Rowen’s grip tightened on the crystal as the sharp voice echoed through the cavern, clear and commanding. The sound cut through the oppressive darkness like a blade, setting her nerves on edge. Illinca froze beside her, ears flicking in alarm as she scanned the shadows.
“Don’t move,” the voice repeated, closer this time. Its tone was melodic yet firm, with a rhythm that felt almost unnatural in its precision.
Rowen’s pulse thundered in her ears. She turned her head toward Illinca, whose green eyes were wide with unease, but before either of them could react, shapes emerged from the shadows.
The figures stepped into the faint glow of Rowen’s crystal, their forms tall and graceful yet undeniably otherworldly. They were covered in a fine layer of soft fur, which shimmered faintly in the dim light and ranged in earthy tones of deep brown and slate gray. Their angular faces were striking, with sharp cheekbones and large, expressive eyes that seemed to catch and hold the faint light. The long, pointed ears tapering back from their heads gave them an elegance that felt both alien and unnervingly familiar.
Their limbs were long and lean, ending in round, padded feet with four clawed toes that gripped the rocky ground with ease. They moved with an unnerving silence, their motions fluid and deliberate, as though each step was part of an intricate dance. Rowen found herself staring, captivated and unnerved in equal measure.
Illinca’s hand brushed Rowen’s arm, grounding her. “What are they?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“I don’t know,” Rowen murmured back, her throat tight. She had never seen or heard of creatures like this—so fae-like yet alien, their presence almost otherworldly in the dark cavern.
One of the figures stepped forward, slightly taller than the rest. His fur was a deep charcoal gray, and he held a spear with a shaft of polished metal and a gleaming tip. The weapon wasn’t raised, but it was held in a way that left no doubt of his skill with it. He gestured with his free hand, the long, clawed fingers moving with precision, and spoke in a language Rowen didn’t recognize.
The sound was mesmerizing—fluid and melodic, with soft consonants and lilting vowels that echoed beautifully in the cavern. Despite the stern tone, it carried an undeniable elegance, like a song woven into words.
Rowen frowned, glancing at Illinca, who looked just as lost. “Do you understand them?” Rowen asked under her breath.
“No,” Illinca replied, shaking her head. “But I think they want us to follow.”
The leader gestured again, his sharp gaze locking on Rowen, and pointed down the rocky path leading deeper into the cavern. The command was clear, even if the words weren’t.
Rowen hesitated, her mind racing. Running was pointless—they were exhausted, outnumbered, and hopelessly lost. With a tight nod, she stepped forward, keeping her movements slow and deliberate. Illinca followed closely, her posture stiff with tension.
The strangers closed ranks around them, their silent presence suffocating. Rowen’s heart pounded as they moved deeper into the caverns, the faint light of her crystal barely illuminating the path ahead. The air grew colder, and the sound of the river faded, replaced by the rhythmic tap of footsteps on stone.
Then the space opened up.
Rowen gasped softly as they entered a vast underground village, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. The cavern was massive, its ceiling arching high above and lined with glittering crystals that bathed the space in a soft, ethereal glow. Houses and buildings were carved directly into the stone walls, their rounded edges blending seamlessly with the natural rock. Delicate bridges and stairways crisscrossed the space, connecting different levels of the village with a design that was both practical and breathtakingly beautiful.
The river wound its way through the village, its gentle flow adding a soothing melody to the air. Small gardens filled with glowing fungi and pale plants lined the pathways, their faint luminescence adding to the surreal atmosphere. Lanterns crafted from crystal and metal hung from arches and posts, their warm light complementing the natural glow of the cavern.
Rowen’s eyes darted around, trying to take it all in. The figures moved gracefully along the paths and bridges, their movements as fluid and quiet as the river itself. Some carried bundles of woven fabric or tools, while others paused to speak in their soft, melodic language. The village was alive, but it was unlike anything Rowen had ever seen—a harmony of nature and craftsmanship that felt impossibly ancient.
Illinca’s voice broke through Rowen’s awe. “This isn’t… anything I’ve read about. Who are they?”
Rowen didn’t answer. Her gaze lingered on the glowing crystals and the intricate carvings etched into the walls of the nearest building. Everything about this place felt steeped in mystery, as though it had existed long before her ancestors had even thought to walk the earth.
The strangers guided them to a small building near the edge of the village. Its rounded entrance was flanked by glowing lanterns, and the inside was sparsely furnished with woven rugs and low benches. Without a word, they motioned for them to enter.
Rowen hesitated on the threshold, but Illinca nudged her forward. “We don’t have much choice.”
Once they were inside, the door closed behind them with a soft thud, followed by the unmistakable sound of a bar sliding into place.
Rowen glanced at Illinca, her unease returning. “Well,” she said dryly, “we’re not going anywhere now.”
The small building was cool and quiet, a stark contrast to the distant hum of activity outside. Rowen ran her hand along the smooth, carved stone of the walls. The craftsmanship was impeccable—every edge polished, every curve deliberate. It didn’t look like it had been built so much as coaxed into existence from the rock itself.
Rowen breathed in deeply, recognizing the familiar earthy smell that now seemed to permeate everything around her. The subtle mineral tang reminded her of how long they'd been underground, how much had changed since they first fell into these caves.
She set the crystal down on one of the low wooden benches, its faint glow casting long, wavering shadows across the room. The only other furnishings were a few woven rugs and a simple stone basin in the corner, filled with clear water.
“They aren’t cruel, at least,” Illinca said, her voice breaking the silence. She crossed the room to inspect the basin, dipping her fingers into the water and rubbing them together. “Clean,” she muttered. “Guess we won’t die of thirst.”
Rowen slumped onto one of the benches, her exhaustion catching up with her now that the immediate tension had passed. “I don’t understand,” she said, staring at the faint light from the crystal. “Who are they? What do they want with us?”
Illinca shrugged, pulling her damp cloak tighter around her shoulders. “They don’t seem hostile. If they were going to kill us, they had plenty of chances.” She paused, her green eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Maybe they’re just trying to figure out what to do with us.”
“Or maybe we’re prisoners,” Rowen said bitterly. She leaned back, staring up at the smooth ceiling. “First we nearly drown, then we get dragged to some underground village by… whatever they are. This day just keeps getting better.”
Illinca shot her a sharp look. “You’re alive, aren’t you?”
Rowen sighed, feeling the weight of Illinca’s words. “Barely.”
A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the faint trickle of water from somewhere outside. Rowen shifted uncomfortably, her hand pressing against her chest. That warmth—it hadn’t left her since the encounter with Auryndar. It wasn’t painful anymore, but it was constant, like a small ember nestled behind her ribs.
“Illinca,” she said hesitantly, breaking the silence. “There’s something I didn’t tell you… back in the chamber with the bones.”
Illinca turned, her sharp features softening with concern. “What is it?”
Rowen hesitated, struggling to find the words. “It’s… hard to explain. I feel… something. In my chest. Like a heat, but not like a fever. It’s constant. It’s not uncomfortable, just… there.”
Illinca’s ears flicked forward, her gaze sharpening. “Since the chamber?”
Rowen nodded. “Since he spoke to me.”
Illinca crossed the room, kneeling in front of Rowen. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” Rowen said quickly. “It’s just… I can’t ignore it. It’s like a part of me now.”
Illinca studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she sat back, her tail flicking thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s connected to Auryndar. If he could speak to you, maybe he… left something behind.”
“Left what?” Rowen asked, exasperated. “A voice in my head? A constant burning feeling? None of this makes any sense.”
Illinca’s lips pressed into a thin line. “We’ll figure it out. But for now, let’s focus on surviving. Whatever this is, we’ll deal with it when we can.”
Rowen sighed, nodding reluctantly. “Yeah. One thing at a time.”
They fell into another uneasy silence, both lost in their thoughts. After what felt like hours, there was a faint knock at the door. Rowen shot Illinca a wary glance before the door creaked open, revealing a smaller figure standing just outside.
It was a girl—young, maybe a teenager by Rowen’s estimation. Her fur was a pale, silvery gray, and her large, expressive eyes glimmered faintly in the dim light. She held a wooden tray with two bowls of steaming stew and a skin of water. Without a word, she stepped into the room, setting the tray on one of the benches. Her movements were graceful but cautious, her ears flicking as though listening for some unseen signal.
“Thank you,” Rowen said softly, though she wasn’t sure the girl could understand her. The girl didn’t respond. She gave them a fleeting glance before retreating, closing the door behind her.
Rowen leaned forward, pulling the tray closer. The stew smelled incredible—rich and savory, with the warmth of herbs and spices. She picked up one of the bowls, the ceramic warm in her hands, and peered into the thick broth. Chunks of mushrooms, onions, and potatoes floated among flecks of green herbs.
“Smells good,” Illinca said, taking the other bowl and sitting cross-legged on the floor. She dipped her spoon into the stew, blowing gently on the surface before taking a cautious sip.
Rowen followed suit, the first taste of the stew sending a wave of warmth through her body. It wasn’t just the heat of the broth—it was something deeper, a comforting sensation that pushed back the exhaustion and cold she’d been carrying since they’d entered the cave.
For the first time in what felt like days, Rowen allowed herself to relax, leaning against the wall as she savored the stew. “At least they’re not starving us,” she said between bites.
Illinca smirked faintly. “Small blessings.”
The warmth of the stew still lingered in Rowen’s chest as she set the empty bowl aside, leaning back against the cool stone wall. Illinca sat cross-legged on the floor, her bowl balanced on one knee as she drank the last of the broth. For a moment, the silence between them wasn’t heavy, just calm—an unspoken truce with the chaos of the day.
The faint creak of the door interrupted the moment. Rowen and Illinca both tensed as it swung open, revealing another figure. This one was taller than the young girl who had delivered their meal, her posture straighter and more commanding. Her fur was a rich, earthen brown with streaks of silver along her temples, and she carried herself with a quiet confidence that immediately set her apart.
She stepped into the room with fluid grace, her rounded feet making no sound against the stone. Her angular face was framed by thick, dark hair that fell in soft waves over her shoulders, and her large, amber eyes seemed to take in every detail of the room in a single glance.
Rowen stood, brushing her hands on her tunic as if that would somehow make her more presentable. Illinca followed, her ears flicking forward with curiosity.
The woman inclined her head slightly, her movements deliberate and smooth. When she spoke, her voice was rich and warm, each word carrying an accent that seemed to echo like a song through the cavern. “I am Mweya. I have been sent to guide you.”
Rowen exchanged a quick glance with Illinca, unsure how to respond. “Guide us where?” she asked cautiously.
“To the Grovekeeper,” Mweya said simply, her tone polite but firm. “He awaits you.”
Rowen’s stomach twisted at the mention of the title. “Grovekeeper?” she repeated, unable to hide the tension in her voice. “What is that?”
Mweya’s lips curved into a faint smile, her eyes glinting with something like amusement. “He is the eldest shaman of our clan, the keeper of our traditions and the voice of the earth spirits. He has many questions for you.”
“And your clan,” Illinca interjected, her tone cautious, “what do you call yourselves?”
Mweya regarded Illinca with a measured gaze before answering. “We are the Nythari.”
Rowen repeated the word silently to herself, letting it roll through her thoughts. It fit, in a way—melodic and soft, just like the people themselves. Another puzzle piece, but far from the full picture.
Illinca’s tail swished lightly behind her as she crossed her arms. “And if we have questions of our own?”
Mweya’s gaze shifted to Illinca, her expression unchanging. “Perhaps they will be answered. For now, you must come.”
Rowen hesitated, her thoughts racing. The memory of Auryndar’s voice lingered in her mind, his cryptic words stirring unease and curiosity in equal measure. If this Grovekeeper could offer any clarity, she had no choice but to go.
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“All right,” she said, forcing her voice to sound steadier than she felt. “Lead the way.”
Mweya nodded and stepped aside, motioning for them to follow. Rowen and Illinca exited into the open air of the cavern village, where the hum of activity greeted them like a living thing. Rowen’s eyes widened as she took in the intricate beauty of the Nythari settlement, every step revealing new details that deepened her awe—and her questions.
As they walked, Rowen studied the pathways, noticing how they were carved smooth from the stone, winding between structures that looked more grown than built. She traced her eyes along the cavern walls, where houses seemed to emerge directly from the rock, their rounded shapes blending so seamlessly she could barely tell where stone ended and structure began. The doorways caught her attention, each framed by delicate carvings of leaves, vines, and animals that seemed to flow across the stone like water.
Lanterns of crystal and metal hung from arches and posts, catching Rowen's eye as they cast a warm glow across the village surfaces. In the distance, she spotted a group of Nythari working in small gardens. Their movements seemed strangely purposeful, and Rowen found herself watching, fascinated by how carefully they touched each pale, luminescent plant, as if performing some kind of sacred ritual.
Movement near the riverbank caught Rowen's eye. A child was playing, chasing a ball carved from what looked like polished stone. The child's laughter rang out, so unexpectedly normal that Rowen blinked, struck by how the sound seemed to soften the alien atmosphere around them.
“These people don’t just live here,” Rowen thought to herself. “They’re part of this place. Every stone, every light, every plant—it’s all connected.”
Illinca leaned closer as they walked, her green eyes flicking toward a small group of Nythari gathered by a tall, glowing crystal. One of them was holding what looked like a long, metal-tipped spear, while another inspected the weapon, speaking in their soft, melodic language. The group burst into quiet laughter, their sharp teeth glinting in the light.
“They’re smiths,” Illinca murmured, her voice low with curiosity. “Look at that craftsmanship. The balance on that spear…”
Rowen nodded, her attention shifting to the way the metal glimmered faintly, as though it held some kind of energy within it. These people weren’t just artisans—they were masters of their craft.
Further along the path, they passed a group of Nythari weaving cloth. Rowen watched, fascinated by the way the material shimmered in the light, seeming almost otherworldly. She tried to follow the weavers' intricate movements, their long fingers moving with a precision that made her head spin.
"I don't think they just survive down here," she murmured to Illinca. "They're thriving."
Despite the beauty of it all, there was an undercurrent of tension that Rowen couldn’t ignore. As they walked, Rowen became acutely aware of the Nythari watching them. She could feel their eyes tracking her movement, and she heard conversations around them drop to hushed whispers. Her stomach tightened under the weight of their collective gaze, making her shoulders feel heavy and tense.
“They don’t trust us,” Illinca murmured, clearly feeling it too.
Rowen clenched her jaw. “Can’t blame them. We’re strangers who just stumbled into their home.”
They reached a large, domed building near the center of the village. Its entrance was flanked by tall, glowing crystals that cast shifting patterns of light across the carved stone. Mweya paused, turning to face them.
“Inside,” she said simply. “The Grovekeeper is waiting.”
Rowen swallowed hard, glancing at Illinca. Her friend gave her a faint nod, her expression unreadable but steady. Together, they stepped through the archway and into the unknown.
Rowen’s footsteps echoed softly as she stepped into the chamber, the air inside cooler and tinged with a faint mineral scent. The room was expansive yet intimate, its walls carved with intricate designs of vines, trees, and flowing water that shimmered faintly under the soft light of embedded crystals. The ceiling arched high above, where a massive, glowing quartz formation radiated a gentle, golden hue, casting an almost sacred ambiance over the space.
At the far end of the chamber sat a figure on a raised platform of stone, his posture calm and upright. The Grovekeeper. His fur was a striking silvery gray, streaked with lines of white like veins of ore through rock. His angular face was weathered but strong, and his amber eyes gleamed with a sharp, penetrating intelligence. Draped in flowing cloth adorned with woven metal accents, he looked every bit the shamanic elder Mweya had described.
Rowen hesitated, her heart pounding as those amber eyes locked onto her. He was older than the other Nythari she’d seen, his presence commanding yet measured, like a deep-rooted tree that had weathered countless storms.
Mweya stepped forward, bowing her head slightly. “Grovekeeper Nhamo, I bring the surface-dwellers as you requested.”
Nhamo inclined his head, his gaze flicking briefly to Mweya before returning to Rowen and Illinca. “Thank you, Mweya. You may remain.”
Rowen swallowed hard as Nhamo’s eyes seemed to bore into her, their intensity making her feel as though he could see straight through her. She fought the urge to fidget, her hands clenching at her sides.
Finally, he spoke, his voice deep and resonant, carrying a weight that matched the room itself. “You have come far, and not by choice, I suspect. Tell me—what is your purpose here in the Kuvv’ndrun?”
Rowen blinked, thrown off by the unfamiliar word. “The… Kuvv’ndrun?”
Nhamo’s lips curved faintly, though his expression remained unreadable. “Our name for this underground realm. The domain of the Nythari.”
Illinca stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. “We didn’t mean to intrude. We fell into the caves by accident, swept in by a river. We’ve been trying to find a way back to the surface.”
Nhamo’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though weighing her words. “Yet you lingered in the Chamber of Auryndar,” he said, his tone sharper now, though not unkind. “Why?”
Rowen stiffened at the name, the ember in her chest flaring faintly. “The bones,” she said quietly. “The dragon.”
Nhamo inclined his head. “Indeed.”
Rowen took a hesitant step forward, her voice faltering. “I… something happened in that chamber. I heard a voice. He said his name was Auryndar.”
A ripple of shock passed through the room. Mweya’s amber eyes widened slightly, and the other Nythari present—several standing near the edges of the chamber—exchanged glances. Even Nhamo seemed momentarily taken aback, his sharp gaze intensifying as it settled on Rowen.
“You heard him?” Nhamo asked, his voice low with disbelief. “Auryndar spoke to you?”
Rowen nodded, her throat tight. “He… he called me ‘daughter of Vyrndal.’ I don’t know what that means. And he said he’d been waiting centuries for a ‘spark.’” She hesitated, glancing at Illinca before continuing. “I didn’t even know dragons were real until I saw those bones. Who was he? How… how did he know I’d find him?”
Nhamo leaned back slightly, his hands resting on the carved armrests of his seat. For a long moment, he said nothing, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy with awe. “Auryndar was one of the last great dragons. He died over three thousand years ago, his body claimed by the depths of the Kuvv’ndrun. His kind were children of the primal spirits of creation, beings of immense power and wisdom. To hear his voice now…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It is beyond understanding.”
“But he knew I would find him,” Rowen pressed, her voice trembling. “He said he’d been waiting for me. How could he know that?”
Nhamo’s gaze softened slightly, a faint glimmer of reverence flickering in his eyes. “The great dragons were creatures of magic beyond anything that lives now. Their power was not bound by time or distance. It is possible—no, likely—that Auryndar used his magic to set events in motion long before his death, ensuring the arrival of the one he sought.”
Illinca’s voice broke the silence, a quiet whisper laced with astonishment. “Ritual magic…”
Nhamo nodded, his tone thoughtful. “Yes. A very powerful and ancient ritual. One that may have taken centuries, even millennia, to complete. But this is only speculation. The plans of the great dragons could only ever be fully understood by the dragons themselves.”
Rowen’s hands clenched at her sides as she struggled to process his words. The warmth in her chest pulsed faintly, as though in response. “So… I was meant to be here?”
Nhamo inclined his head. “It seems so. And for that reason, you are welcome among the Nythari. Whatever your purpose may be, we will aid you in your journey.”
Rowen let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, relief mingling with the weight of uncertainty that still hung over her. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
Nhamo’s expression softened, and he turned to Mweya. “See to it that they are properly welcomed. A feast will be held in their honor.”
Mweya straightened, her voice warm and steady. “It will be done.”
Nhamo turned his gaze back to Rowen and Illinca, his tone softening further. “You have endured much. Take this time to rest and recover. Mweya will see to your needs.”
Rowen followed Mweya through the winding paths of the Nythari village, the hum of activity gradually softening as they moved away from the bustling center. The warm light of the crystals illuminated their way, casting shifting shadows across the smooth stone walls. The faint sound of trickling water grew louder, mingling with the soft rustle of their footsteps.
Mweya stopped before a rounded building nestled against the edge of the river. Steam wafted from its arched entrance, curling lazily into the cool cavern air. The structure was simpler than many of the others they had passed, but its smooth stone surface glistened faintly, as if polished by centuries of use.
“This is our bathing hall,” Mweya said, her voice gentle but commanding. “You may cleanse yourselves here. Clothing will be brought to you shortly.”
Rowen exchanged a glance with Illinca, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing. They stepped inside, the warmth hitting them immediately. The air was thick with steam, carrying the earthy scent of mineral-rich water. Soft light from embedded crystals reflected off the surface of a large pool fed by a bubbling hot spring, the water shimmering with faint ripples.
Rowen’s muscles relaxed almost instantly as the heat seeped into her skin. The stress of the past days—falling into the cavern, wandering in darkness, and the overwhelming encounter with Auryndar—seemed to weigh even heavier now that she was finally in a place of relative peace.
Illinca crouched near the edge of the pool, dipping her fingers into the water. Her ears twitched slightly, and she exhaled a low hum of approval. “Warm. At least they know how to make a guest feel somewhat welcome.”
Rowen couldn’t help but smirk. “I don’t think they’re used to guests.”
Illinca straightened, her sharp eyes scanning the room. “Maybe not, but they’ve been more accommodating than I expected.”
The sound of footsteps drew their attention. A pair of Nythari entered, their movements graceful and silent. They carried bundles of fabric—soft, flowing garments in muted tones of green and brown, adorned with delicate embroidery that shimmered faintly in the light.
“These are for you,” one of them said, her voice soft and melodic, though her words carried the same accented rhythm as Mweya’s. She set the clothing on a smooth stone ledge near the pool, bowing slightly before retreating with her companion.
Rowen approached the garments, running her fingers over the fabric. It was lighter than anything she’d worn before, but the material was strong, with a texture that felt almost like silk. She glanced at Illinca, who had already begun undoing the ties of her cloak, her white fur glistening faintly in the humid air.
“Guess we’d better get started,” Rowen muttered, her voice quieter than usual. She slipped out of her boots and belt, setting her belt pouch carefully aside. The wellstone and the other items it carried felt oddly out of place here, as though they belonged to another life.
The hot water embraced her as she slid into the pool, its warmth soothing the aches in her muscles and washing away the grime of their journey. She let herself sink deeper, closing her eyes as the heat worked its way through her body. For the first time in days, her thoughts began to settle, though the faint ember in her chest remained, a constant reminder of the mystery she carried.
Illinca joined her, her sharp green eyes softening as the warmth of the water enveloped her. “You seem quiet,” she remarked, her voice low and steady.
Rowen opened her eyes, meeting Illinca’s gaze. “Just… thinking.”
“About Auryndar?” Illinca asked, her tone careful.
Rowen nodded, tracing her fingers along the surface of the water. “And about this place. The Nythari. Everything feels so… big. Like we’re caught in something we don’t understand.”
Illinca leaned back against the edge of the pool, her ears flicking thoughtfully. “We are. But we’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”
Rowen let out a soft laugh, the sound rippling through the steam. “You make it sound so simple.”
Illinca smirked. “It’s better than overthinking everything.”
The two fell into a companionable silence, the bubbling of the hot spring filling the space around them. Rowen let herself relax, savoring the rare moment of peace. Whatever challenges lay ahead, they could wait—for now, she allowed herself to simply breathe.