Lirian struck flint to tinder, coaxing a glow to life beneath a bundle of hide and old bone splinters. It pulsed faintly, casting ghostly shadows against the frost-slick walls. I watched in silence as he worked, the scent of scorched hair and marrow curling into the air.
"I found a pedestal," I said.
He didn't look up, but I saw the flick of one ear.
"There was a tablet on it. Old runes. Sharp ones. Not draconic."
He fed the glow another bone fragment.
"I tried to activate it. It ignored me."
Still no reaction.
"So I hit it."
Now he paused. Just for a breath. "Of course you did."
"It felt better than walking away," I muttered, folding my arms.
The glow burned brighter now. It cast a pale shimmer across his face as he turned to the snow-packed stone beside the pit. With two fingers, he began tracing runes into the frost. The shapes were familiar—repetitive curves, lines that looped back on themselves.
"Say it," he said, not looking at me.
I rolled my eyes but spoke.
"Runes shape magic, line by line.
Sequences guide and must align.
They need a source to stay alive—
A vessel strong, or none survive."
"Good," he said softly. "Now tell me what went wrong."
"With the tablet?"
He waited.
I sighed. He's going to drag this out no matter what.
"Maybe hitting it was a bad idea."
"That part's obvious. Continue."
I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees. "The runes looked intact. Nothing broken or decayed. Maybe the tablet didn't have enough power. Or maybe it couldn't hold what it needed anymore."
Lirian nodded. "Or maybe you didn't give it enough."
My mouth twitched. "It didn't exactly ask nicely."
He looked up from the rune he'd drawn. "It didn't recognize your magic."
I didn't answer.
"You leak energy," he said bluntly. "Your magic spills out in every direction the moment you tap into it. You lack focus. Precision."
I know.
"I taught you runes to contain that power," he continued. "To guide it. But even then, you rely on brute force. Not structure."
I didn't bother answering. At this point this discussion had become a daily occurrence.
Maybe something is wrong with me?
"You're not broken," he said after a moment, voice low. "You just haven't had time."
I looked up. How does he do that? The pale light danced along the faint crack in the jawbone beside me. Time. The word echoed like frost settling over old wounds.
"How much?" I asked, though I already knew.
"A few hundred years," Lirian said, like it was nothing. "By then, you'll start to grasp your natural magic."
Start, I echoed bitterly.
I clenched my jaw, fingers curling against my knee. I looked to a section of polished ice at my reflection. She wouldn't have needed that long. She wouldn't have struggled. Wouldn't have hesitated. Would've known.
But she's not me.
"You're still bleeding power the moment you draw on it," Lirian went on. "It's like trying to cup water with broken hands. Runes help—shaping it, limiting it. But it's a crutch. A good one, but not the end goal."
I didn't respond. The magic had always felt like pressure behind my ribs, waiting to crack me open. Sometimes I thought I heard it whispering—too faint to understand, too sharp to ignore.
Lirian turned the snow beside the glow smooth again and leaned back.
"Runes are still worth knowing. They're precise. Durable. And for more minor effects, they're practical no matter how strong you become."
I nodded slightly. Efficient tools. Not replacements.
There was a pause.
Then Lirian said, "I was one of the last."
I blinked. "Of what?"
"The Northern Clans."
He said it plainly, as though it held no weight at all.
I sat straighter. "What happened?"
He didn't flinch. "Your mother was thorough. There was… treachery. The clans broke trust. She culled them. I was spared."
I stared at him. "Because you were loyal?"
"Because I told her who wasn't," he said. "And she gave me a gift in return."
My brow furrowed. "What kind of gift?"
He looked at me but he didn't answer.
Instead, he glanced toward the snow, his gaze distant. "Elves used to write with magic before we used words. Children traced power in sand and snow. Runes were our lullabies. Our prayers. Everything began with intention."
His voice had shifted. Formal. Quiet.
He's avoiding the question.
I shifted again, restless.
Why am I always so impatient now?
Ten years should have made me calmer. Stronger. Older. But instead, I felt raw beneath the skin. My thoughts churned too fast. My control frayed quicker than it should.
Is it her? Her instincts? Her way of feeling everything too much, too fast?
Lirian's voice continued as if he didn't notice. "We weren't strong like dragons. We didn't live forever. But we understood the world better than most. We listened to the silence beneath the earth. We followed the old winds. We survived."
He trailed off.
His ear twitched—just once.
Barely visible, but I caught it.
Something's wrong.
Lirian's hand dipped into his cloak. When it returned, he held a leather-wrapped bundle. A worn book. A flat disc marked with four precise runes.
He held them out to me.
"Take these."
I hesitated. "Why?"
"I don't trust myself to keep them safe anymore. Not down here."
I frowned. "And you trust me?"
His gaze didn't falter. "More than you think."
I reached forward slowly, closing my fingers around the bundle. The disc thrummed once, faint and cold.
"But why give this to me now?"
"I—"
A gust of frozen air swept through the chamber.
The temperature plummeted.
And then—her voice.
"You won't need to hold it for long."
It was like ice cracking through stone—clear, brutal, impossible to ignore.
I froze.
No warning. No footfalls. No flicker of presence. Even the runes hadn't stirred.
Frostbite's hackles rose, a low growl rumbling in her chest. I was already turning, jawbone in hand.
Vaelith stood just inside the archway. Still. Pale. Her braid hung over one shoulder, white as the frost clinging to her skin. She didn't look at the beast. Didn't acknowledge the tension, or the weapon in my grip. Like none of it mattered.
Like I didn't matter.
"You're late," she said with an icy smile. "But I suppose it takes time to crawl your way out of the dirt."
"Vaelith," I muttered.
"Still standing," she mused, sweeping her gaze down me. "More or less."
Lirian stepped forward. "You should've—"
She raised a hand, silencing him with nothing more than a glance.
"I'm not here to trade old memories. I'm here to collect her."
Her words cut across the room with casual finality.
Lirian hesitated.
I didn't.
"You're not collecting anything."
Vaelith arched one brow, amused.
"Oh? And what exactly do you think you'll do about it?"
I moved.
She didn't.
The jawbone swept toward her in a wide arc—sharp, fast, deliberate.
She caught it.
Two fingers. That was all.
A twist of her wrist and the weapon snapped at the runes, splitting down the carved spine. The crack echoed off the walls like a bone breaking.
She released the fragments.
They hit the ground at my feet, steaming faintly with spent magic.
Frostbite's growl deepened but she didn't advance.
Neither did I.
"You need to learn," Vaelith said coldly, "to control your temper around your betters."
My hands trembled.
Not from fear.
From rage.
She turned toward the tunnel, her dress trailing frost in her wake.
"Your time in the Hatchery is over. Clean yourself up. You're expected."
She didn't wait for an answer.
Didn't even look back.
And I hated her for it.
Lirian remained still beside me, silent, his eyes never leaving the path she took.
When he finally spoke, it was barely more than a whisper.
"She didn't even flinch."
I stared down at the ruined jawbone at my feet.
Neither did I.