Kaelen and the Feather of Light

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The morning was glassy. The air above the sand ridges shimmered like liquid crystal, and Varaan stepped cautiously between the shimmering rock tongues that protruded from the desert floor like frozen thoughts. Kaelen sat before his massive foreleg, examining what she had just unearthed—something that didn't look like stone, wood, or metal, but like light that had chosen to take form. It was a feather. Not made of horn or fluff, but of pure brightness, luminous in every movement, delicately vibrating in colors that had no names. When Kaelen touched it, it was as if a completely different morning dawned—inside her. Images flashed: a river she had never seen, a house with windows filled with blossoms, voices she didn't recognize yet missed. "What is this?" she asked quietly. Varaan bent down, his gaze clouded with unease. "A fragment," he murmured. "From one of the ancient springs. I sense... thoughts. But not yours." Kaelen stood up. The quill hovered between her fingers, weightless, but full of meaning. "It showed me something," she said. "Or... brought something back?" Her brow furrowed. "Varaan? Who was the woman at the window?" The dragon paused. "Which woman?" Kaelen blinked. The memory had already faded—like ink in rain. Instead, there was another image: a mountain pierced by light, a hidden gate. And again the feeling of having found something important—and simultaneously losing something else. They continued walking, but with each step, Kaelen's gaze grew more distant. She told Varaan stories that were not hers. She laughed at experiences that had never happened. And as she spoke, the quill at her belt flickered softly—as if she were taking notes. Or rewriting. Varaan grew uneasy. He knew Kaelen's voice well—the weight in it, the power between words. But now she seemed lighter. Brighter, yes—but no longer quite herself. That night, Kaelen lay awake. Her mind formed images that were both familiar and foreign. A village in the mist, a hand on her shoulder, a child with golden eyes. "I remember..." she whispered. And then: "Or do I not?" Varaan lay not far away, seemingly asleep, but his eyes open. He heard her talking softly to herself. Naming names that had never been spoken. Singing stories that were not of her world. By the next morning, she had forgotten the map of the return journey. And how she had first met Varaan. That was when he finally understood. The quill had begun to overwrite her. He stepped toward her, slowly, almost solemnly. "Kaelen," he said gently. "What is the first word you ever said to me?" She smiled. "Come." Varaan closed his eyes.