"The Dawn that Rose from Fire"

Day 10 of Novel November- Alenyah Meets the Harmonies and Decides the Fate of Eirethan.

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Chapter Seven

The tables were pushed against the walls of the hall, and in their place sat seven smaller Ironwood chairs. Each was equipped with an inkwell and a small swivelling writing board. The Harmonies were already seated as Alenyah descended.

The Seven Harmonies were the Elders that represented the seven bastions of Fey’ri life, beyond the Maker’s Song. (Note: I still don’t know how I want to refer to Maker or Creator, so I will use interchangeably). Tharion, a tall willowy man who looked like he would break in a strong wind, represented the traditions and history. Alenyah and he had often butted heads in determining how best to preserve their people. So much had been lost.

Vaelen, a strong, broad Fey’ri woman focused on crops and home. She oversaw much of the familial and neighbor disputes when Alenyah patrolled.

Sareth was Lysera’s mentor. She had replaced Vesper who had finally passed about fifty turns ago from old age. Younger than the others, she represented their communication and diplomacy within The Vale. Alenyah ruefully thought she would have done a far better job facing the Stoneborn at Berin’s house.

Mirael was blind, ironic since she could hear the Maker’s voice- or so she claimed. While Tharion focused on the past, Mirael was always looking forward to the future, to prophecy and tidings in the shifting winds. Alenyah heard the Song in the present, she could twist and cleanse corruption, but Mirael had the gift of seeing what great crescendo or denouement their paths were leading. She was not always right, but she was right more often than she was wrong.

To Mirael’s right was Coren (I don’t like this name, so I’ll come up with something else later), Keeper of the Ironwoods. His hair was streaked with moss and silver, and his hands bore the stains of bark and soil. He guarded the balance between the Fey’ri and the land that sustained them, and though he spoke rarely, his words carried the gravity of the forest’s roots. Alenyah could already see the stress of the morning’s events weighing in the lines of his face.

Elara sat next, her fingers calloused from the forge. She was the Harmony of Craft and Creation, believing that the Maker’s Song was not only heard but made—through art, labor, and innovation. Her clear, practical mind often bridged Tharion’s reverence for the past and Mirael’s dreams of what might come.

Finally, there was Wren, the Harmony of Guardianship and Law. Broad and deliberate, he carried the weight of order on his shoulders. While Vaelen governed the hearth, Wren guarded its borders. His judgments were fair but seldom gentle, and Alenyah sometimes wondered if duty had hardened him past compassion.

Seven Harmonies, each a thread of the whole. Together, they formed the chorus that had once guided the Reach—before its fall. Now their eyes turned toward Alenyah, the last note in that fading song.

As she entered, they rose and bowed formally.

“Resonant,” they named her as one voice. Her hair stood on end, but she raised her chin and sat delicately on the edge of the chair. Gesturing for them to sit, she began.

“This morning,” she said. “I was shown the Ironwood Grove nearest the river. It’s clear they are blighted. As I’m sure you are aware.” She nodded at Coren, who stood.

He wrung his soil covered hands together as he spoke.

“If this were some plague like wood borers, we could handle this with pruning the infected trees. But whatever evil spreads, it is in the soil, in the water, and it is sickening the roots.” He ran his hand through his silvered hair. “We could rip up the dying trees, but that will not stop this blight from spreading.”

He slumped back into his chair, weary. Vaelen cleared her throat, her two heavy dark braids falling over her shoulders.

“Is it possible this could spread to the harvest?” She asked, concerned. “If it’s in the groundwater, we could try to use different water sources for irrigation than the river. Unless this blight is in the rainclouds themselves…” A heavy silence fell.

Broad shouldered Wren rose. During the day, he encased himself in leather bracers and chain. His hand rested on his the hilt of his sword, which he then gripped determined.

“In the past, we have encountered corruption with the spawning of the wyrms. While we aren’t close to the Wastes,” his gaze hardened. “We have not hunted them as we should.” His gaze, judging and cold landed on Alenyah. She held her composure, straightening slightly on her throne.

“I propose we gather a battalion of our warriors and head North. If we cull whatever spawning grounds the wyrms have built, I’m sure the Song will wash away this evil.”

Alenyah let the weight of Wren’s words hang a heartbeat longer than was comfortable. The scrape of his sword hilt against the table still echoed faintly in the rafters.

“You speak with conviction, Harmony of Law,” she said evenly, “but I do not believe this is the result of wyrmspawn.”

Wren’s jaw flexed. “Then what would you name this sickness, Resonant, if not corruption born of their filth?”

She inhaled slowly. The air smelled faintly of parchment and Ironwood sap—both decaying.

“I would name it something older,” she said. “Something deeper than any nest of wyrms.”

A murmur rippled through the council.

Tharion leaned forward, the light catching on the thin silver ring that bound his scholar’s braid. “You speak in riddles again, Alenyah. If this is no plague and no wyrmspawn, then what?”

Her fingers tightened around the arm of her chair. “There are… reports. From beyond the Vale.”

That earned a scoff from Tharion. “Reports from whom? You have forbidden travel north for three decades.”

Alenyah met his gaze. “Not all obeyed.”

At that, even Mirael stirred from her quiet, sightless listening. “You speak of Korith,” she murmured, as though tasting the name for the first time in years.

Wren’s hand fell from his sword. “That exile? He forfeited his place among us long ago.”

“Korith left Eirethan, yes,” Alenyah said. “But he did not abandon the Song. He has seen what we have refused to face. The corruption in the Wastes festers, and the Great Wyrm squats on our homeland.”

She spread her hands and stood. “WE, the Feyri, are the Song of the Maker. The Wyrm of Menerith surprised us that day. Indeed, neither my mother nor I even knew he existed. We were not ready.”

The Resonant shuddered. “I was not ready. I think we must return. We must reclaim what is ours, and in doing so, heal what is left of our world.”

Coren’s knuckles whitened on the arms of his chair. “I do not believe it. The Great Wyrm has not stirred since claiming The Crags as it’s hunting grounds.”

Alenyah’s gaze lowered. “Then tell me, Coren, what sings beneath your roots now?”

Coren’s mouth opened, then closed again. His weathered fingers twitched as if feeling for something unseen in the grain of the table.

“It sings wrong,” he admitted at last, voice rough. “It hums beneath the soil as if mourning. But you think this is Menerith’s doing?”

Alenyah did not answer immediately. “I think it is a reminder that silence was never truly silence. Merely waiting.”

Alenyah straightened. “Hear me. The wyrms are only the first verse of a greater dirge. The corruption that rots the Ironwoods is the same that sleeps beneath the Reach. It is stirring.”

Vaelen’s thick fingers drummed against the table. “Even if you are right, what can we do? We have no army left strong enough to march north. Half our people are farmers now.”

Wren broke in, “I doubt brute force would stop the Great Wyrm.” His grey eyes turned to Alenyah. “We need the Resonant to subdue it.”

Here, Alenyah knew she would need to move delicately. She needed their approval if this was to go smoothly.

“The Stoneborn seek my assistance in retaking the Crags and the Reach,” she said quietly. “They are with the Rhea, planning to head north as we speak.”

A sharp intake of breath swept the table.

Wren’s voice thundered, “You’ve allowed them here?”

Tharion stood angrily. “They broke faith with us during the Fall. I would not allow them to set foot here, and I say we and the Rhea drive them out. We do not need them to retake our home.”

“They have committed no violence here,” Sareth said diplomatically. “The Rhea have invited and sheltered them. They will not exile them without cause.”

Alenyah waved her hand, dismissing the matter entirely. “Berin of the Rhea, Korith, and Kaelen, the Stoneborn leader — they propose a return to the Reach itself. To tame the Great Wyrm. To cleanse the land and heal the Song.”

Tharion sneered. “Foolishness. And you mean to go with them? You would take the last of your knowledge, your blessings with you.”

“Can it be done,” Vaelen breathed. “Resonant, truly?”

Alenyah’s stomach twisted, and she wished more than anything she could give a positive answers.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I would not remain here, waiting for the world to end. I would rather fail than fade away.”

Tharion shook his head in denial again. “You carry the Song, Resonant. If you fall, it falls with you. No one else can hear as you do..”

“Perhaps that is our fault.”

All eyes turned to Coren. His gaze had turned contemplative. “Perhaps the Maker no longer gifts us Singers because we have become discordant ourselves. We forgot the harmony we once kept. Perhaps He means the Song to end.”

Wren shift uncomfortably. “That sounds like blasphemy.”

At last Mirael spoke, her voice trembling with the rhythm of something remembered. “The Singers will return when the Resonant walks where Silence fell.”

Every eye turned toward her.

Alenyah’s throat went dry. “You mean the Reach?”

Mirael tilted her head, as though listening to something far away. “Perhaps.”

Where else could silence fall? Alenyah wondered. Unless…

“Or when I die?” she pressed.

The blind woman only smiled faintly. “Every song must end before another can begin.”

No one spoke after that. The council’s fire burned low, their smoke curling toward the ceiling like the remnants of prayer.

At length, Alenyah rose. “I will summon the Rhea and Stoneborn to Eirethan,” she said. “We will see if courage still has a note among us.”

And before anyone could object, she left the hall, her footfalls ringing against the wood like the beat of a distant drum.