Luneth watched the beacon burn through the night. Purple flames danced and crackled in the metal cage. Dawn came with cold wind off the water. The beacon still burned. They sat down on the rocks and waited. Their ears swiveled at every sound—gulls crying, waves breaking, wind through the trees below the cliff. Nothing else. No hoofbeats. No voices. Just the empty morning stretching out like all the mornings before it. They knew this might happen. Three hundred years of silence didn't break in one night. But they'd taken the first step. The beacon was lit. Anyone who remembered would see it eventually. Luneth stood and stretched their stiff legs. They needed to keep the fire going, gather more fuel, maintain the signal. This was how it started—not with answers, but with the question burning bright enough to be seen. But waiting wasn't enough anymore. If someone did come, they'd need to communicate properly. The old dialects had shifted over centuries. Luneth headed down from the cliff, following a path through the trees. They needed to learn the ancient languages again, the ones scholars used before the Unbinding. Half a day's walk brought them to a ramshackle building that looked part barn, part monument. Blue wood formed the walls. Grey stone framed the doorway. Purple gems caught the light along the roof edge. Inside, dust covered rows of benches and shelves lined with cracked books. A schoolhouse, abandoned but intact. Luneth pulled down the first volume. The pages crumbled at the edges but the words remained clear. They settled onto the floor, hooves folded beneath them, and began to read. If another of their kind saw the beacon and came, Luneth would be ready to speak properly. Ready to share what they knew. The beacon asked the question. These books would help them give an answer worth hearing. Hours passed. The light through the windows shifted from morning to afternoon. Their eyes burned from reading the faded text, but they found what they needed—pronunciation guides, grammar structures, phrases that might bridge three centuries of drift. Outside, rain began to fall. Luneth glanced up at the sound on the roof. They'd need shelter here if the storm grew worse. Near the doorway stood a massive umbrella with a crooked purple wooden base and a canopy made of flowing kelp. Someone had left it there, probably decades ago. It would keep the entrance dry if anyone else came seeking knowledge. Luneth marked their place in the book and stood. They had work to do—learning, practicing, preparing. When another finally came, they would have the words ready.