Velthur sat at the cleric’s desk in the empty temple, his small fingers smudged with dust and ink. The quiet pressed in from every corner. It wasn’t the soft kind of quiet he remembered from when he and his father would sit together in the evenings, listening to the night outside their home. This quiet was hollow, like a jar left empty for too long.

  The temple no longer felt alive.

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. Papers were stacked in front of him, pages of records, neat lines of ink written by careful hands. There were receipts for bread deliveries, lists of candles purchased, and notes about tithes collected. He had read them slowly, mouthing words as his lips moved, proud that he could understand them at all.

  His father had made him practice. “If you want to be a merchant, Velthur, you must know your letters and numbers,” Maruzan had said more than once. “Otherwise, someone will trick you in a deal, and you’ll be the fool signing your name to it.”

  Velthur remembered those lessons clearly. His father had used a copy of The Scrolls of the Hours, the same text the clerics prayed from, pointing to the words with a calloused finger while Velthur struggled to follow. It had felt boring back then. But now, with the commander trusting him with an important task, he was glad for every lesson.

  He told himself he was glad, anyway.

  The papers in front of him didn’t feel important. They felt ordinary, and Commander Ennett hadn’t asked him to gather ordinary things. She had said important.

  Velthur sighed and leaned back in the chair. The wood creaked loudly in the empty room. For a moment, he thought about leaving. But if he went back with nothing, what would she think? She might not say anything unkind, but her eyes would tell him. He didn’t want to see disappointment there. He also felt, deep down, there was something worth finding in here. Occasionally, he would have these types of feelings linger. His father called it his sixth sense, but always laughed when he called it that.

  He rubbed at his eyes and glanced up.

  That was when he noticed the scroll.

  It was wedged high on a shelf above the cabinet, half hidden by the curve of wood. Most of the other scrolls sat neatly stacked or leaning against one another, but this one looked forgotten. Dust had settled across its edge.

  Velthur stood, stretching on his toes. His fingertips brushed the scroll, but he couldn’t grip it. He bit his lip, considering.

  He thought about the plum trees back in Elzibar, where he had tried to climb high enough to beat the birds to the fruit. He had been terrible at it at first. He slipped, he scraped his knees, he fell enough times that his father almost forbade him from trying again. But he had learned.

  And he could reach this.

  Velthur dragged the chair closer, balancing on the seat as he reached again. His hand knocked against an old candleholder, which toppled and clattered to the floor. He froze, heart pounding, waiting for someone to scold him. But the temple stayed silent.

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  Carefully, he tugged at the scroll until it came free.

  The parchment was stiff and cracked when he unrolled it. He expected more lists, but what he found made him pause.

  Drawings filled the page. Careful, detailed sketches in black ink: amulets, strange tools, weapons, even a bell twisted into a crooked shape. Each had a name written beside it.

  Fire-Starter. Earth-Bender. Storm-Bringer.

  Velthur’s eyes caught on the last one near the bottom.

  Dragon-Dreaming.

  He mouthed the words softly. They felt strange on his tongue, heavier than the others. His gaze lingered on the sketch. It was of a tooth, long and curved, marked with lines that weren’t quite letters but weren’t just scratches either.

  His chest tightened with curiosity.

  This, this looked important.

  He read the words again and again, tracing the drawings with his finger. The scroll pulled him in. It was like stepping into a different world, one where strange and powerful things still hid in corners waiting to be found.

  He lost track of time. It might have been half an hour, or longer, before his stomach rumbled loudly. He pressed a hand against it and sighed. Food could wait. But still, the thought of the clerics’ kitchens tugged at him. Maybe there would be biscuits or dried fruit tucked away.

  Velthur carried the scroll with him as he checked the lower cabinets. The first was filled with candle stubs. The second, dusty linens. Another held nothing but a chipped ladle.

  Then he noticed a cabinet that didn’t seem right.

  It looked like the others, but when he peered inside, the back wall seemed too close. He knocked on it with his knuckle. The sound was hollow.

  Curious now, he pushed harder.

  To his surprise, the wood shifted, then fell backward with a dull clack, revealing a narrow space behind the false back.

  Velthur’s breath caught.

  Inside, resting on smooth stone like it had been waiting, was a small black felt bag.

  His hands trembled as he reached for it. The cloth was soft and cool against his fingers. Slowly, carefully, he loosened the tie and opened the bag.

  A single tooth lay inside.

  Velthur’s eyes widened.

  It was long, curved, pale gold like bone kissed by sunlight. Its edge was sharp enough to gleam faintly. Strange markings ran along its length, shimmering when the light touched them. They weren’t letters. They weren’t like anything he had ever seen.

  He swallowed hard and set the bag down so he could unroll the scroll again on the floor.

  There it was.

  The sketch of the tooth. The same markings. And the same words.

  Dragon-Dreaming.

  Beneath the drawing were smaller words, written so tightly he had to lean close to read them.

  Highly Volatile.

  He frowned. He wasn’t sure what “volatile” meant. But it sounded dangerous. Important.

  He sat back on his heels, staring between the tooth and the scroll. His chest swelled with something unfamiliar, a mix of fear and pride. He had found something real. Not ledgers or candle lists, but something that mattered.

  He thought of Commander Ennett. She would care about this. She would nod, the way she did when she approved of something but didn’t want to make a fuss about it. She might even smile.

  Velthur smiled first. Not a big grin, just a small, private one. His cheeks felt warm.

  He slipped the tooth back into the bag, tucked the scroll beside it, and cinched his satchel closed with slow, careful movements. Then he stood and slung the strap across his shoulder.

  He walked out of the office, down the long central aisle of the temple, his footsteps soft against the worn stone floor.