It's been said that everything is intertwined; woven like a cloth so that every thin, individual thread touches the myriad of others, and everything that happens to each thread has an impact on all the neighboring ones. It's also been said that the past has a way of catching up to the present, ever looming in shadows-- quiet places of reality where no one wants to look, hidden so well that one does not even realize that it's there until it is too late. The past is patient and cunning, lurking and waiting for the right moment to strike at the present, pulling and tugging maliciously at the delicate fabric of existence.

When this cloth is disturbed, the world cannot handle the imbalance and uncertainty that is the result of tampering. Consequently, Fate sends someone to correct things. Sometimes whom Fate sends may not always be the most likely or obvious selection. But Fate has been keeping the order of the world for a long time, and she knows her business. Fate sends heroes, unlikely as these heroes may sometimes seem, and it is down to these heroes to mend the intricate and delicate calico that has been disturbed by the harsh hands of life. They are tasked with restoring order to life itself. Often this burden falls upon the shoulders of those who appear too weak to bear it. But none, no matter how great, is born a hero. Heroes are created and molded from the disturbances in the cloth of life. It is what shapes them and makes them heroes. Like swords, heroes are cast into the furnace, hammered and shaped. This process is repeated, and in time, both the sword and the hero become strong enough to perform the duties that Fate has declared they shall fulfill.

The gentle rain outside pitter-pattered softly on the glass window of Evalon's classroom. It was a soft rain, more of a slight drizzle, and the sound had a relaxing effect on her. The sky outside was a light gray, and a slight mist began to settle over the atmosphere. It was her favorite kind of day; the kind of day that, if she were home, would sit in her window seat with a long novel with a blanket draped over her legs.

But Evalon was not home: she was at school. All around her students of all shapes and sizes bent down low over papers, pencils scribbling notes in scrawls of varying forms of neatness. Some were tapping pencils against desks or palms, while others were gazing blankly ahead, comprehension of the world around faded.

Mr. Burachel was a short, thin man with arms like noodles and hair that was dark and wispy. He was standing in front of the whiteboard, speaking on the history of the dragons.

"Can anyone tell me which dragon species was the first to be domesticated?" he asked.

Not a hand rose in the air.

"No one? None?"

Evalon was working up the courage to raise her hand when her attention was pulled from her teacher as a deep, loud roar broke the silence of the classroom. Several heads quickly shot up from their notes at the sound, looking up at the ceiling as if they could see through it, or at the water-covered windows.

"Return your attention to the board, please," the nasally voice of Mr. Burachel said from the front of the room.

The students tried to obey, but another roar sounded, distracting them again.

"What is that?" a tall, dark-haired boy asked from the front of the room, his voice tinged with fear.

"Maybe it's a ghost," a snooty girl named Ocraed with perfect, soft features suggested with a sneer at the boy.

"I think the plumbing is just backed up," Cathuth, a handsome young man with dark blonde hair, said.

They're joking, aren't they? Evalon couldn't help but wonder. How could they not know what that sound is? Did they not hear the distinctive rooster-like trill in the cry?

"Back to your note-taking," Mr. Burachel ordered. "Eight minutes left in class."

Evalon returned her concentration to Mr. Burachel.

"Which dragon species was the first to be ridden?" her teacher asked.

Collecting her courage, Evalon slowly raised her hand. Mr. Burachel's quick eyes spotted her raised appendage and he said, "Ah, yes, Miss Rolla. Should have known you'd have an answer."

Evalon felt her face turn red as many pairs of eyes turned to glare at her. Wanting to advert everyone's attention from her as quickly as possible, Evalon answered, "The first dragon to be successfully ridden was the Narlclaw, which was mounted by Sidrak Bairweird in 459."

Mr. Burachel smiled. "Exactly. Correct, as always, Miss Rolla."

Evalon shifted uncomfortably at his praise. She gave a quiet, "Thank you, sir," and slouched in her seat, hoping everyone's attention would be diverted now that Mr. Burachel was moving on. He began to explain in his hypnotic voice the finer details of Bairweird's extensive knowledge of aerodynamics, and Evalon found her mind beginning to wander. She tuned out her teacher and kept her ears on alert for any more of the mysterious roars. She knew exactly what had made the sound, but what she couldn't figure out was what business one had here. What was it doing in Gisla, so far from Mydalr? The question bounced around in her head for the rest of the class.

Time passed in the blink of an eye, and Evalon was brought from her contemplation by the four tinkling trills of the school bell. Mechanically, Evalon gathered her notebook and pencil before following the other students out into the hall, where she merged in with the sea of pupils making their way to their lockers to collect their things.

Evalon opened her locker and selected three textbooks from an array of them neatly organized within before tucking them away in her satchel.

Evalon gave a sigh, closed her locker, and made her way with the other students outside, preparing to make the short walk home.

"Is that you, dear?"

"Yeah, it's me, Aunt Mylane," Evalon called as she set her satchel down by the front door; she'd take care of it later.

Evalon made her way to the sitting room where her aunt sat with a dully-colored novel in her hands. The book was obviously very old. The spine was worn from strain of being opened and the pages were yellow and water-stained. The cover a soft paper with bare minimum design on it, Evalon's aunt had read the thing so many times she had memorized the title: Eyes of Stone, by Esadau Mosstide. Evalon herself had read it, and she could understand why her aunt was partial to it.

Aunt Mylane herself was a short, slim woman, with hair blacker than night twisted into a strange, outlandish up-due. She had sharp and intelligent eyes almost as dark as her hair, like two pools of ink.

"Has the ending changed this time around?" she asked as she joined her aunt on the sofa.

Her aunt smiled warmly. "Not yet. But I'm still holding out hope that Berold will get back in time to save Guinolda."

Evalon smiled. "I like Selna better."

"The half-elf?" Mylane shook her head. "The girl's too stubborn for my liking."

"But she has so much more character than Guinolda," she argued. "Guinolda just sits there in the citadel waiting to be rescued like some helpless princess."

"But Berold loves her, and she's so kind-hearted."

The sound of the front door opening announced the return of Evalon's Uncle Hyron. He came into the sitting room looking tired but happy, as usual. His bright blue eyes had bags beneath them that looked like bruises with purple, and his once sandy blond hair was rugged and graying. He walked with a slight limp from an old injury he would never tell Evalon the story of. 

Hyron smiled when he saw his family sitting on the couch, the grin wiping away most of the weariness of his face. He joined them after bestowing a kiss on his wife's head and one on Evalon's cheek.

"Which one are you reading this time, My?" Uncle Hyron asked. He glanced at the cover. "Ah, Eye of Stone. Good choice, my dear. Have you gotten to the part about Selna defeating those bandits yet? She's my favorite character."

Evalon gave Aunt Mylane a victorious smile. Her aunt gave her a pretend glare and returned to her novel without responding to her husband. Evalon discreetly gave her uncle a high-five.

Evalon looked about the place where she had grown up. She had been five when her father passed, his life brought to a long and painful end by the Tyrag Scourge and she'd been brought to live with her father's brother and his wife, and in all that time the house had remained the same. The sofa was soft and lumpy from many years of use. The coffee table was made of spotless glass, decorated by a vase which always held a bouquet of assorted flowers. The walls were constructed of dark oak planks that contrasted nicely with the brightly colored decoration adorning them. The kitchen sat adjacent to the sitting room, the sink sparkling just like all the dishes in the cupboards. The dining room displayed a small table which was only used for the evening meal. Down the hall through the dining room there were four doors. The one at the very end led to Uncle Hyron and Aunt Mylane's bedroom. The next door was the entrance to the bathroom, and the room across the hall from it was Evalon's small bedroom. The room closest to the dining room was Hyron's office, where he worked for hours after coming home from his job. Evalon wasn't sure exactly what her uncle did in his office, but he always assured her that it was very important.

Hyron rose from the sofa and made his way to his office, calling to his wife to not wait supper on him, the strange, uneven sound of his gait echoing through the house. Just a typical evening at the Rolla home.

"I should go do my homework," Evalon said, getting up to grab her satchel and follow her uncle down the hall.

"Dinner will be ready in half an hour," Mylane said as she flipped a page in her novel. "I put it on the stove to simmer just before you got home."

"Alright. It won't take me long."

Supper was the same calm, casual affair that it always was. After they said grace, the family tucked into a fire-roasted lemongrass quail stew, which was one of Aunt Mylane's best dishes. The citric flavor of the lemongrass combined with the quail to make a pleasant taste.

"How was school?" This was always Uncle Hyron's first question of the evening meal. He must have finished his work faster than he thought he would, because he had come out of his office just in time for supper.

"Good," was Evalon's reply. "Something amazing happened while I was in Foreign History today!" Evalon continued, suddenly excited. She hardly ever showed this much enthusiasm about anything, and her aunt and uncle leaned forward earnestly. 

"There was a sound in the middle of class," she said. "Some students thought that it was the plumbing or ghosts, but I know exactly what it was." She leaned in close and lowered her voice. "A roar. And not just any roar-- a dragon roar."

Mylane and Hyron looked at one another, and, was it Evalon's imagination, or was there fear behind their eyes? Uncle Hyron reached down and rubbed at his old wound which acted up sometimes. It must have Evalon's mind playing tricks on her, because their expressions quickly changed.

"Are you sure it was a dragon roar, Evalon?" her uncle said. "It could have been a neverbeak. Those foxy birds have been known to sound like--"

"It was a dragon," Evalon said confidently. "It had an undeniable rooster-like trill."

"But a dragon this far east?" Mylane shook her head. "I'm not sure I believe it. Dragons hardly ever come out this far."

"That's what I thought, too," Evalon admitted. "But then I remembered that it's migrating season for Greennecks. It's possible one strayed from the clan in the fog and got lost. The roar could have been a cry for help."

Her aunt and uncle looked at one another once more. Evalon couldn't help but feel downhearted. She knew it was a long shot, a dragon getting separated from its clan, but she also knew what she heard, and what she heard was a dragon-- she was sure of it. She had studied everything there was so know about dragons; she couldn't possibly be wrong... could she?

"How was work?" she asked Hyron, deciding to change the topic from dragons, for both the sake of her aunt and uncle and her confidence.

Uncle Hyron gave a weary smile. "Tiring."

"They work you too hard," Evalon said sympathetically.

He smiled. "Indeed they do."

No one brought up the dragons again. Small talk continued throughout the meal, but Evalon couldn't help but feel a little insulted that her guardians didn't believe her.

The meal ended when Aunt Mylane wicked away a large bowl of what had previously been caramel and blueberry custard on the table. Evalon's mouth had watered when she'd clasped eyes on the dessert and it had been a matter of minutes before the entire contents of the bowl had been consumed. The custard was sweet and thick, just how she liked it. It also took her mind off the dragon and her aunt and uncle's disbelief.

Evalon woke to whispered voices coming from down the hall. With only two others in the household, she didn't have to guess at who it was.

"Again?" Aunt Mylane's whisper said. "How many is that this month?"

"Four." That was Uncle Hyron. "If it happens again we could have a real problem on our hands."

Evalon was about to return to sleep, thinking, It's just boring work stuff, and it's not my business anyway, when her aunt's anxious whisper drifted through the slightly-opened door. "Four? In a single month? Hyron, is it possible they're going feral?"

Going feral? Evalon thought. She froze in her bed, wanting to hear more.

A long, exhausted sigh from her uncle made Evalon sit up in bed and lean closer to the door to listen more closely.

"We've not ruled out the possibility," he admitted. "Since they're not bred in captivity we can't suppress their urge to be free entirely."

"Have any of them attacked?" Mylane squeaked.

"No, not yet," Uncle Hyron said soothingly. "There has been no trace of any of the escapees."

"Is that a good or bad thing?"

Hyron sighed again, another long sigh that Evalon imagined was paired with fingers running through hair. "We're not sure. There's a chance that they just escaped to the Withering Highlands to live out the rest of their days in peace."

"But?" Mylane pressed.

"But," he said slowly, "these are intelligent beasts, and..." He hesitated. "And they could be planning an uprising"

Aunt Mylane gave a gasp of shock. She lowered her voice so much Evalon had to get out of bed and put her ear against the door to hear just the last of it. "... how can you hope to control this?"

Uncle Hyron sighed once more. "From here, I'm not sure I can. There's not much I can do with just reports and numbers. I need to be there, with them. I need to see them, study their behavior."

"No." Her aunt's voice was suddenly very sharp, and it made Evalon reel back. She had never heard so much steel in her aunt's voice in a single sentence, never mind a single word. "No, you promised you'd never go back there."

"I know," he said soothingly. "But if I don't than things could get wildly out of control."

Mylane sighed. "So you'll be leaving for a while, I suppose?"

"Yes," was the sad reply.

"And how long will you be gone?"

There was a slight hesitation before before Hyron said, "I don't know. It could be a few weeks, or it could take as long as a year."

"A year?" Mylane whispered. "You could be gone for a year?"

"Actually, My, dear." Evalon had never heard her uncle sound to nervous. "Actually, I've been thinking, what if we all went?"

"What?" Mylane forgot to whisper, and her shout rang throughout the whole house. The two adults froze, waiting to see if her outburst had woken their niece. Evalon stood stock-still at the door, not daring to let herself even breathe. Moving? Hyron was thinking of moving? She desperately wanted to hear the end of this conversation.

"What?" Mylane repeated, quieter this time, but with no less shock. "You want Evalon and me to go with you? To Mydalr?"

Evalon's ears perked that the mention of the famous place-- the place that she had dreamed of going to since before she could remember.

"That way we all stay together," her uncle agreed. "It would be a temporary thing," he added quickly. "It could be a good experience for us."

"Do you not recall what happened when you were there last?" Mylane whisper-shrieked. "You were attacked!"

"I got too close to a mother's eggs," Hyron said, trying to calm his angered wife. "It was a mistake and it was entirely of my own doing. I should have sedated her first." He waited for Mylane to reply and when she did not he said, "It would be a good experience for Evalon."

Evalon froze. She knew she really should not be listening in on this private conversation, but she didn't seem able to pull herself away.

"This town is all she's ever really known," Uncle Hyron continued. "Since her father died, she's never left. And I know leaving would be taking her away from school and her friends-"

"Evalon doesn't have any friends," Mylane interjected. 

Listening from her bedroom, Evalon felt her heart drop.

"Her teachers told me," Mylane told her husband. "At parent-teacher conferences. They all say that Evalon sits by herself in the back of the class. Even at lunch she sits alone."

"I had no idea," Uncle Hyron whispered. "Have you talked to her about it?"

Aunt Mylane scoffed. "What am I supposed to say? 'You need to make some friends so you're not such a loser'?"

Evalon felt sick. She knew her aunt didn't really mean it, but still it hurt to be called a loser.

"Perhaps leaving would be more beneficial to her than I thought," Hyron said slowly. "There are plenty of children her age with similar interests."

"You mean dragons," Mylane said venomously. "I hate the unstable snakes. I don't know why they fascinate her so."

"It's in her blood," he said simply. "Her father, being what he was, it's no surprise that she bears a love for them."

Evalon's head spun. Her father had worked with dragons? She had never known that. Why had they never told her?

"What do you think, Mylane, dear?" Hyron whispered, pulling Evalon back to the conversation happening in the sitting room. "Will you come with me to Mydalr?"

The whole house was silent as Mylane considered the question thoughtfully. It felt like hours when the silence finally passed and Mylane sighed and said, "Yes."