Chapter 1 #3
“When we were in the infantry, there were units, orders, and strategies. But things went quiet for years. We thought the Shadeheart had vanished . . . or died.”
She exhales slowly—a pregnant pause.
“But now? Raids are increasing. They are organized in a way we have never seen before. Not scouts or strays.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “This feels like preparation—like she’s testing our weaknesses.”
Beyond the conversation, the world continues in laughter, and bartering. It feels . . . wrong.
Shadeheart.
The moniker is a warning. Her true name, Selene, is unused but not forgotten. The Shadeheart is a story you hear when you’re young—faraway battles, half-truths, the monster who carved the Shadow Forces from nightmare and will.
But hearing it now—in Aiel’s voice, in my father’s silence—it feels too close.
“The wards are failing,” Aiel says. “We can’t seal them so the Shadow Forces keep getting through.” Her expression darkens. “She never disappeared—she was just waiting. And now . . . she’s moving.”
“Why now?” Father asks.
“I don’t know,” Aiel replies. “But if she’s testing the borders again, it means she’s looking for something. Why else is she moving again after all this time? Why enter our lands?”
A beat. Then her face shifts when she glances at Mother, something gentler beneath the steel.
“I’m sorry, Mira. Amara. Old habits. Infantry mindset—I tend to speak straight. And now I’m out here ruining a spring afternoon.”
Mother shakes her head, voice soft but resolute. “I’d rather hear the truth than pretend the world hasn’t changed.”
Aiel gives a grateful nod, then offers a smile—worn at the edges, but warm.
“Still,” she says, stepping back, “I’ll save the war talk for another time. After a drink and fewer witnesses.”
She looks at my father one last time. “I’m near the western fields. Come by so we can catch up.”
“We will,” Father says.
Aiel turns to me. “Nice to meet you, Amara. Hold tight to your roots. The world likes to try to shake them.”
I smile, then glance at my father. His eyes are on Aiel as she walks away. He clears his throat, adjusting the bundle in his arms.
“Come on,” he says. “The Durnharts are waiting.”
We walk the rest of the way in near silence, the sounds of the square filling the space where conversation might have been. But the weight of Aiel’s words linger like dust that has not settled.
Lyra’s house comes into view—two stories of warm stone, flower boxes spilling green over every window. The front door is propped open, letting in the spring air, and I’ve never been more grateful to see the place that has been a second home to me for all of my life.
“You’re here! And about time,” Lyra calls from somewhere inside. “I was starting to think you’d gotten lost between the stables and our front gate.”
We step into the front hall. Lyra appears, wiping her hands on a towel—red hair loose, cheeks flushed, green eyes sparking. She fills a room like fire on dry leaves.
Where I’m long and lean, she’s all curves and motion. She says what I won’t. Lyra is persistence to my resistance. She burns, I hold, and the balance works.
Lyra grins. “There she is!”
Before I can speak, she pulls me into a tight hug. The last of the tension I carried from the square melts from my shoulders.
“Come in,” she says, waving us through. “Mama’s made enough food to feed half the village.”
The door slams open behind us with a crack.
“Lyra! Lyra!”
A barefoot blur crashes into the room—maybe seven, chestnut brown hair wild, nearly toppling a stool.
“Right here!” Lyra calls, unfazed. “That’s Revan—our neighbor. He’s staying for dinner too.”
He barrels into her, arms wrapping tight around her legs. She tousles his hair and he beams radiantly.
I can’t help smiling. His joy is so pure, so complete, it pushes the last of Aiel’s shadow to the edges.
Tamsen Durnhart stands at the long table, placing a basket of rolls beside a steaming bowl of roasted squash. Her sleeves are rolled up, her hair streaked with gray and pulled back into a loose braid.
“Mira,” she says warmly, pulling my mother into an embrace. “Branik. It’s been too long.”
“And there she is,” says Galen, stepping in from the porch, wiping his hands on a cloth. He’s broader than my father, but carries his weight like a hearthstone—solid and familiar.
He pulls me into a hug and I disappear into his arms. “Amara, it’s good to see you. You look well.”
“You too,” I reply, already easing into the space.
We gather around the table and Lyra pours wine with her usual flourish.
The conversation drifts easily—village gossip, spring plantings, the new baker with the laugh too loud for his own good. But now and then, I catch Mother’s steadying hand brushing Father’s.
Aiel’s voice echoes faintly in my thoughts: Shadeheart.
Across the table, Galen leans toward Revan, eyes twinkling. “Did you see the dragons fly past the village yesterday?”
“I did! One was green like grass in spring!”
The table goes quiet for a beat too long.
“Haven’t seen a green dragon in years,” Father says eventually, voice low. “Thought they’d stopped bonding altogether.”
Mother shifts in her seat, voice gentle. “Let the boy dream.”
Lyra looks at my parents, eyes tight, then turns to the boy. She grins as she pours Revan a cup of berry juice. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to climb onto the roof to see better.”
“I did try,” Revan says proudly. “But Mama caught me.”
That sends a ripple of laughter around the table.
Then he turns to me, eyes shining. “I’m going to be a rider someday. I’ll fly really high and spit fire at all the evil.”
I laugh. “Even the baker’s son?”
He tilts his head. “Only if he’s really, really mean.”
I laugh. “Do you think I could be a rider?”
He appraises me. “Yes.”
I glance down at my hands—still dirt-stained from the fields. “I don’t know. I’m a farmer.”
Revan frowns, deep in thought. “Well . . . dragons don’t care about dirt.”
His head whips toward Galen. “How do I become a rider?”
Galen chuckles, setting down his cup. “Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Galen leans back, gaze drifting to the deepening sky outside. “You don’t become one by trying. Dragons choose. They see something in you—even if you don’t see it yet.”
I feel the words settle, quiet and certain, like seeds in soil.
Father adds, voice low, “You have to become a warrior first before the dragon calls.”
Revan’s eyes widen. “I do?”
“You do,” Father nods.
Revan puffs his chest. “I can do that! I’m strong and fast and clever!”
Lyra smirks behind her napkin. “That’s right you are!”
Tamsen’s eyes twinkle as she watches the boy. “Too clever for your own good.”
Revan’s face lights up. “And then I’ll be able to channel! Right?!”
The table chuckles, but it’s my father who answers.
“When a dragon chooses you,” he says softly, “and you’re bonded—yes. You’ll channel. But not just with power. With purpose.”
Revan’s mouth drops open in wonder.
“Real magics?” he breathes.
“Real magics,” Father confirms, his lips curling into the barest smile. “Stronger than anything we do with our everyday spells.”
Revan slaps his hands on the table, triumphant. “I knew it!”
Galen chuckles under his breath. “You’ll still need training, little warrior. Bond or no bond, magics are not a plaything.”
Tamsen leans in, her voice teasing. “Especially not near my kitchen.”
Revan looks momentarily chastened, but then his grin returns—wide and uncontainable.
“So that means I can do bigger Earth magics?!” he bursts out, nearly toppling his cup. “I can make my body into stone? My friend Edran said that’s a real earth power!”
He doesn’t wait for confirmation before charging ahead.
“And I can make the ground move? And summon trees? Maybe I can build a giant statue. Or a castle. If I’m a rider, I can do anything!”
Lyra is laughing into her sleeve by now. Even Galen can’t hide his smile.
My father raises a brow, but amusement flickers in his eyes. “Some Earth dragon riders can harden their skin like stone, yes. But that takes time and control.”
“Training,” Mira adds, smiling as she wipes her hands on her apron. “And patience. Earth listens best to those who know how to wait.”
Revan tilts his head, considering this. “I’m kinda patient.”
Lyra snorts. “You lasted two minutes before climbing the fence into our garden yesterday.”
“But I was so bored!” he protests.
Tamsen waves her spoon like a gavel. “No building or destroying castles until you can sit through dinner without flipping your plate upside down.”
Revan grins sheepishly—I can’t help smiling. This sweet boy, overflowing with wonder, so sure the world will rise to meet him. I remember what that felt like—before I understood the difference between stories and truth.
All Earth Clan are born with lesser magics to some degree. Everyone in the realm is. It’s in our blood, in the bones of the land itself. But it’s the riders who go beyond—who channel through their bond with dragons and wield something greater.
I’ve only read about that kind of magics in old books where the ink has nearly faded—but even the words are enough to stir something in me.
In this quiet village, we don’t need to learn or practice those kinds of magics.
As farmers, shopkeepers, and craftsmen, lesser magics are more than enough to live good, purposeful lives.
Mountain’s Might: not just armor-thick skin, but a body turned to solid stone—immovable, unbreakable.
Seismic Pulse: a single blow that ripples through the ground, toppling enemies like leaves in wind.
Root Command: drawing trees and roots from the earth, building walls, or spearing through armored ranks like they were made of silk.
And then there’s Geomancy—the rarest. The power to reshape the land itself. To move mountains, carve ravines, and raise stone walls with nothing but will.