Stories from Naoh’ra Rabntah

The Keeper

The morning fog drifted down from the upper valley, winding through the red-barked trees like restless spirits. Castella walked through the village paths, the scent of damp earth and old pine thick in the air.

She passed by the healer’s lodge earlier—just a quick, quiet check-in. They didn’t see her, too absorbed in their morning tasks, but she overheard enough to know Justin hadn’t slept—restless, caught between waking and nightmares.

It wasn’t the first night like that. Ever since the ritual, his sleep had been unpredictable—either too much or none at all. The healers said his mind was unsteady, drifting through pieces of memory he couldn’t keep hold of.

No magic could fix that. Only time.

And it was her fault. Castella knew that much. If she were stronger—if she hadn’t needed saving in the first place—he wouldn’t have had to break himself to protect her. She wasn’t enough to shield him, and now he was paying the price.

At least his body was healing—slow and imperfect, but true. They patched his face as best they could, but the scars would likely remain. His leg—neglected for too long—was slowly regaining strength, though they warned it might never be the same. The burns dulled into scars. The marks would linger.

And though his recovery was difficult, it was a small comfort to know he wasn’t facing it alone.

Castella had seen the boy coming and going—always quiet, always careful. She hadn’t approached him yet, not wanting to disrupt the fragile sense of stability they were building. But just knowing that Justin had someone to rely on—someone who stayed when she couldn’t—was enough.

She pushed her thoughts away, focusing on the path ahead as the village square came into view.

Villagers were beginning to gather at the square, arranging bundles of herbs and dried roots for the midday exchange. They greeted her with soft nods, bowing their heads just slightly—never too much, but enough to show respect.

She gave a faint smile in return, then turned toward the stone-paved path winding through the heart of the settlement. She hadn’t planned to stop, but an elder woman caught her eye, holding a basket of dried roots.

“For the healers,” the woman said, her tone laced with overly maternal care. “That poor boy isn’t eating enough. No wonder he’s healing so slow. They say he’s keeping his meals down now, but it’s barely enough to fill a sparrow. Managed to sit up yesterday, though—that’s something. Still, he needs proper meals if he’s ever going to get his strength back.”

Castella gave a patient smile. “He’ll get there. Just… let him find his own pace. The healers know what he needs.”

The elder woman drew back slightly, apology in her tone. “Of course, Your Grace. Didn’t mean to fuss. Just can’t help but worry when a young one’s having a hard time.”

“I know. He just needs time.”

“He must be a special one. Haven’t seen the Keeper herself mind a guest so closely since—” She caught herself, giving a small, wry smile. “Well, it’s been a while.”

Castella didn’t answer, but the silence was kind. The woman seemed content to leave it at that, her hands busy with the herbs she was bundling, but the hint of curiosity remained, carefully kept behind her usual warmth.

As she moved on, the sounds of the village faded behind her. The path curved upward, climbing toward the ridge where the Ruby dragons made their roosts. The air grew cooler, and the mist thinned, revealing Vaeril ahead, tending to the sandstone archway that marked the upper valley entrance. His presence was both a comfort and a reminder—the weight of his disapproval still fresh from the last conversation they’d had.

He looked up when she approached, offering a brief acknowledgment. “Your Grace.”

She spoke without pause. “Are the wards holding?”

“Better than before. The east side was weakened, but Sira reinforced it.” He added, more matter-of-fact, “The boy is improving, they say. His mind is steadier.”

Castella let the words settle. “Good,” she managed. “I’m glad.”

Vaeril didn’t look away. His eyes—older than his human form should allow—held her with a steady calm. “He’s still easily unsettled. The healers are careful not to push him. You know that.”

“I do,” she said, keeping her voice even.

Vaeril’s expression remained neutral. “And you’re sure you don’t want to see him?”

Her fingers tightened around her palm, the coolness of her signet ring grounding her. “If he remembered me,” she said quietly, “that would be different. But he doesn’t. I won’t make it harder than it already is.”

A low, rumbling breath escaped Vaeril, almost a sigh. “He gave his memories for you. That much he chose. It would be understandable if you—”

“I know,” Castella interrupted, her voice low. “But he didn’t choose this—not really. He needs space to figure things out on his own.”

Vaeril didn’t argue. Instead, he watched her carefully, as if measuring how much she could hold before she broke. “The elders have reminded you of your duties. You can’t let this consume you, Your Grace.”

Castella pressed her lips together, not trusting herself to speak. She knew her duties well enough. Since her sire’s death and the fall of the true line, she had been their Keeper—heir in name, if not in power.

They called her the bridge between worlds—a dragon who walked among humans, both protector and heir. The villagers saw her as something close to divine, a Keeper of peace and fire. The dragons saw her as the rightful heir, born to protect and guide.

She’d never felt less deserving of either role.

“I know what I must do,” she said, softer now. “And I know he needs time.”

Vaeril shifted his weight, folding his arms. “You’re allowed to care, Your Grace.”

Her voice didn’t waver this time. “Caring doesn’t mean forcing myself back into his life. Let him heal on his own terms.”

A light rustle behind them drew their attention. One of the healers, a young woman with a quick, respectful bow, approached. “Your Grace. Master Vaeril. I’ve just come from the cottage. Master Ashford is finally resting. The potions have helped soothe him.”

“Good,” Castella said. “After everything he’s been through, we owe him that much. Let’s make sure he stays comfortable.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“Thank you. Keep me informed.”

The healer turned and made her way back down the path.

Vaeril didn’t speak again until she had gone. “When he’s stronger, he might start to wonder if this is where he belongs. You know the valley isn’t meant for someone like him.”

Castella looked at the ground. “If he wants to go, he can. But he’s done enough fighting. Let him choose.”

The dragon gave a slow, deliberate nod, his tone softening. “You give more than you take, Your Grace. It’s noble—but sometimes it leaves you with nothing.”

She clenched her jaw, saying nothing.

He didn’t press further. Instead, he turned to the archway, his gaze shifting back to the carved stone. “The valley remembers who you are, Your Grace. Don’t let that slip away.”

Castella stayed silent, watching the clouds drift over the ridge. The villagers trusted her. The dragons expected her to lead. But Justin had never asked her for anything—never looked to her like the others did. He had been the one person who saw her, not the Keeper.

And now, that memory was gone.

She took a slow, steadying breath. “I’ve made sure the village knows to keep a respectful distance. He shouldn’t feel crowded.”

“That, at least, was wise,” Vaeril said. “The villagers have taken to him. Word spreads quickly. They know to treat him with care.”

She almost smiled. “That’s good. He deserves peace.”

Vaeril didn’t disagree. Castella kept her focus on the valley as the mist thinned, light brushing through the trees. She couldn’t change what had been lost—couldn’t force memories back into place. But if giving him space meant he could find his footing, she would wait—however long it took, no matter how much it hurt.