Fle and the Obsidian Sky-Weaver

The air tasted like crushed silver and distant thunder. Below them, the valley of the Winding River was painted in the soft, bruised colours of twilight, where mushroom-capped towers and luminous flora dotted the emerald cliffs.

Fle, the Old Elf, sat tall upon Kaelen, the Sky-Weaver, his emerald robes catching the last amber rays of the setting sun. Fle’s face was a map of ages, his eyes holding the patient light of a thousand moons, but his grip on the dragon’s jeweled harness was firm. He was guiding Kaelen through the Veil of the Shifting Dusk, the narrow passage between the mortal realm and the High Dreaming.

Kaelen, whose scales were an armour of deep, shimmering teal and night-sky black, did not flap his colossal wings with brute force. He moved with a mystical grace, riding the invisible currents that flowed from the Rainbow of Eld arching high above them—a phenomenon that only appears when a creature of pure elemental magic and a being of profound age travel together.

“The Gem of Constant Dawn,” Kaelen’s thought resonated, deep and guttural, in Fle’s mind, “lies just beyond that cloud-bank, where the river meets the mist. But the Silence has claimed it.”

“The Silence,” Fle murmured, pulling his hood closer, “is fear, Kaelen. It is the dread that paralyzes creativity. And it has used the Gem to still the music of the World-Heart.”

Their mission was perilous: The Gem of Constant Dawn, which normally sang the world into existence every morning, had been stolen and wrapped in the Web of the Soul-Moths, creatures of pure, paralyzing inertia. If the Gem was not freed by midnight, the sun would rise only as a suggestion, and the world would remain perpetually quiet, perpetually grey.

As they flew past the floating, crystalline peaks, Fle reached into a hidden pouch woven into his sash and withdrew three small items:

1. A feather from a thought-bird, which allowed him to hear the whispers of possibility.
2. A shard of frozen laughter, which could break the densest concentration of sorrow.
3. A single, petrified tear of a nymph, which held the warmth of summer.

They broke through the last cloud layer. There, floating motionless above the swirling mist, was the Gem—a sphere of blinding, imprisoned light, tightly encased in thick, silvery cobwebs. And hovering around it were the Soul-Moths, silent, dark insects whose flapping wings emitted a negative sound that drained the air of hope.

Kaelen stopped, hanging suspended in the air. “I cannot approach, Old Friend,” he admitted. “My fire is too loud, my being too grand. The Silence would snuff me out like a candle.”

“Then we shall be quiet,” Fle replied, his voice barely a breath.

He slipped off Kaelen’s back and, rather than falling, began to descend slowly on a column of shimmering, green energy—the focused memory of every happy song he had ever heard.

As he neared the Gem, the cold of the Silence hit him. His memories felt heavy, his purpose uncertain. He could feel the Soul-Moths trying to wrap his own thoughts in their numbing web.

Fle raised his hand and opened his palm. He did not cast a spell; he simply released the shard of frozen laughter.

The laughter shard—the captured echo of a thousand innocent giggles—didn’t explode. It simply melted, forming a thin, high chime. The sound was so unexpected, so pure and non-serious, that the Soul-Moths paused, momentarily confused.

In that fraction of a moment, Fle used his second item: he took the thought-bird feather and gently tickled the Web of the Soul-Moths. The Moths, overwhelmed by the sudden influx of chaotic and funny possibilities, flew away in disarray, unable to process the illogical joy.

The Gem of Constant Dawn was now free, but still cold and muted. Fle pressed the petrified tear of the nymph against the crystalline sphere. Instantly, the warmth of all past summers infused the Gem. It flared, shining with a light that pushed back the twilight and sent a vibrant, resonant thrum through the entire valley.

Above, Kaelen roared—a sound that was now one of pure, unrestrained elemental joy. The Rainbow of Eld above them deepened in colour, and the Winding River below seemed to sing as the music of the World-Heart returned.

Fle rose back to Kaelen’s side, weary but successful. “The Silence is broken, my friend. Let us fly home. It’s been a long age.”

Kaelen dipped his great head in agreement. With a powerful beat of his massive wings, he turned toward the dawn, carrying Fle, the keeper of memory and laughter, out of the high, mystical air and back toward the newly singing world.