The letter arrived wrapped in dune silk, the parchment coarse, heat-baked, and still humming with trace fire.
Kaelen found it at the gate—a hawk delivering it by claw, no courier in sight.
Liora unrolled it slowly. No signature.
Only a symbol.
A spiral made of cracked sandstone.
And three words burned into the bottom:
> "The root turns."
---
Riven recognized it first.
He stood from the tide chamber floor, eyes wide.
"This can't be real."
Kaelen stepped closer. "You've seen it?"
"Once. In an old flame scroll buried beneath the Yharnen well."
He pointed to the cracked spiral.
"This isn't just flame or tide."
"It's origin. Before balance was broken."
---
The Eastern Dunes
A stretch of land untouched by pulse or prophecy.
Where wolves walked on wind and lived by rhythm.
The Spiral Nomads, they were called—said to have vanished before the first council rose.
Riven thought they'd been absorbed.
Kaelen thought they'd been lost.
Liora?
