The First Circle

As afternoon waned and the shadows stretched long like the fingers of the gods, Azariel raised his hand. His gesture alone was enough; the murmur of activity ceased, and the settlers gathered upon the small rise Kiya had marked. They came without hesitation, forming a wide circle, not out of custom but instinct, as though the earth itself had guided their steps. Children were hushed and drawn close, elders supported by younger arms, craftsmen still smelling of grass or clay finding their places beside former merchants and scribes.

The sun burned low over the valley, casting its final glory in a wash of gold that set the river shimmering and turned the meadow grasses into a sea of light. Shamash seemed to linger at the edge of the sky, pouring out his blessing upon this moment.

Azariel stood at the circle’s heart, his blue cloak stirring in the valley breeze like the last flame of day. His storm-grey eyes swept across them, resting on each face in turn, as though memorising them for eternity. When he spoke, his words were clear and steady, carrying not through force but through resonance, like the deep notes of a temple drum.

“Look around you,” he said. His hand moved slowly, taking in not the land but the people. “Not only at the valley, though it is fairer than any vision. Look at one another.” His voice softened, yet seemed to grow stronger for it. “Do you remember the marketplace of Ur, when this began? When we were as strangers—faces uncertain as spring skies, hearts filled with questions, hopes as fragile as the first shoots after planting?”

A ripple passed through the circle. Some nodded, some lowered their eyes in memory. A few smiled faintly, recalling how they had stood awkward and unsure, listening to a man in a blue cloak speak of impossible things.

Azariel’s gaze swept over them again, and now he raised his hand, palm open, as though offering their reflection back to them. “Look at those faces now. Scarred by wind and storm, yes. Marked by fire and toil, yes. But also transformed. Each line, each callus, each scar is not a sign of weakness—it is a testament. The Silverrun did not drown us. The Daggertooth did not cast us down. The wolves did not devour us. Even the storm of Adad bent to let us pass. And in all this, we did not endure alone. We endured together.”

He let the silence breathe, heavy with memory. The settlers shifted unconsciously closer, shoulders brushing, hands clasping without thought, their very stance echoing his words.

“We bear something now,” Azariel continued, his voice deepening with conviction. “More precious than gold, more enduring than stone. We carry one another. We carry the bond that trial has forged, as fire tempers metal and makes it stronger. We were once a gathering of many—merchants, masons, scribes, smiths, farmers, healers. Now we are one people.”

A murmur of assent rose, soft at first, then swelling like wind rising through wheat. Some whispered prayers. Others touched the earth. Still others simply stood straighter, their eyes alight.

Azariel inclined his head slightly, almost humbly, before lifting it again. “This valley is not ours yet. The gods do not grant such gifts without labour. It must be shaped, worked, honoured. There will be trials yet, as certain as night follows day. But tonight, let us mark what has already been accomplished. We have not merely found a valley. We have found ourselves.”

The circle was silent now, utterly still, save for the soft rustle of the grass in the evening wind. The settlers looked to one another, and the truth of his words was plain upon their faces.

Azariel lifted his arms, and the circle seemed to tighten of its own accord, as if the settlers leaned toward the flame of his words. His cloak caught the dying light, and for an instant he looked less like a man and more like a figure carved into the tablets of myth.

“This valley,” he declared, sweeping his hand across the wide green below, “is not mere refuge. Not the last weary halt of wanderers seeking rest. No—this is a beginning, the seed of something the world has not yet seen.” His voice rose, firm as stone, warm as fire. “Here we will shape not only homes, but a new way of living. We have learned on the road what kings forget behind their walls—that strength is not in the arm of one man, nor in the wealth of one house, but in the unity of many, as fingers form the hand. That lesson will be our foundation, as sure as any stone set upon sacred ground.”

The settlers stirred, eyes bright, their faces turned toward him as though toward the rising sun. A child clutched her mother’s hand tighter. A farmer reached out and set his palm on the shoulder of a mason beside him, a man he had barely spoken to in Ur. The simple gesture carried more weight than oaths sworn before idols.

The sun touched the western hills, gilding the valley in a final blaze before retreat. Long shadows stretched across the meadow like the outstretched hands of the gods, but instead of dimming the light, it seemed to pool around them—lingering, reluctant, as though Shamash himself wished to bless this first gathering of a people reborn.

“Tomorrow,” Azariel said, his voice softening but no less strong, “we begin the work. As our forebears once brought order from chaos, so will we. We will raise walls not to keep others out, but to hold ourselves together. We will build hearths where no one eats alone, markets where wealth is shared, temples where every soul may bring their prayers. The gods have given us this valley, but it is for us to shape it into more than land—it must become a life.”

Then, in a rare moment, his face broke into a full smile—unrestrained, bright, and unguarded. The intensity that so often set him apart was transformed into something radiant, like burnished gold catching firelight. “But tonight,” he continued, and his eyes glinted with a spark of humour, “tonight we lay down our burdens. Tonight we feast, we sing, we laugh. Tonight we are not merely survivors of the wilderness, but the founders of a destiny. For we have reached not just a destination, but our place in the great river of time—our portion, as certain as the rivers find the sea.”

A murmur rose from the settlers, swelling into a cheer that surprised even themselves. Hands lifted, voices called blessings, children leapt and clapped, and the sound of joy filled the valley for the first time. The air itself seemed to carry it, echoing from the river’s bend and the foothills beyond, as though the land approved and answered in kind.

As if summoned by divine inspiration, someone began to sing—the melody that had been born upon the mountain plateau, but with new verses now reshaped to celebrate their arrival in this promised land:

“Light the sacred fire bright,
In this valley blessed tonight,
Where our dreams take root and grow,
Where our stories overflow.”

Others joined in, their voices harmonising like streams joining a river, until the song swelled and filled the valley with hope and triumph:

“Here we build with willing hands,
What we dreamed in distant lands,
Every stone and timber placed,
By the bonds that hardship laced.”

The settlers’ song lingered in the air even after the last verse faded, its echoes clinging to the valley as if the land itself were reluctant to let go.

“A fire is not only for warmth — it is the centre around which a people learn to be one.” — Saying of the Valley Founders

Azariel stood apart for a moment, watching. He thought of all they had endured—the wolves, the storm, the river, the mountains—and of the hands that had clasped one another in fear and in hope, the shoulders that had borne more than their share, the voices that had refused to fall silent even in despair. This was no longer his vision alone. It belonged to all of them now.

He felt rather than saw when Kiya came to his side, her sketches tucked beneath her arm, her dark eyes reflecting the firelight. Eadric approached a moment later, silent but steady, his presence as sure as stone. Then Amara, still carrying her healer’s satchel, her face shadowed with weariness but brightened by quiet pride. One by one, others gathered—Torren with soot still staining his hands, Sara with her determined gaze, Zilara leaning on her staff but standing tall. Without summons or command, a circle formed again, firelight flickering across faces transformed by hardship and by hope.

The song stilled. The valley grew quiet save for the crackle of flame and the distant murmur of the river. Azariel let the silence settle before he spoke, not as a leader commanding, nor as a prophet declaring, but as a man sharing the deepest truth of his heart. His words came low, almost a whisper, yet they carried to all who stood there:

“Light the fire.”

The phrase hung in the night like a spark suspended in air. Around the circle, hands reached to the flames, feeding them with fresh wood, shielding them from the wind, coaxing them higher. Sparks leapt skyward like prayers rising to the gods.

Then Amara answered, her healer’s voice soft but sure, completing the thought as if it were a rite she had always known:

“Share the light.”

The words passed from mouth to mouth, first tentative, then certain, until the circle rang with them. Share the light. Children whispered it with wide eyes, elders murmured it as prayer, and soon the whole valley echoed with the phrase, a chorus woven of many voices yet carrying a single meaning.

From the central fire, embers were lifted and carried outward. Families lit their own hearths with the same flame, passing it from hand to hand with reverence, as though it were no mere fire but a covenant entrusted by the gods themselves. Soon the valley floor blazed with firelight—dozens of flames, no two alike, yet all born of the same spark.

The darkness retreated before them. Laughter mingled with song, prayers with promises. And in the eyes of all who stood there, something new had taken root, as enduring as stone, as bright as fire.

Above, the stars wheeled in their eternal dance, but now it seemed they leaned closer, as if to bear witness to this covenant between mortals and gods.

So the night was marked, and with it the ending of one journey and the beginning of another. The tale of Fordingrad had begun—its first words written not on clay, but in fire and in light.

Light the fire. Share the light.