By Lecture and Thoughts

  -Elara-

  The ink on my notes has begun to blur. I've been staring at the same page for what feels like hours, trying to listen, to care, to stay inside this moment — but the week keeps replaying itself in my mind.

  Tests. Trials. Watching eyes.

  We've been measured all week — our movements, our reactions, our worth.

  Leaders, teachers, even guild masters sit high above us, judging which of us may stand in the circle of flame for the Ash Ceremony.

  "Participate" sounds like a choice. It isn't. If you are chosen, you go. If you refuse, you're punished.

  To be chosen isn't honor — it's necessity. Every new rider means one more dragon guided, one more winter survived. Without them, the kingdom starves, the winds freeze, and the cliffs fall silent.

  Not long after Mira and I arrived at Cliffside, I began showing signs of rune-sight. I remember brushing my fingers across a light rune carved near our beds — it glowed, faint as breath. Even now, I wonder why me.

  Only one in a hundred can see a rune's breath before it stirs. Some call it a blessing, others a burden — because once you see them, you can never unsee the stories they're trying to tell.

  We waited for Mira to awaken hers too. Every day she tried — touching runes, whispering old phrases, believing it would happen if she just wanted it enough.

  It never did.

  It never will.

  Mira still calls it a blessing. She says faith is its own kind of resonance. Sometimes I almost believe her.

  "Elara, you'll finally learn how the runes breathe," she told me, smiling in that way that hurt to look at — proud and left behind all at once.

  So I went to the Rune School. I was terrified, but I trusted her. Maybe she needed one of us to believe the Rune Father still remembered us.

  Now she waits outside these halls to hear what I learn second-hand — a scholar without a spark, still taking notes on light she can't see.

  I begged Brannis to let her in, to at least watch and listen. Maybe take notes. But he never looked up from his desk.

  To him, we were strays taken in out of obligation. Nothing more.

  The thought drifts away as the present pulls me back.

  The air trembles as the rune lamps flare to life — pale blue veins pulsing across the walls like a heartbeat.

  The lecture hall hums with color — guild banners hanging like patchwork sky, rows of students layered below me like woven cloth.

  I sit at the highest tier, escape close, my nerves pretending at stillness.

  When Brannis steps onto the dais, the hall falls silent.

  "For the past week," he begins, his voice cutting through the murmur, "you have studied the codices — the temperaments of dragons, the history of the Sundering, the runes that shape their chests, and the founding of the Cliffside Kingdom. Today, we speak of the Ash Ceremony itself — and of any questions you may have."

  Whispers bloom again — nervous laughter, the scrape of quills.

  I press my hand to the satchel beside me; the letter inside beats like a second heart. I still haven't opened it. It will tell me whether I'll stay here longer, away from home, or return.

  But maybe this is home now. Maybe. Or at least I want it to be.

  Brannis lifts a hand for silence.

  "The Ash Mark," he says, "is not fire but smoke. When a dragon chooses, its breath shrouds the rider, burning its own chest rune into the rider's skin — a mark of shared story. But if, by dawn or within the month, the resonance fails, the mark fades. The bond breaks. Dragon and rider both return to solitude."

  A boy near the front raises his hand.

  "So even if you're chosen ... you can still lose it?"

  "Yes," Brannis replies. "And it is not uncommon. A dragon must want to share its story — and the rider must wish to continue it. The Elder Dragons tell us their chest runes were the Rune Father's gift — fragments of His story made flesh. To share them is how creation continues."

  Some students nod; others smirk, unmoved by myth.

  But I know better. If a dragon fails to bond, it risks exile — driven from its nest, sometimes slain if it refuses to leave. Those that survive wander the mountains until the light leaves their eyes.

  Half-souled. Forgotten. Their stories end where no one will ever hear them.

  A girl in Artisan colors leans forward.

  "When they bond — that's when they gain their second-breath ability, right?"

  Brannis's gaze hardens.

  "That is not the purpose of bonding," he says, then concedes, "but yes. When dragon and rider truly align, the Ash Mark burns deeper. Power follows trust — never the other way around."

  He turns, chalk scraping the rune for Varn across the wall.

  "The bond," he continues, "is not ink but fire on the soul. When your dragon hungers, you will taste it. When it rages, your heart will race. A bond magnifies what is already within you. It does not erase — but it can consume you if you are careless."

  Brannis pauses to drink. The silence thickens with chalk dust and unease.

  From the middle rows, a hand lifts — the motion sharp, deliberate.

  A leather bracer catches the torchlight, dark brown with twin straps around the forearm.

  No one else wears armor to a lecture.

  For a moment, I think it's just another hunter showing off.

  Then he speaks — a voice low, even, held too tightly in control.

  "If the dragon fails to bond ... and becomes half-souled," Ryker asks, "do they ever come back?"

  The hall quiets again. Even Brannis doesn't answer at once.

  Something in the question feels less like curiosity, more like confession.

  The sound pulls me back —

  to the training yard months ago, when he still spoke to me.

  Before the accident.

  Before the rune turned on him.

  I remember the smell of iron and smoke, the way he stared at his arm as if it no longer belonged to him.

  After that day, he stopped meeting my eyes.

  Stopped sitting near me.

  Stopped being Ryker.

  Back in the lecture hall, Brannis finally speaks.

  "No," he says quietly. "Once the story ends, it does not return.

  The half-souled walk, but they no longer remember why."

  Ryker nods once. Doesn't look away.

  The answer doesn't surprise him — it only confirms what he already knew.

  I can't look at him either — not because I don't want to, but because, for the first time since the fire, I can feel the heat of his silence again.

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  The air stills; even the torches seem to dim.

  Then, softer, almost quickly, Brannis adds:

  "There are deeper bonds — rare, and fading. No new mated pairs have been seen this winter. When dragons take mates, their bond is absolute. If one of them chooses a rider, its mate will not. Two riders of mated dragons cannot exist. The Elder Dragons forbade it long ago. Harmony cannot bear division."

  The hush that follows feels heavier than awe — like smoke before a storm.

  I lower my eyes, pretending to write, though all I can feel is the pulse of my own fear — steady and human against the soundless rhythm of fate.

  Brannis's voice fades into a low drone — dragons, runes, history.

  He's speaking of faith, of the Father, of the world continuing only through those willing to carry its story. But all I can hear is my own — one I'm not sure I'm ready to continue.

  My thoughts wander where his words can't follow — to the half-souled, to the fire, to the boy who once sat beside me and no longer does.

  Ryker.

  I know there was something between us — a spark, a start, a story waiting to be written.

  But it never continued. It never even began.

  It ended before it could.

  Because of him.

  Reality

  -Ryker-

  They never come back.

  Is that why a Pyraeth destroys everything—because its story can't find a rider to continue it?

  The questions sit heavy in my chest. The room goes still. Even Brannis falters mid-stride, his face unreadable for a heartbeat. They all know my story; I feel the unease settle the moment the words leave me. Joren elbows my ribs like I did something brave.

  Brannis answers another student and keeps talking. I drift, not away—deeper.

  The Rune Father. I'm not a believer, not like most here. Still, if what they teach is true, everything came from something—someone. The runes we uncover aren't inventions; they're rediscoveries. Each hums with meaning older than language. I feel it every time I embed—idea to line, line to breath, breath to light. And yet there's a missing step I can't name. A silence I don't share.

  Maybe that silence is the split between people who treat runes as memory and people who wield them like tools. Brannis says they're stories remembering themselves. Others say power. I haven't chosen a side.

  Brannis's voice pulls me back. He paces, answering questions—dragons, runes, the stories we were raised on—only his versions cut cleaner, scraped free of myth. Chalk dust hangs thick. The air tastes like grit and old endings.

  His tone hardens. The scholar drains out; a councilman stands up in his place. He moves behind the pulpit, shoulders squared.

  "The leaders of the guild councils have asked that I speak plainly," he says. "Some of you will soon stand for the Ash Ceremony. You deserve the truth of what you're stepping toward."

  Both hands on the wood. The room tightens.

  "You should know the state of our kingdom. Dragons are being hunted. Riders are dying in the field. Factionless raids steal our food and flame. Every year our numbers thin—our stories, our protection, our means of life."

  So the rumors weren't rumors. I knew things were bad, but not this. We've been sent on more hunts than ever, told to bring back anything we could. Makes sense now. Winter is coming. When the cliffs ice over and dragons grow restless, what happens to the rest of us? Fire warms halls. Water keeps rivers open. Earth moves stone. Without dragons, the kingdom unravels.

  I scan the rows. Same look on a lot of faces—worry we won't be able to protect who we love. In that instant it lands: riders aren't pride; they're plumbing. Take them out and the whole place freezes, floods, falls.

  But how are riders dying? They're the strongest among us. This year alone—three lost, maybe more. Unthinkable, but here we are.

  "Desperate men reach for desperate power," Brannis says, voice heavy. "There are rumors of guilds teaching apprentices to force the final bond before its time—to command what dragons are not ready to give. If you hear such talk, report it. Forced bonding is an abomination."

  He doesn't name names. He doesn't need to. Runebinders. Rider-Captains. Council pressure. When faith runs out, people start carving shortcuts into the soul.

  He turns, chalk grinding as he draws the rune for Truth—half my height, all precision. From his crook he lifts a staff capped with a clear crystal, thin threads of yellow lightning swirling inside. The tip kisses the rune's edge. The crystal pulses. Gold light climbs the lines and holds, steady as a heartbeat.

  He lets the glow hang. The silence stretches.

  "It destroys more than flesh," he says. "It scars the soul."

  He drags the chalk across the center line and erases it. Light fractures. Sparks bleed outward like dying embers. The symbol collapses into ash.

  Point made. Even the rune grieves when its balance breaks.

  Brannis looks over us. Tension hums, like the truth might burn if we breathe too hard. Hands rise. He raises his, cuts them down.

  "Enough. I was asked to share what the leaders know so you understand the Ceremony, the bond, and the need to protect this kingdom and those you love. After the Ceremony—when it matters more—I'll say more. For now, understand what is happening, and why."

  The words drop like stones in still water.

  Joren catches my eye. We both see the same memory: the column that passed us on the ridge— not patrol, soldiers.

  A scholar in cream slips in and whispers to Brannis. The Lorewarden turns.

  "After classes today, meet in the courtyard. The leaders have finalized the lists for the Ash Ceremony. There will be an assembly—leaders, families, and friends. This is a blessing for the kingdom, not taken lightly."

  Excitement ripples. Joren thumps my arm—about time. A week of testing: knowledge, skill, endurance, dignity. Now I see why. They need bodies before winter. I hope the right ones get chosen. Brannis talks about stories that continue; he never says what we do with the ones that won't.

  If Joren is picked, he'll be fine. He gives everything. Me—I'm not sure I ever had a choice.

  We gather our things. A slip of cream fabric vanishes through the door. My chest tightens before I can name why. For a second I think it's her—head bowed, moving fast. I blink, and the crowd eats the rest.

  The Assembly

  -Elara-

  The courtyard breathes like a single, trembling lung.

  I sit near the bottom of the bowl with the other students, sand cool beneath my boots, and try to keep still. The air tastes of salt and nerves, brine and fear braided together.

  My thoughts drift upward to Mira.

  Somewhere above these benches she watches, scanning the faces below and waiting for mine. Always the sister who looks first, worries first. Is she as frightened as I am? Knowing her, probably more.

  My stomach knots and unknots. My fingers twist the hem of my robe until it remembers their shape. Around me, whispers ripple in waves of prayer and hope, small breaths that rise and fade like surf against stone. Some plead to hear their names, others beg the Rune Father to leave them unseen.

  The arena can hold us all. The stands above are crowded with families whose murmurs fall like distant rain. The sand where we test runes has been scoured clean, though faint scorch marks still ghost beneath the surface. I remember falling here once, hard enough to bruise my side, my first failed rune of movement. The memory still hums beneath my skin like static.

  Benches climb the circle, stone first, then wood as they rise higher. Banners hang behind the dais: hunter's green, fisher's blue, miner's rust-red, artisan's bronze, scholar's ivory, and the deep grey of the military. The six guild leaders stand beneath their colors, unmoving as carved idols.

  When Lorewarden Brannis steps forward, even the wind holds its breath. His ivory robe lifts in the draft and his voice cuts through it like a blade of command.

  "Before we begin, know this: these names are not drawn by chance nor given for favor. Each of you was measured in study, in craft, in endurance of trial, in courage under hardship. You were watched when you thought no eye was on you."

  The Artisan Master follows, bronze glinting in the torchlight.

  "Some of you proved yourselves through skill. Others through loyalty, wit, or resilience, qualities the dragons may find worthy. But hear me well: those whose names are not called today are not lesser. Without you, the walls would crumble, the forges go cold, and the kingdom itself would starve. Your work carries us all."

  Unease shivers through the benches.

  No one forgets what the Ash Ceremony costs. It is not reward; it is offering.

  The scroll unfurls.

  "This year's candidates number one hundred and twenty-two. When your name is called, step forward and gather behind the dais."

  My pulse quickens.

  My hand finds my satchel and the letter from my father inside. I should have read it. I couldn't. Every time I tried, my hands shook too much. Now it burns like a secret I no longer deserve. Why should I care what it says? I whisper inside. Because what's left of home is there, not here.

  Is this home or exile? I can't tell anymore.

  "Elara Emberlyn."

  For a heartbeat I don't move.

  Someone beside me reaches over, fingers brushing my wrist too suddenly. My body flinches, memory flashing white behind my eyes. Don't touch me. My mind screams.

  Then breath returns and I stand.

  Each step toward the dais feels heavier than the last. The sand yields beneath my feet as if the earth itself wants to keep me. No one notices. I am only another name, another story waiting to be judged.

  Then another name cuts through the silence.

  "Ryker Stormridge."

  The courtyard shifts.

  Whispers coil and hiss: Stormridge, the cursed one.

  He walks through the sound as if it cannot touch him, tall and deliberate, his movements precise as carved runes. The leather bracer on his right arm catches the firelight, glinting over a lattice of black scars. He wears silence like armor.

  I tell myself not to look.

  I do anyway.

  In the last few steps before he reaches me, I can't help but see all of him. His eyes, green and steady, are already waiting. For a breath, everything narrows to that single gaze. The wind, the banners, even time itself pause inside the heartbeat between us.

  My chest stutters once.

  Then I look away.

  Or maybe he does.

  He takes his place beside me. His nearness pulls at my focus until I force a slow exhale.

  "Where's your mining pup?" I whisper, teasing to hide the tremor in my voice.

  His mouth almost softens. "He hasn't been called yet."

  He glances back. "Where's your other half?"

  "Not here," I answer.

  For a heartbeat we share the smallest smile, a fragile truce pretending to be humor, then straighten again. Not friends. Not allies. But not alone, either.

  The Miner's Master steps forward, voice heavy as stone.

  "From this moment, you are set apart. The guilds will not call on you for labor. Your only duty is to prepare for tomorrow night."

  Tomorrow. The word lands like weight.

  The Military Captain steps beneath the black banner.

  "You will return to your quarters and prepare. Take only what you need, and by dusk tomorrow report to the cavern beneath the castle. Fail to appear and you will be branded deserters. Desertion will be met with execution."

  Even the air recoils. No way out. Not even silence.

  Then the Hunter Master calls above the tension.

  "Each of you must prepare two offerings. First, a power stone carved with your greatest ability, the skill that defines you. Second, a knowledge rune drawn from memory or truth, made personal so the dragons may see your truest self. Do not copy from a codex. What you bring must be yours, or the bond will never hold."

  I'm already thinking of what I'll choose, what will show me.

  A rune from my own life.

  My scars press at the edges of my thoughts as if they already know they deserve to be shared.

  Finally, the Rune Master steps forward, ash dusting his sleeves.

  "When you stand before them, never look into a dragon's eyes. To meet their gaze is to challenge, and you will not survive the answer. Fix your eyes on the rune at their chest. That is their essence, the truth they offer you. See it and honor it."

  A hush folds over the courtyard. Even the banners forget to move.

  "And know this," he says, voice deep as stone. "Some of you will not return. The bond demands blood as well as flame. Remember the rules, hold to them, and perhaps you will see the following dawn."

  He lowers his hand.

  "Go. Study. Practice your runes. For tomorrow night, smoke and fate will decide."

  The arena erupts in cheers, sobs, and prayers, but none of it touches me.

  The weight in my chest stays.

  I turn once more toward Ryker. He hasn't moved. The crowd breaks around him like waves against a cliff. For a breath I almost speak, almost bridge the silence between us, but the noise surges again and the moment scatters, falling away like ash on the wind.

  Should I start adding the audio versions of each chapter to Spotify?