"This is incredible," I murmur, taking another sip. "We have nothing like this in Clavenmoor."
“The surface has its own wonders," Zara says softly. "Sunlight on water. Wind through trees." She lowers her cup, her small fingers tracing its rim. "I have only seen such things in our oldest scrolls, illustrations faded with time. And sometimes the Flame shows me glimpses of your world above."
"When this peace holds," I say, watching her violet eyes widen, "I would like to show you Clavenmoor. The way morning mist hangs over the lake, or how apple blossoms fall like snow in spring. There are wonders worth preserving on both sides of this divide."
Zara's fingers still on the cup. Her violet gaze takes on that faraway look. “In the Flame, I saw us,” she whispers. “Just a glimpse and you were holding my hand. There was blue sky above us.” A smile flickers across her face, secretive and hopeful. "It will happen, Leira. I know it will."
From the corner of my eye, I notice Zaethir. His already rigid posture freezes into something beyond stillness, like a predator that has caught a scent on the wind. His icy gaze, which had been methodically sweeping the perimeter, now locks onto our small group with sudden, laser-like intensity. Even the rhythmic movement of his jaw as he chewed has stopped mid-motion.
"If the Flame showed it to you," Varok says to Zara, his voice low but firm with conviction, "then it must be so. The Flame does not grant false visions."
I shrug off Zaethir's reaction as Varok reaches for the nearest platter. He passes the dishes one by one. The fruits gleam under the soft light, their jeweled flesh catching faint reflections from the glowing walls. When I place a slice of the blue-crumbed bread on my plate, a few crystal flecks tumble loose, winking like tiny stars. Zara accepts her portion with both hands, careful,reverent. The moment feels intimate, like a family would sit down to share a meal.
The fruit bursts in my mouth with juice that tastes of honey and spice. The rynth bread is dense and filling, the crystals within not minerals but some kind of sugar that melts against my tongue.
As we eat, Zara is first to break the comfortable silence. She finishes her bite, then leans forward, her violet eyes widening with excitement. "Has Ry’Varok told you about the shadow-eaters in the northern caverns?" Zara asks, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They wait until you are alone in the night, then crawl from the walls with their long, thin fingers. They do not have eyes, just empty sockets that glow blue in the dark. When they catch you awake, they consume your memories, one by one, until you forget even your own name."
I glance at Varok for confirmation, eyebrows raised in alarm. He slowly shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. "The shadow-eaters are just stories Eira told a certain headstrong hatchling so she would go to sleep,” he says, flicking his luminous gaze at Zara. "The only monsters who exist are our enemies who hide in shadow."
“Are you sure, Ry’Varok?" she tilts her small head. "Because I swear I saw one creeping along the wall inside my chamber just last night. It had those long fingers, reaching for my memories. I hid under my blankets until dawn, clutching my dagger the whole time. You know, the one you gave me."
Varok's scales ripple with a sigh as he shakes his head. "I will have a word with Eira about these tales she has filled your head with. Shadow-eaters are not real, little seer. You have my word.”
I catch myself wishing this peaceful bubble could last forever, where the only concern is a child’s fear of a fictional monster under the bed, and nothing of politics, history, or lurking dangers can intrude. But the thought dissolves as quickly as itforms. I know the truth: this moment shines so brightly because it’s temporary, a fleeting calm before the storm that gathers around us while our enemies move freely through the shadows.
For now, though, I let myself savor it. The taste of strange fruit on my tongue, the easy familial conversation between Zara and Varok.
There's something unspoken between them, a history that goes deeper than mere acquaintance. My curiosity, always my weakness and my strength, rises like a tide I cannot resist.
"You seem to know each other well,” I say, sharing a curious look between the two. “And what does Ry’Varok mean?”
“I suppose uncle in human terms.” Zara's smile turns wistful, her small hands folding in her lap as she looks to Varok, clearly deferring to him to tell the story. Something in her posture, the slight protective curve of her shoulders, tells me this isn't a simple tale.
Varok sets down his cup, the light from the pool reflecting in ripples across his face. For a moment, he seems to retreat behind the mask of the warrior I first met, his expression becoming distant. But then he exhales slowly, and when he speaks, his voice carries a depth of emotion I've only heard when he spoke of his brothers.
"A few years ago, during one of many offensives of the Sundering," he begins, his gaze fixed on the waterfall as though seeing beyond it to some painful memory, "the humans had developed a new type of explosive that could penetrate deep into our tunnel systems. They found their way inside the Serpentspine Mountains. Before all of our people retreated entirely beneath the earth to Vessan-Kar, we maintained several settlements within caverns deep inside the mountain..." He trails off, a muscle working in his jaw.
I feel a pang of shame at what my kind has done, though I was never directly involved in the battles that raged. The weightof history sits between us, undeniable even in moments of connection.
"The settlement of Nir'vassa fell," he continues. "It was primarily a civilian enclave of scholars, artisans, those who preserved our oldest traditions. By the time we reached it, there was little left but ruins."
The garden's peaceful atmosphere seems to recede as his words paint images of destruction. I can almost smell the acrid aftermath of explosions, hear the crumbling of ancient stone.
"I led the recovery team. We were searching for survivors, artifacts, anything that could be salvaged." His voice lowers, taking on a different quality, less formal and more raw. "In the remains of what had been the hatchery, I found her."
Varok's gaze shifts to Zara, and something passes between them, an acknowledgment of shared pain transformed into connection.
"She was the only one left alive," he says simply. "Somehow protected when the ceiling collapsed, creating a pocket of safety in the midst of destruction. She could not have been more than a few moon cycles old."
Zara nods, her eyes lowered. "I do not remember it," she says softly. "Only the stories."
I swallow hard, imagining the scene: Varok, the battle-hardened warrior, finding a tiny hatchling in the ruins. It's not difficult to reconcile this image with the stern, formal male who I first met in the binding chamber. And as I watch him now, the careful way he speaks to spare Zara pain, the protective glance he casts toward her, I glimpse more layers of him I've only begun to discover myself.
"When I lifted her from the rubble, she looked at me with eyes too old for her young face," Varok says. "And I knew immediately what she was. The violet eyes, the white scales, all hallmarks of the seer bloodline, lost to us for centuries."
"Ry’Varok says I cried until he picked me up," Zara interjects, a small smile returning to her face.
"I took her directly to the Temple of Threads," Varok continues. "To Eira. If anyone would know what to do with a seer hatchling, it would be the elder Temple Guardian."
