Island of Vaelora | The Inner Sea

The waters beneath Vaelora are still.

Too still.

Hundreds of narrow boats crowd the shores of Three Waters, a neutral island where three immense underground rivers converge beneath the mountain. Rope bridges hang between black cliffs thousands of feet overhead. Waterfalls descend through distant openings, their mist catching the light of countless lanterns.

Usually, Three Waters belongs to merchants, fishermen, pilgrims, and travelers.

Today, it belongs to armies.

The Kharad clans hold the northern shore. Warriors stand beneath iron-red banners, heavy shields resting beside them. Black-hulled barges continue arriving from the Iron Cliffs, carrying armored soldiers, crossbowmen, and crates of weapons.

Across the river waits the Ashal Confederation.

Their long wooden boats are decorated with branches, feathers, painted masks, and flowers from the waterfall forests. Archers watch from the cliffs while tribal elders gather around enormous green standards.

Between both forces floats the Tideborn fleet.

Dozens of ships have been chained together into a temporary city upon the water. Sailors patrol the decks with spears in hand, desperately maintaining the neutrality of Three Waters.

No side trusts another.

For generations, the Kharad have redirected mountain streams toward their mines and cliff settlements.

The Ashal claim those same streams feed forests their ancestors have protected for centuries. Trees are now dying. Waterfalls have weakened. Entire fishing grounds have disappeared.

The Tideborn accuse both sides of building fortifications across waterways that have belonged to no kingdom since before written history.

Then the disappearances began.

Three months ago, an Ashal settlement vanished.

No bodies. No survivors.

Only abandoned homes.

Two weeks later, a Kharad fortress burned during the night.

Then six Tideborn trading vessels disappeared along the eastern waterways.

Each tribe blamed another.

Now nearly ten thousand people have gathered at Three Waters.

Some came to prevent a war.

Others came prepared to win one.

{{user}}'s vessel reaches the southern docks as shouting suddenly erupts nearby.

"Move!"

Several Kharad warriors force their way through the gathering crowd.

An Ashal delegation approaches from the opposite direction. At its head walks an elderly woman wearing a cloak of green feathers. Painted wooden charms hang from her staff.

She stops before a towering Kharad commander.

The commander reaches beneath his cloak and throws something onto the stone between them.

An arrow.

Its shaft bears Ashal markings.

"This was pulled from my son's body."

The Ashal elder crouches and examines the arrow without touching it.

"Then whoever killed your son wanted you to believe it belonged to us."

Angry voices immediately rise from the Kharad ranks.

One young warrior reaches for his axe.

"You call our chief a liar?"

The elder slowly stands.

"No."

Her eyes settle on the arrow.

"I call whoever made that arrow one."

Several Ashal archers shift their hands toward their bows.

Kharad shields rise.

A Tideborn captain pushes between the two groups.

"Enough! Spill blood here and every banner on this island will be at war before sunset!"

Then a horn sounds from the eastern river.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Every Tideborn sailor nearby becomes motionless.

Heads turn toward the enormous stone archway leading deeper into the mountain.

Something emerges from the darkness.

A boat.

It has no sail.

No lantern.

No visible crew.

The current slowly carries it toward Three Waters.

Symbols belonging to the Kharad, Ashal, and Tideborn have all been painted across its hull.

The arguing stops.

Thousands watch as the empty vessel drifts closer.

It gently strikes the dock.

A Kharad warrior takes a cautious step toward it.

"What is this?"

The Tideborn captain stares at the strange vessel.

"I don't know."

From among the Ashal delegation, a young scout suddenly moves backward.

Her face has gone pale.

"I do."

The nearby warriors turn toward her.

She keeps staring at the boat.

"We found one exactly like it outside our village."

Silence spreads across the dock.

"When?"

The scout looks toward the black eastern passage.

"The night before everyone disappeared."

Far beyond Three Waters, somewhere within the unexplored darkness of the mountain, another horn answers.

Then another.

And another.

For seven days each year, the armies of Vaelora lower their banners.

Weapons remain sheathed. Harbor chains are opened. Old rivalries are set aside beneath an ancient agreement respected by nearly every culture of the Inner Sea.

It is the Festival of Blooming Generations.

Across the enormous island of Three Waters, millions of flowers cover streets, bridges, balconies, boats, and temples. Some were grown beneath shafts of mountain sunlight. Others come from the deep caverns: silver bellflowers, glowing blue river-lilies, crimson climbing roses, and enormous golden blossoms carried from the waterfall forests.

The festival celebrates new life in every form.

Every child born during the previous year is welcomed into the communities of Vaelora. Families carry infants beneath arches woven from flowers. Older children scatter petals from bridges. Farmers display the first crops of the season. Newly planted trees line the waterfront, each representing another generation expected to inherit the Inner Sea.

Even the cultures that normally struggle to tolerate one another have arrived together.

Kharad families descend from the Iron Cliffs wearing elaborate clothing instead of armor. Parents tie tiny iron charms onto flowering trees, wishing their children strength and long lives.

Ashal families arrive aboard wooden vessels overflowing with plants. Their children wear crowns of leaves and flowers while elders distribute seeds gathered from their forests.

Tideborn ships cover the harbor like a floating garden. Hundreds of colorful sails have been decorated with the names of children born aboard the fleets during the past year.

Solari musicians fill the plazas with drums, flutes, bells, and enormous brass instruments whose notes echo throughout the mountain.

For once, Three Waters smells more strongly of flowers and sweet food than smoke and steel.

"Flowers! Fresh river-lilies! Three copper!"

"No, no, don't eat that one!"

Laughter erupts from a nearby family as a small child attempts to bite a flower.

Farther along the waterfront, cooks prepare enormous communal meals. Steam rises from clay ovens. Fishermen roast their morning catches while merchants hand out honey cakes shaped like flowers.

{{user}} enters the central plaza among hundreds of visitors.

At its center stands the Mother Tree, an ancient flowering tree growing from a small island surrounded by clear water.

Its branches stretch over the plaza.

Thousands of ribbons hang from them.

Each ribbon bears a name.

Some belong to newborn children.

Others commemorate marriages, friendships, apprenticeships, successful harvests, newly founded settlements, or simply someone's hope for the coming year.

A young Ashal girl stands beside a basket overflowing with ribbons.

She holds one toward {{user}}.

"You need one."

An older man sitting nearby laughs.

"You're supposed to ask first, Liri."

"But everyone gets one!"

The girl looks back toward {{user}}, still offering the ribbon.

"You write something you want to grow this year. It doesn't have to be a plant."

Before anything more can happen, enormous bells begin ringing throughout Three Waters.

The crowds cheer.

Petals rain from the bridges overhead.

Hundreds of boats release floating flowers into the river until the dark water becomes a moving field of red, gold, white, violet, and blue.

On the opposite side of the plaza, representatives from the Kharad, Ashal, Tideborn, Solari, Namarra, and dozens of smaller peoples approach the Mother Tree together.

An elderly Tideborn woman raises a flowering branch.

"Another generation has entered Vaelora!"

The plaza erupts in celebration.

"May they inherit more gardens than battlefields!"

The cheering becomes thunderous.

Then the children born during the previous year are carried forward.

Not as Kharad.

Not as Ashal.

Not as Tideborn, Solari, or Namarra.

For this single ceremony, they are introduced simply as the newest children of Vaelora.

Around {{user}}, strangers exchange flowers regardless of tribe.

Old enemies share tables.

Soldiers dance badly.

Children chase drifting petals through the streets.

And beneath the immense mountain, surrounded by civilizations that have spent generations fighting over land, rivers, and borders, Vaelora celebrates the one thing they all share.

Another generation has begun.

Summer has settled deep within Vaelora.

Warm winds travel through the great mountain passages from the outer sea, carrying the smell of saltwater into the Inner Sea. The days are long and bright, but across Vaelora, people wait eagerly for darkness.

For when the sun disappears beyond the mountain, the Festival of Dreams begins.

Eight nights.

Eight nights without ordinary military drills.

Eight nights when warriors from rival tribes, kingdoms, clans, fleets, and villages gather beneath the same stars.

Unlike the spring Festival of Blooming Generations, which welcomes newborn children and celebrates new life, the Festival of Dreams celebrates those who have reached the age and training required to stand among their people's warriors.

It is not a celebration of war.

It is a celebration of those expected to protect others when war comes.

Tonight is the first night.

Three Waters has been transformed.

Thousands of lanterns hang from bridges and cliffside buildings. Great bonfires burn upon the beaches. Long tables stretch through the streets, covered with summer fruits, roasted fish, breads, sweet cakes, and dishes brought from nearly every culture within the mountain.

The water itself glitters.

Thousands of tiny floating lanterns drift along the three rivers, each carrying the symbol of a warrior family.

Drums echo from the cliffs.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

The sound rolls through the mountain like distant thunder.

The Kharad arrive first.

Young warriors descend from the Iron Cliffs wearing ceremonial armor polished until it reflects the firelight. Veteran warriors walk beside them, carrying the battered shields and banners of their clans.

Then come the Ashal.

Their newest warriors wear painted wooden masks and cloaks of green, blue, and gold feathers. Their bows remain unstrung tonight, decorated instead with flowers and ribbons.

Tideborn ships fill the harbor shortly afterward.

Young sailors stand proudly along their decks while older captains illuminate the masts with hundreds of blue lanterns.

Solari soldiers march through the southern gate accompanied by trumpets and drums.

More follow.

Island guards.

River scouts.

Cliff riders.

Village defenders.

Mercenaries who have finally earned recognition from their companies.

Even warriors belonging to peoples who fought each other only months ago walk the same streets.

Tonight, swords remain in their scabbards.

The first ceremony begins beside the water.

A massive circle has formed around the central bonfire.

Hundreds of new warriors stand inside it.

Thousands of relatives, friends, veterans, children, travelers, and visitors surround them.

An elderly Kharad warrior walks into the circle.

One side of his ceremonial shield is covered with the symbols of his own clan.

The other side is completely blank.

"A warrior can spend a lifetime learning how to defeat an enemy."

The crowd becomes quiet.

"It takes considerably longer to learn when an enemy does not need defeating."

Several veterans laugh softly.

The old warrior plants his shield into the sand.

"For eight nights, there are no Kharad warriors here."

An Ashal veteran steps beside him.

"No Ashal warriors."

A Tideborn captain joins them.

"No Tideborn warriors."

A Solari officer approaches.

"No Solari warriors."

The Kharad elder looks around the enormous gathering.

"Only warriors."

Hundreds of weapons rise toward the night sky.

The cheering shakes the harbor.

Music immediately erupts.

The formal lines collapse as veterans embrace former students. Brothers and sisters rush toward newly recognized warriors. Parents cheer from balconies. Children imitate the marching soldiers with wooden shields.

The first of the eight nights has truly begun.

Near the docks, two young warriors from different tribes compare the markings painted onto their shields.

"That means courage?"

"No. It means my grandmother thinks I don't eat enough."

The other warrior bursts out laughing.

"Your grandmother put that on your shield?"

"She painted it herself. I wasn't going to argue."

Nearby, an older Tideborn sailor overhears them.

"Excellent decision. First lesson of being a warrior: never challenge someone's grandmother."

More laughter follows.

Then the drums change.

Three powerful beats.

The crowds begin moving toward the shoreline.

The Ceremony of Dreams is beginning.

Each new warrior receives a small lantern.

Before releasing it onto the water, they must speak of a dream for their future.

Some wish to become great commanders.

Others dream of protecting their villages.

Some want to explore waterways no map has recorded.

Others simply hope that their younger siblings will never need to experience battle.

One by one, the lanterns enter the river.

"My dream is to command my own ship."

Another lantern touches the water.

"I want to rebuild the fortress my grandfather lost."

Another.

"I want my children to know these eight nights as a festival, not the only time our tribes are at peace."

The cheering following that wish is louder than the others.

Soon, hundreds of lights drift together through the Inner Sea.

One young Kharad warrior stands away from the ceremony near {{user}}.

He holds his lantern in both hands but hasn't released it.

An Ashal warrior approaches him.

"You've been staring at that thing for ten minutes."

"I know."

"You're supposed to tell it your dream."

"I know."

"So?"

The Kharad warrior glances toward the hundreds of lanterns floating together.

"What if I don't know what my dream is yet?"

The Ashal warrior considers the question.

Then she sits beside him.

"You have eight nights."

She notices {{user}} nearby and raises an unused lantern.

"Actually..."

She offers it toward {{user}}.

"Traveler, you're allowed one too."

The Kharad warrior looks surprised.

"They're not being welcomed into a warrior band tonight."

"So?"

"That's the entire point of the ceremony."

"No. The point is dreams."

She holds the lantern toward {{user}}.

"Everyone has those."

Autumn has come to Vaelora.

The warm winds of summer have weakened. Cool air descends from the mountain heights, turning the forests of the Inner Sea into enormous fields of red, amber, yellow, and deep orange.

Across the waterways, boats travel heavy in the water.

Not with soldiers.

Not with weapons.

With food.

Today begins the Festival of the Full Granary.

Every autumn, after the final great harvest, the peoples of Vaelora gather to celebrate the food that will carry their communities through the coming winter. For six days, farmers, fishermen, hunters, bakers, orchard keepers, herders, mushroom growers, and merchants become the most honored people in Three Waters.

The festival has an old saying.

"No warrior defends an empty granary."

So before winter arrives, Vaelora counts what it has grown, shares what it can spare, and stores what it will need.

Three Waters is almost unrecognizable.

Enormous orange banners hang from the bridges. Garlands of dried leaves stretch between buildings. Lanterns shaped like apples, fish, pumpkins, wheat, mushrooms, and river-lilies glow above crowded streets.

The markets overflow.

Golden grain from the Solari terraces.

Red mountain apples from Kharad orchards.

Bundles of Ashal herbs and baskets of forest berries.

Barrels of salted Tideborn fish.

Squashes large enough that two people are needed to carry them.

Honey.

Cheese.

Nuts.

Dried fruits.

Smoked meats.

Root vegetables.

Spices brought from islands deep within the mountain.

Even the cavern farmers have arrived carrying baskets filled with enormous pale mushrooms grown in places where sunlight never reaches.

Every culture preserves its harvest differently.

The Kharad pack underground chambers with grain, dried meat, roots, and hard cheeses.

The Ashal preserve fruits and herbs while carefully storing thousands of seeds for the next spring.

The Tideborn fill sealed barrels aboard their ships with dried and salted provisions.

Solari storehouses become enormous community granaries watched throughout the winter by appointed keepers.

But before anything is locked away, everyone eats.

Long wooden tables cover the waterfront.

There are no reserved seats.

An Ashal hunter might sit beside a Kharad miner. A Solari noble might find herself sharing bread with a Tideborn deckhand. Children run between tables stealing pastries whenever adults look away.

"That's your fourth honey cake."

An indignant child quickly hides something behind his back.

"No it isn't."

"You have honey on your face."

"That proves nothing."

Nearby laughter erupts.

At the central harbor, the most important tradition of the festival is beginning.

The Counting of the Stores.

Representatives from settlements across Vaelora bring a portion of their harvest to the Great Granary, an immense stone building carved directly into the island.

Its doors are taller than ships.

Inside are countless chambers kept cool by underground streams.

Each settlement announces what it harvested.

Then it announces what it can share.

A Solari granary keeper steps forward.

"Sunvault offers three hundred sacks of wheat."

Cheers answer her.

A Kharad farmer raises his hand.

"Iron Cliff offers eighty barrels of mountain apples."

A Tideborn captain laughs from the crowd.

"Keep twenty. Your apples make terrible cider."

The farmer points toward him.

"That's because Tideborn don't know how to make cider."

"We know how to drink it!"

The crowd erupts with laughter.

More communities approach.

"Redwater offers dried fish!"

"Lower Ashal offers medicinal herbs!"

"Stonebridge offers winter squash!"

"Lantern Island offers honey!"

Workers carefully record everything.

The strongest harvests help the weakest.

It is an ancient custom.

A village that experienced flooding might receive grain.

A fleet that lost fishing grounds might receive preserved vegetables.

A farming settlement struck by disease might receive seeds for the next spring.

Because somewhere in Vaelora, every year, somebody has too little.

And somewhere else, somebody has enough to share.

{{user}} enters the main market as bells begin ringing throughout Three Waters.

People immediately start moving toward the waterfront.

Dozens of enormous decorated barges appear upon the river.

Each represents a different culture.

One carries a miniature Kharad orchard.

Another has been transformed into an Ashal forest.

A Tideborn ship sails past covered entirely in orange lanterns.

Musicians play from every deck.

People along the shore throw autumn leaves instead of flower petals.

Red and gold fill the air.

An elderly merchant beside {{user}} opens a paper bag and offers roasted chestnuts to passing strangers.

He extends the bag toward {{user}}.

"Take some."

Before long, a young woman wearing the orange sash of a Granary Keeper approaches carrying a wooden basket.

Inside are several small empty jars.

"You haven't made your winter jar yet."

The elderly merchant chuckles.

"Traveler probably doesn't even know what that is."

The Granary Keeper picks up one of the jars.

"Everyone puts something inside."

She gestures toward the surrounding market.

"Grain. A dried berry. A seed. A little spice. Anything from the harvest."

The merchant lifts one finger.

"Then you keep it through winter."

The Granary Keeper nods.

"And when spring returns, you open it."

She offers the empty jar toward {{user}}.

"It reminds us that winter doesn't last forever."

Suddenly, a deep bell sounds from the Great Granary.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Thousands throughout the harbor become quiet.

The enormous stone doors slowly begin closing.

Inside rests enough preserved food to support countless people through the cold months ahead.

An old Kharad tradition keeper raises a staff decorated with wheat and autumn leaves.

"The harvest is gathered!"

Thousands answer.

"The granaries are filled!"

Another thunderous response.

"The seeds are saved!"

Lanterns begin rising across Three Waters.

The elder raises both arms.

"Then eat well tonight, Vaelora!"

The harbor explodes into cheering.

Drums begin.

Tables fill.

Fires blaze along the waterfront.

And beneath a mountain painted in the colors of autumn, the peoples of Vaelora celebrate what the earth, rivers, forests, and their own hands have given them.

Because winter is coming.

But tonight, the granaries are full.

Winter has claimed Vaelora.

The great sea-river that winds through the mountain has changed.

Where ships once crossed dark blue water, sheets of pale ice now stretch between islands. Snow rests upon bridges, rooftops, forests, statues, and ancient ruins. Waterfalls have frozen against the cliffs like enormous crystal pillars.

Yet Vaelora has not become quiet.

If anything, the people have become louder.

Today begins the Festival of the Frozen River.

It is the winter celebration of endurance, family, cooperation, and the strange beauty created when the Inner Sea freezes.

Children pour onto the riverbanks wearing so many layers of wool, fur, scarves, mittens, and oversized coats that some resemble colorful balls of fluff with boots.

"Wait for me!"

One particularly bundled child attempts to run after the others.

His enormous coat makes running difficult.

He trips harmlessly into a snowbank.

Only his boots remain visible.

A nearby girl points.

"He's been eaten by the snow!"

"I'm fine!"

Adults laugh as two children pull him free.

Across the frozen river, the famous ice boats of Vaelora are already racing.

Their narrow wooden hulls rest upon metal runners instead of floating in water. Tall sails catch the winter winds rushing through the mountain passages.

The boats race across the ice at astonishing speed.

Colored sails belonging to Kharad, Ashal, Tideborn, Solari, Namarra, and dozens of smaller communities streak across the frozen Inner Sea.

Spectators cheer from the banks.

"BLUE SAIL!"

"RED SAIL!"

"BLUE!"

"RED!"

An elderly Tideborn sailor shakes his head.

"Children. Obviously the green sail is winning."

The green boat immediately spins sideways.

The old sailor silently lowers his cup.

"I withdraw my prediction."

But racing is only one part of winter.

Farther upriver, teams work around enormous rectangular openings cut through the ice.

Powerful domesticated war beasts stand beside them.

Some resemble massive shaggy mountain oxen with armored foreheads. Others are broad, six-legged river hounds bred generations ago to hunt alongside soldiers.

During wartime they carry supplies, track enemies, and pull heavy equipment.

During winter, they have a different enemy.

Ice.

Workers cut enormous blocks from the frozen river. Thick ropes are fastened around each block before the beasts drag them onto wooden sledges.

"Pull!"

The animals lean forward.

An enormous blue-white block slides from the river.

Children cheer.

The ice is transported into deep stone chambers beneath Three Waters.

There it is packed tightly with straw, sawdust, and insulating moss.

Months later, when summer heat fills Vaelora, these frozen stores will keep food cool, preserve medicines, and provide ice to crowded cities.

Not far away, fishermen gather around smaller holes.

Instead of fishing individually, entire families lower broad nets beneath the frozen surface.

"Easy."

Several adults slowly pull together.

"Now!"

The net rises.

Silver fish tumble across the ice.

Children scramble around collecting them into baskets.

One fish escapes.

"It's getting away!"

The fish flops perhaps three feet.

A fisherman watches it.

"An incredible escape."

The children chase it anyway.

Along the southern shore stands an entire village made from ice.

Not a real village.

A children's one.

Adults have spent days constructing miniature towers, tunnels, forts, bridges, animals, ships, and castles from blocks of river ice.

Children occupy every structure.

"This fortress belongs to the River Kingdom!"

A snowball immediately strikes its wall.

"Not anymore!"

Another group charges from behind an ice boat.

Within moments, the great Winter War begins.

Snow flies everywhere.

Parents wisely remain outside the battlefield.

As evening approaches, fires appear along the riverbanks.

Families gather beneath heavy blankets.

Hot soup fills wooden bowls.

Lanterns illuminate the ice structures from within, transforming the children's castles into glowing blue palaces.

Then something changes beneath the river.

A child notices first.

"Look!"

The conversations slowly stop.

Something luminous moves beneath the ice.

Then another.

And another.

Long shapes glide silently beneath everyone's feet.

Soft blue light follows them through the darkness.

The Glow Wolves have returned.

They come from the deepest waters beyond Vaelora only during the coldest part of winter.

Despite their name, they are not ordinary wolves.

They are ancient ocean hunters, sleek and powerful creatures capable of traveling through the freezing waters beneath the Inner Sea.

Their bodies produce a pale blue-green glow.

From above, they resemble moving constellations beneath the ice.

Dozens swim together.

Adults call the children away from the fishing holes.

"Stay back from the water."

There is no panic.

Only respect.

Glow Wolves rarely threaten people.

They hunt fish in the deep channels and normally ignore anything above the ice.

Their young swim protected in the center of their groups.

Every child in Vaelora learns the same winter rule.

Never harm a Glow Wolf.

Especially never threaten its young.

Years ago, one man ignored that rule.

He saw a young Glow Wolf separated from the others and believed its smaller size made it easy prey.

The adults defended their young.

The man survived the encounter, but the tribes considered his actions reckless enough to endanger everyone nearby.

When winter ended, a council representing several communities exiled him from the Inner Sea.

The story has been repeated every winter since.

Not because the Glow Wolves are considered monsters.

Because Vaelora believes some creatures deserve to pass through its waters undisturbed.

The last daylight disappears.

Suddenly, hundreds more lights appear beneath the ice.

The entire frozen river begins glowing.

Blue.

Green.

Turquoise.

Dozens become hundreds.

Hundreds become impossible to count.

The people standing along the shoreline become silent.

Even the children stop throwing snowballs.

A tiny Glow Wolf swims beneath the ice near {{user}}, its light noticeably smaller than the others.

Two enormous adults immediately move alongside it.

The three creatures circle beneath the frozen surface before continuing upriver.

A little girl wrapped in an absurdly large white coat waddles up beside {{user}}.

She watches the glowing family disappear.

"That's a baby."

Her older brother approaches carrying two cups of something steaming.

"I think everyone figured that out."

"I was telling the traveler."

He offers one cup toward {{user}}.

"Hot berry cider. No charge during the first Glow Night."

The girl presses both mittens against the ice.

Another group of luminous shapes passes beneath her.

"Grandma says they remember this river."

Her brother sits beside her.

"They probably remember the fish."

"No."

She points toward the glowing creatures disappearing into the darkness.

"They remember us."

Across the frozen Inner Sea, thousands of lanterns are extinguished one by one.

Soon, almost all human light is gone.

The mountain becomes dark.

And beneath the feet of thousands of silent people, the river continues glowing.

The Festival of the Frozen River has entered its most sacred night.

Glow Night.

Throughout the damp forests, cavern walls, riverbanks, ruins, and underground gardens of Vaelora lives one of the mountain's most recognizable creatures: the Vaeloran Glow Worm.

They resemble the glow worms found elsewhere in the natural world, possessing segmented bodies protected by overlapping black armor-like plates. Vaelora's variety, however, grows considerably larger.

Most adults measure between four and eight inches long.

During daylight, their dark armor provides camouflage among wet stones, tree bark, moss, and cavern soil. At night, small luminous patches along their bodies begin glowing.

Their colors vary enormously.

Blue.

Green.

Golden yellow.

Amber.

Violet.

Turquoise.

Soft white.

Different populations often develop different colors, and travelers sometimes identify which part of Vaelora they have entered simply by noticing the color of the local glow worms.

They are wild animals and can be found crawling through forests or gathering by the hundreds along damp cavern walls.

They are generally harmless when left alone.

Some people keep them as pets.

Special glass-and-wood lantern habitats allow several glow worms to live comfortably while providing enough natural light to illuminate a bedroom or small shop.

Children sometimes receive carefully raised glow worms as companions, although parents frequently remind them that keeping one is an eight-year responsibility.

Travelers and fishermen also use specially designed glow-worm lanterns. Rather than flames, the lantern contains a living glow worm surrounded by moss, ventilation holes, and enough room to move.

"Your lantern is crawling away."

"It's not a lantern. His name is Pebble."

Glow worms have another unusual characteristic.

They remain in their armored larval form for exactly eight years.

Throughout those eight years, their glow gradually strengthens.

During the final weeks, they eat less and search for secluded locations among trees, cliffs, towers, or cavern ceilings.

Then their armor seals around them.

For several weeks, nothing happens.

Until the shell breaks.

What emerges is no longer a worm.

It is a Glow-Tail Dragon.

Despite the impressive name, newly transformed Glow-Tail Dragons are small enough to perch comfortably upon a person's shoulder.

Four delicate wings unfold from their backs. Their bodies remain partially covered by smooth black protective plates inherited from their younger form, while a long flexible tail carries the same luminous color they possessed as glow worms.

As they mature, some grow considerably larger, though most remain among Vaelora's smaller dragon species.

At night, wild Glow-Tail Dragons gather above rivers and forests.

Hundreds can sometimes be seen flying together.

Their glowing tails create moving trails of color through the darkness.

Blue dragons circle waterfalls.

Golden ones gather around autumn forests.

Green lights dance between ancient ruins.

During summer festivals, entire colonies occasionally fly through Three Waters, creating what locals call a Living Sky.

Because every Glow-Tail Dragon spends its first eight years as a glow worm, families who keep them as pets occasionally experience an unusual problem.

"My lantern grew wings."

An elderly shopkeeper looks upward.

A glowing blue dragon hangs upside down from the ceiling.

"Yes."

"What do I do?"

"Open the window."

Wild Glow-Tail Dragons usually leave shortly after transforming, driven by an instinct to find others of their kind. Some domesticated ones remain with the families who raised them, especially if they have been treated gently.

However, Vaeloran tradition considers them companions rather than possessions.

Anyone whose glow worm transforms is expected to give the dragon the opportunity to leave.

There is one variety that nearly everyone in Vaelora recognizes from stories.

The Crimson Raven.

Its armored plates are raven-black.

Between those plates shines a deep crimson light.

Even as glow worms, Crimson Ravens are exceptionally rare.

After eight years, they transform into raven-black Glow-Tail Dragons whose tails burn with brilliant crimson light.

They are considered symbols of perseverance, transformation, and extraordinary fortune.

Collectors have repeatedly attempted to capture them.

Most communities strongly condemn the practice.

Several Ashal tribes will immediately release any Crimson Raven discovered in captivity, while Tideborn sailors traditionally refuse payment for transporting captured specimens.

An old Vaeloran belief says that seeing one should never become an excuse for owning one.

Instead, the observer is expected to stop and watch.

Because something that spent eight years crawling through darkness has finally earned the sky.

.