"The Dawn that Rose from Fire"

Day Nine of Novel November- The Singer returns home and finds evil has followed.

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The world outside her dreams shifted from shadow to sunlight and back again. When Alenyah woke, it was to the sound of wind worrying the shutters and the faint creak of the hall settling beneath her. For a long moment, she didn’t move. The warmth of her bed was almost enough to drag her under again, but something was wrong. The air was too still—too listening.

Then came the knock. Three short raps, quick and urgent.

Alenyah groaned, pushing herself upright. Her muscles protested the movement, her wrist stiff and bruised. The embers of the fire downstairs still burned faintly, casting the hall in a low orange glow that reached up the stairwell.

“What is it?” She rasped, rubbing her eyes with both hands. “I mean, come in.”

The door opened, and a young Fey’ri stepped in. She hesitated, eyes widening at Alenyah’s dishevelment.

“Singer, I think there’s something you need to see.”

“I am coming, Lysera.” Alenyah stood and stretched, cracking her back before swinging her cloak off the floor. Her hair was probably a rat’s nest from the night before, but it couldn’t be helped. She tried to comb out the tangles with her fingers as the pair pounded down to the main hall.

Someone had stoked the embers of the fire back to gold, and she watched as the hall bustled far more than was usual.

“Some of the night patrol noticed the Ironwood groves this morning didn’t look normal,” Lysera explained as they walked.

“Normal?” Alenyah asked.

“Yes, as if-” Lysera breathed.

She was young, and she was new to being one of the council Echoes. An Echo was an apprentice to an Elder, learning how to “hear” the Song in living and dying things, to track corruption, and to balance power with empathy. Alenyah knew one of the Elders had taken her under their wing and was using her as their eyes and ears around Eirethan and The Vale. She was small, like Alenyah, but while it was difficult not to notice the Singer and the energy that thrummed off her, Lysera had an almost forgettable aura. She was dark haired, dark eyed, and perfect for fitting into the background. While some might view this as a flaw, Lysera did not seem to rue it, but to embrace it. She would do well one day if she could get past her nervousness, Alenyah thought.

“Are they rotting?” The Singer interrupted. Lysera jumped at the sharpness in her tone.

“Not quite, but it’s not my place to say. I need to show you.”

Alenyah frowned but said nothing more as they crossed the main floor. The morning mist still clung to the open doorways, and the scent of peat and cold air mingled with smoke. Fey’ri hurried past with baskets of kindling and water skins, each bowing their head briefly before rushing off again.

Outside, the fog had thinned, and the light was bruised with a strange, amber tint that made the edges of the valley seem sharper, as though the world itself had drawn breath and held it.

The walk to the closest Ironwood grove was only ten minutes, but time seems to race past her. Only a century old, many of the trees had barely broken a hundred feet. They were not numerous or large enough for the Fey’ri to mold into their homes like in The Reach, so here they were used for practical purposes in The Vale.

The trees usually had a rich reddish hue humming with veins of silver underwood. Their life force was the first song Alenyah’s mother had ever shown her. The sound was like a cello, ringing and vibrating deep into the solar plexus where the soul rested. The younger ones trilled, and the older ones rang as loud temple bells.

However, as they approached, Alenyah’s heart jumped. The strands of music were soft, as though the hands playing the instruments had tired. The red bark was dull, almost muddy, and as Alenyah pressed her hands to the nearest tree, the surface was cold and slick, as though some sickly lichen had begun to crawl from the ground.

She pulled her hand back, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. A faint, sticky residue clung to her skin, black-green and glimmering faintly in the morning light. It smelled faintly of iron and something sour, like rot left too long in water.

Lysera stood several paces behind, as if afraid to step closer. “It’s spreading,” she said quietly. “The lichen wasn’t there yesterday.”

Alenyah crouched, her injured wrist protesting, and touched the soil near the roots. It was damp, but not from dew. The ground itself seemed to pulse, faint and irregular, like a heartbeat stuttering out of rhythm.

She jerked her hand back. The trees stood like sentinels, silent and watching, their dim veins flickering weakly beneath the bark.

“Echo,” Alenyah’s voice became stone. “Summon the Harmonies to the meeting hall. We meet within the hour.”

Hearing her title, Lysera jumped before nodding. She pushed her hair behind her pointed ears and hurried between the trees, disappearing back towards the settlement.

Left alone, Alenyah turned back to the tree. The hum had almost faded now, replaced by a low vibration that thrummed just below hearing—discordant and wrong. She could feel it in her teeth, her bones, her blood.

The tree shuddered once, just enough to stir its withering leaves. A few silvered fragments drifted down and caught in Alenyah’s hair.

Alenyah made her way quickly back to her rooms to change from her dirty travel clothes. She stared at her mossy green eyes in the looking glass as she braided her hair tidily. Then, she crossed to the wardrobe and removed her ceremonial robes. A rich sapphire blue, the robes were panelled in silver and threaded with the reddish auburn of the Ironwood trees in patterns of all living things. A trio of rabbits ran along the hem, while two crows took flight on each wide sleeve. An Ironwood emblazoned her back in a riot of colored threads weaving themselves into knots.

Finally, Alenyah reached onto the top shelf of the wardrobe and removed a small circlet. The circlet began with a V in the front and winged up into flowers and leaves that dipped into the wearer’s hair. Inlaid within, the vow of the Resonant. The Resonant was what her mother had been called. Alenyah preferred the term Singer, as she had never felt she filled those shoes. She had never been crowned into the position. It was a power thrust upon her with the Fall of the Reach.

Her fingertips traced the words written in ancient Fey’ri. This was a mere recreation of her mother’s. That day, Alenyah had not been willing to remove her mother’s crown. She didn’t know if anyone could have. For a moment, the smell of burnt flesh overwhelmed her. She shook her head and jammed the circlet messily onto her scalp. So be it, she thought. She would play the Resonant here and now.

The Resonant straightened her robes and gave herself a cursory glance in the mirror. Like a child, playing in her mother’s clothes, she thought. Then, belting her mother’s saber over the robes, she swept downstairs.