He holds up a hand and counts each off with quiet reverence.
“Aurelith, the First Flame—said to be the oldest living dragon. The one who began it all. If she ever leaves the valley, it will mean the world is about to change. Zephryon, the Sky’s Roar. A thunderstorm in dragon form. Some say he watches over the valley from the highest peaks. Sylara, the Ember Sage. A dragon of visions and riddles. She sees what others cannot—past, future, fate. Rathorn, the Warden of Ash. The protector of the young. And Vaelara,” his voice softens, almost wistful, “the Celestial Flame. She carries the memory of the stars and the secrets buried in the valley’s deepest heart.”
Valen looks at me, his gaze steady.
“They are not myths, Amara. They are watching. Waiting. And if they stir . . . then something far older than this war is coming.”
Valen reaches for a large book already sitting on the table, its spine cracked with age. He sets it down between us with surprising care. The cover is worn leather, the title etched by hand in fading gold ink:
Dragon History and Lore: The Guardians.
It’s not a printed book. The pages are uneven, parchment-thick, and every word is handwritten. The ink and style of script varies. Along the margins are detailed sketches—of dragons, wings outstretched or folded in sleep.
One page holds the image of a towering dragon with scales like polished gold, flames curling from her maw in delicate arcs. Aurelith, scrawled beneath in tiny script.
Another—Zephryon—his wings spread wide, lightning crackling in the sky behind him.
But what catches my breath isn’t just the dragons.
It’s a sketch of a place: a valley cradled between jagged mountains, blanketed in mist. A river cuts through the heart of it, reflecting the light of a full moon. Symbols I don’t recognize are etched into the cliffs—ancient runes, perhaps—and nestlednear the edge of the page is a single word, circled in faded ink:
Mythren.
I trace the letters with a finger.
“Is this it?” I ask, my voice quiet. “Mythren Valley?”
Valen nods. “The best depiction we have. Though no mapmaker has ever returned with proof.” He pauses. “The valley guards itself. It’s not even marked on the map of Lumoria. We don’t know exactly where it resides. Some say it isn’t a stationary place . . . that it moves through the realm.”
I stare at him, eyes wide. “A place that isn’t quite a place?”
“That’s what some believe. No one has been able to find it.”
I turn the page slowly, the parchment whispering as it shifts under my fingertips. My fingers hover over an image: the dragon sketched on the page is smaller than the others. Delicate, almost fragile in appearance. Her wings are folded close, her body covered in ember-colored scales that shimmer like copper catching firelight. Her eyes—drawn in astonishing detail—are half-lidded, but there’s something piercing in them, like she’s looking through the page and straight into me.
Sylara, The Ember Sage.
The Flame Oracle. The Seer of Stars.
Below her name, lines of script trace a path down the page:
“She’s said to see what others can’t. Her visions come as riddles—confusing, indirect. She speaks in pieces, and most of it is metaphor. Her home? A cave deep in the mountains. Carved with runes. Strange time there. The kind of place you don’t leave the same. People say she knows things no one else should. Especially about the Spiritborn.”
The next line gives me pause:
“Some say she alone knows the true prophecy—of the Spiritborn, and the return of the Element long thought lost.”
A shiver runs through me.
Spiritborn.
I glance up and see Valen already watching me.
“She knows about the prophecies.” I murmur.
He nods. “I believe she always has.”
“Do you think she would see me?” I ask.
