Morning began with the sound of wooden bells.
They hung from the school's archway, carved by older students to greet the dawn.
Each ring meant another class had begun.
The school sat near the lower square of Teren Val, a small riverside town in the Kingdom of Valin.
Its walls were made of clay and reed, painted with bright strokes of blue and red.
Inside, ten children sat on woven mats.
Their teacher, Master Saen, was tall, gray-haired, and patient in a way only old teachers and priests could be.
On the front wall lay a board of polished wood covered in neatly carved letters the Velian Solari, the alphabet of the common tongue.
Saen tapped the first symbol with a reed stick. "Listen well, little ones. Today we begin again from the start, because words are like breath if you forget to breathe, you forget to live."
He traced the letter with his finger. "This is Ael."
His voice carried like song.
"Aah-el. The first sound of the tongue. Say it."
A chorus of children repeated, voices uneven but bright. "Aah-el!"
"Good. Next is Be, the sound of opening."
He gestured to the next curve, a soft loop ending in a tail. "Say it."
"Be!"
Va'Runa sat in the middle, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes wide with focus.
His small mouth formed each syllable perfectly. "Ael. Be."
The teacher smiled. "Very clear, Va'Runa. Your tone is right. The breath must flow, not break."
They went on.
Cha, De, Eir, Fe, Gha, Hael, Ish, Jo, Kaer.
Twenty-six letters in total, each one a sound from the body breath, tongue, teeth, chest.
Saen said, "The ancients believed each mark was born from the world's first cry. When you speak clearly, the world hears you better."
The children giggled. "Does the world talk back?" one asked.
Saen chuckled. "Only if you are foolish or blessed. Now, again slower."
They repeated.
Some letters came easily, others tangled in small tongues.
Va'Runa's pronunciation never faltered.
When he spoke, the sounds had weight.
The teacher noticed. "You listen before you speak, don't you?"
Va'Runa nodded shyly.
"Good," Saen said. "The ear is wiser than the mouth."
After the alphabet, Saen brought out clay tablets.
Each had three symbols etched onto them: Ael, Be, Cha.
"Trace them," he said. "Let the fingers learn what the eyes see."
Tiny hands pressed into soft clay.
Most children smudged more than wrote.
Va'Runa traced with quiet precision, his strokes clean and even.
Saen paused behind him. "You hold the stylus like you've done this before."
The boy shrugged. "It just feels right."
Saen smiled but said nothing.
He'd taught hundreds of children; none drew letters that steady at three years old.
When the writing ended, the singing began.
Every lesson in Velian was paired with rhythm they believed melody helped memory.
Saen clapped his hands twice. "Now, our first words."
He drew three marks on the board and said them slowly.
"Sael — light."
"Vel — life."
"Mor — heart."
He turned and sang, voice low and warm:
"Sael vel mor thaen,"
and translated.
"Light, life, and heart, these three make the world."
The children echoed his chant, some missing notes, others shouting for fun.
Va'Runa spoke softly but perfectly: "Sael vel mor thaen."
The sound left his mouth with such clarity that Saen looked up in surprise.
The candle by the window trembled faintly, as if stirred by breath.
He blinked and continued as if nothing happened.
Next came greetings.
"When you meet someone," Saen said, "you say 'Velin sael.' It means May your life shine."
The class repeated.
"Velin sael!"
"And when you part, you say 'Mor thaen.' It means Be well of heart."
"Mor thaen!"
Saen smiled. "Now, practice. Pair up and greet your friend."
Children turned to each other.
"Velin sael!" "Mor thaen!" "Velin sael!"
Va'Runa turned to the girl beside him, Thira, who was more interested in her own hair than lessons.
He said, perfectly polite, "Velin sael, Thira."
She grinned. "Mor thaen, Ru-na."
He frowned slightly. "It's Va'Runa."
"Too long," she said. "You're Ru-na now."
He sighed. "Fine."
By mid-day, Saen opened the small windows to let the breeze in.
The river's sound drifted faintly into the room.
"Now we learn colors," he said, holding up dyed cloth pieces. "Repeat with me."
"Saen — blue."
"Saen!"
"Reth — red."
"Reth!"
"Lun — green."
"Lun!"
"Morin — yellow."
"Morin!"
He smiled. "Colors are the clothes of light. Never forget that."
The children repeated until the room felt like a song of colors.
Va'Runa loved this part most.
Words that looked like what they meant fascinated him.
"Why does 'Lun' sound soft?" he asked.
Saen raised a brow. "Because green is soft to the eye."
"Then why is 'Reth' sharp?"
"Because red cuts through the world like a flame."
The boy nodded thoughtfully, satisfied.
After the lesson came storytelling hour.
Saen sat cross-legged at the front, the children crowding close.
"In the time before kingdoms," he began, "the gods taught our ancestors to speak. But not all words were safe. Some were too strong, so they were hidden."
The children gasped.
"Where are they now?" one asked.
"In the deep places of the world," Saen said, smiling. "Under mountains, in rivers, maybe even in your dreams. Now, hush and listen."
He told them the tale of Vel'Saen, the first speaker, who named the sun and brought morning.
Va'Runa listened silently.
Every time the old man said Vel'Saen, something warm stirred in his chest, like memory trying to surface.
When the story ended, the class bowed their heads together and said softly, "Sael vel mor thaen."
Afternoon brought writing again.
The children used soft sticks of burnt charcoal to copy words on thin parchment.
Thira's page was covered in black smudges. She leaned toward Va'Runa. "You write so clean. How?"
He shrugged. "Letters want to be straight."
"They don't listen to me."
He laughed. "Then talk nicer to them."
She giggled, accidentally smearing her work again.
Master Saen walked past, smiling. "Even mistakes are teachers, Thira. Let the letters teach you patience."
He stopped at Va'Runa's mat, eyes soft. "And you, child, must remember to rest. Words come easy now, but they must grow with humility."
"Yes, Master," Va'Runa said quietly.
Saen nodded and returned to the board.
When lessons ended, the children raced outside to the courtyard.
Some chased each other, others played with pebbles, shouting Velian counting songs.
Va'Runa stayed behind, watching the sunlight pour through the cracks in the wall.
He whispered the alphabet again under his breath, tracing letters in the air with a finger.
"Ael… Be… Cha… De…"
Each sound vibrated faintly.
Not visibly, not even audibly more like the air noticed.
He frowned, stopped, and shook his head. Imagination, he decided.
Just imagination.
That evening his mother, Leth Saela, waited with a soft smile. "Did you learn much today, my son?"
"Yes," he said proudly. "I can say 'Velin sael' now!"
She laughed. "Then say it properly."
He bowed slightly, mimicking the teachers. "Velin sael, Mother."
"Mor thaen, my light," she replied, touching his hair.
They sat by the hearth.
She placed a small clay tablet on the table and gestured for him to write. "Show me."
He dipped his finger in water and drew slow curves. Ael, Be, Cha perfect lines for such small hands.
"You remember all?"
"Yes."
"And what is this one?"
"Sael," he said. "Light."
"And this?"
"Vel."
She nodded, pleased. "Then you are ready for the Blessing Word."
He tilted his head. "What's that?"
She smiled mysteriously. "Each child learns it before they turn four. It is the word you whisper when you wish the world to listen."
She leaned close and said softly, "Letha morin sael."
He repeated, "Letha morin sael."
"It means Let light be gentle. We say it when the storms pass."
He whispered it again, almost in reverence. "Letha morin sael."
The fire crackled.
Outside, the wind stilled for half a breath, then sighed.
She didn't notice.
Before sleep, she tucked him in with a song the same lullaby she'd hummed since his birth.
"Sael thaen, vel thaen, mor thaen…"
(Light, life, heart be at peace.)
He murmured the words back, eyelids heavy.
"Sael thaen… vel thaen…"
Her voice trembled with pride. "My clever boy," she whispered.
"One day you'll speak in the temple. Perhaps the gods will listen."
He yawned. "Do gods really listen?"
She smiled. "Only to children."
He wanted to ask more, but sleep pulled him under.
The last thing he felt was her hand resting on his hair, her voice soft and steady.
"Mor thaen, Va'Runa. Be well of heart."