The bells of Meril rang at dawn, soft and hollow, their echoes rolling down the green hills like morning mist. Cael was already awake. Boots damp with dew, he guided a pair of wandering ewes back toward the stone pen, the haft of his spear resting across his shoulders. The air smelled of wet grass and woodsmoke. The sun had barely risen, spilling molten gold across the lake below.

  “You’re worse than festival drunks,” he muttered to the flock. “At least they listen when I sing.”

  Without thinking, he hummed a melody that had woven itself into his dreams the night before. Strange and lilting, it rose and fell like wind through ancient reeds, carrying a rhythm he couldn’t place. The sheep paused, ears flicking toward him. One ewe tilted its head, bleating softly as if in answer, while the others clustered closer, their usual restlessness fading into an attentive hush.

  “Talking to sheep again? Or serenading them this time?”

  He turned to see Lyra halfway up the slope, a basket at her hip and her copper hair catching the light. A reed flute hung from a cord around her neck.

  “Better company than you,” he said, trailing off the tune. The sheep resumed grazing, bells chiming in uneven rhythm.

  “Only because they can’t argue back.”

  “Exactly.”

  She laughed and came to stand beside him. Cael leaned his spear against the fence post before wiping the dew from his hands on his cloak. Together they watched the sunrise spill across the valley, painting Meril’s stone cottages in gold.

  Beyond the cliffside pastures where they stood, the land dropped sharply toward the ruins at the valley’s edge, weathered remnants of some ancient fortress built into the rock itself. Jagged walls and toppled archways jutted from the cliff like broken teeth, worn smooth by wind and moss. The locals called it the Shatterspire. Children told ghost stories about it. Adults pretended not to listen.

  “You ever wonder if any of it’s true?” he asked. “The Harmonic Knights, the dragons, the Sigils?”

  Lyra shrugged. “Maybe. My gran used to say every story starts true and ends comfortable. The trick is finding where the truth stopped.”

  He smiled faintly. “If I had a skyship, I’d find out myself.”

  “You’d fall asleep before you cleared the hills.”

  “Only once or twice.”

  They shared a grin. But Lyra’s expression turned thoughtful as she glanced toward the cliffs and the ruins clinging to them.

  “Speaking of stories… the miners have been talking again. Tremors down near the old ridge road last night. They say the bones of the world are shifting.”

  Cael followed her gaze. The Shatterspire’s silhouette lay dark against the morning light, black and broken, half-swallowed by earth and vine. The elders said it was once part of the sky-isles themselves, one of the fragments that fell and split the valley when the heavens broke. “Bones, huh? Sounds like they’ve been at the ale.”

  “Maybe. But children keep finding fragments after the tremors, glass-like shards that hum when the wind blows. The council says it’s bad luck to keep too many together.”

  He raised a brow. “Bad luck?”

  “Strange things happen,” she said quietly. “Lights flicker, animals bolt. The older folk think the shards remember what they once were, pieces of something ancient, from before the fall. My gran swore she saw one glow once, right before the crops failed that summer.”

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  Cael frowned, absently tapping his thumb against the shaft of his spear. “If they’re that dangerous, maybe the council should do more than whisper warnings.”

  “They’re too scared to dig deeper,” Lyra said. “Or maybe they already know what’s down there.”

  He gave a low whistle. “Sounds like a tale fit for a proper ranger.”

  She smirked. “You’ve been a ranger for what, two weeks? The council barely trusts you with sheep, let alone old legends.”

  He grinned. “Guess I’ll have to earn it, then.”

  Lyra sighed and shook her head. “Just don’t start poking around those ruins. Every fool who does ends up in one of my herb beds.”

  He chuckled and picked his spear back up from the fence. “Then you’d best keep those herbs stocked.”

  “Well,” she said, smiling faintly, “let’s get them to the high pastures before the rain hits. No sense tempting fate.”

  By midmorning, clouds had begun to gather over the valley rim. The herd grazed lazily near the upper pastures. Cael and Lyra worked side by side, driving stragglers back from the cliffs. From here, the broken ramparts of the ruins lay just a short walk below, a jagged border between the living fields and the silent stone of the old world.

  As a new ranger, Cael often patrolled these hills, checking the flocks for signs of wolves or other beasts. Today felt different.

  One of the younger rams bolted.

  “Hey!” Cael broke into a run. The animal darted toward the high ridge near the ruins’ edge, hooves scattering loose stone.

  “Of course it’s the stupid one,” he muttered.

  Lyra groaned. “You’re not chasing it alone again!”

  But he was already halfway there, spear in hand, lungs burning. The ram vanished over the lip of a rocky slope. When he crested it, he froze.

  The sheep wasn’t alone. Two shapes moved between the boulders, lean, gray-furred things with eyes like tarnished coins. Hill-wolves, starved and scrappy, smaller than the tales made them out to be, but no less vicious. Their ribs pressed sharp against mangy hides, and a restless tremor ran through their limbs, as if the earth’s unrest had seeped into their bones.

  The ram bleated, trapped against the cliff wall. One wolf lunged, jaws snapping. Cael didn’t think. He dropped into a low stance like he’d been taught, grounding through his back heel, and drove the spear forward. The iron tip caught the beast in the shoulder; it yelped and twisted away, blood matting its fur.

  The second wolf darted in low, faster than the first. Cael pivoted, but too late, its teeth grazed his calf, leaving a hot, stinging line of pain. He hissed and brought the butt of the spear around in a reflexive arc, cracking it across the wolf’s snout. It yelped and stumbled back.

  “Get off him!” Lyra’s voice cut through the chaos. She scrambled up the path, striking a nearby stone with her flute: once, twice, the sharp, resonant crack echoing like a thunderclap. The first wolf flinched, ears flattening, distracted just long enough.

  Cael steadied his stance, tightening his grip halfway down the shaft like he’d practiced in drills. Heart hammering, he lunged, not wild this time, but measured. The spear slid cleanly into the first wolf’s flank, angled up behind the ribs. It thrashed once and stilled.

  The second recovered, growling low as it circled. Cael adjusted his footing again, remembering his instructor’s words: keep the point between you and fear. When it leapt, he sidestepped and drove the spear down through its chest, using the wolf’s momentum to carry the strike home. The impact jarred through his arms, but his balance held. The creature gave a wet gurgle and collapsed.

  The ram bolted past him and down the hill, bleating wildly. Silence returned in ragged breaths.

  Cael leaned on his spear, chest heaving, blood trickling down his leg. The wounds burned, but he was alive. They both were.

  Lyra reached him, face pale but fierce. “You’re bleeding. Sit down before you fall down.”

  “I’m fine,” he gasped, though his legs wobbled. “Just a scratch.”

  She knelt to bind the cut with a strip torn from her cloak, hands steady despite the tremor in her voice. “You fought like a fool. Brave, but a fool.”

  “Worked, didn’t it?” He managed a weak grin. “And you, that sound you made. Clever move.”

  “Desperate,” she corrected softly. “If they’d turned on me, it’d be both of us in the dirt.”

  He winced as she tightened the bandage. “You always this optimistic after I save you?”

  “Save me?” she scoffed. “You’d have bled out if I hadn’t been here.”

  He chuckled, low and breathless. “Fair point.”

  Her expression softened. “You move differently when it matters, Cael. Like you learned more during the fight.”

  He blinked, flexing his grip on the spear. She was right. Midway through the frenzy, his strikes had felt surer, the weapon lighter in his hands, as if his body remembered a rhythm it didn’t know it knew. A faint hum lingered in his muscles, like the echo of that morning’s tune.

  “Practice, I guess. Or luck.”

  “Maybe both,” she murmured. Her gaze lingered on the fallen wolves, their bodies stiffening too quickly. “Let’s get back to the herd. This ridge feels wrong today.”