Page 60 of Unseen Eye (Aetherian Chronicles #1)

At the village’s edge, the mountains rise, their imposing forms casting shadows over the horizon.

Their bases are dotted with caves, carved into dwellings that seem to have always belonged there.

Wooden doors, fitted with precision, guard these cave homes from the elements, each one unique.

Some are etched with symbols—scenes of old gods, nature, and myths—while others remain simple, worn smooth by generations of hands.

The paths wind between the caves and the village center, well-trodden and compacted from countless footsteps.

Some cut across ledges and through man-made tunnels carved into the mountain, while others follow the land’s contours, twisting like rivers of stone.

The layout is both practical and awe-inspiring—a testament to the villagers’ skill and their determination to thrive in a place once left for dead.

Between the caves and the stream, communal spaces are carefully designed—not in the typical, obvious way, but with purpose.

Long wooden tables and benches, worn smooth from years of use, are scattered beneath tall trees that survived the devastation.

Their trunks thick and twisted with age, the trees stand sentinel, providing shelter for the villagers gathering to eat, craft, or tell stories.

The low hum of conversation blends with the sounds of hammers striking anvils and saws cutting through wood.

The whole village is a study in contrasts—ruin and renewal, destruction and resilience.

Where once there was only ash and stone, now there is life.

Every corner of this place, from the carved doorways to the intricate irrigation ditches, tells a story of survival and defiance.

The village has risen from the ashes, rebuilt by hands that refused to let the past dictate the future.

There’s a harmony here, a balance between man and nature, between what was lost and what has been reclaimed.

Standing in the center of it all, I feel a wave of awe wash over me. This village—small, remote, and seemingly insignificant—feels larger than life. It’s more than just a place. It’s a testament to human strength, the kind that endures even in the face of unimaginable loss.

Hope stirs in my chest, uninvited but unmistakable.

It’s as if this place is whispering to me, reminding me that no matter how bleak things may seem—whether here, in the world, or in my own life—there’s always a chance to rebuild, to create something beautiful from the wreckage.

I can feel the weight of the past lifting, just for a moment.

In this moment, surrounded by the evidence of resilience, I realize that maybe the future isn’t as grim as I’ve always believed.

Maybe it’s not about erasing the scars, but learning to live with them, to build something stronger from what remains.

This village has thrived in the face of ruin—and so can I.

As we walk through the village, people begin to approach us. A man calls out to Cal, clapping him on the back, while a woman with dirt-streaked hands wipes them on her apron before offering a nod in my direction. Their faces light up, eyes filled with recognition and warmth.

“Welcome,” someone says with a smile. It’s as if our presence, or maybe just Cal’s, is a sign of hope. As we move on, I admire the vibrant paintings that decorate the sides of buildings, colorful swirls that seem to mirror the determination of the villagers themselves.

I spot Theo walking toward us with a man beside him, taller and much older.

His hair is almost completely gray, with a thick beard that adds to his weathered, wise appearance.

There’s a quiet authority in the way he carries himself, though his sharp eyes reveal he misses nothing.

As they approach, Cal nods to Theo, who gives a quick farewell before heading off in the opposite direction.

Cal smiles and gestures toward me. “Eva,” he says, “I’d like you to meet Malachai, the elder of Ardu.”

Malachai extends his hand, his grip firm. “I’ve heard much about you,” he says, holding my gaze with a steady but friendly smile. There’s no pressure in his presence, just a quiet strength.

“Are you from here originally, or from Catalpa?” I ask, unable to resist my curiosity.

He chuckles softly, pulling down the collar of his tunic to reveal a tattoo of a drakos coiled around his neck.

“Ardu has been my home for as long as I can remember,” he says, the tattoo an unmistakable symbol of his past. “When Catalpa fell, we took in as many as we could. Offering them shelter was the least we could do.”

“If you need anything,” he continues, his eyes briefly lingering on me before flicking back to Cal, “don’t hesitate to ask.

My house is over there,” he says and gestures toward a cottage with an intricate mural painted on the side—a scene of a fierce battle between drakos and men, both beautifully detailed and slightly faded with time.

With a final nod, he turns and walks away.

As we continue toward the back of the village, Cal’s fingers lace through mine. “Malachai seems... nice,” I offer, glancing sideways at him.

Cal gives a thoughtful nod. “He’s more than nice. He’s wise and fair. Keeping this place running as long as he has, with everything that’s happened... it’s no small feat.”

Before I can ask more, Cal points toward the carved shelters nestled into the mountain’s edge. “Izzy and Theo went ahead. They’re with Cleary. We wanted to give him a heads-up so we wouldn’t startle him.” I nod. The faint hum of voices from one of the cave homes confirms it.

Cal knocks on the door, and after a moment, a short man opens it. His eyes darting between us with a mix of curiosity and wariness.

“Is he a gnome?” I whisper to Cal, trying to be discreet but failing miserably.

Cal freezes for a second before turning to me with a slow, exaggerated facepalm. He covers his face with his hand for a moment, then looks at me with a barely suppressed laugh. “No... He’s a dwarf,” he whispers back, shooting me a look like he’s both amused and mortified.

Cleary stands in the doorway, short and stocky like you’d expect, but that’s where the familiarity ends.

His broad shoulders and muscular arms seem out of place against the scholarly air about him.

Rather than the ruggedness of a laborer, Cleary’s hands are ink-stained, and his fingers twitch slightly, as if itching to hold a quill instead of a hammer.

His eyes, sharp and constantly moving, scan us with an almost academic curiosity.

Instead of the gruffness I expect, there’s a calm intelligence in his gaze, like he’s cataloging every detail, not to judge but to understand.

I step forward, offering my hand. “Hi, I’m Eva,” I say, hoping for a friendly reception.

Cleary’s eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion, but as though he’s mentally filing away this new piece of information.

He doesn’t shake my hand. Instead, he clasps his own together, muttering something under his breath about “dirt.” It’s awkward, but there’s no malice in it—more like a scholar too preoccupied with thoughts to engage in pleasantries.

Cal coughs to hide his laugh, and I quickly drop my hand, not sure whether to be offended or amused.

Gesturing us inside, Cleary’s house is as unexpected as he is.

It’s small, with three cramped rooms with beaten earth floors—a seating area with a stove and table, a bedroom, and a washroom tucked to the side.

But what really catches my attention is the sheer number of books and scrolls.

They’re everywhere, covering every surface, stacked in uneven piles on the floor, and crammed into shelves that sag under the weight.

Parchments filled with notes and drawings line the walls, creating a chaotic but fascinating archive.

I trail my fingers over the spines of several books as I move toward the table, not recognizing a single title.

Most are written in languages I can’t even begin to understand.

“Have you been able to decipher anything?” Cal asks Cleary.

“Not yet,” Cleary mutters. “Kla’rgon do’shi promitus. Most of these words I haven’t seen in hundreds of years.”

“Can you start with this one?” Cal reaches into his bag and pulls out the book I found with the runes. “We’d like to know what these runes mean. We think they’re the same ones on the gate.”

Cleary rips the book from Cal’s hands and begins flipping through the pages, his eyes widening. “Where did you get this? The combination of magic and blood magic here is unheard of.”

I exchange a look with Izzy. “Did you say blood magic?” Izzy asks.

“Yes,” Cleary answers, as if it’s obvious. “How else did you think the Gods made the gates strong enough?”

“I never thought about it before,” Theo says with a shrug, “but I never imagined they’d resort to dark magic.”

“There’s a difference between blood magic and dark magic, rune master,” Cleary counters, finally looking up. “Where did you get this?” he asks Cal again.

“Let’s just say I found it,” Cal answers nonchalantly.

“Can you have it done by the end of the week?” Izzy asks.

Cleary gives a slow nod and then turns to me, studying me intently. His gaze pours over every inch of me, finally settling on my eyes. “On one condition,” he says slowly.

“What’s that?” Cal asks.

Cleary’s gaze sharpens, his voice low but laced with disbelief. “You need to tell me how the daughter of Kora has come to stand before me.”