Chapter 10 #5
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 nestled near 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.
He looks at me thoughtfully. “If she does, it will not be by accident.”
I frown, my eyes dropping to the passage. “Valen . . . it says the return of the Element long thought lost. What Element could that be?”
He leans back slightly, arms folding across his chest. “I don’t know,” he admits. “There have been whisperings for generations. Nothing concrete. But some believe the passage refers to the lost Shadow Clan and the Element they once wielded.”
I blink, surprised. “The Shadow Clan? You mean . . . from the Shadow Wars?”
“Yes.” He pauses, pursing his lips. “What do you know of the wars from your studies?”
I answer automatically, reciting the history I was taught. “The Shadow Clan corrupted their lands with their powers. That the Fire Clan went to war to protect the realm and stop the corruption from spreading.”
“Yes,” Valen says quietly. “That is what history tells us.”
He doesn’t say more than that, but the silence that follows presses against me.
I glance back at the page, the sketch of the valley, the circled word: Mythren.
The prophecy. The lost Element. The Shadow Clan.
“But you don’t believe that’s the full story,” I say, studying his face.
Valen meets my gaze, and in it, I see the weight of truths he’s carried too long.
“I believe,” he says, “that history is written by those who survive it. And, perhaps, rewritten by those who fear what they destroyed.”
“What does that mean?” I press, because Valen often speaks in circles, and I’m not in the mood for riddles.
A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“It means the Shadow Wars happened over five hundred years ago,” he says.
“Records from that time are scarce—many were destroyed during the wars. The ones we do have were written by the Fire Clan, who won. It’s hard to know how the wars truly began .
. . or why the Shadow Clan would corrupt their lands in the first place. ”
He leans forward slightly, tapping the edge of the page with a finger. “I am a scholar, child. I trust books, yes—but only after I’ve compared what they say and where they came from. So I prefer to keep an open mind. To see all sides.”
I still, the words settling like ash on my skin.
All sides. I’d never considered there were other sides to the Shadow Wars. We were always told there was one truth: the Fire Clan saved the realm.
I look back at the sketch of Mythren Valley, my gaze lingering on the mist curling through the mountains, the strange runes etched into the cliffs.
“Why has no one found this place?” I murmur. “Besides the possibility that it moves . . . ”
Valen exhales deeply. “Because the Guardians likely won’t let us.
As far as history tells us, no human has ever entered Mythren Valley.
We only know of it because bonded dragons have shared fragments of the truth with their riders over the centuries—stories passed in dreams, memories, moments of connection. ”
He gestures toward the book between us. “Scholars have tried to piece those fragments together. We’ve recorded what we could. But even that’s incomplete.” He closes the book gently, his hand resting on the cover. “The Guardians are not hiding—they’re guarding. There’s a difference.”
Valen’s fingers linger on the cover of the book, his voice quieter now. “It is believed that hatchlings are born there. Protected there.”
He looks up at me, and something in his gaze shifts—like he’s seeing something both ancient and fragile.
“No human has ever seen a dragon hatch, Amara.”
The air stills around us, the weight of that truth hanging—precious, near-mythical.
“The bond may be sacred, but even bonded riders aren’t permitted to witness that part of a dragon’s life. It is too . . . delicate. Too important.”
He taps the sketch again, near the river that glows beneath the moonlight. “Mythren Valley is more than a sanctuary. It’s a nursery; a place where magics are renewed. If the Guardians have sealed it off, it is not out of secrecy. It is out of necessity.”
Valen rises, smoothing a hand over the front of his robes. “I think that’s enough for today.”
I blink, caught off guard. There’s still so much I want to ask—so much just starting to make sense. But before I can speak, he gives me a look. Knowing. Final.
“Isn’t today your day of rest?” he adds, arching a brow.
I nod slowly.
“Then you should be with your friends.” His voice softens, but there’s no room for argument in it. “Balance is part of training, Amara. It’s just as important to rest your mind as it is to strengthen your body. Reflection requires conversations with people other than your old mentor.”
He moves to return the book to its shelf. “Come back tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder. “We’ll pick up where we left off.”