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Chapter 33: The Spark and the Stone

Dawn found the valley wrapped in gold, and Nelneras already stirring before the roosters dared greet the sun. His wings unfolded in a languid stretch, dew scattering like molten sparks from his scales as excitement rippled through him. He could feel it thrumming in every vein, today they would delve into the temple said to have been built for Bahamut herself, a relic lost to ages. After so many years of toil and patience, the dream of discovery burned in him again. He took joy in the simple preparations: checking the harness straps, folding maps beneath a talon, humming one of his father’s work songs while the forge smoke still clung to the valley air. Beyond the fields, the mountain loomed like a promise. Even its shadow thrilled him.

Before breakfast, he and Ardanth walked to the shrine near the orchard, where the statue of Bahamut rose half-wreathed in ivy and morning mist. Ardanth stood beside him in an elven guise, a handsome specter in borrowed flesh, the false dawn glinting on his onyx hair. When Nelneras bade him make his oath of peace, the elder dragon smiled thinly and knelt, words flowing like silk through venom. “I swear by the memory of the flame I once served: I will bring no harm upon this place, nor those who breathe its hearth-smoke.” The tone was too smooth, the smile too knowing, but the vow still hung in the air like a chord struck true. Nelneras wanted to believe him. Even as Ardanth rose and dusted off his hands, he could not help but feel both admiration and unease; it was like watching a dagger learn to dance.

Breakfast at the Thornwell farmstead was a tapestry of clatter, laughter, and the perfume of spice and hearth. The long table groaned under platters of Seraphina’s handiwork, gold-crusted loaves brushed with rosemary oil, ham glazed in honey and ale, eggs soft as sunrise folded with herbs, and pears roasted to sweetness beside steaming bowls of spiced oats. Roran’s booming laugh mingled with the dwarves’ muttering, Lyra’s feathers caught the morning light as she teased Pyretalon for stealing her toast, and even Faelwin looked charmed as she lifted her cup in patient amusement. Only Ardanth remained composed, dissecting his honey cake like an artist judging texture, a bemused gleam in his eyes whenever the mortals spoke of simple joys. Nelneras watched him through the noise and warmth. He wondered, not for the first time nor would it be the last either, if this fallen silver truly remembered what it was to eat among friends, or if he merely mimicked it.

He in time spoke of the “Silent Smile” who would be joining them, as was Ardanth’s title, the hall went quiet as snowfall. Forks paused. Even Brilda stopped mid-chewing. When he admitted the truth, that the pale stranger in their midst was a dragon, shock and unease rippled through the room. Nelneras stood steady under it, his voice calm but resolute. “He has sworn peace upon this house,” he said, the light from the windows kindling along his scales. “And it is time we begin to trust the dream we built this farm for.” The silence that followed was heavy as iron, but in it, Nelneras felt the first breath of change stirring.

When the meal ended and the plates were cleared, Nelneras gathered Axton by the garden gate to tell him their task: they would journey beneath the mountain to uncover the lost temple of Bahamut. The young mage’s eyes lit instantly, a storm of excitement breaking across his face; he nearly spilled his tea in delight, words tumbling out about runic wards, draconic inscriptions, and what kind of divine resonance they might find in the sanctum’s heart. The dragon couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm, like watching the first spark of a sunrise he thought he’d lost.

Nelneras worked in quiet rhythm as he readied himself for the road ahead. The broad leather harness lay stretched across the stone landing outside the barn, its straps burnished by decades of use and memory. Every buckle told a story: the old dwarven stitching, the elven clasps, the faint human scent of oil and cedar that still lingered in the leather. He slid one foreleg through, the weight of it familiar and grounding. The harness fit like a family relic, a creation from those who’d believed, as he did now, that dragons and mortals could build together. The pouches and belts hung neatly along his chest, stocked with field journals, quills, dried meat, maps. His movements were careful, almost ceremonial, as if fastening purpose itself onto his body.

Axton had already disappeared into the orchard to attune his spells, muttering excited incantations under his breath. It made him smile. He checked the final strap, adjusted the anchor rings, then turned to inspect the pack basket they’d prepared for provisions. It was a comfortable silence, the kind born of routine and confidence, that was until the unmistakable sensation of being watched prickled along his neck scales.

Four pairs of eyes fixed him from the porch: Grumli with his arms folded like a fortress gate, Brilda polishing a wrench she clearly meant to wield as punctuation, Faelwin leaning elegantly on her staff with the patience of an immortal ready to lecture, and Mariane with that quiet, maternal frown that always said she loved him but wished he’d think twice. Nelneras exhaled, smoke curling from his nostrils in a sigh that was half fondness, half dread. He knew that look. They hadn’t gathered for farewell; they’d gathered for interrogation. And for all his decades of poise, the gold dragon suddenly felt like a hatchling caught sneaking out after curfew.

“So let me get this straight,” Grumli rumbled, arms folded across his barrel chest, “a strange dragon drops out o’ the sky, trades a few pretty words with ye, and now ye think it’s time to start invitin’ more o’ their kind?”

“That’s about the gist of it.” Nelneras replied evenly.

Brilda snorted, wiping her hands on a towel. “Aye, well, that’s a fine gist for gettin’ us all flattened.”

Faelwin arched a brow. “I seem to recall you saying change takes time, my dear Little Ember. That dragons and those who are not must first learn patience. What’s shifted? The stars? Or merely your mood?”

Her tone was gentle, but the point sharp. Nelneras’ jaw tightened.

“Maybe it was that silver one’s smile,” Grumli muttered. “Wouldn’t trust a grin like that if it came gift-wrapped in gold.”

“Because you don’t trust anyone without soot on their fingers,” Brilda shot back, smacking his shoulder with her rag. “By your measure, elves are born liars and dragons are all show ponies.”

“An’ tell me I’m wrong!” he barked, though a grin cracked through his beard.

Across the courtyard, Ardanth was unbothered by their suspicion. He looked every bit the noble wanderer, fine black coat with silver thread, polished boots, a cane tipped in opal. He spread butter across a slice of bread with surgical precision, humming as though he hadn’t been accused of deceit three times already.

Grumli spat into the grass. “Look at him. Polished boots, hands soft as pudding. If that one’s not trouble, I’ll eat my own hammer.”

Brilda rolled her eyes. “And yet, you still like him. You just won’t admit it.”

“Like him? Bah. I like my ale thick and my dragons honest.”

Nelneras let the argument run its course before speaking, his voice low and deliberate. “He has sworn an oath before Bahamut’s statue,” he said, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “If he breaks it, he’ll burn for it. But I will not build a world of trust while hiding from it.”

A tense quiet followed, filled only by Ardanth’s faint humming and the sigh of wind through the orchard.

Nelneras exhaled a long breath through his nostrils, heat curling faintly in the air. They were not wrong, he had asked himself the same questions before dawn, turning them over like coals in his mind. “If I turn him away,” he said at last, voice low and steady, “then everything I’ve spoken of, everything I’ve built, will crumble into hypocrisy.” His gaze drifted toward the family shrine beneath the oak, where the offerings still glimmered in morning light. “Their dream would mean nothing.”

He gave a slow shrug of his wings. “So no, he stays. He may not be the shining paladin I hoped for, but my father always said, ‘You work with the tools the gods leave you.’ Perhaps, among us, the truth of our lives will strike some ember of faith in him again.”

Faelwin laid a slender hand upon his scales. “You are good, Nel. Too good, sometimes. Your heart will be the death of your reason.”

“Do not baby the boy!” Grumli thundered, his voice like gravel rolling downhill.

“I’ll remind you,” Nelneras rumbled, one eye narrowing, “I am one hundred and thirty.”

“Aye, and still a boy!” the dwarf barked back without hesitation.

Faelwin caught Nelneras’ snout with gentle defiance. “The question stands. What of the lords? Do you think they’ll smile kindly upon you bringing more dragons here? You know well they do not share your idealism.”

Mariane gave a humorless laugh. “That big, greedy lard head will double our tithe the moment he hears.”

“I still stand by refusing him last time,” Nelneras growled. “Better to keep our souls whole than sell them in pieces.”

“I know,” she said softly, “but you must ask if the cost is worth it.”

“You already know it is.”

Her eyes faltered; doubt flickered there like a candle’s tremor. Nelneras lifted his head, drawing himself tall, a golden tower of resolve. “The self-appointed steward of avarice hasn’t looked our way in years. So long as the coffers fill and the tribute arrives, he cares little how I till the land. Besides, our new guest gave his word he’d keep unwanted eyes away. So long as the greedy lizard’s coin pile fattens, he’ll not trouble himself with where the light shines. I’ll play the obedient servant to the letter, never the spirit, and he’ll not notice until it’s far too late.”

Grumbli grunted, “Sure hope you’re right lad, Ideals don’t pay tithes. I’ve seen what yer pretty words buy us, lad. Remember when that smug, smoke-spewin’ sack o’ coin vomit raised the tithe after ye told him dragons should work the same soil as us? Half the farms round here went lean, and my nephew got shipped off to that blasted quarry. He’s still digging rock for half-wages thanks to that speech o’ yours.”

His wings shifted, half-unfurled. “If fear rules every choice we make, then we’ve already lost,” he continued, voice low but burning. “Yes, my words once drew their wrath, but silence will only feed their hunger. If we wait until it’s safe, we’ll die waiting.”

The last words hung heavily between them, and though his stance remained proud, his whiskers trembled with restrained frustration. “I won’t let my parents’ dream rot beneath this soil. Not while I still draw breath.

His gaze swept over the three of them, each face etched with the same cautious doubt. “You all stood beside them once,” he growled. “You came with me to this land to prove what could be. Have you grown so afraid of the fire you lit?”

Grumli’s jaw tightened; Brilda looked down at her calloused hands, thumbs rubbing the edge of her apron. Even Mariane’s usual poise faltered, her mouth parting as if to speak, then closing again. For a long moment, only the wind stirred, the kind of silence that remembered too much

Faelwin broke the hush with her usual grace. “We thought you’d take your time. For one who will see centuries, you do rush like spring flood.”

“Did you think,” he continued, voice sharpening, “that I came here to sit idle? To dream forever and never act?”

“It’s the human in him,” Grumli grumbled. “Always rushing headlong, breakin’ things before he learns their worth.”

“I waited a decade,” Nelneras replied, calm now but unyielding, “and that decade nearly turned to dust. Perhaps I have lingered too long in fear of failure. No more. A single step, however small, begins the flight.”

Faelwin regarded him with a faint, knowing smile. “That silver stranger must have said something remarkable to stir you so.”

Nelneras glanced toward Ardanth, who stood nearby twirling his cane and humming to himself, the very picture of smug amusement. “He reminded me what conviction looks like when tested,” Nel murmured. “Even if he wears mockery like a cloak, he may yet prove the spark I needed.”

Faelwin’s reply was soft, affectionate, and damning all at once. “Then may your spark not burn down the house.”

He lowered his head until his eyes met hers. “I ask only that you trust me, as you did when you followed me here, as you do each day when you wake beneath my shadow.”

Grumli snorted. “We came to keep you out o’ trouble, lad, not follow you into it.”

Faelwin chuckled lightly. “He means you well, Nel. But he’s right about one thing: the dragons out there are older, harder, and far less gentle than you. If you mean to challenge them, you’d best be ready to bleed for that dream.”

“I’ll trust ye,” Grumli grunted at last, crossing his arms with a nod. “But only because you’re holding your ground stubborn as a mountain and acting like a proper dwarf!”

Brilda smacked his shoulder with the rag again. “You just said he was acting too human not two breaths ago!”

His beard bristled. “Aye, and now he’s acting like a dwarf! I fail to see the contradiction.”

Nelneras’ sigh came out more like a chuckle, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Look. I’m doing this with or without your blessing. But I’d rather with. Someone must beat their wings first, or no one ever will. I would have you beside me when I do.” His voice softened, a rare crack in the polished gold of his composure. “Faelwin you once told me immortality was the curse of endless tomorrows. Well… I’ve decided this one will do.”

The family traded glances. Then Faelwin exhaled, the corners of her mouth twitching upward. “Very well, Little Ember. When should we expect your new… guests?”

“Soon, I imagine,” Nelneras replied, straightening with renewed light in his eyes. “I’ve still to work out the finer details.” His whiskers flicked in amusement, betraying quiet pride.

Brilda folded her arms, glancing toward the barn. “Where are ye plannin’ to put these ‘guests’ o’ yours, hmm? On the grain sacks? Or shall I move the bairns to the barn so he can stretch his wings?”

“Come now,” Nelneras said with a grin, “you know we can change size at will. Besides, we’re not that long of a flight from anywhere.”

“Aye, aye, I ken that, you smug candle of a beast. But it’s no’ you I’m worried about stretchin’ wings, it’s what happens when your shiny friends start knocking over the fencing’ and scaring the hens!”

Faelwin tilted her head. “And this spreading of word… how, precisely, is that being handled?”

“Leave that to me, my radiant skeptics!” The voice cut through the air like laughter wrapped in silver.

The voice came first, lilting and amused, the sound of velvet dragging across glass. Ardanth strolled toward them, cane tapping a rhythm like a heartbeat turned smug. “Trust me,” he said, bowing low, the grin on his face far too large to be honest. “By tomorrow, my dear hosts, you’ll have dragons lining up to call this little patch of paradise home!

Nelneras cocked his head, a low huff escaping. “I’m still not certain whether you jest or not. You seem… unusually eager to help. One wonders at the generosity.”

“Oh, come now, if you don’t want my help, golden boy, just say so.” Ardanth chuckled, leaning lightly on his cane. “Would save me the trouble. I simply thought you might enjoy a little… momentum in getting this charming vision of yours off the ground.”

“I would.” Nelneras admitted.

“Splendid!”

“But how?”

His smile sharpened. “I have a few favors to call in, a few strings to pluck, nothing dreadful. Merely a whisper here, a story there, something bright enough to catch the right ear.”

“The right ear?” Nelneras asked, tone clipped.

“Ah! Now, now.” Ardanth wagged a finger, “You’d have me spoil the surprise? How dull! Let’s just say they’re… influential sorts. Fond of redemption, charity, all that syrupy goodness.” His grin turned sly. “Idealists, much like yourself, only richer.”

“Ardanth,” Nelneras said, voice dropping low, “you swore not to draw the wrong eyes upon this place.”

“And I won’t!” Ardanth’s tone turned bright, almost scandalized. “No wrong eyes, only curious ones. Oh, they’ll peek, they always do, but isn’t that what you wanted? For your grand vision to be seen?” He stepped closer, leaning on his cane, smile sharpening to a crescent of mischief. “You cannot shine without a little attention, dear golden boy. I’m merely… polishing the mirror.”

“You’re playing games.”

“Naturally!” Ardanth spread his hands, delighted. “It’s how mortals survive gods and dragons alike, by knowing when to bluff. Besides…” His grin softened into something almost kind, almost. “Every dream needs a herald. And I do so love an audience.”

With that, he turned, spotting Pyretalon by the gear racks, strapping the last of a travel harness to his flank. While Nelneras’ family departed with a gesture of his wings and a snort, the gold dragon followed upon the silver’s steps.

“My, my,” Ardanth chuckled, eyes flicking over Pyretalon’s immaculate harness. “You polish your armor as if the sky might judge you personally.”

Pyretalon flicked an ear but didn’t rise to it. “If I’m flying into a mountain, I prefer to do it prepared.”

“Ah,” Ardanth sighed, feigning wistfulness. “If only all guardians were so diligent. Which brings me to a little conundrum…”

He gestured vaguely skyward. “I find myself in need of a discreet mode of travel today, wings to borrow, one might say. I’d go myself, of course, but I prefer to keep a lower profile. One never knows whose eyes are watching from the clouds.”

The gryphon blinked. “You’re joking.”

“I rarely joke about such delightful things.” Ardanth leaned on his cane, eyes glinting. “You’re strong, you’re swift, and you have the kind of face people trust before realizing their mistake. I’ll need that for my little… errand.”

The gryphon’s head turned sharply toward him, feathers rippling along his neck. “You have wings, use them.”

“Undoubtedly,” Ardanth said, flashing teeth in a smile too pleasant to trust. “But discretion, my feathered friend, is a rarer art than flight. You strike me as the sort who understands the virtue of subtlety.”

“I understand keeping my post,” Pyretalon replied evenly. “Axton’s safety comes first.”

“Ah yes,” Ardanth purred, “the ward. So precious, so earnest. I’m certain he’ll be perfectly fine—”

“Enough.” Nelneras’ voice cut through the exchange, low but commanding. The gold dragon’s turquoise eyes burned. “Axton will not be alone. Roran and I will guard him. You have my word, Pyretalon. On Bahamut’s flame.”

The gryphon froze at that. For a long moment he searched the dragon’s face, gauging the promise beneath the calm. Finally, his feathers smoothed, though his glare lingered on Ardanth.

“If so much as a feather’s worth of harm comes to him,” Pyretalon said, voice low as thunder, “I’ll find you first.”

Ardanth’s grin broadened, delighted. “Ooh, how marvelously protective. Truly, you’re wasted as a bodyguard, you could inspire poetry.”

Pyretalon’s tail flicked hard enough to stir dust. “Try me.”

Before the barbs could sharpen further, Nelneras huffed, “Pyretalon, this may serve us. If he’s to speak with sympathetic ears, better they hear his tale sooner rather than later.”

The gryphon’s head tilted. “And Axton?”

“He will not be unguarded,” Nelneras assured him. “Two dragons and a paladin will walk beside him. He will be safer in these hills than in half the cities of Sethera.”

Something unspoken passed between them then, mutual understanding, reluctant trust, and the weight of shared duty. Pyretalon exhaled through his beak, the sound half growl, half surrender.

He turned to Ardanth with a look that could have cut marble. “Fine. But if you so much as sneeze wrong, I’ll drop you into the nearest ravine.”

Ardanth’s grin widened, bright as moonlight off a blade. “Splendid! I’ve always wanted to see the landscape from multiple angles.”

Nelneras’ tail gave a faint, weary flick. “Best be quick,” he said dryly, “before I regret being reasonable.”

The gryphon crouched, wings spreading wide. Ardanth stepped lightly into the saddle, his cane vanishing with a small flourish as if the air itself had applauded him. When Pyretalon looked back one last time, Nelneras inclined his head in a quiet affirmation promise, unspoken but absolute.

Moments later, they were airborne, rising into the pale gold of morning. One gleamed blue and white against the dawn, the other black-coated and smiling, and Nelneras watched them go with a faint tightening in his chest.

Axton crossed the yard, his boots quiet on the packed earth. The boy had been gone for no more than an hour, yet the faint chalk on his cuffs spoke of full concentration.

“Prepared?” he asked without turning.

“Yes. Though I’m not sure why you had me prepare Feather Fall and Counterspell.” Axton came to stand beside him, setting his satchel down. “Seems a strange pairing for an old temple.”

Nelneras tested a strap on his harness with a short tug. “We expect the unexpected,” he said. “And gravity, for all its loyalty, deserves no trust.”

That earned the smallest laugh. “You always make prudence sound poetic.”

“I find survival worth a little poetry,” he replied, lips curved faintly

The man’s eyes lowered, and for a heartbeat Nelneras thought of the kiss shared the night before. Before he could offer another nudge of his snout and chuff, his concentration was pulled away.

Bootsteps broke the moment. Roran clanked across the yard in full armor, helm under one arm and confidence under the other. “Morning, everyone!” he called. “You ready to see what’s hiding under this mountain? Bet there’s treasure, ghosts, maybe a treasure ghost!”

“If you swing at anything sacred, I’ll bury you beside it.” Nelneras lashed his tail.

Roran only laughed. “You’ll have to catch me first, scales.”

“We are recovering possibly relics of Bahamut’s followers, not treasure to be plunder.” Nelneras’ head tilted, patience thinning. “We are preserving history, not raiding it.”

“Preserving, plundering, both start with a ‘P,’” Roran quipped. “And both make great stories.”

Axton sighed, smiling despite himself. “Just promise not to smite any statues this time.”

“Only if they swing first.” Roran said, strapping his shield to his back.

The scent of honey and spice drifted through the morning air before Nelneras could reply. Seraphina approached from the kitchens, a wicker basket balanced on her arm, while Lyra fluttered down beside her, feathers gleaming like autumn leaves.

“Provisions for the brave,” Seraphina said, thrusting the basket into Roran’s hands before he could protest. “Honey rolls, dried fruit, and jerky. Eat ‘em before you faint halfway up that mountain.”

Axton smiled, grateful. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“That’s my curse,” she replied with mock weariness. “And I’ve plans enough here, oven’s already hot. I’m trying to perfect that fireroot glaze before sunset. If it doesn’t kill any taste-testers, maybe I’ll serve it at supper.”

Roran gave a doubtful look. “What if it does kill ’em?”

“Then I’ll have leftovers.” she said cheerfully.

Nelneras’ head tilted, one eye narrowing in patient dread. “Do spare the household, Seraphina. I’ve buried enough souls to ambition.”

She laughed, giving a curtsy, “No promises, my lord.”

Lyra held up a second bundle wrapped in parchment. “And this is for morale.” She unfurled it with a flourish, inside was a sketch of the three of them: Nelneras tall and regal, Roran flexing heroically, and Axton with stars in his eyes and both shoelaces untied.

Roran barked a laugh. “You even got the hair right!”

Axton covered his face with one hand. “I don’t look like that.”

Lyra’s grin widened. “You will when you see a dragon relic glowing for the first time. I call it ‘The Scholar Meets Destiny.’”

Nelneras took the drawing delicately, studying it with the solemnity of scripture. “A fine likeness. Though the armor is somewhat… interpretive.”

“Artistic freedom,” Lyra said, flicking her feathers. “I suppose this is where we wave dramatically and hope you don’t fall into anything ancient and hungry.”

Roran laughed. “I’ll try not to. But if we do find anything shiny—”

“Bring it back,” she finished for him. “I’ll need new paperweights.”

“Hey, uh… where’s the big guy? Thought Pyretalon was comin’ too. Would’ve made one heck of an entrance, y’know—dragon, gryphon, direwolf, all that.”

Axton frowned faintly. “He didn’t say anything about staying behind.”

Without a hint of worry, he told them all about the change of plans. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back before sundown…I imagine.”

Seraphina still looked uneasy. “Well, I sure hope so. That gryphon’s built for fightin’, but there’s somethin’ slippery about that silver tongue. Gives me the shivers.”

He lowered his snout, meeting her eye, “I trust Pyretalon’s judgment. And the dragon swore hospitality under my roof; he’ll keep his word.”

Lyra clicked her beak softly. “You say that now, but if he comes back missing half his feathers, I’m telling you I warned you.”

Roran grinned, ever the optimist. “Hey, don’t worry Ly, he’ll be fine! The gryphon’s tougher than he looks. Besides, I don’t think he’s like… evil. He’s just… always narrating something dramatic in his head.”

Nelneras huffed a low note of amusement. “A fair observation.” His gaze drifted toward the distant clouds. “Still, let’s not waste daylight worrying. He’ll return soon enough.”

Axton nodded, though his fingers worried about the strap of his spellbook. “Right. And we have a temple to find.”

Roran brightened instantly. “Ooh, right! Forgotten Bahamut temple! Maybe some treasure, maybe a big fight—”

“We are not looting a sacred site, Roran.” Nelneras hissed.

The wolven paladin’s ears flattened. “Right, right. Not looting. Just, uh… respectfully discovering.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Lyra snorted.

Seraphina grinned, shaking her head. “Y’all try not to get yourselves eaten by whatever’s livin’ down there. I’m not scrapin’ you outta any monster bellies today.”

Nelneras’ whiskers twitched with restrained laughter. “A comforting blessing, Seraphina.”

Lyra nuzzled against Axton, then did the same to the others. “Now, while you boys are off exploring, guess that leaves me in the archives. Someone’s got to make sure your paperwork is sorted.” Her eyes sparkled. “And maybe I’ll sketch something heroic for when you come back, something to hang over the hearth.”

Nelneras arched his neck slightly, regarding her. “If it resembles me, at least pretend the horns are symmetrical this time.”

“Oh, they will be,” Lyra promised. “Just not in the same direction.”

Laughter rippled through them; even Nelneras’ whiskers quivered faintly before he turned back to the field. “Keep the house steady,” he said, voice low but certain. “If we find anything worth telling, I’ll make sure the tale reaches home before we do.”

When the farewells had dwindled to laughter and the wind’s whisper through the orchard, Nelneras lingered beside Axton. The human had finished checking his satchel for the third time, his fingers brushing the clasp with the restless energy of someone who feared forgetting wonder itself.

Nelneras’ gaze softened. For a heartbeat, he considered asking the mage to ride with him, to feel the wind as dragons did, to taste the freedom between each wingbeat. But then he saw the expectant gleam in Roran’s eyes, the wag of his now direwolf’s tail, and decided against it. Axton needed the grounding of friendship today more than the grandeur of a dragon’s back.

He leaned close instead, the air shimmering faintly with his warmth. “You’re certain your spells are prepared?” he murmured.

Axton nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “All of them.”

“Good.” Nelneras lowered his head until the tips of his whiskers brushed Axton’s hair. The mage froze, caught between awe and breathless confusion. A single exhale of heated air ruffled his collar, half sigh, half dragon’s kiss.

“Do and try to not get lost.” Nelneras said softly, his tone was a velvet command. His next words, low enough for no ears but Axton’s, curled with teasing gravity. “Or I’ll fetch you myself, and you won’t enjoy how thorough I can be when retrieving what’s mine.”

The boy’s breath hitched, a flush crept high along his throat. Nelneras’ whiskers twitched, satisfied, before he drew back with the faintest ghost of a smile.

“Go on,” he rumbled, turning toward the open field. “Let us see if the day favors the brave, or merely the stubborn.”

Nelneras surged forward, the ground shuddering as his wings struck the air. Wind tore past his horns, sunlight catching along his scales like molten glass. Behind him, a howl split the air as Roran launched skyward, Axton clinging tight to the direwolf’s back. The dragon climbed higher, the rhythm of his wings steady as a heartbeat.

** * * * * * * *

The land below stretched in quiet patience, rolling in slow, generous folds of green and gold. Fields lay in perfect geometry, their furrows cut by hands that labored without laughter, each boundary marked by stone walls as straight and cold as an abacus. Smoke rose from the chimneys of Valcagor’s farmsteads in disciplined plumes, pale threads against the morning sky, and every turn of a windmill seemed to grind not only grain, but spirit. It was an ordered beauty, stripped of warmth, the kind of beauty born from command rather than care.

From above, Nelneras could almost imagine it was lovely: the symmetry, the stillness, the precision of it all. Yet his gaze found no joy there, only hunger tamed and caged beneath obedience. The workers in their fields bent like clock hands, their motion the same hour after hour, their shouts dulled by distance and duty. The herds that grazed the slopes, broad-shouldered bovars with horns like pale crescents, moved without will, driven by whistles and fear of overseers. It was a vision of prosperity emptied of soul, and he pitied it even as he flew above.

His own lands did not look like this. They were a tapestry of imperfection, orchards wandering toward the river, gardens grown wild with stubborn joy, fences bowed beneath vines that refused to be trimmed. The laughter of children rang between cottages, carrying higher than the hammering of forges or the calls of the herds. There, the air itself seemed to breathe. Here, it held its breath.

He longed for the day when such air would fill all of Drakhaldeir, when dragons would share hearth and harvest instead of thrones and ledgers, when the sound of plows and wings would blend like two notes in a single hymn. The thought filled his chest with that familiar ache, the one that sat somewhere between yearning and faith. He beat his wings once, harder than needed, as if to scatter the stillness below, and turned his gaze toward the rising hills ahead, where the mountains waited like patient witnesses to his hope.

Beyond Valcagor’s regimented acres, the land began to loosen, as if the world itself exhaled where his dominion ended. The neat walls faltered first, then the furrows, until order gave way to meadow and marsh. Ponds gathered the morning light like broken mirrors, and the reeds bowed in the passing wind, whispering secrets too small for dragons to hear. Wildflowers thrived in this neglect, a riot of color where no overseer’s shadow fell.

Nelneras flew lower, letting the scent of wet earth and pine cut through the faint memory of smoke. Each ridge brought wilder beauty: oakwoods twisting from the slopes, streams flashing silver between them. A cottage roof appeared here or there, stubborn folk who had bartered comfort for freedom, and his chest stirred with quiet admiration. They reminded him of what the world might become again, if only courage could take root as deeply as these trees.

He glanced behind once. Roran rode the wind with his usual reckless delight, his wings flaring in bright arcs of moonlit silver. Axton clung his back, eyes wide and hair tangled by the current, the curve of his mouth set between awe and laughter. Seeing him thus, a spark of life so bright against the endless sky, filled Nelneras with that dangerous tenderness again. It was not pride alone, nor desire, but the strange, wordless devotion that sometimes seized him unawares, like sunlight catching the edge of a blade.

Ahead, the mountains gathered from mist and memory, their shoulders green, their crowns veiled in storm light. They came at last upon Gorhollow, the forge-town cradled in the mountain’s first scar. From above, it looked half-grown, half-carved, a confusion of slate roofs and smoke vents built atop the bones of an older mine. The main road wound like a vein of dark copper through the settlement, its stones slick with ash and rain. To either side rose the workshops of Thor’s faithful: low, sturdy halls crowned with chimneys that coughed steam into the chill air.

Even at this hour, Gorhollow was awake. Dwarves moved through the lanes in measured rhythm, their leather aprons blackened, their brows bright with sweat and soot. They hammered at wagon wheels and pipe joints not because they needed mending, but because hands unused to labor ached for it. Humans carried baskets of ore slag from one yard to another, busywork to quiet the anger that idled their pay. A handful of kobolds scurried along the gutters, tightening valve-runes and pretending not to stare at the shadow crossing overhead. All three people worked together as though habit had replaced hope.

No laughter rose with the hammer strikes now. Since Valcagor’s decree had sealed the mine, the forges burned half-fuel, and the taverns served bitter ale bought with half-wages.

Some stood at the edge of town where the rail tracks vanished into the dark, smoking in silence, eyes fixed on the guards who kept them from their livelihood.

Nelneras banked slowly, the wind of his passing lifting banners from the rooftops, red cloth emblazoned with Thor’s hammer wreathed in flame. None knelt; they only squinted upward, measuring his size, his color, the gilded glint of his scales.

He circled once more before descending toward the mountain’s flank, where the forbidden gate yawned. Lanterns hung dark along its frame, the rails leading inward dusted with neglect. The smell of iron and rain grew sharper here, threaded with something older, a metallic chill that did not belong to the forges of dwarves.

He banked in a slow, deliberate spiral, his shadow sweeping across the mouth of the mine. Below, he saw her, copper and fire against the gray, surrounded by a handful of lesser figures. Two kobolds stood rigid at attention near a supply crate, their eyes flicking upward in terrified prayer. A soot-streaked dwarf sat on a barrel, chewing with the fatalism of someone who had long ago stopped caring who ruled him. And at their center, Zezraya waited. Her wings were folded tight, her claws tracing idle furrows in the gravel, her expression the sort of bored contempt that could curdle wine.

Nelneras adjusted his descent.

Snow cascaded from the ledges above as his wings flared wide, slowing his fall to a graceful glide. He touched down a few paces from her with the force of a quiet thunderclap, the downdraft kicking up a white wave that rolled over her and her companions. The kobolds squeaked and scrambled for cover. Even the dwarf, ducked behind his crate with a curse.

Zezraya froze where she stood. For a long, dangerous heartbeat, there was silence, then a sound like iron grinding through stone. She shook once, scattering half-melting flakes from her wings, and raised her head with slow, deliberate menace. A growl rumbled up from deep in her chest, low and serrated, her bronze eyes narrowing to molten slits.

“You dare.” Her voice was soft, too soft. The kind of calm that precedes avalanches. A faint hiss cut through the last word, curling like heat against frost. “Try that again, Goldling, and I will salt the snow with your scales.”

Nelneras met her gaze without flinching, his expression mild, almost pleasant. The flick of his tail was too measured to be apology. “Forgive me,” he said, each syllable light as ash. “I sometimes forget that pride, once polished too bright, shatters like glass in a strong wind.”

“Lost your way, did you?” Zezraya growled, “Took your sweet time getting here. Thought you were the type to heel when the bloated bastard calls.”

Nelneras arched a brow. “Careful. Does your employer know you speak of him that way?”

“Please.” She rolled her eyes and flicked a claw. “He spends half his waking hours fantasizing about mounting me. I doubt he’d mind if I called him a dung heap. Probably likes it.”

“Experience suggests that possibility is all too credible.” Nelneras said dryly.

Her gaze shifted as Roran dismounted from Travis and helped Axton down. “So, these are the pets.” Her voice dripped venom, but the anger was cooling now replaced with disdainful curiosity. “Do they know how dangerous this place is? Or are they just here to gawk?”

“They are not my pets.” the gold said, tail flicking in warning.

“Oh, calm yourself. You’ll melt the snow again.” She stalked past him, claws leaving deep furrows in the frost. “Honestly, Goldwing, you’d think someone raised among mortals would’ve learned humor by now.”

Then her eyes fell on Roran, assessing. “At least one of them looks like he might survive.”

Roran grinned, utterly unfazed. “Don’t worry about me! I can go all day, fight, wrestle, roll with whatever monster crawls outta the dark.”

She blinked once. “And you are?”

“Roran Blackclaw. Paladin of Sartren. At your service.”

Her jaw tilted, a slow smile curving, though her eyes remained flat. “Claw of the Molten Path. The muscle. Meaning I could snap you in half and still have room for dessert.”

“Then I must be the extra muscle,” Roran said cheerfully. “Two’s better than one.”

Her laugh came rough, genuine in its disbelief. “You’ve got spirit, pup. Shame it won’t save you. I’m worth ten of you, twenty if you start talking.”

“Then I’ll just have to keep up,” he said, still grinning. “Wouldn’t be much of a paladin if I couldn’t.”

“We’re not going to get into any fights.” Nelneras sighed.

“But we might!” Roran replied, tapping the hilt of his sword. “And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope we do!”

Zezraya regarded him for a moment, then turned to Axton. “And you, twiglet, you look even more brittle than your overgrown pup. Can you handle yourself?”

“I… like to think so,” Axton said, clutching his staff a little tighter. “I’ve been improving these past few weeks—”

“Oh, come on, don’t be so humble!” Roran slung a massive arm around him, nearly knocking the mage off balance. “Axton here’s faced down more monsters than I can count! Granted, he didn’t punch them, but it still counts!”

“Roran!” Axton squirmed, cheeks flushed.

“He even blinded a dragon once as a pup! With an ice spear! How cool is that?” Roran’s grin was blinding.

“Blinded a dragon?” Zezraya’s head tilted, molten eyes narrowing. “You must be jesting. Him?”

“Yes,” Axton mumbled, smiling awkwardly. “He was… rather large. And red.”

Zezraya exhaled, unimpressed. “Where do you find these things?”

“Closer than you’d guess,” Nelneras replied, beckoning them onward. “And as you see, they’re more capable than their modesty allows…Now, one wonders what role you intend to play. Last I checked, ancient temples and scrolls were hardly your passion. Tell me, what offense did you commit to earn such thrilling duty?”

“Existing.” The word came with a huff. “If I had a choice, I’d be breaking bones, not cobwebs.”

“Then why stay?” he asked mildly. “I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of disappointing Valcagor on my own.”

“You’re not rid of me that easy.” Her gaze slid toward him. “He wants eyes on you.”

Nelneras tilted his head, whiskers curving forward. “How touching. Our great patron discovers concern.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Her lip curled. “He’s protecting his investments, making sure you don’t start thinking like a dragon worth fearing.”

He gave a soft hum, almost a purr. “Ah. So, virtue, then, as defined by possession.”

“Call it what you like. Everything in that mountain, coins, relics, even what’s left of those dead adventurers belongs to him.”

“Their gear as well?”

“All of it.” She shrugged. “Cheaper to send idiots first. Saves coin and conscience both.”

“Efficiency without honor,” Nelneras murmured. “A familiar song.”

“Then you’ll fit right in.”

A faint smile tugged his mouth. “One wonders whether I should be flattered to make his list of ‘real dragons,’ or insulted, that he mistakes theft and cunning for what makes a dragon true.”

“Whichever keeps your scales from shining too smug.”

He turned his head slightly, the golden light in his eyes steady. “Must our cooperation begin with hostilities?”

“Depends,” she said, stepping past him toward the dark. “You planning to sermonize about your goddess every time we stop to breathe?”

“Only if you listen.” he answered, the smile audible in his voice.

Her wings rustled. “Then we’re doomed.”

The copper dragoness turned toward the trio who still lingered near the supply crates, the two kobolds standing stiff as icicles, the dwarf pretending he hadn’t been listening.

“That will be all,” Zezraya said, voice steady as forged iron. “Pack what’s left and head back to town. Tell Foreman Drannir you’ll have your coin by dusk, same rate as agreed.”

The dwarf blinked, chewing slower. “You’re sure, Claw? Thought we were meant to help shift the stone when—”

“The plan changed.” Her barbed tail gave a lazy lash.

The kobolds hesitated, clearly reluctant to be caught between dragons any longer. One bowed so quickly his snout hit his knee, the other just muttered a hasty “Yes, Claw,” and scuttled off. The dwarf grumbled something about wasted daylight, slung his pack over his shoulder, and trudged after them down the snow-choked path.

When the sound of their boots had faded, Zezraya exhaled hard through her nostrils. “Good hands,” she muttered. “But they’d only get underfoot now.” Her eyes flicked toward Nelneras. “Guess I’m stuck with your entourage instead.”

Roran’s tail gave an amused swish. “You’ll find we’re good company once you get to know us.”

She snorted. “I doubt it.”