His expression doesn’t change. But the way he nods—slow, knowing—tells me everything I need to know. He’s known this for a long time. He just wanted to know ifIcould see it.
Valen exhales, a weariness in the lines around his eyes. “The balance is everything, Amara.”
He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “It is the rhythm of the elements. The cycle of life. The forces that move the world forward. Fire burns, but it also renews. Water carves valleys, but it also nourishes the land. Earth gives strength, but it also crumbles. Air is freedom, but it can become a storm. The balance is what keeps these forces from tipping too far in one direction. It is what allows the realm to survive.”
I shift, uneasy. The words settle in my gut like stones. “And the dragons?”
“They are part of that balance,” Valen says. “Not just as guardians, not just as legends—they are woven into the foundation of this world. They are more than the bonds they have with their riders—those that choose to bond. Their magics strengthens the elements. Their presence anchors the balance. Every time a dragon hatches, the world stabilizes. Every time one dies, the balance shifts.”
He looks at me. “But for the past thirty years, the eggs have remained dormant. And with them, the balance has begun to fray.”
I stare at him, the weight of his words settling like a stone in my chest.
“The balance is failing,” I murmur.
Valen nods. “It has been for decades.”
A chill runs through me. This isn’t just about the Shadow Forces. This is about the world itself coming undone. “And the Shadow Forces?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“They are not just an enemy, Amara,” Valen says. “They are a consequence.”
The silence in the room is suffocating. I press my lips together, my heartbeat steady but too loud in my ears.
“If the balance is breaking,” I say slowly, my voice tight, “if the dragons are fading—”
“Then we are running out of time,” Valen finishes.
He reaches for the book between us. The leather cover is cracked, worn through to cloth at the corners. He opens to a bookmarked page, tapping the slanted, fading script.
“This was written in the final years of the Shadow Wars,” he says. “By a seer from the Water Clan. One of the last to record anything before the seals were forged.”
I lean forward, my fingers tightening around the warm ceramic of the tea cup.
He reads aloud:
“When the four wards weaken, and the clans stand divided,
The earth shall tremble, and sky shall burn.
The one born of all shall rise—
Spiritborn. Child of the breath and blaze and tide and stone.
Not forged. Found. Not chosen. Returned.”
The silence stretches, long and thin.
“There are more,” Valen says. “Some partial. Some destroyed. But they all say the same thing in different ways.”
“And you believe them.”
“I believe in patterns,” he says. “In convergence. And I believe the elements do not move without cause.”
I look back at the passage. The ink has run in places, but the words remain.
Not forged. Found.
Not chosen. Returned.
