3


    The ancient stone tower stood solemnly at the edge of Borollai, its ivy-covered surface whispering secrets of old times. The morning sun bathed the worn stones in a warm light, illuminating the ivy crawling up the walls of the two-story tower. It was Berro’s home—a place filled with history, knowledge, and mystery. The structure sat close to the Weylore Wood, adding an extra layer of enchantment to its surroundings. The scent of wildflowers drifted from the woods, merging with the scent of parchment and herbs that emanated from inside the tower.


    Rowen hurried up the cobbled path leading to the tower’s heavy wooden door, her heart pounding as she realized she was late. She glanced at the sun—she was definitely tardy for her lessons. Her bare feet made no noise on the cobblestones, but her flushed face and the slight dew on her red scales gave her away. She was supposed to be attentive, responsible, but Rowen the Firescale always found her curiosity taking her elsewhere. Today, it had been the woods again, a place where she always found her head filled with daydreams rather than her duties.


    Pushing open the door, Rowen was greeted by the comforting scent of old books and parchment. She stepped into the shadowy interior and spotted Bailon immediately. He was hunched over a table, deep in his studies, with scrolls and maps sprawled across it. His blue scales glistened under the dim light filtering in through the small windows, and his slender figure gave him a scholarly air. Bailon looked up as Rowen entered, his bright blue eyes softening.


    “You’re late again, Rowen,” Bailon said, though his tone held more concern than reprimand.


    Rowen shrugged, her lips quirking up. “Got caught up in the woods,” she replied, feigning indifference.


    Bailon smiled faintly, shaking his head. “One day, you’ll get yourself into trouble with all that wandering,” he murmured, his gaze drifting over her face. It was then that Rowen decided to mention what she had overheard at the elders'' hall earlier that morning.


    “Bailon, I heard the elders talking about attacks in the south. Four villages attacked in one month.” Her voice dropped, her eyes meeting his. She expected shock, but Bailon only frowned, worry lining his features.


    “Rowen, that’s not something you should involve yourself with,” Bailon said softly, leaning back. “The elders handle these matters. Our duty is to focus on our responsibilities—your lessons, my studies. We should trust the council to protect the village.”


    Rowen’s frustration bubbled to the surface, and she shook her head, her voice rising. “I don’t have a place, Bailon! I’m not a craftsman, or a warrior, or a scholar, or an elder. I have no cast, no purpose. What am I supposed to do? Just sit here and pretend everything is fine while everyone else has a role?”


    Bailon’s expression softened, and he stood, stepping closer to her. He reached out, his hand hovering near her shoulder before he let it drop, his voice gentle. “Rowen, you do have a place. You’re important to me, to all of us. Just because you don’t fit neatly into a cast doesn’t mean you don’t belong. Please, don’t let this make you feel like you’re less than anyone else.”


    Rowen looked away, her eyes stinging. She wanted to believe him, but the emptiness inside her was hard to ignore. She sighed, nodding reluctantly, though she didn’t mean it. Bailon’s concern was palpable—he cared for her, though he’d never say it aloud. She could see it in the way he looked at her, the way his voice softened when speaking to her. But she also saw the fear. Bailon always played it safe.


    Before their conversation could go any further, Berro entered the room. His hunched posture spoke of his age, but his eyes were sharp and discerning. He was the elder blue-scaled drakel who had seen so much, and though his gait was slow, his presence demanded respect.


    “Rowen! Late again, I see,” Berro scolded lightly, though there was a playful note in his tone. “Always with your head in the clouds, that one,” he added, looking at Bailon with an amused shake of his head.


    Rowen offered an apologetic smile, though she could feel Bailon’s gaze boring into her back, still concerned. Berro gestured for Rowen to sit, and she did so, taking her place near the hearth where the morning sun filtered in, illuminating the room in a soft golden glow.


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    “Today, we begin with the ballad of our people’s migration from Naethar to the White Spire Mountains,” Berro said, his voice taking on a rhythmic tone. The old drakel closed his eyes, as though envisioning the journey himself.


    Rowen fought the urge to fidget as Berro began the long, familiar ballad. It spoke of ancient conflicts, hardships, and unity—a history she had heard countless times over her sixteen years of studying under Berro. The ballad seemed endless, and Rowen knew every verse by heart. Berro’s droning voice filled the room, and he frequently stopped to have Rowen recite a verse or two, ensuring she remembered every detail.


    Hours dragged on, with Berro’s rhythmic chanting only interrupted by his pauses to test her memory. The repetition was stifling, and Rowen found her mind wandering despite her efforts. She had recited these words too many times to count, and the familiar verses had long since lost any meaning they might have once held. She knew it was important, that knowing their history was essential, but today her mind kept drifting to the conversation she’d overheard. Her fingers tapped absently on her knee, her eyes wandering to the scrolls on Berro’s shelves.


    “Rowen, pay attention,” Berro’s voice interrupted her thoughts, his brows furrowed. He sighed, his gaze softening as he continued, “Our history is who we are, child. Without understanding the past, we are lost.”


    Rowen nodded, but her heart wasn’t in it. The hours of repetition and recitation had drained any enthusiasm she might have had, and she fought to keep her focus as Berro continued with the seemingly endless ballad.


    Seeing Rowen’s lack of interest, Berro paused, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps something different today,” he said after a moment. He walked over to one of the shelves and pulled out a scroll, its edges frayed with age. “This,” he said, “is a fable song, one nearly lost to time. I thought it might capture your attention.”


    Rowen’s ears perked up as Berro began to sing softly. It was a tale of a red-scaled drakel, a hero who protected the drakel people from something called the Elder Power—a force that had threatened to destroy them during their time in Naethar. Berro’s voice carried a haunting melody, and Rowen found herself leaning forward, her curiosity piqued.


    Rowen had many questions as Berro sang. “Does this mean that red scales are some kind of hero cast?” she asked, her voice filled with a mix of excitement and uncertainty. “Does it mean I''m meant for something great? Why was I born now, after so many years without any reds?”


    Berro gave her a sympathetic look as he finished singing. He set the scroll aside and sighed, his gaze meeting hers. “I wish I had the answers, child. The truth is, we do not know. The old histories are incomplete, and much of what we once knew has been lost to time. What I do know is that you must not get overexcited. The drakel people have not experienced any great conflicts in generations, and it is unlikely that will change anytime soon. You must remember, not every story foretells a destiny. Sometimes, it is simply a tale of what once was.”


    Rowen frowned slightly, her enthusiasm dampened by Berro’s words, though her curiosity was far from extinguished.


    “The Elder Power,” Berro continued, “was a mysterious force—some say an entity, others a magic beyond our comprehension. The red drakel led the clans against it, saving our people. But…” He paused, his gaze meeting Rowen’s. “The song is incomplete. Some verses were lost, and we do not know exactly what the Elder Power was, or how it was defeated.”


    Rowen’s eyes widened, her heart pounding as she listened. A red-scaled drakel, just like her. She had always felt different, her scales a rarity among her people. Hearing of a red drakel hero stirred something deep inside her—a sense of connection, of purpose.


    As Berro finished the song, Rowen felt a spark of determination. The missing pieces of the fable, the mystery of the Elder Power, and the red drakel hero all called to her. She had to know more.


    “Master Berro,” Rowen said, her voice unsteady but filled with resolve, “I want to learn more about this. About the Elder Power and the red drakel.”


    Berro studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Perhaps one day, child. But for now, focus on the lessons before you.”


    As Rowen left the tower, Bailon walked alongside her, his expression troubled. “Rowen,” he began, his voice gentle, “please don’t get caught up in these old stories. They’re dangerous… and I worry about you.”


    Rowen looked at him, her gaze steady. “I can’t ignore it, Bailon. It’s like… it’s calling to me. I have to know.”


    Bailon sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He knew he couldn’t stop her, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to protect her. As Rowen walked away, her thoughts were filled with the image of the red-scaled hero. The forgotten song had awakened something within her, and even Bailon’s caution couldn’t extinguish it.


    She wondered, as she looked towards the distant horizon, if the attacks Elder Jenner spoke of were somehow connected to the stories of the past. And deep down, she knew she was meant for something greater.