Gard pressed his ear to the singing cliffs, feeling the stone’s vibrations rumble through his bones. The mountain was trying to tell him something new today. Something urgent.
“You’re being rude again,” he muttered to the rock face. “Too many voices at once.”
The cliff face quieted, then began again. Slower this time. More deliberate. Like a grandmother teaching a child to speak.
All around him, the Valley of Lost Giants lived up to its name. Ancient stone colossi stood frozen mid-stride, their expressions caught between terror and revelation. Whatever they’d seen in their last moments had been important enough to turn them to stone.
The mountains remembered why. They just hadn’t figured out how to tell him yet.
A flutter of movement caught his eye – one of Lira’s messenger birds circling overhead. The Evergrove Druid had been sending them more frequently lately, each note more concerned than the last. The forests were restless, she said. The trees were learning new songs.
Gard’s earth-mark itched between his shoulder blades. The simple circle it had been all his life had spent the past month sprouting angular lines, like some ancient script trying to write itself on his skin.
The cliffs sang louder.
“Fine,” he sighed, pressing both palms against the stone. “Show me.”
Images flooded his mind. Ocean depths glowing with strange lights. Ships burning with fires that danced the wrong way. Sky scripts written in starlight. And through it all, a rhythm. A pulse. Like the heart of the world itself was beating faster.
“SCOUT!”
The vision shattered. One of his clan leaders stood at the valley’s edge, torch blazing against the gathering dusk. Even at this distance, Gard could see the man’s earth-mark had changed too, growing more complex with each passing day.
“The Granite Council is gathering,” the leader called. “All scouts are needed. Something’s happening in the lowlands.”
Gard felt the mountain’s anxiety vibrate through his palms. “What kind of something?”
“Cinderhold warships moving on Maralyd. Tempest Isle vessels interfering. And reports of lights in the Zephyrgale peaks that shouldn’t be possible.”
The cliff face grew warm under Gard’s hands. Almost eager.
“The mountains know something about this,” Gard said. “They’ve been trying to tell us—”
“The mountains can wait,” his leader cut him off. “The Granite Council doesn’t trust these changes. They’re talking about sealing the passes. Cutting off all contact with the lowlands until things settle.”
The rock beneath Gard’s fingers vibrated with what could only be called laughter. As if the very idea of things “settling” was a joke only the mountains understood.
He pulled the latest note from Lira out of his pocket. The trees say change is coming, like spring after the longest winter. But some would rather stay frozen than feel the thaw.
Above him, the stone giants stared down with their eternally startled expressions. They’d seen this before, these changes. And keeping the passes open or closed wouldn’t matter.
Because the elements themselves were speaking now. Earth to water, fire to air. And the mountains…
The mountains were tired of keeping secrets.
“Tell the Council I’m coming,” Gard called back. “And tell them to listen carefully. The stones are singing a warning.”
He felt the rhythm of it in his bones, in the growing complexity of his birthmark, in the very ground beneath his feet. The same rhythm that had turned giants to stone and carved words into the cliffs.
The elements weren’t just awakening.
They were remembering.