The morning was foggy, a heavy mist hanging over what remained of Borollai. The village was a hushed echo of what it had been, the devastation stark in the cold dawn light. Broken homes lay scattered, their walls collapsed, the charred remains of once-vibrant stalls casting dark shadows on the ground. Fallen trees were strewn across the village square, and the few survivors moved quietly, their voices low and solemn as they picked through the wreckage, gathering what little they could salvage.

Elder Merda moved among the Drakel survivors, her gold scales dulled but her presence comforting. She placed a gentle hand on each villager, offering words of solace and hope. The survivors clung to her strength, her calm demeanor a beacon amidst the sorrow. Master Berro, though hunched with age, was similarly comforting, his blue-scaled form always surrounded by children and young Drakel, his voice a steady reminder of resilience.

Many Mehrat traders were also among the survivors, and it was Pyramus who took charge of their efforts to repair what could be salvaged. With his silver-streaked fur and wise eyes, he gave directions, his knowledge of the mountain trails and survival keeping the Mehrat focused. Under his guidance, two damaged wagons were repaired, their wooden wheels bound with leather and rope. Children and the elderly were loaded into these wagons, the few remaining supplies gathered and secured.

The survivors were preparing to leave Borollai, their destination a hidden valley nestled deep within the White Spire Mountains. Pyramus spoke of it in hushed tones, describing it as a safe haven, a secluded refuge that only the most knowledgeable of mountain travelers could find. It would be a place to heal, to rebuild.

Rowen sat near Gallen's abandoned forge, her face streaked with tears, her hands clutching a piece of Gallen's last work—a small, unfinished blade. She traced her fingers over the rough metal, her heart aching with the weight of all she had lost. She barely registered Illinca's approach until the white-furred Mehrat knelt beside her, her hand resting gently on Rowen's shoulder.

Without a word, Illinca extended her hand, and Rowen took it, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. Together, they walked to a quiet patch beneath a wide tree, where they began to dig. The earth was cold and unyielding, but Rowen forced herself to continue, her muscles aching with each movement.

As they dug, memories of Gallen filled her mind—his weathered, green-scaled face, his hands always covered in soot and ash, the smell of iron and smoke that clung to him. He had been her mentor, but more importantly, he had been family. The steady warmth he radiated was something she would never feel again. Tears blurred her vision, but she did not stop.

Her thoughts drifted to Taal, her clutch sibling. She remembered his laughter, the way he teased her about her ambitions, his stubborn streak that often mirrored her own. The ache of his absence settled like a stone in her chest, heavy and suffocating. They were gone—both of them—and all she could do was give them the burial they deserved.

When the graves were finally dug, Rowen knelt beside them, her grief nearly overwhelming. She closed her eyes, a memory surfacing—Gallen, his voice low as he taught her in the forge. She had been young then, barely able to see over the edge of the forge, her eyes wide with curiosity. He had told her that strength was forged through adversity, that the strongest hearts were those tempered by fire and hardship. The memory brought her a measure of comfort, a reminder that her grief was part of her journey, that it would shape her as surely as fire shaped iron.

With trembling hands, she placed her first crafted piece of jewelry into Gallen's grave—a small trinket, simple and imperfect. It was her tribute to him, to all that he had taught her.

The next morning, the survivors gathered at the outskirts of Borollai. The fog still clung to the village, the air thick with moisture. The ground was damp beneath their feet, and as they stood there, ready to leave, the weight of what they were leaving behind settled heavily on their shoulders.

Elder Merda raised her hands, her voice carrying over the quiet, fog-drenched village. Her eyes glistened as she spoke, her words steady even as the sadness weighed them down, "People of Borollai, today we leave behind our homes, our memories, and our loved ones who have passed into the beyond. But we take with us the spirit of our village. The love, the strength, the courage that defined us still lives within each of us. Though our homes are gone, we remain. Together, we carry the fire of our ancestors, and we will endure.”

"May the spirits guide our steps and protect us on our journey. May they watch over those we have lost, and may we find the strength to honor them by continuing on, by rebuilding what has been taken from us. We will not be defeated. We will find hope even in the darkest of times, and we will build again."

The survivors bowed their heads, tears slipping down their cheeks as they cast their final glances at their burned homes and the graves of their loved ones. The survivors bowed their heads, tears slipping down their cheeks as they cast their final glances at their burned homes and the graves of their loved ones.

Rowen bent down, grasping a small piece of stone from the village well. She held it tightly in her hand, her fingers brushing over its rough surface. It was a piece of home, a reminder of the life they had shared here. She slipped it into her pouch, alongside Gallen's unfinished blade, a silent promise to herself—she would remember, she would honor those they had lost.

The journey through the mountains was grueling. The path was rocky, narrow, and treacherous, the fog thickening as they ascended. Pyramus led the way, his knowledge of the hidden routes keeping them safe. The survivors moved in near silence, their steps careful and deliberate, the air filled with the sound of their footfalls and the creak of the repaired wagons.

Rowen and Illinca spent much of their time walking side by side, the shared experience gradually deepening their bond. On the third day, as they sat around a small campfire beneath a blanket of stars, Rowen turned to Illinca, her voice barely louder than a whisper, "Illinca, about the prophecy... I need to know more."

Illinca glanced at her, her white fur glowing softly in the firelight. She nodded, her gaze shifting to the stars. "I wish I could tell you everything. But my visions—they're not something I can control or even remember afterward. When I have them, it's like I'm not really there. I see things, speak things, but when I come back... it's gone."

Rowen frowned, her frustration evident. "So, you can't remember anything at all? Not even a glimpse?"

Illinca shook her head. "No, not directly. But there are feelings, impressions that linger. I remember the fear, the urgency. I remember seeing you, standing against something dark—something powerful." She paused, her eyes meeting Rowen's. "I know that whatever is coming, you are meant to face it."

Rowen let out a shaky breath, her heart pounding. "You mentioned a black lion. The human empire... could they be behind this? I remember you saying something about a black lion."

Illinca's gaze darkened, and she nodded. "Yes. The black lion on a gold field—that is the emblem of the human empire. I have crossed their borders before, traded with their people. They are powerful, and their reach is vast. If they are involved, it would explain much of what has happened."

Rowen clenched her fists, her anger simmering beneath her grief. "Then they are my enemy. They took everything from me. And I won't rest until I make them pay."

Illinca reached over, placing a gentle hand on Rowen's arm. "We will face them together, Rowen. But remember, we must be smart about this. The empire is vast, and we are just two. We need to gather allies, learn all we can. Rushing in without a plan will only get us killed."

Rowen looked at Illinca, her eyes filled with determination. "I know. But I can't do nothing. I have to act. And I will, no matter what it takes."

Illinca gave her a small smile, her eyes filled with understanding. "And I will be with you every step of the way."

As the journey continued, Rowen and Illinca found themselves sharing more about their lives. One afternoon, while taking a brief rest near a mountain stream, Rowen turned to Illinca, her curiosity getting the best of her.

"What's it like, being a Mehrat trader?" Rowen asked, her tone softer than usual.

Illinca smiled, her ears perking up slightly. "It has its challenges, but it's rewarding. We travel a lot, always moving from one place to another. We see many different cultures, meet all kinds of people. There is a freedom to it, but also a sense of responsibility—to my family, to my people." She paused, her gaze turning thoughtful. "I've crossed the border into the human empire a few times. Their cities are large, overwhelming even, but there's also a sense of order that I find fascinating."

Rowen nodded, her eyes thoughtful. "I've always felt like an outsider, even among my own people," she admitted quietly. "Being a red scale... it comes with expectations. Expectations I was never sure I could meet. I wanted to prove myself, but I never quite fit in."

Illinca looked at her with empathy, "It's difficult, feeling like you don't belong. But I've seen your strength, Rowen. You care deeply for your people, and that alone makes you worthy. You are more than capable."

Rowen smiled, a hint of gratitude in her eyes. "Thank you. I guess... it's just hard to shake that feeling sometimes. But having you here—it helps."

Illinca nodded, her expression warm. "We help each other. That's how we'll get through this."

There were also moments of levity between them, brief respites from the heaviness of their journey. One evening, as they camped beside a small grove of fruit trees, Illinca climbed up to pick some of the ripe fruit. She tossed one down to Rowen, who caught it with a raised eyebrow.

"You know, I didn't take you for a climber," Rowen teased, a rare smile tugging at her lips.

Illinca laughed, her eyes twinkling. "There's a lot you don't know about me yet. I've always loved climbing trees." She reached higher, pulling herself onto a sturdier branch.

Rowen grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I can climb too!" she declared, moving toward the tree. She grabbed onto a low branch and pulled herself up, trying to match Illinca's agility. But as she reached for the next branch, her foot slipped, and she tumbled back to the ground, landing with a thud.

For a moment, there was silence, and then Rowen burst into laughter, her face flushed. Illinca climbed down quickly, her eyes wide with concern, but when she saw Rowen laughing, she couldn't help but join in.

"Are you all right?" Illinca asked, still chuckling.

Rowen nodded, her laughter subsiding as she sat up. "Just my pride that's bruised," she said, shaking her head. "Maybe I'm not as good at climbing as I thought."

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Illinca smiled, her eyes filled with warmth. "Here, let me show you how it's done." She climbed back up the tree, her tail wrapping around a branch as she hung upside down, passing another fruit down to Rowen. "See? It’s all about balance."

Rowen took the fruit, her smile widening. "Show-off," she muttered, but her tone was light, the joy of the moment clear in her eyes.

For a while, they laughed and shared the fruit, the warmth of companionship pushing back the cold of grief, even if just for a little while.

But there were also moments when the pain of their losses was too much to ignore. One night, as they sat by the fire, Rowen stared into the flames, her thoughts turning to Gallen, to Taal. The ache in her chest was almost unbearable, each memory like a blade cutting into her heart. She remembered Gallen's kind smile, the warmth of his presence, the way he always knew what to say to calm her fears. She remembered Taal's laughter, his teasing, his unwavering belief in her. The emptiness they left behind was overwhelming.

"I miss them," she whispered, her voice barely audible, almost swallowed by the crackling of the fire. "I miss them so much. It's like... a part of me is missing too. I don't know how to fill that space."

Illinca moved closer, her presence a quiet comfort beside Rowen. She placed her hand gently on Rowen's arm. "I know," she said softly. "I miss my people too. But there's something we mehrat believe, Rowen—something my mother used to tell me when I was a child. We believe that the spirits of those who have passed never truly leave us. They become part of us, of who we are. Their love, their strength, their essence—it all lives on in us, shaping us, guiding us. A piece of them is always here."

Rowen turned her head slightly to look at Illinca, her eyes filled with unshed tears. "You mean... Gallen and Taal, they're still with me?"

Illinca nodded, her expression tender. "Yes. They are you. In every choice you make, in every bit of courage you find, they are there. They live on in you, Rowen, just as my family lives on in me. It's how they continue to be a part of this world—through us. And they would want us to keep moving forward, to keep fighting."

Rowen's gaze returned to the fire, her heart heavy but no longer quite so alone. The idea that Gallen and Taal were still with her, that they were a part of her, brought a measure of solace. She could almost feel their presence, like a whisper in her soul, urging her onward.

She nodded, her eyes glistening with tears. "I just hope... I hope I can make them proud."

Illinca placed a hand on her shoulder, her touch gentle and reassuring. "You will, Rowen. I know you will. And I'll be here to remind you of that, every step of the way."

Illinca leaned against her friend, giving her a comforting hug.

Rowen's mind turned to the prophecy—her anger at the ones responsible for the attack on Borollai simmering beneath her grief. She felt her resolve solidify, her purpose becoming clearer with every step they took. She would find those who had done this. She would make them pay.

The journey was not without its challenges. A narrow mountain pass tested every ounce of their courage, the sheer drop below disappearing into a thick, swirling mist. The ledge was barely wide enough for the wagons, and each step felt like a gamble. Rowen took the lead, her heart pounding with each careful movement as she guided the livestock along the edge. Illinca stayed close, her eyes sharp for any sign of loose rocks.

When the ground crumbled beneath Rowen’s feet, her heart lurched, but Illinca’s quick reflexes saved her, pulling her back from the precipice. They exchanged a look of shared relief, knowing they would need each other to overcome these dangers.

They soon reached a swollen river, its waters roaring with the power of snowmelt from the mountains. Crossing seemed almost impossible at first glance. But Pyramus devised a plan, directing everyone to build a makeshift bridge using fallen logs. Rowen and Illinca were among those who worked tirelessly, their hands aching as they maneuvered the heavy logs into place. The cold, rushing water soaked them, its icy grip sapping their strength, but they persisted.

When a log threatened to drift away, Rowen lunged after it, her fingers barely closing around it before it escaped. Together, she and Illinca managed to secure it, the two of them exchanging tired but triumphant smiles. Slowly, each of the survivors crossed, and tension eased only when the last wagon made it safely to the other side.

A steep, rocky incline presented yet another obstacle, requiring all their strength to push the wagons up the treacherous path. The loose rocks shifted constantly underfoot, threatening to send them sliding backward. Rowen and Illinca took turns at the front, their muscles straining, sweat beading on their brows. The incline seemed never-ending, every inch gained a battle of endurance. The others joined in, lending their combined weight to the effort, and at last, they crested the top.

As they reached flat ground, they collapsed in exhaustion, and laughter broke out among the group—laughter born of relief and the simple joy of having accomplished something together.

The hardships bonded the Drakel and Mehrat in a way nothing else could, their shared struggle bringing moments of connection—helping hands offered when someone stumbled, shared meals eaten in silence but with a deep sense of unity. Rowen felt herself growing stronger, her spirit toughened by each trial they faced. Each challenge they overcame was a reminder that they were survivors. Together, they could endure anything, even in the face of overwhelming adversity.

After days of travel, the caravan finally reached their destination—a narrow passage opening onto a lush, green valley, surrounded by high cliffs. The valley was untouched, serene, an oasis amidst the rugged mountains. Clear streams wound through the meadows, groves of fruit trees offering shade and sustenance. The survivors' relief was palpable, a collective sigh escaping as they beheld the haven before them.

The Drakel and Mehrat immediately set to work, their movements filled with a renewed sense of purpose. It was time to put down new roots, to rebuild what they had lost. Pyramus pointed out the natural features of the valley—a cave where they could store food, a hidden waterfall that would provide fresh water, and flat, fertile areas where they could eventually plant crops. The sense of unity between the Drakel and Mehrat was evident as they worked together, side by side, their focus now on survival and renewal.

Rowen watched as a group of Mehrat carefully unloaded the repaired wagons, handing out blankets and food while a few Drakel worked on constructing a makeshift pen for the livestock they had managed to save. The children, who had been silent and fearful throughout the journey, began to explore the valley, their laughter echoing through the meadows as they chased each other under the watchful eyes of their elders. It was a sound that brought a small measure of warmth to Rowen's heart—a reminder that hope still lingered, even after all they had lost.

Nearby, Elder Merda spoke gently with a group of survivors, her words encouraging as she helped them plan where to set up their tents. Master Berro gathered the young Drakel around him, his voice calm as he began to tell them a story—one of resilience, of hope amidst despair. The children listened, their eyes wide, their expressions slowly softening as the old storyteller wove his words into a comforting tapestry.

Rowen worked alongside the others, her hands busy as she helped to set up tents and gather firewood. She watched as the valley slowly transformed into a small settlement, the survivors’ efforts bringing life to the once-empty space. The fires crackled as night fell, and a sense of community began to take hold.

For the first time since the attack, Rowen allowed herself to feel a sliver of hope. This valley was their chance—a place to heal, to grow, to remember those they had lost while still finding a way forward.

As she looked around, seeing the survivors beginning to settle and find small moments of peace, Rowen's heart felt lighter. The valley was not just a refuge; it was a promise that they could endure, that they could rebuild. They were not defeated, and this place, with its clear waters and fertile grounds, was proof that even in the face of darkness, there could still be light.

But as the others began to settle, Rowen’s mind was elsewhere. She thought of Bailon, Haath, Daani—all those who had been captured. Her grief turned to resolve, her heart hardening. She couldn’t stay here, not while her loved ones were out there, suffering. She knew what she had to do.

That night, as the fire burned low, Rowen approached Elder Merda, Master Berro, and Pyramus. They sat around a fire, their faces weary but attentive as she knelt before them.

"I have to go after them," Rowen said, her voice steady but emotional. "I have to find my clutch siblings. I can’t stay here, not when there’s a chance I could save them. I can't just sit and do nothing."

Elder Merda’s eyes softened, her concern evident. She leaned forward, her hands resting gently on her knees. "Child, I understand your pain and your desire to act," she said, her voice soothing but firm. "But you must understand that you’ve been through so much. Your body, your spirit—they both need time to recover. You are precious to us, Rowen. We cannot afford to lose any more of our people. There is wisdom in temperance, in waiting until the time is right."

Rowen shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. "But Elder Merda, they’re out there—suffering, maybe worse. I can't let that happen without doing something. I have to try."

Merda sighed, her expression one of deep sympathy. "I approve of your courage, child, but courage without caution can be dangerous. You need a plan, allies, and most importantly, you need to be at your best. If you rush in now, you risk everything—not just your life, but theirs as well."

Master Berro spoke then, his eyes filled with a mix of pride and worry. "Rowen, you are strong, stronger than many your age. I’ve seen the fire in you, the potential of a red scale. But strength alone is not enough. You need wisdom, the ability to know when to act and when to hold back. Sometimes the hardest thing to do is wait, to prepare and gather the tools you need before stepping into the unknown. I know you wish to live up to your potential, but true strength is not just about bravery—it is about endurance, about protecting not only others but yourself as well. Rushing in without thinking will only lead to more loss. Be patient, Rowen, and remember that there is more to heroism than action. It is also about survival and returning to those who depend on you.""

Rowen’s face tightened, her determination clear. "I understand what you’re saying, Master Berro. But I can't ignore this. I can't sit here while they need me. I may be young, but I’m not helpless. Gallen told me that strength is forged through adversity. I can’t turn away from this. I have to fight for them, even if it means facing the impossible."

With those words, Rowen planted her fists on the ground, bowing her head until her forehead touched the earth. "Please," she said, her voice trembling but resolute, "I beg for your blessing to go."

Rowen clenched her jaw, her heart pounding in her chest, waiting for the elders' final answer, her resolve unshaken. Before they could respond, Illinca stepped from the shadows beyond the camp fire, her white fur illuminated in the dancing light. "I'm going with her," she said, her voice clear and unwavering. "Not because of any vision, but because Rowen is my friend, and I cannot let her face this alone. I will use my skills, and my knowledge of the empire, to help her."

The elders exchanged glances, a mixture of emotions passing between them. Elder Merda's eyes, though still filled with concern, softened as she looked at the two young women. She let out a long breath, her expression one of reluctant acceptance. “You are both determined, I can see that,” she said quietly. “I may urge caution, but I cannot deny the strength of your conviction. Go, but be careful, and remember that you carry our hopes with you.”

Master Berro nodded slowly, his gaze shifting from Rowen to Illinca. His eyes held a blend of pride and sorrow. “You have courage, both of you. Rowen, I see the fire in you, and Illinca, your wisdom is beyond your years. But remember, heroism is not recklessness. Temper your actions with wisdom and patience. Promise me you will take care of each other.”

Pyramus sighed, but there was a glimmer of respect in his eyes. He reached out, touching Illinca’s arm. “You have my blessing, child. May the spirits guide you both. The path ahead is not an easy one, but if you truly believe this is your calling, then I will not stand in your way. May our ancestors watch over you and guide your steps, always.”

Rowen and Illinca spent the rest of the night gathering supplies—food, blankets, a map that Pyramus provided, marked with trails leading southward. Rowen took Gallen's unfinished blade, the one she had kept in her pouch. Using her skills in jewelry making, she fashioned a simple leather cord to hang the blade around her neck.

Illinca noticed and remarked, a hint of amusement in her voice, "You know, that unfinished lump of steel makes an ugly medallion."

Rowen smiled, her eyes softening. "It's the worst piece of jewelry I’ve ever made," she said, her voice filled with emotion, "but I'll never take it off."

As dawn broke, the two young women stood at the edge of the valley, their figures silhouetted against the rising sun. Elder Merda embraced Rowen, her voice soft but firm as she whispered her blessing, "May the spirits guide you, child. May your path be clear, and may you always find your way back to those who love you."

Master Berro stepped forward, his eyes filled with both pride and concern. "Remember, both of you," he said, his voice steady, "you always have a haven here with your people. No matter what happens, this place will be waiting for you. You are never alone."

The survivors watched as Rowen and Illinca began their journey, their steps sure and determined as they disappeared into the mountains, the next chapter of their quest just beginning.