From the Journal of Suki Warren

  April 3, 1789

  On Departure from the Island

  I came seeking wonders. I leave carrying ghosts.

  The sea is calm today, an unearned kindness after all that has transpired. The ship rocks beneath me, gentle as a cradle, yet I do not feel comforted. My heart is not my own—it remains behind, buried beneath the shattered ruins of what I could not save.

  I believed in discovery, in knowledge, in the idea that truth, once found, could never be taken away. But the island is a cruel teacher. It does not give freely, nor does it suffer fools gladly. I was a fool.

  As a child, I could never have imagined that the title "The Keeper" would someday resonate so profoundly. Now, as I gaze out at the vast ocean, preparing for the long journey home, I find myself standing on the edge of everything I once believed.

  I find I am not the same girl who first stepped onto this shore, filled with hope and purpose. I came seeking knowledge, believing I was meant for something greater. But I leave knowing that belief and truth are rarely the same.

  The island does not give its secrets freely. It always takes something in return. And what it took from me—my certainty, my hope—I may never get back.

  I have come to understand how deeply my experiences on these islands have transformed me. Each wave that crashes against the shore seems to reflect the changes I have undergone. I stand here not just as my former self but as someone who feels uncertain about her future.

  The promise of what I once sought still flickers within my empty heart, like an enchantment that refuses to fade, though the illusion has long since slipped through my fingers.

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  When I first stepped into the science of Dragonomy, I thought I was walking toward destiny—toward purpose. The threads of my future were just beginning to weave themselves into something bold and bright, something worth remembering.

  Little did I know that the title of Keeper—once a name I imagined would bring me honor and purpose—would become a weight I could not carry, a mark of failure, not triumph.

  Yet, I cannot shake the feeling that fate is not finished with me. Even now, standing in the shadow of my own mistakes, I feel its hand tugging at the edges of my story. And though sorrow has settled into my bones, there is something in the wind—a whispered promise, or perhaps a warning—that tells me this is not the end.

  Because as I stand on deck looking at the shore, I, I hope I am not merely waiting to return home—but standing at the threshold, at the exact moment before the real story begins to unfold.

  I was sixteen and on holiday with my father when I first heard the word ‘Keeper.’ I sat cross-legged on the cold flagstone floor of the abbey library, where I would often spend my days while my father was in port. With a book in hand, I listened as a storm battered the windows so fiercely that I thought the walls might crack. The sisters walked the halls, going about their daily chores, not a concern for the storm brewing about, whispering the word like an calling, "...the Keeper…

  the Keeper..."

  But even then it resonated with significance. It felt sacred and weighty, like a crown forged from iron, pressing down with a sense of gravity and purpose.

  At that young age I naively believed that the term was just a fancy way of saying caretaker. I imagined someone who would tend to the books, sweep the floors, and light the candles, bringing warmth to the dim corners of the abbey.

  Which sounded positively dreadful then. Little did I know, the reality was far more intriguing—and nothing like I imagined.

  At the abbey, I learned that dragons are not beasts to be tamed or slain, but ancient embers burning through time itself, choosing hearts worthy to carry their fiery and beautiful force.

  Later I would learn what it meant to long for something so ancient to feel it pulse—not with blood, but with memory, older than the earth itself. And I would learn the feeling of loss, the kind that hollows the heart, leaving only silence—merely ash and regret, where hope once lived.

  So, as I gather the fractured pieces of this shattered tale and prepare to turn my back on this place, I carry with me the weight of loss—this is not the story of how I became the Keeper. This is a tale woven by fate, where the relentless sea devoured my courage, the tempestuous wind scattered my hope, and this desolate island, has taken everything I once held meaningful.

  Fate does not ask for permission. It chooses. And sometimes, it lays its hand upon the most unlikely soul—not because they are ready, but because the story is not over. And if the story is not over, then neither is my promise, to wait for dragons.