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Chapter 24: The Gate and the Gaze

The days had passed not like pages in a book, but like old songs drifting across an unfamiliar land, some sweet, some bitter, and some that clung like cold ash to the inside of his chest. Their path westward bent beneath them like a ribbon of copper and clay, winding through broken valleys and dry forest, under skies that refused to rain. The air was warm and thick with dragonfly hum and pollen dust, and each morning, Axton woke to the sound of wings, talons scraping rock, and someone grumbling about tea or boots or burnt rations. There had been laughter, real laughter, when Seraphina mistook a sleeping rock drake for a boulder and tried to cook eggs on its back. There had been a moment of quiet beauty, too, when Lyra taught Travis to chase shadows cast by her wings at dawn, their shapes dancing across the cliffs like some story meant only for them. And there had been the song.

One night, when the fire had burned low and the others lay curled in quiet piles of warmth and breath, wings draped over lovers, a wolven tail twitching in sleep, Axton rose with the unease that often found him in the quiet. He wandered through the hush, only to find Nelneras not asleep, but watching the stars. The dragon was a sculpture of gold and shadow, sprawled along the stone like he had grown from it. His eyes shimmered with moonlight, and from his throat came a sound, low, resonant, and older than words.

A song. Not like anything Axton had ever heard sung. It wasn’t melody in the way mortals shaped it. It pulsed, curved, rose and fell like wind against cliff, like fire rising through cold air. It was mournful but not broken, like something remembering joy through sorrow. Like something holding on.

He hadn’t meant to interrupt. But the sound wrapped around him like smoke, and he stood there caught in it, mouth parted, his heart stirring with something he didn’t have a word for. A longing too large for his chest.

The dragon did not open his eyes, but spoke softly, “It’s called Vael Dorrath. ‘Wings Remember the Wind.’”

Axton barely breathed. “It’s beautiful. You… sing?”

“Only when it matters,” Nelneras murmured. “Dragons don’t sing like you do. We resonate. We remember. Each note binds a memory, so that nothing is truly lost.” He paused, then added, “This one belonged to the night my sister left. She was chasing a comet.”

A sorrow bloomed at that, and Axton found himself stepping closer, the firelight behind him casting his shadow across the dragon’s scales. Another note rose, softer now, curling like a question in the air.

“What memory is that one?” he asked.

Nelneras opened one eye and looked straight through him. “This moment.” he said.

And Axton knew, without touch, without declaration, that the dragon was binding this moment into the melody. Him. Here.

He sat beside Nelneras’ wing, careful not to brush it, knees hugged to his chest. The hum continued, wrapping them in something too sacred for words. A song of starlight and silence, sorrow and closeness. He didn’t know what he was to Nelneras, not fully. But in that moment, under the weight of those ancient notes, Axton wished selfishly, helplessly… that this would be the memory the dragon never let go of.

Still, they continued to train, the coming lessons ever exciting on Axton’s mind. What mysteries or secrets would this fascinating gold dragon wish to bestow? The third one had come like a spark in the dark, unexpected, blinding, and far too intimate. The morning air had tasted of dust and citrus, as if the wind itself were watching, waiting to see if Axton Turnvoth would rise or stumble.

Nelneras stood across from him, golden and vast, his feathery wings half-folded in casual expectation, like a painting of divinity pretending not to notice the mortal before it. His turquoise eyes gleamed with quiet mischief, the kind that wrapped around Axton’s throat like silk and dared him to breathe.

The dragon had made a simple request. Cast a spell. One you did not prepare from your book of spells.

Simple. In the way a mountain was simple. In the way a storm was just “weather.”

Axton stared at him as though he’d grown three heads and asked him to court the stars in Draconic. His fingers twitched at his sides, searching for a gesture he hadn’t rehearsed. His mind scrambled through the carefully prepared rows of spells in his memory and found nothing that matched the command.

“I can’t do that.” he’d said, the words weak against the wind.

A smile graced that golden snout, slow and knowing, “You can,” he said. “You just don’t believe you can. Yet.”

So, he tried. He reached, not with his mind, but with the part of himself he barely understood. The quiet place in his chest that burned when Nelneras looked at him like that. The place that still remembered flight, and moonlight on feathers, and the feeling of being seen.

Magic stirred. For a breathless second, the Weave responded. Power coiled at his fingertips, heat building, reality softening. And then, poof. The magic slipped sideways, fumbled, misfired like a violin strung with silk. A shimmering blast of sparkling blue dust erupted from his palms, surrounding him in a soft, celebratory haze of glitter and humming air. It wasn’t dangerous. It wasn’t even impressive. It was embarrassing.

He stood there, blinking through the motes like a startled birthday candle, lips parted, mortified. Nelneras raised an eyebrow, watching the particles cling to his chest.

“Well,” the dragon chuckled, not cruelly, but richly, like someone watching a child trip trying to walk on stilts. “that’s one way to summon attention.”

Axton had wanted to sink into the ground. Instead, he had sulked beside a boulder while Seraphina offered him something that might’ve once been soup, and Roran clapped him on the back with the subtlety of a battering ram.

But it wasn’t the failed spell that gnawed at him the most over the next days of travel.

It was Pyretalon.

He saw it in the way Pyretalon didn’t meet his gaze when he landed beside him. The clipped way he spoke, as if affection cost too much. The fact that Lyra still sang at sunrise, still touched his shoulder with wing or paw, but Pyretalon didn’t even offer a glance.

That was what hurt. Not the silence, but the void where warmth once lived. A place once filled with easy smiles, teasing glances, wings draped over his shoulders when nightmares came calling. That gryphon had been a constant, a living certainty in a world built on doubt. Pyretalon had held him when the darkness crept in, had made him laugh when he had forgotten how. The secret fantasy Axton had whispered into his pillow, the comfort he had never dared to name. And now, he was a soldier. A shape in the sky. A shadow who flew without looking back. To be reduced to that, to duty, to protocol, to polite disinterest, it was quiet annihilation.

As they flew, something in the bones of the land began to shift, the scars and rot starting to end. The sharp lines of ruin softened. The broken roads grew straighter, like threads being drawn toward a needlepoint. Brambles thinned into thickets. Stone fences, still standing, marked stubborn property lines in fields kissed by new green. Far ahead, a gleam appeared. Water, wide and bright, where the land dipped away into sea.

The wind changed too.

Salt laced the air, sharp and bracing, kissed with warmth. It carried the scent of sea and coalsmoke, kelp and life. Axton breathed it in and felt something stir in his chest, a flutter of hope, wary but persistent. Below, the cliffs opened like a beckoning palm and nestled in its grasp was a port unlike the others.

It was not a fortress. Not a ruin. Not another desperate clutch of half-built shelters braced against fate. It was alive.

Stone terraces clung to the cliffside like steps to a sleeping god’s throne. Colorful sails danced in the harbor wind, half of them patched, all of them proud. Layers of wood and stone met the sea in tidal alleys and layered piers, where boats rocked like children at rest. From above, the markets bloomed in a carnival of tarp-strung reds and ocean blues, smells of smoke and salt and cooking fire wafting even into the sky. Painted signs swung above clustered rooftops, some welcoming, others warning.

And then, there it was. A tower. Coiled in black stone like a mollusk’s shell, its spiraled form shimmered with glassy silver edges that pulsed faintly in the sun. The runes etched along its sides didn’t glow… they shifted, as fish beneath still water. There were no windows. No doors he could see. Just one narrow bridge, suspended over a chasm, too thin and too perfect to be natural.

Nelneras angled his wings just enough to drift alongside Axton, his voice carrying on the wind like something rehearsed beneath stars.

"Behold, Virestone, the port between realms," he called, "Built where Rothdell’s cliffs meet the sea’s eternal sigh. You’ll hear secrets in the wind, if you know what to listen for." He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with soft mischief. "She is a port of layered tongues and tarnished banner, half memory, half ambition. Rothdell bones still sleep in her stones, but dragons walk her skies now, and two-leggers trade tales for safety beneath our wings."

Then, more warmly, aimed toward the group, but mostly him: "I've always found her beautiful. Not for her polish, gods know she has none, but for her stubborn flame. Here, even broken things get a second life. It’s the kind of place," he added, with a wry smile, "where people arrive hoping to be judged, and leave surprised to be welcomed."

The dragon dipped lower, the wind riffling through his whiskers, as he drew ever closer so only Axton might hear.

"You'll like it here, I think. There's enough danger to challenge you. Enough wonder to inspire you. And if you're very lucky..." His eyes lingered a second longer with a lustful growl, "...someone might even flirt with you in the Tide Market."

Nelneras broke formation with a sudden upward sweep, his crème and black wings slicing into the sun like blades. The motion pulled taut every muscle along his body, flanks rippling, tail flicking, haunches flexing with deliberate grace. Axton’s breath hitched. He meant to look away, he should have looked away, but the dragon twisted mid-climb, glancing back over his shoulder with a smirk carved from pure sin. His eyes glinted, and the grin beneath them said I know exactly where you're looking, little mage. Axton flushed so hard he nearly toppled Roran’s back. His thoughts became a mess of heat and imagined weight, of that tail curling around him, of being pinned beneath that body, swallowed whole in golden scale and growled promises. He could imagine that rumble by his ear one day, “Take it, little spark… take all of it.”

Axton's spine stiffened as if the words had been whispered beside his ear. His knuckles whitened where they gripped fur. Roran’s fur.

The wolven beneath him snorted, ears swiveling back. “…Was that for me?

“What?”

“I mean, he looked. All slow and golden and proud. Like a damn mating display.”

He flicked one ear as if the thought itched. “I’ll admit, I’m flattered. Really. He’s… graceful. Confident. Big. But, uh—I’m more the mounting kind, not the tail-lifting sort, y’know? Not saying I wouldn’t. I mean, maybe. If he landed tail-first or something dramatic like that…”

He groaned, face in his hands. Roran kept talking.

“Not that I want him to! Just saying! Hypothetically. I mean, how do you even tell a dragon you’re not his type? What if that’s rude? Or an insult to his hoard? What if he thinks it’s a challenge?”

“It was for me.” he croaked, face flushing deeper than rosewood in moonlight.

Roran blinked. Twice. “Wait. You?”

He glanced back over his shoulder, eyes widening with dawning realization.

“Oh! That makes way more sense. Yeah, okay. That tracks.” He nodded, warming to the idea. “He’s definitely into you, buddy. Want help?”

“No.” Axton hissed.

“I could talk to him. Mention your talents! Magical and otherwise.”

“Roran—”

"So, you’re gonna want to signal. Y’know, subtle, but clear. Maybe kneel a little when you talk to him, keep your back arched, lift your tail, gryphons go wild for that."

Axton buried his face in his hands. “I do not have a tail, Roran.”

The wolven huffed, eyes narrowed. “Right. Shit. No tail.” He hummed, undeterred. “Okay, then look over your shoulder with those wide eyes you do like when you’re about to cast a fireball. That whole ‘oh no, I’m just a fragile spellcaster’ thing. Really sells the ‘mount me’ energy.”

He peered over his friend’s flank, wondering if he fell now, would gravity end this embarrassment.

“Now, I don’t rightly know how dragon bits work,” Roran said, utterly serious, “but I’m gonna go out on a tail here and guess he’s got a knot. A proper one. Big.”

Roran kept going. Axton choked.

“Don’t be scared. We’ll get you loosened up, nice and easy. Trust me. Knots are life changing. I’ve seen humans cry. Like, weep.”

Axton’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He wasn’t sure whether to scream or throw himself off the wolf’s back. His ears burned so hot he thought they might catch fire from the friction of his own shame.

Before he could disappear into the weave, or die trying, a new voice cut through the wind.

“What are you two whispering about?” The tone was soaked in syrup and knives.

Seraphina drifted up alongside them atop Lyra, eyes twinkling with trouble.

“You’re blushing,” Lyra cooed, her tail curling in a lazy spiral. “Is that steam coming out of your ears, Ax? Stars, what did you say to him?”

Axton flailed for composure “We weren’t—I didn’t—It’s nothing!”

“KNOTS!” Roran barked at full volume, entirely too proud of himself.

Silence fell like a dropped cloak. Then Seraphina blinked. “...Like sailor knots?”

Lyra gasped, a talon over her beak. “Oh no, sweetie. He means the other kind. The kind that makes you whimper and see stars.”

Seraphina’s ears twitched back as her eyes widened. “…Oh! …Wait—what?!”

“I would like to be thrown into the sea now. Please.” Axton buried his face into Roran’s fur, muffling a strangled groan.

“Too late!” Lyra sang, circling once overhead like a vulture with a scroll. “You’re getting knotted, not drowned!”

“Oh, my gods.” Axton wheezed.

Seraphina hovered closer, clearly caught between horror and helpless laughter. “Are you… are you courting a dragon?”

Axton made a noise somewhere between a dying bird and a swallowed scream. His face was hot enough to light a campfire. He didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. Not with them grinning like that. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Willed the ground to open. It did not.

He turned away, ignoring the chorus of laughter as best he could, pretending to focus on the distant cliffs and sparkling sea. But the heat in his face refused to fade. And Nelneras, flying ahead, smug, golden and absolutely aware, didn’t even have to look back to know.

The only thing the poor mage could do is but stare forward, jaw tight, and try to recover from the verbal catastrophe that had just unfolded around him. “Knots.” Stars help him. As if the implication hadn’t been enough, now it was a chorus, an echo chamber of innuendo and smug grins. If Roran so much as chuckled again, Axton was going to transmute his spoon into a blade and stab him, slowly, repeatedly, and with flair.

Down below, people were pointing. Scattered along the dusty roads and weatherworn hills outside the port, humans, gnolls, halflings, and others were spilling from buildings and roadside stalls. Children shrieked with laughter, waving scarves and wide-brimmed hats. Merchants shaded their eyes and pointed. Someone whistled. A group of workers dropped their tools, looking skyward with unguarded wonder.

It took Axton a moment to understand they were looking at them. No arrows. No spells. No suspicion. Just joy.

It hit like a gust on the chest. Not because they waved at him, but because they waved at Nelneras. Unafraid. Unbothered. No one flinched at the sight of a dragon overhead. No drawn bows, no whispered prayers of warding. Just smiles. It reminded him of the Emerald Twilight, where no one feared the beat of draconic flight. Here was a ruined kingdom, half-clawed back from the brink, and they were smiling at a dragon in the open sky. It made something in his chest ache.

“Why are we descending?” he asked, voice half-lost to the wind. “Wouldn’t it be easier to fly straight to the docks?”

Ahead, Nelneras veered slightly, banking wide and slow. His wings caught the sun like a ripple of parchment brushed in ink. “That,” came the calm reply, “would be an insult. The Warden of the Southern Gate does not take kindly to being overlooked.”

Axton blinked. “Warden?”

“Gate jaw, some call him. Bronze, old, and terribly theatrical. Claims the gate is part of his hoard. Gods help the traveler who leaves mud on it.” Nelneras gestured downward with a flick of one wingtip, toward the gate road ahead.

And there, coiled atop a sun-bleached platform of old marble and moss, lounged a bronze dragon large enough to crush a cottage beneath his belly. His scales caught the sunlight in hues of weathered copper and dull gold, glinting like sea-washed treasure. One massive wing stretched lazily over the gate’s archway, the other curled protectively what looked suspiciously like a copper-plated barrel. Whatever it was, it steamed, and the dragon sipped from it like it was the most important task of the afternoon.

His head turned as they approached, slow and deliberate, eyes gleaming with the kind of amusement that made Axton’s stomach tighten. Even from here, the smugness radiated off him like heat from a forge.

“Stars,” he muttered, “he looks like he’s going to ask for our paperwork and our souls.”

“Likely both,” Nelneras said, ever cheery. “Smile, Axton. Gatejaw adores new arrivals.”

“Does he?”

“No,” said the gold dragon. “But it makes him suspicious, and that’s nearly as fun.”

** * * * * * * * *

Wings beat like sails flaring against sunlit grass. Roran touched down first, Pyretalon landed a breath later, not gracefully, but flawlessly. Talons folded with crisp precision, feathers barely ruffled. Lyra glided in behind him with a burst of wind, already grinning, while Seraphina dismounted her with only the smallest stumble.

The bronze dragon didn’t move. Not at first. He simply sipped from his steaming cup, lounging atop the marble dais like a god who’d decided to moonlight as a bureaucrat. Only when the wind settled and the dust of their landing had drifted down to swirl lazily between the cobbles did he finally lean forward and speak.

“Well, well. Look what the storm rolled in.” Gatejaw rumbled, eyes glinting like tarnished bronze. “You bring a whole flock with you now, do you?” Gatejaw’s eyes glimmered. “Let me guess. Traveling circus? Diplomatic envoy? Rescue party?”

The gold dragon was poised but clearly already annoyed, offered the faintest of bows. “Gatejaw. Still watching the road? Or have you merged with the foundation entirely?”

Gatejaw’s rumble almost became a chuckle. “You wound me. I’ll have you know I stood up yesterday. And for you? I might even sniff something.”

His gaze shifted to Axton. “A little young for a consort, aren’t they?” he mused. “Or have the ‘pet adoption’ rumors finally taken a turn for the scandalous?”

Nelneras exhaled slowly. “They’re my companions. And guests. Not toys.”

“Mmhm.” Gatejaw slurped his tea. “And how many more before your nest starts looking like a menagerie, my gilded friend? You need a proper mate. A nice dragoness. I can ask around. Valcagor's niece is single again. Horns like obsidian, breath like napalm. Very sharp.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Shame.” He yawned. “Your taste is clearly exotic. Hope you’re feeding them well.”

Nelneras didn’t rise to it. Just gestured with a paw toward the gates. “We’ve come to be inspected.”

From the side of the gatehouse, two kobolds in violet sashes came skittering out with oversized clipboards. One was already scribbling furiously; the other tripped on a rock and swore loud enough to earn a tail-flicked reprimand from the dragon, who didn’t even look.

Axton stood straighter, resisting the urge to fidget.

The dragon craned his head low, slow and deliberate, like a crocodile sizing up prey at the riverbank. He sniffed, just once, but it was a powerful inhale that made Axton’s robe flutter, and his throat dry up.

“Magic,” Gatejaw muttered. “Too much for how skinny you are. What are you, some kinds of bard with boundary issues? Or one of those mages who thinks brooding counts as strategy?”

Axton opened his mouth to speak, but the dragon had already moved on.

“Staff’s overcompensating. Robe’s trying too hard. Hair’s suspiciously clean.” Another sniff. “Did you sleep with your spellbook?”

“What—no!” Axton sputtered.

Gatejaw leaned back, unimpressed. “Could’ve fooled me. You reek of ink and bad decisions.”

The kobold at his paw jotted something down quickly, “Subject 1: Human. Mage. Smells of ink, arrogance, and bedtime regrets. Possibly intimate with spellbook. Flag for therapy.”

Axton choked. “That is not—!”

“Oh good,” the dragon rumbled. “A talker. We haven’t had one of those since the herbalist who tried to argue his mushrooms were legally sentient.”

Next was Lyra, who walked forward with her chin high and her feathers glossy. She smiled sweetly.

“Gryphon,” Gatejaw said, sniffing once. “Female. Overconfident. Musical tendencies. Probably performs unsolicited duets during dinner.”

She gave him a long, slow blink. “You’ll never prove it.”

“Oh, I don’t need to,” he replied with a smirk. “You’re humming right now. Off-key.”

“Subject 2: Gryphon. Female. Dangerous soprano.” The kobold said, “May spontaneously burst into song. Keep away from taverns.”

Then came Roran, muscles flexing just slightly. The celestial wolf steed behind him radiating calm. Roran, less so.

Gatejaw sniffed once. His eyes narrowed. “Divine magic. Lovely. Smells like a sermon wrapped in wet fur.”

“Thank you.” Roran said, expression unreadable.

“Not a compliment, fluff.”

“I’ll take it anyway.”

The kobolds scribbled. “Subject 3: Wolven. Male. Paladin-flavored. Smells like loyalty and damp morality. High probability of starry-eyed speeches.”

“I don’t give speeches.” Roran muttered.

“You just look like you rehearse them in your sleep.” Gatejaw replied, before his gaze slid to Pyretalon. There was a pause. The dragon leaned in. “You.”

The blue and black tiger-gryphon didn’t flinch. His feathers gleamed, his wings tucked to military precision. He stared with perfect stillness.

Gatejaw took a long, dramatic sniff.

“Ahh. Feathers, musk, and… disappointment.” His grin widened. “You’re the emotional support gryphon.”

“I don’t recall giving you that title.” Pyretalon said coldly.

“You didn’t need to. It’s radiating off you. Honestly, I’m surprised you aren’t snarling every time the gold so much as winks at his mage.” Another sniff. “Cinnamon?”

“Spiced jerky.” Pyretalon answered, deadpan.

“Mm. Shame. Was hoping it was heartbreak.”

“Subject 4: Gryphon. Male. Alpha posture.” Muttered the kobold, “Underlying frost. Smells like cinnamon and repressed commentary. Likely to explode near plush beds or romantic tension.”

On the side, a human in his mid-forties, with shaggy black hair and thick beard was clad in a breastplate, leathers and a furred cloak, he let out a sigh like it had weight. The man rubbed his brow.

Gatejaw didn’t look back. “Yes, yes, Garren, what complaint do you have now? I’m busy if you haven’t noticed.”

“By Sartren’s silver breath, stop scribbling personality scrolls like you’re assembling a bard troupe.” Garren growled.

“It’s a public courtesy. I’m providing clarity.” Gatejaw smirked, nostrils flaring.

“You’re courting a riot,” Garran grumbled, biting the stem from a fresh mint sprig. “And you’ve still not replaced the rope line by the inspection tent.”

“That was your goat, not mine.”

“You hurled a kettle at it.”

“I nudged it away from sensitive goods.”

“You clocked it in the face. It bolted through two fruit stalls and knocked over the scribe’s desk.”

Gatejaw’s wings shrugged. “Should’ve known better than to challenge me in my own domain.”

The kobolds scribbled faster, one nearly tripping over the inkpot again.

Garran turned toward Axton with the grim, world-weary expression of a man long resigned to absurdity. “You with this lot?”

“Yes,” Axton said, trying not to wince.

Garren nodded grimly. “Run while you’ve still got your wits.”

The bronze dragon uncurled a talon, sharp as a scythe, and gestured to Virestone behind him. “Nelneras’ blessing lets you bypass the queue, not the inspection. But I’m satisfied. You lot can go through. You’ll get your tags, licenses, and someone from the Arcana Gate will come sniffing. Try not to explode before then.”

Then, as they started to move, Gatejaw called out, “Oh, Nelneras? The Hoardfather wants a word.”

The air thinned. Tense were Nelneras’ shoulders beneath his scales. Then it passed, buried beneath a smile too sharp to be calm. “I still have three days,” he said, a sharpness behind every syllable. “Time, I earned, time I claimed. I’ve brought them this far. They deserve to see the isles with welcome, not summons.”

“Mmm. That sounds like a lovely sentiment.” Gatejaw didn’t look up from his tea, “Real heartwarming.”

Nelneras turned, towering over him now, wings arched. “I will see them through inspection. I will take them home. They are not pawns on some golden ledger.”

“Nel,” Gatejaw finally looked up with a gravel-thick sigh, “you think I like being the messenger for that bloated wart of a hoard-sitter?” His paws drummed the stone beside him. “But you’ve got the farm. You’ve got guests. Pretty ones. Soft ones. Loud ones.” He nodded toward the group. “The Hoardfather knows how to lean when he wants something. And he’s got a lot of weight to throw around.”

Nelneras narrowed his eyes, the turquoise glow of them dimming behind frustration.

Gatejaw sipped again. “Look under your pride whelp, might be best to go see what the pile of piss wants—before he comes calling.”

Axton watched Nelneras go still, the soft glow of his eyes dimming like lanterns shuttered too fast. Beneath his breath, the dragon hissed something in Draconic, rough, low, and full of teeth. Not rage. Not fear. Something bitterer. Resentment. At the helplessness that came with being owned by something he couldn’t claw through. And Axton hated it.

He stepped closer than he normally would. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling from Nelneras’ scales in slow, angry waves.

"Of course he couldn’t wait," he muttered, wings half-tucked, voice edged in gold-tempered iron. "Bahamut forbid I finish one vacation with dignity."

He didn’t roar. Didn’t curse the sky. But Axton could feel the tension in the dragon’s body, coiled, simmering. Not fury. Not quite. Something closer to disappointment. Weariness. A silent admission that, once again, his time wasn’t his own.

“He always does this?” Axton asked gently, stepping up beside him.

“No,” Nelneras said, bitter. “Usually, he waits until I’m home before reminding me who owns my leash.”

He tilted his head up and murmured, just for him, “You can show us the farm later. We’ll manage.” Then, with a smile that pulled just a little crooked, “I promise I’ll pretend not to be impressed when your family explains everything first. I’ll act surprised. You’ll be very flattered.”

Axton’s smile deepened, heartbeat quickening. He swallowed and dropped his gaze, only to lift it again with a shimmer of nervous courage. “Go deal with your… scaly nightmare,” he teased. “We’ll be waiting.” Silence rested for a moment. And then, he whispered, “…Don’t make me come looking for you.”

Nelneras’ didn’t respond immediately, but the dragon’s gaze drifted down, lingering, as if searching Axton’s face for something he wasn’t ready to name. His wings twitched slightly. “I wouldn't mind that,” he said, voice warm and full of slow amusement. “Though I suspect I’d be found face-down in paperwork long before you reached me. A most undignified end.” He stepped back just slightly, wings giving a gentle twitch as he turned to the others. “Listen carefully.” he said, “Follow the red banners until you reach the central registrar building. Give them these.”

With a soft murmur in Draconic, he conjured four shimmering badges of translucent gold, each etched with his personal sigil, a sweeping flame, interwoven with a feather. “These will carry my seal. They won’t stop the bureaucracy, but they’ll keep anyone from detaining you.” His eyes slid briefly to Pyretalon. “Probably.” He handed each badge off carefully tucking Axton’s into his palm with a brush of pawtip over skin that lingered just a second too long.

The dragon exhaled again, softer now. Then he leaned in, voice lowered, deadly calm. “Stay together. No matter what. The island’s safer than the mainland, but not safe. And if anyone, anything, asks about me, you don’t answer. Not until you reach the farm.”

“And if we get lost?”

“You won’t.” His tone left no room for argument. “Once you dock, head west along the main trail into the hills. You'll pass into Ashwood first, stay on the road. When the path forks, take the right-hand way, marked by a stone carved like a weeping gryphon. That leads to the lower glen. My land begins at the fallen pillar. It’s watched. You’ll be safe, so long as you stay on the trail.”

“Bandits?” Pyretalon asked, sharp-eyed.

"No. Beasts," Nelneras said, and he laughed, not mockingly, but with that airy, guttural sound dragons made when they found something thrilling. "It’s not called the Cradle of Wyrms for its bedtime stories."

“Beasts?” Pyretalon’s feathers flared, “Of what kind?”

“Giant.” Nelneras snorted.

Roran grinned. “You scared, birdbrain?”

“I’m not scared, you overgrown mutt,” Pyretalon snapped, shoulder-checking the wolven with more irritation than force. “But perhaps I’d prefer not to end up as beast droppings, thank you.”

“Relax,” Nelneras drawled, eyes glinting. “Dragons patrol the skies. You’ll be safe, unless, of course, you stray off the path trying to look impressive.”

The gold dragon leaned in, slow and sure, until his massive snout brushed the curve of the young man’s cheek. His eyes slipped shut, breath warm as a furnace as he let out a deep, reverent huff against skin flushed with sun and magic. The air between them shimmered, charged, wordless, undeniable.

Heat bloomed beneath flesh. The blush came quickly, unbidden, searing up to the ears. He froze, caught between breath and heartbeat, between wanting to pull back and desperately wishing the moment would linger. No words passed between them. None were needed.

This was a dragon’s kiss. Not a gesture given lightly. Not one offered in jest. It was ancient and intimate. A vow. A claim. A promise whispered in breath and scale. His heart stuttered. A dozen thoughts vied for attention, but none made it to his lips. He just stood there, frozen with the knowledge of it, of what it meant, what it could mean.

With a low growl—half complaint, half farewell—the dragon turned, tail flicking once like punctuation. “Bahamut’s ass, if Valcagor so much as asks me to smell his coin pile, I’ll set the entire treasury on fire.”

Wings stretched, golden and immense, catching the sunlight like stained glass turned to life. Then he was gone, rising, wheeling into the bright sky with a roar that was more frustration than fury.

His fingers brushed the spot where that broad snout had pressed against him, as if trying to hold the memory in place before the wind could steal it away. There was no one watching. And still, he felt laid bare, like the moment had unwrapped something inside him, something fragile and secret and hungry.

He’d known he was drawn to Nelneras. That had been obvious from the first arrogant toss of that feathered tail, the cocky saunter in gryphon form, the smirk that never quite reached his eyes unless it was Axton making him smile. But this… this was different. The kiss wasn’t a flirtation or a game. It was a promise. A warning. A question.

And it terrified him. Because part of him wanted to step back, to protect what little remained untouched. And another part, wanted to leap forward, to chase that fire to wherever it led. He wasn’t ready. But gods help him, he wanted to be.

A wingtip brushed his shoulder.

Lyra stood beside him, mischief in her gaze. “Well. That was hot." She chuckled, “Guess that makes you the dragon’s hoard now. Should we start calling you Goldworthy?

Before Axton could speak, not that he had words, his face had already betrayed him. Heat rushed to his ears, his neck, his chest. Then came the snort from behind them, low, rough, and unmistakably dragon.

_"_Knew he liked mortals, but kissing one at the gate? Gods, decorum’s gone the way of decency." Gatehaw’s tail gave a sharp flick. "Suppose it could’ve been worse. Could’ve been tongue."

From the corner of the gate post, Garran coughed pointedly.

Gatejaw growled low, voice dripping disdain. _"_Yeah, yeah, I know. You were right. Here's your damned silver." He flicked a coin from beneath his paw, letting it roll across the inspection table where it came to a stop with a smug clink.