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Heroes of Havensong: Dragonboy
Heroes of Havensong: Dragonboy
Heroes of Havensong: Dragonboy
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Heroes of Havensong: Dragonboy

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This timeless fantasy debut follows four unlikely heroes—a boy-turned-dragon, his reluctant dragon rider, a runaway witch, and a young soldier—bound by the Fates to save their world, and magic itself, from being destroyed.

Blue, River, Wren, and Shenli grew up on different sides of a war they didn’t start. Their land has been torn apart over centuries of conflict, with humans taught to fear all things magical, dragons driven to near extinction, and magic under attack. But an ancient prophecy has put the four them on a collision course with destiny—and with each other—in a mission to heal the fractured realm once known as Haven. 

All of them must follow the threads of Fate, leaving behind the lives and homes they know to discover the truth about the seemingly endless war—and the truth about themselves. As the barriers between them begin to crumble, can they unravel the lies they’ve been taught to believe in order to restore the balance between humans, dragons, and magic before it’s too late?

“A powerful cast of characters in an epic tale of dragons and magic.” —Lisa McMann, New York Times bestselling author of The Unwanteds and Map of Flames
LanguageEnglish
Release dateJan 24, 2023
ISBN9780593482391

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    Heroes of Havensong - Megan Reyes

    Part 1: Growing Dragons1.

    Every twenty-five years, the king of Gerbera is eaten by a dragon.

    It is tradition.


    What’s that, young one? No, I imagine it isn’t very pleasant, but what else is the human king to do? He has his honor to uphold, after all. And a deal’s a deal. One king every quarter century, and in exchange, the dragons leave the villages of Gerbera well enough alone.

    That’s the way it’s always been. For nearly a thousand years.

    No, I am not that old. You mind your tongue, kit. Before I toss you to the shadow bears for breakfast.

    Of course I’m joking.

    Your mother would be furious with me.

    Why do the dragons want kings? How should I know? Maybe they taste better than ordinary humans. Leave it to dragons to be so particular. And, no, I don’t know why they wait twenty-five years. Maybe that’s when a human is ripe? I don’t care to think about it too much, if you don’t mind. Now hold still while I get this twig untangled from your fur.

    Ah, well, the humans have no choice, you see. They must keep the peace with the fire beasts. They’ve nowhere else to go. Beyond their forest is Dragon Mountain, and that’s where the world ends.

    Everyone knows that.

    Besides, humans are not as clever as foxes, dear. But don’t hold that against them. They do their best. Oof, stop squirming about, would you? I’ve almost got the blasted twig free.

    What’s that? Where do they get the new king? Perhaps they grow kings like carrots. My whiskers, you ask so many questions. You are giving me a headache.

    Fine. Fine. You may ask one more. If you must.

    What would happen if a king didn’t present himself to the dragons?

    Whiskers of mercy! I pale to think of it. Our forest stretches to the base of Dragon Mountain, after all. The fury of the dragonfire would surely be the end of everyone.

    No, youngling. Do not fret. You have nothing to fear. Don’t you see? The human king always comes, just as he should. It has forever been thus.

    He gives his life to save us all.

    Now sleep, little one. If you’re quiet enough, you can hear the moon rise.

    2. In Which Some Magic Gets the Hiccups

    THREE HUNDRED YEARS BEFORE THE FOURTH WAR

    Many years ago, and half a world away, Madam Seer Madera Starling let out a yelp. Her violet eyes popped open, the pools of midnight darkness pressing in on her, trying to keep her in bed.

    The smell of rain and sage flower wafted through the open windows, promising her that all was well. But the old woman knew how flowers spun their untruths when it suited them. She cast the sage petals a look through the window. All was well indeed.

    Madera slowly swung her legs over the side of the bed, her silver-white hair falling to her waist in twisty braids. She grasped the cane leaning against the wall, drawing in breath slowly, committing each detail of her dream to memory. The moonlight fell across her dark brown hands in a soft glow.

    "That was you, wasn’t it?" she asked the rising wisp of violet smoke hovering over her nightstand.

    Madera’s Magic hummed its agreement, swirling in a slow circle, drifting toward the woman’s outstretched hand. You haven’t given me dreams in ages. Not since— She shuddered and shook the memory away. Her Magic floated toward her, now a purple tornado. Madera rolled her eyes.

    "There’s no need to be dramatic," she scolded as she pushed herself to stand. The tornado let out an audible huff and then slowed to form a cumulus cloud.

    Haru! Madera called, knowing the Scribe would hear. The boy slept lighter than a pile of feathers.

    A crash rang from the hallway, just outside Madera’s bedroom. A few moments later, the door creaked open and Haru stumbled forward, his thin raven hair sticking up like a sea urchin. His firequill glowed in one hand, lighting up his tan face, with a scroll of parchment tucked under his other arm.

    You…called? said Haru, blinking sleep from his eyes. They were brown with little specks of teal—starting to match the color of his Magic, which now sat on his shoulder.

    I need you to record a prophecy, Haru.

    The purple smoke growled.

    "Now, you hush, Madera snapped. We’re doing this properly, and that’s final."

    Her Magic sighed rather theatrically.

    "A prophecy, Madam Madera?" Haru repeated, his eyes stealing a hesitant glance at the purple smoke. Still a new Scribe, Haru Tanaka was eager to prove himself. The most he’d ever recorded was Elder Myrtle’s Theory on Magical Propriety. And that was nothing like a prophecy—more of a yawn-inducing ramble.

    You’ll do just fine, child, as long as you pay attention, Madera assured him with the same encouraging smile she’d used on new Scribes for the last half millennium. Haru gulped, readying his parchment. He held his hand steady, sparks of red fire shooting from the tip of his quill.

    Help me remember, Madera told her Magic as it settled on the top of her head. She closed her eyes. I see a newborn child. A boy. The mother is sobbing, but I cannot see her face. The baby is wrapped hastily in a tattered gray blanket. A filthy old thing. She frowned as the next part of the dream bubbled into focus. There’s a full moon and it’s snowing. Who carried him—the father, perhaps? The child is left on a doorstep. He…does not cry. Her eyebrows scrunched together. Why isn’t he crying? He’s so cold.

    The Seer searched her memories as her Magic danced lightly at her temples. There was something about a door with the head of a lion for a knocker. She could sense the child’s breathing, his quivering gums in the biting cold. His tiny heart raced in sheer terror, and still he did not cry.

    This child is of great significance, said Madera, beads of sweat now trickling down her neck. But I cannot See how.

    He must be remarkable! breathed Haru, scribbling furiously across the page, red sparks flying.

    Madera shook her head. "No, but that’s just it. He is, in fact, utterly ordinary. No trace of heroic lineage. And when I try to See his future, there is only…vast nothingness." Her frown deepened as she searched for more. There was great beauty in this boy. But there was something else too. Something…hidden in darkness.

    A loud squeak rang through the room.

    Haru’s scribbling ceased. Was that…a hiccup? he asked, his eyes fixed on Madera’s hovering Magic.

    Madera shifted her weight on the cane, convincing herself they’d heard wrong. It was something outside. A beach bat or a river toad. Her Magic squeaked again, and she winced.

    No, no, no.

    Magic hiccups meant only one thing.

    Something dreadful was coming.

    I cannot understand it. An ordinary boy. Destined for greatness and plagued by such darkness, Madera whispered. But his future is kept from me. Something or someone doesn’t want me to See properly. And then a realization hit Madera so suddenly she nearly fell over onto the bed. "It’s…him."

    Her Magic bounced up and down.

    Him? repeated Haru.

    The Awaited One. She gaped at her Magic, finally understanding its urgency. The one from the songs of old. The songs of Haven.

    Haven? Haru used his firequill to scratch his head. "That’s what the old kingdom was called. Like…a really long time ago, right?"

    Back when life was birthed into being, yes. When all was right in our world.

    What is the boy’s name? asked Haru, his quill hovering eagerly over the parchment. The scorched words inked there were already recorded in the Legacy Hall of the Seers.

    He is called Blue.

    Haru scrunched his nose. That’s his full name? Just…Blue?

    Madera let out a long sigh, allowing these new revelations to settle deep into her bones. This was troubling indeed. The coming of the Awaited One meant also the coming of the end. And someone was definitely out there, trying to keep her from Seeing it.

    We’ll have to be ready. She gave her Magic a knowing look and it huffed its agreement.

    So…is that the last of it, then, Madam Madera? asked Haru, his voice sounding far away. The old woman nodded and Haru rolled up the scroll carefully. It rose into the air, blanketed by the blue glow of his Magic. Then the scroll disappeared with a pop, sending bits of magic dust everywhere and causing Haru to sneeze.

    That was amazing, Haru breathed, his teal Magic bouncing up and down on his shoulder in celebration. My first prophecy recording!

    Madera sighed, hobbling to the window, searching the night skies. Sometimes the stars mapped out a helpful message, winking their truths to those below who knew how to See. But tonight the stars lay hidden by clouds.

    Keeping their secrets.

    3. In Which There Is a Great Commotion

    TEN YEARS BEFORE THE FOURTH WAR

    A great many years later, Blue the stable boy woke to the smell of Fear. It pushed down on him like a foal sitting on his rib cage. He scrambled up from his hay-pile bed, his clothes soaked through with sweat, trying to shake himself from his sleepy stupor. He stumbled through the stable gates to the training arena outside, strands of hay clinging to his trousers. Nothing looked out of the ordinary with the first bits of sunlight peeking over the tops of the massive stone walls of the castle. The quietness of the grounds rested gently against his thumping heart.

    Where was it coming from?

    To Blue, Fear always smelled of wood and oranges, though he was never sure why. For as long as he could remember, he’d been able to smell certain emotions the way someone might detect scents of different flowers. It took many years before he even realized what was happening, since none of the other castle servants shared his strange talent. For the longest time, no one even believed him, which only left him feeling confused and embarrassed.

    Then one day, a very bored seven-year-old Blue had been exploring the eastern towers. He ran into—quite literally—Lady Zoya, the Royal Mage of Gerbera. Lady Zoya kindly explained his weird ability, assuring Blue it was an incredible gift.

    Blue still wasn’t sure about that. Most times his knack felt like a burden. Still, in time, he’d learned to pay attention to it—and so had everyone else.

    Blue shivered in the dawn light, scanning his surroundings once more. Right now, the Fear clung to the air so fiercely, it could only mean someone close by was trapped in the worst sort of peril. But Blue couldn’t place where it was coming from. The weight in his chest sank even deeper.

    He’d smelled Fear this strongly only three times in his life. Once, when the stables had caught fire. Again, when Old Man Albert had fallen from the roof trying to repair a loose shingle. And lastly, when one of the kitchen servants had had a severe allergic reaction to strawberries. Each time, Blue had been right there to help. But now he couldn’t see anyone. Silence hung in the air, except for the soft snores of the king’s horses.

    Then, like a weather vane shifting suddenly with a strong wind, the Fear dissipated, the scent of woody citrus nothing more than a memory. Blue frowned, running his hands through his hair as he scanned the castle walls once more for any clues. But the Fear was quite simply gone.

    And how’d I know you’d be up so early, Blueboy?

    Blue turned to see Suri Hakimi, one of the older stable servants, pushing her way through the gate. Her dark hair was pulled into a ponytail under a plum-colored beanie, and when she smiled, her deep brown eyes seemed to shine.

    What are you doing here? asked Blue, though it was no stranger a thing for him to be standing outside barefoot at dawn.

    Finished my family chores last night, so my mom let me come early.

    A small ache pierced Blue’s chest. Whenever Suri or the other stable servants talked about their families, Blue couldn’t help but feel a jealous longing.

    I checked the stable, Suri went on. When you weren’t in your bed, I figured you’d gotten an early start prepping Cedar. She rolled her eyes. Don’t think I didn’t notice her shiny new horseshoes waiting by your bed. Trying to get that promotion, you are, you sneaky bugger.

    Well, that was definitely true. Blue wanted nothing more than to get promoted to stable manager, and he’d been working overtime all year to prove himself to Albert, the stable master.

    Suri’s bronze cheeks flushed as understanding dawned in her eyes. Oh. You had another…episode, didn’t you? she guessed, dropping her gaze to her shoes. It always made people uncomfortable to talk about Blue’s ability. Even if they’d learned to trust it.

    It was some of the worst Fear I’ve ever smelled. I thought for sure the stable was on fire again. Then it just…disappeared. Blue’s arms fell against his sides in defeat. I just don’t get it.

    Well, it might not be so hard to guess what it was, said Suri, nodding to the castle. Blue followed her gaze to the northernmost tower window.

    The king? asked Blue.

    Well, of course.

    Today was Dragon Day.

    At the nine o’clock gong, the king of Gerbera would set out beyond the kingdom, through the Peculiar Forest and up to Dragon Mountain—where he’d promptly be eaten. The king didn’t know this, of course. He only believed he would set out to slay the dragon that had begun to terrorize the outer villages. The dragon showed up exactly every twenty-five years to goad the newest king into battle. And it always ended the same. Three days after the king departed, his horse would return with a note from the dragon, thanking Gerbera for another fine meal.

    Everyone knew this except the king himself. The entire kingdom—and especially the castle staff—took great pains to keep it from him. From the moment a new king was crowned—always an orphaned infant from one of Gerbera’s villages—he knew nothing of his fate. It was easier that way. There were no parents to miss him. And what kind of life would it be to know you would grow up to be eaten by a dragon? Better to let that be an unfortunate surprise. At least, that was how one of the kitchen servants had explained it to Blue when he’d asked so many years ago.

    Blue frowned, eyeing Dragon Mountain rising far in the distance, its mighty peak hiding in the morning clouds. The end of the world. And soon enough, the end of the line for another valiant king of Gerbera.

    He sighed, a small twinge of doubt throbbing against his temples. But Suri’s theory made more sense than anything else. Of course the king would have fears about fighting the dragon, no matter how brave and noble he was raised to be. Still—why did the Fear disappear so suddenly?

    Come on. We might as well get an early start, said Suri, clapping Blue on the shoulder with a dubious look at the king’s tower. There’s really nothing we can do for him, you know.

    I suppose you’re right. Blue exhaled, a pang of sadness flitting through him. The poor king. Such a terrible fate. Best we can do is give His Majesty a proper send-off.

    That’s the spirit! Those horses will be shining pretty before breakfast.

    With a defeated sigh, Blue followed Suri back to the stables. The large A-frame building stood welcoming, the morning sunbeams sliding across the timber roof like a slow golden yawn. Beyond the arched stone entrance, two rows of stables housed the horses of His Majesty’s forty royal knights.

    Blue had worked in the stables since the age of three—as soon as he was old enough for Albert to teach him how to use a grooming brush. Blue knew each horse better than the knights themselves did. He had the advantage, of course, since he lived in the stables, while the knights and other stable servants went home to their families each evening.

    The stables were Blue’s home.

    By age twelve, he’d risen in the ranks, working hoof and horseshoe in hope of earning the promotion to stable manager. It would near double his responsibilities during the day, but it would allow him more free time in the evenings to ride Cedar, the colt he’d raised from birth. He’d only ever really wanted two things in life: to work with horses and to have a family of his own someday. If he did well prepping for the Dragon Day ceremony, that promotion was as good as his. He and Cedar could spend all their afternoons together.

    Blue and Suri got to work washing, brushing, and saddling their teams. The smell of hay and manure set Blue into an easy rhythm. By the time Albert came to wake him, just as the other stable servants were arriving, Blue was already done with his morning duties.

    Up before the sun again, are you, Blue? muttered Albert, giving Cedar’s reddish-brown coat a once-over. He adjusted his messenger hat over his balding head. The old man was not one to give compliments easily, but Blue’s horses were all immaculate. Especially Cedar. Grumpy old Albert had nothing to complain about today.

    "And you think this horse be fit for a king?" asked Albert, crossing his beige arms against his chest.

    Blue grinned confidently. Yes, sir. Her coat’s brighter than buttermilk. And her form is good. I even triple-braided her tail.

    Cedar let out a snort, and Blue patted the bridge of her nose. He hated braiding because of how it aggravated Cedar, but the king preferred it. And Cedar had a real shot at being chosen for the Dragon Day ceremony. She was too young to be picked as the king’s personal steed, but she stood in the running to be one of the processionals.

    Albert’s eyebrows scrunched together in what might’ve been the beginning contemplations of flattery, but Blue wouldn’t get to find out. An earsplitting scream rose from outside.

    Then another.

    That’s coming from the castle, said Blue, his heart giving a knowing thump.

    Sounds like Pierre spotted another rat in the kitchen, grunted Albert, waving his hand in a dismissive manner.

    Blue frowned. While the royal chef was prone to his fair number of shrieks at the sight of spiders, mice, or any other creature scampering about, this was something else. Blue smelled wood and citrus again. It came in spurts. Like not just one big Fear, but the Fear of many.

    By this time, all the other stable hands had reported for work. They now followed Blue through the gates. Albert hobbled behind them reluctantly, muttering about Pierre’s petty frights. Enzo, one of the gardener’s sons, was sprinting across the castle lawn, his eyes wider than those of a feather-plucked chicken.

    Albert! Clear everyone out of the stables! Enzo cried, his legs going wobbly beneath him.

    Eh? What you yelling about, Enzo? croaked Albert, clearly annoyed at the interruption.

    M-my father sent me to tell you, Enzo sputtered between gasps, his curly dark hair a windblown mess. The kn-knights need the s-stable for an emergency m-meeting. They’re on their way n-now. You need to c-clear out.

    What’s happened? asked Blue. What’s this emergency meeting for?

    Enzo’s light brown eyes blazed like wildfire, the smell of woody citrus saturating the air around him. The king is dead.

    4. In Which a Dragon Tooth Most Definitely Does Not Make a Mistake

    It took less than two clicks of a gallop for Albert to kick his twelve stable hands out on their rears. In the commotion, Blue scampered up to the enormous crossbeam that ran down the middle of the stable’s A-frame ceiling. He’d discovered this hiding spot many knight-gatherings ago, mostly on a dare from Suri. From atop the wide rafter, he could squeeze comfortably between the beam and the ceiling, remaining hidden ten feet above the royal knights, now gathered below.

    Blue was surprised that Lady Zoya had joined them. He hadn’t seen the Royal Mage in years. Not since she’d explained his strange knack for smelling emotions. She looked just as mesmerizing as he remembered. Neither old nor young, but fierce. Her platinum hair was cropped short on the sides and underneath, and long on the top. Her dark blue eyes matched her glittering navy cloak, which hung to the floor, and her pale skin looked freshly painted with purple symbols on her palms and cheekbones.

    It was rumored that Lady Zoya emerged from her tower only in times of dire emergency to offer guidance and counsel from a magical perspective. All Gerberans believed that magic was an evil born from dragons, so its use was permitted only during times of great peril.

    And even then, with much reluctance.

    Blue scooted carefully along the rafter, ignoring the puffs of dust threatening to bring on a sneeze attack, until he lay just above Lady Zoya. The room smelled of enough Fear to fuel the royal kitchen furnace as Lady Zoya’s eyes scanned the room.

    For those who haven’t heard, a tragedy of the worst sort has cast a shadow across our kingdom, said Lady Zoya. Minutes ago, when one of the servants went to wake the king, he would not stir. Good knights of Gerbera, our king is dead.

    The aroma of Sorrow—lilac and mint—mixed with the rising dust.

    Protocol is clear, written by the Gerbera knight Councils of Old, said Lady Zoya. The semicircles painted on her cheeks seemed to glow. She unfurled a long black scroll, blowing away a layer of dust before reading: ‘In the dire case of a king’s death before Dragon Day, a new king must be chosen from the Circle of the Brave.’

    I will do the honors, said a short knight, stepping forward. Blue recognized Sir Huxley, his gray hair and mustache meticulously groomed, as usual. He’d always been kind to Blue, letting him ride a horse for the first time and slipping him extra sweets from the royal kitchen. I’m the oldest, and it’s only right.

    But you have a wife and children, another knight, Lady Camila, pointed out. She tightened her long dark ponytail for emphasis. It would be cruel to leave them without a husband and father.

    Then I’ll do it, said another. I’m the youngest.

    "Too young," argued yet another.

    Lady Zoya held up her hands. It is not up to any of you, noble ones. We must leave such a choice to the Fates.

    There were several murmurs about the Fates being magical mumbo jumbo, but no one seemed brave enough to challenge the Mage outright.

    Lady Zoya raised her right palm, spreading her pale thin fingers slowly. From his vantage point, Blue saw the large white crescent before the others did. It stretched from one side of Lady Zoya’s hand to the other.

    A chorus of gasps filled the room.

    A dragon tooth? someone breathed.

    Indeed, said Lady Zoya, with a hint of finality in her tone. This tooth holds the only remaining magic in Gerbera, and it never fails. It will choose our next king.

    Several knights shifted uncomfortably. Blue couldn’t blame them: magic was nothing but bad luck. Everyone knew that. An icy chill worked its way through Blue’s chest. At the same time, something glittered in the corner of his eye. He looked up to see a thick golden thread hovering about a horseshoe’s length from his forehead. He craned his neck to get a better view. The golden string stretched to the far wall like a sparkling web woven by a mysterious spider.

    And it sang.

    A chorus of high fluttering notes poured from the thread. Blue peeked down, but if any of the knights heard the music above them, they paid no notice. They were too focused on the dragon tooth now spinning wildly in Lady Zoya’s palm.

    Blue shook his head. Webs weren’t gold, and they didn’t make music. As if to prove him wrong, the singing grew louder and louder, until Blue had to press his palms against his ears. Great torture of firebreathers, how could no one else hear that noise?

    Maybe if he could just—Blue reached up and pulled the thread toward him. Instead of snapping from its grip on the wall, the thread only grew longer, as if it were being pulled through the wall. And before Blue could make sense of any of it, the thread disappeared.

    Cripes! someone called out.

    Blue jerked his head from the rafter to watch. The spinning dragon tooth now glowed emerald, a beam of light pouring out of it. The green glow swirled around the room in a wide spiral above the knights. Then the rafters started to tremble.

    What…Is that an earthquake? cried Lady Camila.

    Stand firm! Lady Zoya commanded as the ground beneath their feet continued to rumble.

    A resounding crack ripped through the air, louder than a thunderbolt, its force knocking Blue from his hiding place. He tumbled off the beam onto a very startled group of knights—several of whom uttered a word or two quite undignified as they landed in a heap.

    It’s that fool, Blueboy, someone muttered.

    Nearly broke my neck, said someone else.

    Blue groaned. He’d landed mostly on bony shoulders, and thankfully, it was the burly Sir Kunma who’d broken his fall.

    At least they’d all left their lances elsewhere.

    What you playin’ at, hidin’ up there, boy? growled Sir Kunma, shoving Blue off him.

    I’m sorry, said Blue, pushing to his feet. His cheeks burned, and he couldn’t meet anyone’s eye.

    Are you all right, child? asked Lady Zoya, her eyes scanning his face. Blue nodded and her eyes widened, staring at something on his right cheek. As soon as she looked at it, Blue’s face itched something fierce.

    What’s happening to his skin? asked Sir Huxley, taking a step back.

    Got injured in the fall, most like, someone said.

    No, Lady Zoya breathed. She cupped Blue’s face in her hands. Look at this! These crescent markings on his cheekbones. She traced a finger along Blue’s right cheek. The dragon tooth…has chosen him.

    Blue let out a sigh of relief at Lady Zoya’s touch, the unbearable itching finally ceasing. But as his brain caught up to Lady Zoya’s words, his stomach clamped tighter than stretched leather.

    Wh-what? Blue asked.

    "Chosen him?" scoffed Sir Kunma, hand on his sword hilt.

    Can’t be, said another.

    Sir Kunma shrugged. Then again, he’s got no family. So it’s not really much of a loss, is it?

    Before Blue could blink, Lady Camila crossed the room and shoved Sir Kunma so hard he fell over on his rear. You should be ashamed! she thundered.

    That’s right, Sir Huxley growled at Sir Kunma. He’s only a boy, for mercy’s sake!

    "A stable boy," Sir Kunma grumbled. He pushed himself to his feet with a loud grunt of disapproval.

    Lady Camila put a hand on Blue’s shoulder. It must be a mistake.

    Magic doesn’t make mistakes, Lady Zoya said solemnly. She put a finger under Blue’s chin. The smell of wood and citrus rose around her, and a deep shiver slithered through Blue’s core.

    I don’t…understand, said Blue, his voice barely a whisper.

    You must be very brave now, said Lady Zoya, trying to give him a reassuring smile. You, stable boy, have been chosen as our new king.

    5. In Which Wren Barrow Says the Hardest Goodbye

    SIX YEARS BEFORE THE FOURTH WAR

    Some time later, and half a world away, seven-year-old Wren Barrow sat on the beach, holding her little brother, Cephas, tightly in her lap. Together they watched Mama’s funeral canoe drift out onto the ocean under the light of a full moon.

    Cephas pulled on Wren’s tight curls absentmindedly as the incense bearers wafted their plumes of cedarwood smoke over the gathered Meraki people. Behind them, the Council Elders sang the Songs of Mourning with their Magics swirling around them. Each Elder wore a sleeveless white tunic to show off their Shoya, the slight glimmer and glow against their various skin tones. Shoya, noticeable only in the moonlight, represented a Meraki’s mastery Bond with their Magics, and no one’s Shoya shone brighter than the Elders’.

    From her spot on the sand, Wren could no longer see the words etched onto the boat’s wooden hull, but she knew they were there all the same. She’d carved one of the many goodbye messages to Rose Barrow herself.

    I will try always to be brave, Mama. Just like you taught me. And I promise to be your little dolphin forever.

    All my love, Wren

    The second part of the message was cloaked in a secret between just Mama and Wren. Mama was a scientist who studied ocean animals. She’d always said Wren reminded her of a dolphin because dolphins were both clever and curious. Unfortunately, the Meraki community didn’t much approve of Wren’s persistently overactive imagination—that was what the Elders called it, anyway. But Mama assured Wren her curiosity was a blessing, since brains were just as good for thinking clever thoughts as they were for asking questions.

    And no one asked more questions than Wren.

    There will be many who don’t understand your curious mind, love, Mama had told Wren on what had been her last day. Especially the Elders, set in their old ways. They fear what they don’t know, while you embrace it. In time, they will come to see how much they need a dolphin like you. Mama had given Wren her best smile, even though she’d been in great pain those final hours. "You are enough, my sweet Wren. Just as you are. You don’t need to change for anyone. Promise me you’ll remember that."

    Wren had promised.

    And the weight of that promise now settled on her as a fresh waft of cedarwood filled her lungs.

    Wren spotted Xayndra, the oldest of the island dragons, standing off to the side of the humans, her yellow scales glittering. Her large golden eyes glistened with tears as she caught Wren’s gaze. The dragon let out a deep whine, bowing her head slightly. Wren nodded in response, an ache rising in her throat. Mama had always said that just because dragons couldn’t talk didn’t mean they couldn’t communicate.

    Wren hugged Cephas tighter

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