Few days later,
Zekar stood in the clearing with the other Skalds[1]. The air in Druvkaur felt thin, stripped of its usual warmth. Beside him, Ryker pulled back his bowstring, the wood creaking under the tension, but Zekar's own hands remained still, his gaze was fixated on the sky.
High above the jagged peaks that bordered their home, a speck of silver drifted in a slow, hypnotic circle. To an untrained eye, it was merely a mountain hawk searching for prey. But Zekar saw the way the light glinted off its wings—an unnatural sheen. It was a Caelorth scout, a messenger of the Empire, watching the fire-dwellers from the safety of the clouds.
"You're going to snap that string if you don't release," Zekar muttered to his brother in Drk, though his eyes never left the silver speck.
"I can't aim if you're standing there like a statue, Zekar," Ryker grumbled, finally letting the arrow fly. It struck the straw target with a dull thud. He followed his brother's gaze upward. "It's been there for an hour. Baba says they're just measuring the wind."
"The Caelorth don't measure wind, Ryker," Zekar said in Drk, his voice low so the elders wouldn't hear.
A restless, itching heat prickled beneath Zekar's skin. It wasn't the steady hearth-fire he shared with Emery; it was a defensive flame that demanded action. He didn't wait for the training session to end. He slung his quiver over his shoulder and slipped away into the trees, heading toward the Gem Stream hours before he was supposed to meet her.
The forest was eerily silent. Even the insects seemed to have burrowed deep into the moss, hiding from the shadow in the sky. As Zekar approached the bank of the stream, the scent of the air changed.
He dropped into a low crouch, moving through the underbrush without a sound. Through the dense leaves of the cedars, he saw them.
Three men stood by the water's edge. They weren't Druvkaur, and they certainly weren't the delicate folk of Velanthri. They wore dark, scale-like armor that shimmered with an oily blue tint—Thalyrin, the water-warriors of Eldharûn. They were kneeling by the stream, one of them dipping a glass vial into the glowing current.
"The resonance is high here," one of the men said in their clipped dialect. "The Songbird blood must be concentrated nearby. The Emperor wants the Jewel of Varnathian intact, but he wants the voices silenced first."
Zekar's blood boiled. The Jewel was Velanthri. The voices were Emery and the rest of them.
He didn't think about diplomacy or the treaties his father spoke of. He didn't think about the odds. He only thought of the dragon-glass shard resting against Emery's heart and the way she had looked at him.
Zekar stepped out from the shadows, his hand already glowing with a fierce, orange light.
"You are not... meant to be here," he commended himself on how the full English sentence left his lips. His voice a dangerous, gravelly rasp.
The Thalyrin spun around, their hands moving toward the hilts of their curved blades. One of them sneered, gesturing to Zekar's rugged hunting leathers. "A fire-breather. I thought your kind was extinct."
The man raised a hand, and the water from the stream rose up like a strike-ready cobra, freezing into a jagged spear of ice. He launched it at Zekar's chest.
Zekar didn't flinch. He met the ice with a roar, his fist colliding with the spear in a burst of white-hot flame. The ice shattered into steam, hissing violently as it vanished. Zekar moved like a blur of heat, closing the distance before the warrior could draw his sword. He slammed his glowing palm into the man's chest plate, the metal glowing cherry-red instantly.
The warrior screamed, falling back into the stream. The other two lunged, but Zekar swept his arm in a wide arc, sending a wave of fire across the pebbles. It wasn't the controlled flame he showed Emery; it was a wild, scorching heat that blackened the moss and cracked the stones.
"Dor'vaan![2]" Zekar roared.
The Thalyrin scrambled backward, seeing the hellfire dancing in his golden eyes. They realized Zekar wasn't just a boy, he was a predator. They retreated into the thicket, their boots splashing through the shallows as they fled back toward the northern ridges.
Zekar stood on the bank, his chest heaving, his hands still wreathed in smoke. The earth beneath his feet was scorched, a black scar on the beautiful landscape. The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating.
"Zekar?"
The voice was soft, trembling. He spun around to find Emery standing a few yards away. She was pale, her hand clutching the collar of her dress where the necklace lay hidden. She stared at the blackened grass and the steam rising from the stream.
"You... you fought them," she whispered, stepping closer despite the heat still radiating from him.
Zekar didn't answer immediately. He waited for the fire in his blood to cool, for the orange glow in his palms to fade. "They are bad men, Emery. Eldharûn. They were looking for your people. For you."
He walked to her, his movements stiff with lingering adrenaline. He took her hands in his, and for the first time, he didn't care about propriety. "You have to go. Not to the house. Deep. They are coming for Velanthri."
Emery shook her head, her silver hair swaying. "I cannot leave you, Zekar. If I go, I will never see you again. My father... he still thinks the people will fix this. He won't listen to me."
"Then do not listen to him!" Zekar's voice rose, a mix of frustration and fear. He pulled her closer, his grip desperate. "They do not want beauty, Emery. They want to have it. Or break it. I cannot keep you safe if you stay in house."
"Then come with me," she countered, her blue eyes searching his. "We can go together."
Zekar looked toward the mountains, toward his father and mother, and then back at the girl who held his soul in a cage. "I am Druvkaur. I cannot run from the fire. But I will not let it touch you."
The rain began to fall then, a light, teasing drizzle that hissed against the scorched ground. They stood inches apart, the air between them thick with the scent of ozone and jasmine. Zekar looked down at her lips, his breath hitching. He saw the way she looked at him, the fear for their world replaced by a sudden, overwhelming need for him.
He leaned in, his forehead brushing hers. He could feel the heat of her skin, the way her heart was racing against her ribs. Emery stood on her tiptoes, her fingers curling into the rough leather of his tunic.
Their lips were a hair's breadth apart. Zekar could taste the salt of her skin and the sweetness of the rain. The world felt like it was shrinking, narrowing down to this one mossy stone and the heat of their shared breath.
"Zekar," she breathed.
Just as their lips brushed—a soft, tentative touch that promised everything—the air was ripped apart.
A deep, booming sound thundered through the forest.
Zekar stiffened, his eyes snapping open. Emery's hands tightened on his chest, her eyes wide with a sudden, freezing terror. The horn blew again, longer this time.
It wasn't thunder, and it wasn't the roar of a beast. It was the sound of a great bronze horn, a low, mournful note that vibrated in the very marrow of their bones.
It came from the north. The horn of Eldharûn.
[1] Men/Males/Boys
[2] ENGLISH: Leave!