The wind came softly that night from the western sea, bearing the scent of rain and salt upon its breath. Beyond the low hills of Thalenford, the river lay still and dark, save where it caught the faint glimmer of starlight. The cottages were hushed; their hearths dimmed, their doors barred against the chill. Only the song of the reeds whispered in the silence, and the slow creak of a fisherman's mast far down the shore.
In a house apart, built close to the eaves of the forest, a small fire yet burned. There Eira Valenor sat, her face lit by the red glow of the embers. Her hair, once bright as flax, had grown pale with years of fear and care; but her eyes, grey and keen, still held the light of those who have gazed upon the Weave of the world.
Before her, upon a rug of woven rushes, lay a boy of ten winters. His name was Kael, and though his limbs were slight, there was in him a strange grace — a quietness of motion not wholly of mortal blood. His eyes were dark as the river at night, and often they seemed to listen to things unheard by others.
"Mother," he said, his voice low and drowsy, "tell me again of the Seven. Tell me how the world was sung."
Eira smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from his brow. "You have heard that tale too oft, my heart."
"Then once more," he murmured, "for I would dream of it."
So she drew her shawl about her shoulders and began to speak, her voice falling into the rhythm of remembered words — the way mothers have spoken to their children since the world was young.
"In the beginning," said she, "there was naught but the Song — and from it were born the Seven, who are the shapers of all things. They sang the mountains and the seas, the stars and the living soul of every creature. Yet among them was one who would not keep the harmony, but sought to sing his own will into the music of the world. His name was Vaelthar, and from his rebellion came shadow, and from shadow came sorrow. But the Seven cast him down, and from his ruin was Elarion made — fair, but scarred by flame."
Kael's eyelids drooped, though he still listened. "Was he destroyed, Mother?"
"Nay," said she, and her voice grew soft. "Evil seldom dies, my son. It hides, as embers hide beneath the ash, waiting for the wind."
She paused then, gazing into the fire. The coals shifted, and for a moment the flame leapt high, glimmering blue and violet — the hues of magic long forgotten. Kael's eyes caught the light, and for an instant they seemed to shine with it.
Eira turned away quickly, as if some thought troubled her. "Now, sleep," she whispered, "for the night is deep, and the sea-mist creeps close to the walls."
Kael lay down, and soon his breathing grew slow. But he did not dream of sleep; he dreamed of sound. Of voices, distant and vast, singing upon a wind that was older than the world.
And far beyond the forest and the river, where the mountains gathered in their silent watch, something stirred — faint as a breath, yet filled with hunger. A whisper upon the dark:
a discord that had waited long to be heard again.