannis appointed as our guardian in all but title. He is a warden who loves order more than mercy. We are useful to him—carriers of notes, fetchers of parchments, hands to copy fraying edges. Mira takes to it like breath. I pretend I do not learn; I pretend the knowledge is ballast. In truth, I have taken more than I admit.

  After Brannis finishes—some new notation about a recovered script—Mira tugs my sleeve and we move toward the library. The stairs ascend through the upper wings of the castle, each landing opening into more light. Above us lies the kingdom’s greatest treasure, not of gold but of memory: maps folded into other maps, scrolls with edges torn from use, and runes waiting like locks that will not yet open.

  The library stretches through multiple floors, each ringed with balconies of carved oak and white stone. The air smells of dust and lavender—the scent of long nights and careful hands. Light pours through tall arched windows, and the cliffstone walls hold that light like a promise.

  I let my fingers run across the spines. A leader’s memory rune on a smooth river stone hums faintly in its case. A foreign scroll smells of sea and old fire. This room is a place of remembering—of holding what the world would otherwise forget. It is where I have learned to not be seen, and not read.

  Anxiety threads under my ribs. People fold into hoods between the rows of knowledge. Darkness circles us as we walk. My eyes track figures as they turn corners, and I wonder what they carry, what they desire. I shake it off only when Mira rounds the corner with three tomes and a list.

  “I need to finish the reports on the kingdoms before next week or Brannis will have my head,” she says.

  “Better you than me,” I answer, folding into a niche and pulling my knees up to my chest. The stones there are warm from the day.

  When my breath slows, I open the book on runes and healing. The light rune carved above the shelf answers to my touch and blooms a faint white thread that settles around the pages like a careful hand.

  Mira moves through the rows, marking and unmarking, and at last she sits beside me. She watches me as if she reads the thing I refuse to name.

  “You should try,” she says.

  “What do you mean?” I let my legs swing out over the edge of the wall and turn toward her.

  “You know what I mean,” she says. “Don’t hide what you can do with runes. You have talent—rare talent. If you push, if you let it loose, the school leaders will look at you as a candidate for the Ash Ceremony.”

  A rush rises like heat behind my ribs. The word—ceremony—lands, and I taste both dread and a hunger so old I almost think it is the sea calling. Mira knows the look: she has seen me watch dragons until my hands were empty of sleep.

  “I don’t want to be a target,” I say. “Father told us to stay hidden. And even if I try—being chosen means separation. If I am accepted, if I bond, then there is no going back. We will be split. I cannot say I can do that. You have been my anchor.”

  She reaches for my hand, though mine react with an old memory. “We are changing,” she says, soft as wind. “You and I both. This is not betrayal. It is growth. You have been trying to keep us the same because it felt safe. But you are not made for the stacks forever.”

  She squeezes my hand gently. “You are strong, Elara. You’ve been without me for months now—almost a year—while you’ve been studying at the rune school. You’ve faced your fears and your nightmares and come through them. You’ve done that on your own. I think you’re ready to keep going, even if it’s without me—or with someone different.”

  I lower my eyes to our hands, guilt pressing against the warmth of her touch. It has never felt fair—that I can awaken runes and she cannot. Mira knows more than anyone: their meanings, their stories, the rhythm of their shapes. She can copy them perfectly, remember them like breath, and still the Rune Father stayed silent to her. I was the one blessed, or cursed, with the spark. Sometimes I wish she had it instead of me. She would have used it better.

  Her thumb is light along the side of my hand. “I have given you my best. Let this be where you give one back to yourself.”

  My protest fizzles into something small and human. “If a dragon picked me, we could be separated forever.”

  “That will be a risk,” she admits. “But you have been holding back, trying to stay with me, and I don’t want you to do that. I do not need you to be my shadow.” She stands and releases my hand. The motion is as decisive as a tide pulling out.

  She smiles—half-mischief, half-grave—then adds, with the sisterly cruelty she reserves for only me, “Also, you are a terrible scholar. You and lists do not belong together.”

  I throw my foot, a clumsy protest, and she laughs. The sound is a small bell. I realize she has given me permission in the only way she can: not by opening a door for me, but by stepping back so I can find the threshold.

  “I’ll try,” I tell her, the words both vow and surrender.

  She nods once, satisfied, and then she is already scanning the shelves. “Good. Now help me find the codex on Verdant Vale.”

  I lean back against the stone and let the quiet of the library settle in my bones. Outside the window the young dragon loops and the Umbryx follows—freeing, fierce, terrible and beautiful. For the first time in a long while, the wanting that used to scald like salt does not feel like shame. It feels like a door I have been given a key to, and Mira—my steady sister—has finally put the key in my hand.

  Scene 3: Whisper of the Ceremony

  - Elara -

  By evening, I’m ready to go home — but of course Mira insists we stop by the plaza first. It’s one of the few things that still feels like us. The last time we came, she found a handmade quill — feathered white with silver ink veins — and I bought a simple bracelet made from sea-glass beads. Little fragments of beauty we can still afford to touch.

  We follow the crowd as the plaza wakes for the night. The air hums with laughter, spice, and song — the pulse of too many hearts gathered too close. I love it, and I hate it. It reminds me what connection feels like… and how far I’ve drifted from it. Still, over these last few years, I’ve learned to enjoy it more than I once did.

  The plaza curves in an oval, lantern-lit and ringed with rune-stitched tents. Someone once told me it mirrors the chamber beneath the castle — the one used for the Ash Ceremony. Two circles of light: one for the bonds of dragons and riders below, one for the living bonds of people above. Both built for faith. Both for fire.

  I catch the scent of syrup before I see the sweets stall and tug Mira’s sleeve. “Sugar sticks,” I whisper, grinning as I grab the strawberry one — bright, red, and sticky. She rolls her eyes, pretending not to smile. She always pretends. We both know she loves them as much as I do.

  The square is packed — hundreds of bodies weaving like a murmuration of birds, near but never colliding. Rune-threads shimmer along banners: copper, blue, gold. Smoke rises from pots resting on carved heat runes, curling through the air like incense. Musicians chase one another in wild rhythm, string against drum, light against dark. Couples dance, arms locked, skirts spiraling. I used to dance like that — before I learned how easy it is to forget the rhythm once it breaks. For a breath, I imagine it again: my body remembering steps my heart still knows.

  A man kneels in the open circle of the dancers and paints the rune for Spark large across the stone. When he presses his palms to it, the lines flare to life. The tempo quickens — drums and strings racing each other — and sparks leap from the floor, tiny embers that swirl through the air without burning. Dancers spin through the light as the wind carries the glittering trails upward. It’s mesmerizing — dangerous in theory, harmless in truth — beauty contained by discipline.

  The music fades, replaced by the hush of expectation. Around the announcement platform, basket-sized runelights bloom — lit one by one as guild leaders press their hands to the deep carvings in the wall. The glow ripples outward until the square looks dipped in sunlight. Then the announcer steps forward and touches the rune of sound. The air hums — a low resonance that stills even laughter. Clever use of amplification, I note.

  “Tonight we thank all who’ve worked to prepare these evenings,” he calls, his voice carried by the rune’s echo. “And in two weeks’ time, the Rune Schools will announce the chosen candidates for the Ash Ceremony.”

  The words ripple through the crowd — hope, fear, and pride moving like a current under the tide.

  “To bond with a dragon,” he continues, “is to touch the Rune Father’s own hand — to serve the sacred story.”

  But the whispers that rise are not all reverent.

  “Remember Kaden’s boy?” someone murmurs near the bread stall. “Tried to run before the Ceremony. They caught him and charged him with treason.”

  Another voice answers, lower. “It’s wrong, forcing them. But they say it keeps the kingdom and the nests in balance.”

  Another group nearby insists that dragons are part of us — that without them the kingdom would starve, freeze, or forget.

  Yet I wonder if survival built on fear is any different from death.

  Further off, I catch a sharper whisper: “Forced bonds. Unnatural, but they work. The dangers outside the towers are getting too close. We need more riders.”

  I turn, but the voice is already gone — swallowed by the press of bodies. The chill it leaves behind lingers.

  Mira touches my arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I force a smile. “Just thinking.”

  The announcer continues, praising unity — hunters feeding the kingdom, fishers guarding the seas, scholars preserving memory. His words sound like hope shaped into ceremony, smooth and practiced.

  Then the rhythm shifts. A deeper pulse rolls through the air. I look up as dragons streak across the sky, wings cutting through the rune-light haze — shadows to color, color to shadow — reds, blues, and others rising toward the cliffs where their nests lie carved into the mountainside and beneath the city. Every night they return home. Every night I wonder what that home looks like.

  If I were ever chosen… if a dragon called me… would I be the one above, watching the lights below, no longer afraid of what hunts in the dark but flying through it? The thought unsettles me — and calls to me all the same.

  Mira steps in front of me, eyes bright. “Elara, come with us tonight!” She nods toward a cluster of scholars, artisans, and fishers laughing near the fountain. “They’re going to drink wine and argue about runes — and gossip, obviously.”

  I try to smile, but it falters. “Maybe not tonight,” I say, though even as I speak I’m not sure why.

  She hooks her arm through mine. “Then what do you want to do?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say softly, stopping to press her hand. “Go. You deserve a night without worrying.”

  She sighs, knowing I mean it. Then she slips something from her satchel — a folded letter sealed with the crest of my house. “Brannis wanted me to give you this,” she says. “It’s from your father.”

  My breath catches.

  “I was going to wait until morning,” she adds, “but you’d rather read it alone anyway.”

  She doesn’t wait for me to answer. Just hugs me — quick, warm, grounding — and disappears into the crowd.

  I stare down at the seal, my fingers trembling. A letter from my father. After all this time.

  Relief, fear, and something sharper blur together until I can’t tell which is which.

  As I turn toward the road home, the plaza’s noise fades — music and laughter dissolving into the wind.

  I wonder if what waits inside that letter will make me feel closer to home… or remind me how far I’ve already drifted from it.

  - Ryker -

  The plaza hums before the sun’s even gone. Joren’s already grinning, rolling his shoulders like the air itself is some challenge he means to win.

  “Come on, old man, the night’s still young.”

  I groan. “Joren, I don’t know how you have this much energy.”

  “I’m only warming up.”

  “And I’m only two years older than you.”

  He smirks. “Not my fault you act five times that.”

  The corner of my mouth betrays me with a half-smile. He sees it and grins wider, knowing he’s won.

  The plaza used to be one of my favorite places. Lanterns, spice, laughter — the simple hum of life. You could tell a person’s guild by a glance: the clothes they wore, the stall they worked, the way they carried themselves. But what I loved most were the moments when those lines blurred — when a miner bought drinks for a fisher, when a farmer danced with a rider, when people forgot what they were supposed to be. For a few breaths, there were no guilds. Just people. And I’m sure that’s exactly why they do these things so often.

  I watch them now — spinning beneath the lantern light, hands linked, sweat shining, joy alive. And for a heartbeat, I almost remember what it felt like to belong.

  Joren moves through the stalls like he was born here — lean, sharp, too honest to be a miner but too restless to stay underground. The air smells of fried batter and salt; laughter rides the smoke. A few girls glance our way — fisher-blue ribbons at their wrists, sea-salt tangled in their hair. I nod, half-smile. They return it. For a moment the world forgets who I am.

  Joren doesn’t. He elbows me. “So, are those the ones you were pretending not to look at?”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Evening!” he calls before I can finish.

  The taller girl tilts her head, curls tied back with a shell pin. “Evening, stranger. You lost?”

  “Depends,” Joren says. “We’re hunters — sort of — and I was hoping you’d point us to the best food that doesn’t smell like fried bait.”

  The shorter one laughs. “Then you’re doomed. Everything here smells like fried bait.”

  “Guess we’ll just suffer through it,” he says, “if the company’s good enough.”

  The tall one crosses her arms, mock-serious. “Hunters, huh? Funny. Those aren’t hunter colors.” Her eyes flick to his vest — miner’s brown and grey.

  I almost choke on a laugh.

  Joren shrugs, caught. “Temporary posting. I’m between guilds till the council sorts transfers.”

  “Sure you are.” She fights a smile. “You sound more like a storyteller than a miner.”

  “Only when I’m trying to impress someone.”

  The girls laugh, and something tight in my chest eases. One of them — smaller, warm-eyed — offers me a candied fruit stick. “You look like you need this more than him.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking it.

  She studies me, recognition flickering. “You’re Ryker, right?”

  The words hang. The air cools around them. Joren’s smile falters for half a breath before he hides it.

  Before I can answer, a deep hum rolls across the plaza — the announcement rune awakening. Light ripples through the air, drawing the crowd toward the platform. Both girls link arms with us before we can react, tugging us along. When the shorter one reaches for my right side, I shift — keeping my burned arm out of reach. She looks puzzled. I pretend not to notice. For a while, it feels almost normal.

  The announcer’s voice rises above the murmurs as we weave closer, trading small talk along the way.

  “In two weeks’ time, the Rune Schools will reveal the chosen for the Ash Ceremony.”

  The crowd roars — cheers, fear, hope, all braided together. I tune most of it out. I’ve had enough ceremonies to last a lifetime.

  Joren’s talking again before the echoes fade. “I’m positive I’ll be picked this year,” he says, puffing his chest. “Just gotta get the tracing part down.” He slaps my back. “That’s why I hang around this guy.”

  The girls laugh. “Why?”

  “He’s been training me for months — hunting, runes, all of it. And because he’s a wizard with runes,” Joren says. “Creates and activates like no one I’ve seen. Doesn’t even get Rune Fever.”

  Kelsey — I think that’s her name — looks up at me, eyes bright. “Really? You’re that good?”

  I blink, caught off guard. Her voice isn’t mocking — just curious. I open my mouth to answer —

  —and that’s when it happens.

  A woman storms toward us, fury already burning her face. She yanks Kelsey’s arm away from mine. “Get away from him,” she snaps. “He’s cursed. I won’t have that near my family.”

  “Mom—”

  “Because of you,” she spits, pointing at me. “Staring into that dragon is why your father was killed. That’s why the Rune Father marked your arm — a curse for your pride.”

  The words strike like stones. Around us, heads turn. Whispers catch.

  I freeze. My throat closes. For a moment, I don’t know what to do. Joren’s already stepping forward, trying to calm her down, but it’s too late.

  The old reflex takes over. The woman’s clutching her daughter behind her as if I might call lightning from the sky. I meet her eyes, not in challenge, but in restraint — the only language I have left. I bow my head, keeping eye contact. “I’m sorry.”

  And I turn away, forcing my steps steady though my pulse is anything but.

  Joren catches up fast, the other girl still clinging to his arm. “Ignore her,” he mutters. “She’s just bitter. Lost someone to a rune backfire last month.”

  The girl — Sky, I think — nods. “She doesn’t mean it. She’s just scared.”

  “Yeah.” My voice is rough. “Aren’t we all.”

  As I keep walking, I tell them to enjoy the night. They know what that means. Joren squeezes my shoulder once, then lets me go.

  The crowd closes around me. My arm burns as I adjust the wrap around it — not with pain, but with that slow, pulsing anger I can never quite put out. Not at her. At what she saw. At what everyone sees.

  Cursed. Marked to fail. The whispers follow as I leave the square.

  Maybe they’re right.

  I breathe through it — steady, step by step — until the noise thins and the air cools. That’s when I see her.

  Scholar robes, pale in the rune-light haze. Hair catching the glow like it remembers sun.

  Elara.

  She stands apart, eyes lifted toward the sky. Stronger now. Older. Like the year has only honed her.

  I stop walking. My pulse stumbles.

  It’s been a year since the accident. A year since I decided staying away was safer than breaking something else I care about.

  And yet here she is — the one person I never learned how to stop looking for. The one who still makes the air shift when I see her.

  I shake my head, exhaustion catching up at last — fear, anger, concern, embarrassment, regret, all of it layered and heavy.

  I need to sleep. Forget the plaza, the whispers, the ghosts.

  I turn toward home.

  The streets thin as I walk, laughter fading behind me. Lantern light gives way to open dark. Far ahead, dragons cross in the sky, wings catching the last of the moonlight. I tighten the wrap on my arm; the scar beneath burns like it remembers. Somewhere above, a pyraeth cries, and a red streak cuts through the clouds. I keep my eyes on my boots, counting steps. I’ll sleep, I tell myself. I know I’m lying.