THE ASHES OF AMARA

A drought of seven years.  For that amount of time, the crumbling sky of Varanthia has been causing cracks.  Instead of rivers, what we saw were grave-lines strewn over the landscape.  Fragile silhouettes of trees.  Homes, harvests, and hope were smothered by dust while the sun stood watch, a ruthless overseer.

 Another infant was dropped into the dry, cracking dirt in the town of Harrowmere while a healer called Kael observed.  He had laid to rest more people than he could count at the age of twenty-three.  His healing hands had transformed into instruments of parting.  As the sun went down, Kael flipped through the weathered pages of a book his grandpa had given him.  There was a reference to the Fountain of Amara, a long-lost landmark.  Hidden in the Silent Peaks beyond the Wailing Desert, it was reported to come forth from the soil when the land was on the point of death.  Its fluids were not just wetness, but memory, enchantment, and mercy distilled.

 Most rejected it as folklore.  Kael did not.

 "If no one has returned," he muttered to the wind, "then maybe they didn’t go far enough."

 The Companions

 When news spread that Kael wanted to venture beyond the known world, most laughed.  But three souls walked forward.

 First was Lira, a fleeing princess cloaked in a merchant's cloak.  She had abandoned a kingdom drenched in betrayal and murder.  Her eyes never rested—always observing, always calculating.  She talked little, but when she spoke, her voice sliced harder than any razor.

 Second was Thorn, a quiet warrior with eyes like empty moons.  No one knew where he came from.  His body was a patchwork of scars, and he carried a gigantic sword dubbed Gravemind—a blade reputed to communicate to him in sleep.

 Last came Milo, a robber, mapmaker, and grinner of inconceivable smiles.  He knew the forgotten dialects and could speak to ruins like they were old acquaintances.  “I don’t care about fountains,” he remarked.  “But I like treasure.  And trouble.  You lot appear to promise both.”

 Thus, the four strangers left Harrowmere behind.

The Journey

 They reached the Siltmar Flats, where the sand sung in the darkness and attempted to swallow their shadows.  They travelled through the City of Mirrors, where illusions nourished on desire.  Lira envisioned a bloodless coronation, her father alive and sobbing with pride.  Thorn saw a child’s hand stretch for his.  Milo imagined unlimited wealth, gold pouring like wine.  Kael envisioned a house overflowing of laughter, where no one ever died.

 None of them talked about what they observed.  None of them dared linger too long.

 One night, while stars hid behind ash-clouds, Milo betrayed them.

 He snatched the map.

 “I never promised to be noble,” he said as they grabbed him among the ruins of Myrrh-Kael, a city eaten by time.  “But I didn’t lie.  I want the fountain.  Just for me.”

 Thorn’s sword was half-drawn.  But Kael held out a hand.  “Let him stay,” he said.  “He’s still part of this.”

 Milo gazed at Kael with bewilderment.  “Why?”

 “Because redemption tastes better than revenge.”

 The Ordeal

 After weeks of storm and stone, they reached the Silent Peaks.  The air was thin and sung with quiet.  At the peak loomed the Temple of Amara—a spiral of black stone throbbing slightly with blue veins.

 Inside, a voice that had no mouth and no sound said:

 “To awaken the waters, one must offer what anchors their soul.”

 Lira stepped forward.  She set down her crown—still covered under her shawl.  “My past,” she muttered.  “I give it away.”

 Thorn plucked an old wooden toy from his satchel—a little carved horse.  “The last gift from my son,” he muttered, his voice trembling like ice.  “He died in the fire I caused.”

 Milo, surprised, removed a ring.  “My mother’s.  I’ve taken from monarchs but never dared part with this.”

 Kael stood last.  He placed a tiny vial on the stone—its contents shone faintly.

 “My mother’s lullaby,” he said.  “Recorded in this vial.  The only thing that ever made me feel... whole.”

 The room trembled.

 A silver tear slipped from the temple’s heart, coiling down the stone.  The Fountain of Amara was not a spring—it was a drop of truth.  A single drop, but loaded with enough life to revive a lifeless planet.

 The Return

 They returned to Harrowmere as dust-laden air curled into green breezes.  Kael knelt before the town square, where fractured ground waited.  He spilt the drop.

 Silence.

 Then, breath.

 From the dirt sprouted wildflowers.  Trees moaned into life.  A stream chuckled its way across the village like a kid going home.

 Children laughed.  Elders cried.  The sky rumbled—not with thunder, but with promise.

 Kael sat alone that evening, and a kid requested, “Sing us something, healer.”

 He opened his mouth.

 Nothing arrived.  The lullaby was gone.  Sacrificed.

 But as the wind danced among young leaves, it conveyed a rhythm, delicate and wordless.

 And Kael grinned.  Because the earth was singing now.

 He had done enough.