Velthur sat at the narrow desk in his dormitory room, leaning forward with his shoulders tight and his face close to the candle flame. The small pool of golden light flickered on the notes spread across the surface. The walls around him were plain stone, cold to the touch and cold even in appearance. He wondered if the builders of the college had done that on purpose. Stone did not distract. Stone kept students focused. That was what one of the instructors had said once, though Velthur never knew if it was a joke.

  The halls outside were quiet. It was the usual supper hour, when most of the dormitory emptied, leaving only a few students who preferred to read or catch up on coursework. Velthur liked these quieter moments. They helped him think. When the college buzzed with voices or laughter, it was harder to hold on to ideas that were slippery.

  Tonight he worked alone, and that felt familiar. He had always felt like someone who studied in corners, who paid attention to details other students missed. It was comforting, but it also left him with a strange sense of being apart from everyone else. He sometimes wondered if that was normal. Or if he had grown used to feeling like an outsider since the day he had lost his mother. Or since the day he had left Elzibar.

  His eyes fell to the center of the desk, to the relic resting on a folded cloth.

  It was a dryad artifact Nethira had spoken of weeks ago, carved with curling patterns that seemed both natural and intentional. When Velthur had first seen it, he thought the shapes on it resembled roots twining around each other. Then he had thought they looked like veins of crystal. Tonight, though, he could not settle on what they looked like. When he stared for too long, he started to feel as if the carvings were moving.

  He placed one hand on the edge of the desk to steady himself. The last thing he needed was to imagine things that were not there.

  He had read the catalog entry several times. He had read a handful of dryad texts, at least what he was able to read of dryadic script, though the college had far fewer than he hoped for. He even tried to compare the markings to the dragon dreaming tooth he had studied with Tarrow once. None of those attempts had made the relic speak.

  But tonight was different.

  At first he thought it was simply his mind wandering. A hum rose beneath his awareness, like someone plucking a stringed instrument far away. He tried to ignore it, but the sound stayed. When he breathed in, the air tasted faintly like damp wood. Not strong enough to be bothersome. Strong enough to be real.

  Velthur slowly sat back, letting his hands rest in his lap. His heartbeat picked up. He wondered if he should call someone, but the thought that he might be mistaken held him in place.

  Then the relic shifted.

  Not physically. But its presence changed. It felt as if something inside it had awakened, like someone opening their eyes in a dark room.

  Velthur swallowed. He had been dreaming more often these past weeks. Dreams he could not shake. Forests lit by starlight. Hills with tall grass bending in waves. Mountains with bronze dawn glowing on their slopes. Voices speaking in a language he could not name, yet somehow half understood.

  Sometimes he woke with tears in his eyes, without knowing why. And sometimes he woke calm, as if he had been reminded of something he had forgotten.

  His hand drifted to a small silver locket under his tunic. Inside was a scrap of parchment he had written months ago after one of those dreams:

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  the dragon dreaming tooth

  He did not know why he wrote it. But he felt that the words mattered.

  Now, staring at the dryad relic, he felt the same strange pull.

  He reached out slowly.

  His fingertips brushed the relic.

  The room vanished.

  It happened so quickly that his mind had no chance to resist. His breath stayed caught in his throat as if the world had forgotten to let him inhale. For an instant he was nowhere and everywhere, standing inside a vision that was not a dream. It felt heavier, sharper. Like something real pressing against him.

  He saw Maruzan first.

  Not in the college. Not in the dormitory. In some ruin under a dark sky. His father moved with purpose, checking shadows, ready for danger. Velthur felt a surge of worry seeing him like that. He knew his father could handle himself, but that did not remove the fear.

  Then he saw Nethira. She looked exhausted. There were shadows under her eyes, and her focus was so intense that it hurt Velthur to look at her. A deacon was beside her, sweat running down his temples as if he had been carrying a heavy weight longer than any person should.

  Velthur felt their fear as if it were his own. And deeper still, he felt a presence watching them. Watching him. The presence curled through the vision like smoke finding cracks in a wall.

  A voice reached him. It was low and rough, and it seemed to whisper from inside his own mind.

  You feel it, do you not, child? The weight of the world is heavy for someone so young.

  The voice was close. Too close. He felt it coil around his thoughts like fingers curling around a stone.

  Velthur jerked back, gasping. The dormitory flashed back into place. His hand snapped away from the relic. His chest felt tight, as if something had tried to squeeze the breath out of him.

  He sat still for several seconds, unable to move. His pulse thudded in his ears. The voice echoed faintly in his memory, but he did not dare let his mind linger on it.

  He had heard voices in dreams before, but this was different. This voice felt aware. It felt as if it had spoken directly to him.

  Velthur forced himself to breathe evenly. He did not want to panic. Panic would not help him understand. He had always tried to think problems through, even when he was frightened. It was one of the things Maruzan told him he did well.

  He touched the edge of the desk again to steady himself. His thoughts drifted to the warband.

  What had that vision shown him? A moment that had already happened? Something that was happening right now? Or was the artifact showing him what he feared most?

  He looked at the relic, half expecting it to pulse or glow. But it lay there silently. Somewhere deep in its core was the hum he had felt before, but it no longer reached him.

  He looked at his notes. They suddenly seemed pointless. What use were words on paper when a relic could show him images from miles away? If it could show him Maruzan’s group fighting for their lives, what else could it show?

  His hands trembled slightly.

  He needed help.

  Magister Justinus would know something. Or at least he might have a place to begin. Velthur had always trusted the Magister’s judgment, even when he did not understand everything he taught. And if the vision showed danger approaching the warband, the Magister would want to hear it immediately.

  Velthur stood and pulled on his cloak. His legs felt shaky, but he forced them to move. He did not want to stay in the room alone with the relic. Not until he knew what it truly was.

  He snuffed out the candle and stepped into the hallway. The faint light from the wall torches made long shadows across the floor. His heart had not yet slowed, and the hum of the relic still echoed faintly in his bones.

  As he walked toward the Magister’s study, he tried to steady his breathing. He tried to imagine what he would say. And he tried to push aside the last remnants of the voice that had spoken to him.

  But the words clung to him.

  You feel it, do you not, child?

  He did.

  And he feared this was only the beginning.