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Chapter 11: Drinks, Dragons, and Disasters

Pyretalon walked with intent. His paws struck the stone tiles in measured cadence, a quiet percussion beneath the hum of distant music. He had prepared the room himself, every pillow arranged, every candle lit to cast a soft glow, every thread of it orchestrated to speak one truth to the man he adored:

You are wanted. You are safe. Come to us.

Axton would not forget this night. Of that, Pyretalon had no doubt. The human had watched him with reverent eyes for moons now, studying him not like a warrior studies a foe, but as a scholar regards fire. Fascinated. Fearful. Longing to be warmed by it, terrified of being burned.

But fire did not consume indiscriminately. Not this fire. Not Pyretalon. He would guide Axton into the flame, not to scorch him, but to awaken him.

A soft trill escaped his throat, unbidden. It had been a long time since anticipation made his wings itch. He could already see it now with the mage, those delicate hands trembling with pleasure, his voice catching as he lay between Pyretalon and Lyra. Held. Cherished. Claimed.

He nearly laughed at himself. There had been a time, long ago, when his mind would be full of nothing but zeal in trying to woo such a challenge. Of glory, blood, conquest. He had been younger then. Simpler. He had not yet known what it meant to offer your heart instead of your strength.

The dance floor was a crush of velvet shadows and flickering lamps. Bodies moved in waves, laughter and perfume hanging thick as incense. Pyretalon’s sharp gaze swept through it all, unhurried, alert as ever. He saw Roran seated beside Seraphina, her eyes fixed on him with a look that spoke of want, though the wolven clearly hadn’t yet noticed.

He smiled at himself. Roran was a force of nature in battle, but in the realm of affection, the boy might as well have been blindfolded and spun in circles.

He would have walked over and knocked their heads together, if tonight weren’t meant for something far more sacred.

Then he saw her.

Lyra stood off to the side of the hall, as still as carved marble. Her vibrant wings were furling neatly against her back, her head tilted ever so slightly, green eyes locked not on the stage, nor the dancers, nor the golden-lit fountains.

But on something else. Something that had caught her breath.

He approached her without sound, his form brushing hers as he slid close. He nibbled gently at her ear in greeting, his voice low, the rhythm of his native tongue rolling smoothly and rich.

“Lyra,” he purred, the name soft as smoke. “There is my sweet beak. Has someone cast a spell on you, or have you simply grown lost in the thought of us?”

Silence. In away for him, that weighed more than anything she could say.

He ruffled his wings, adjusting his posture, muscles coiled just beneath the surface of his hide. “I feared I might have to break someone in half for your honor.”

Nothing.

He waited. Patience was a weapon he wielded better than any talon.

Finally, she stirred. Her ears flicked, her weight shifting against him as she nuzzled beneath his chin in quiet affection. “Something has changed,” she murmured.

That made him tense.

“Where is he?” Pyretalon asked. “The room is ready. Our friend is waiting. Everything is in place.”

She gestured with a tilt of her head. Not toward the door. Not toward the baths. But the bar.

And then he saw him, Axton.

The mage was seated at a gaming table among a circle of gryphons. His cheeks were flushed from drink, his laughter light. He leaned in toward a golden-plumed male, one of regal bearing, sharp eyes, and a smile that radiated confidence.

They were close. Too close. Axton’s hands moved as he spoke, his voice animated. Whatever shyness he had once known had melted beneath candlelight and courage.

Pyretalon blinked. “That’s Axton?” he asked.

Lyra’s voice was a sigh. “It is.”

“What got into him?”

She shrugged lightly; her tone half amused. “A bit of the drink. Perhaps something I said. Or maybe... maybe he’s finally remembered who he is.”

Her gaze never left Axton, though a smile curved her beak. Not bitter. Not jealous. Just proud. “Our little mage seems to have grown his wings,” she said. “And there he goes... leaping.”

Pyretalon exhaled slowly. The ache was subtle, but deep. He had opened the door. Lit the path. And still, the boy had flown elsewhere. “Fate,” he muttered, “loves its little cruelties. The night we open our wings... and he finds comfort beneath another’s.”

“Try to hide your disdain, sweety,” Lyra chuckled, leaning into him with a soft trill. “Just be proud of him... for tonight.”

“I guess.” Pyretalon’s ears drooped.

“Besides,” she said, batting her eyes at him, “we both know he finds you attractive beyond reason.”

That, at least, was true. Pyretalon held his tongue as he watched the cheery mage laugh and lean in close to the stranger. He sighed. “I was kind of looking forward to being the one to take him first.”

“So, this is about a notch on your wing?” she teased, a flick of her tail brushing against him.

“Is that so wrong?” he purred, lifting his brow. “You’re the one always telling me what a good stud I am.”

“True. But it’s not the end of the world.” She chortled, “He won’t say no forever—not after the names he moaned while bouncing on that gryphon toy.”

Pyretalon shook his head, the memory still vivid. Axton had thought the house was empty. He and Lyra had returned early and caught the boy in the act. A gryphon-shaped dildo buried beneath him, the poor thing riding it like it was instinct. Sweet whimpers spilling from his lips. Pyretalon’s name... oozing like honey.

“What if that gryph is a bastard?” Pyretalon fluffed his feathers, tail lashing. “He could need me.”

Lyra smirked. “Now you sound like a mother hen. Or is this you wanting to sabotage the poor guy so you can swoop in?”

He narrowed his gaze. Part of her was right, damn her.

“What if Axton just wants to fuck him?” she asked bluntly.

“Sounds... thrilling,” he admitted, exhaling through his beak. “And yes, it’s what he wants. Look at him. He’s glowing.”

Lyra leaned into him. “Axton’s fine, dear. He’s not glass.”

“I still don’t like it,” Pyretalon muttered, eyes locked on the interaction. “He could need me.”

“Then be here if he does.” Her voice was gentle. “But don’t rob him of his flight.”

He didn’t reply, watching the way Axton laughed, unguarded, radiant. He saw the appeal. The charm. The seduction. “How long’s this been going on?”

“For a while,” she said. “Definitely caught our mage’s eye.” She leaned into him again, warmth pressed to his side. And they watched, quietly together, as their dear friend bloomed under firelight, daring to become the man they always knew he could be.

Then Lyra’s claws traced up his chest, slow and deliberate. Her eyes glimmered with mischief. “So... we do still have that room.”

“Yup.” His ears perked. “And our friend’s waiting. It’s a shame really, he was very interested in him.”

Lyra waved a wing. “That stud was coming onto Axton hard. I thought his brain was going to melt out his ears.” She rolled her shoulder, tail thumping once. “Think he’ll stick around?”

“He usually does.” Pyretalon lifted a brow, tone cautious. “You’re angling for something, aren’t you?”

She examined her talons innocently. “We still have that room. And a very sexy Carabara stud waiting. Be a shame to waste it.” She padded toward the stairwell, hips swaying just enough to make a point. “Coming, love?”

“In a bit.” He chuckled, eyes lingering one last time on Axton. “Just a few more minutes.”

He almost meant it. But then Lyra cleared her throat and lifted her tail. All his words, all his worries, went scattering like leaves in the wind.

“Good persuasion,” he chirped, padding quickly after her, nuzzling up under her feathers.

“Thought so.” she purred.

** ** * * * * * * * *

Nelneras leaned back in his seat with a flutter of dark gold wings, cards held loosely in one paw, a knowing smile curving his beak. He had won the hand, again, and the reaction was everything he’d hoped for.

Across from him, Axton’s face collapsed from bold anticipation into a look of sheer, crestfallen disbelief. The mage had played confidently, betting heavily on a bluff that nearly worked. His mouth opened slightly, the beginnings of a victorious cheer still hanging useless in his throat.

It was adorable.

Nelneras didn’t gloat. He didn’t need to. The boy’s dismay was reward enough, sweet and unfiltered, like a violin string pulled just taut enough to sing.

“Don’t worry,” he said smoothly, folding his cards with a touch of flourish. “I’m sure you’ll get me back. Though… it does mean I’ve made my mark in this war of ours.”

“War?” Axton asked, blinking through the disappointment. “You make it sound so devious.”

“Is it not?” Nelneras batted his eyes, voice low and velvet. “We give up parts of ourselves so the other may know us. Little victories along the way.” He traced a paw across the table’s polished edge. “Now the show is on the other paw.”

Axton didn’t argue. But his pout, the way he sank just a little in his seat, chin dipping, fingers curling around the rim of his cup, was pure gold. Nelneras savored every second of it.

“What to ask,” he murmured, “what to ask…”

“Just ask, Nel!” Veska snapped, feathers bristling as she slapped a talon on the table. “Or you’re gonna lose the next hand and regret wasting this one!”

“I might not win again,” he said with mock defensiveness. “I must be careful with my question.”

His gaze returned to Axton, sharp and inquisitive, like a blade sheathed in charm.

“What brought you here?” he asked at last. “Earlier today you looked ready to flee at the sound of my voice. Now here you sit, card-playing, bold as brass. Was it the drink?”

“That’s two questions.” Axton said, grinning slyly despite his blush. That spark of playful challenge was growing bolder with each hand, and each glass.

Nelneras flicked an ear in feigned chastisement. “Turnabout is fair play,” he conceded. “Very well, the first.”

And here it came, that moment of pause. Axton’s bravado faltered, ever so slightly. He shifted, eyes darting to the table before finding Nelneras’ again. But his voice, when it emerged, was honest.

“I found you… interesting,” he said softly. “It’s not often that a gryphon flirts with me.”

That much was true. Nelneras had pieced it together between hands, scraps of information handed over like breadcrumbs. Axton spoke of potion accidents and tea blends that had knocked out an entire study group. Of stargazing and a failed spell that had once animated a broomstick into trying to sweep him off a balcony. Of a disastrous attempt to bake with fire magic. Of stories etched with warmth, and the kind of openness that didn’t yet realize how rare it was.

But when the conversation edged too close to who he had learned from—or where—Axton grew coy, shifting the topic with laughter or another sip of wine. It wasn’t avoidance born of guilt. It was something deeper. Nelneras hadn’t pressed.

Not yet.

“Well,” Veska drawled, leaning an elbow on the table, “don’t go falling for all of us now, mage. I’m flattered, but I don’t share drinks with boys who cry when they lose.”

“I don’t cry.” Axton protested, cheeks blooming red.

“Oh, I bet you whimper.” she replied with a grin full of feathers and teeth.

“Careful,” Grellith said with a grunt, not looking up from his cards. “The boy’s got a thing for gryphons, apparently. Next, he’ll be asking to rub your tail base.”

Korrin tilted his head. “Wait, you can do that? I thought it was just for preening.”

Axton covered his face with both hands, mumbling something into his palms.

Nelneras chuckled low in his throat. “I did warn you, didn’t I? One little truth, and the claws come out.”

Veska smirked. “Sweetheart, he just called you interesting. That’s practically a proposal where I’m from.”

“Yeah?” Korrin blinked. “I’d let him call me that. And rub my wings. He’s nice.”

“And you’d let him do it upside down.” Grellith muttered.

Laughter rippled around the table. Axton let out a sound that might’ve been a groan or a wheeze, then reached for his cup with shaking hands and took a long, long sip.

“I’m never going to live this down, am I?” he said, voice muffled by the rim.

“Not a chance,” Nelneras replied, warmth curling in his smile. “And I shall do my best to continue being interesting.”

The game of Skycourt continued and eventually long since lost its edge. Cards still flicked across the table, bets were still made with a dramatic flair, but winning no longer mattered, not to Nelneras, and certainly not to Axton. What mattered now was the slow, rich unfolding of conversation. The laughter. The leaning in.

Nelneras played deliberately now, letting Axton think he was rising. Each almost victory gave the mage a little more confidence, a little more sparkle in the eye. And Nelneras? He basked in it, not in dominance, but in the slow unraveling of the man’s careful seams. Axton was blooming like a dusk flower under starlight and spiced wine.

With each round, they traded pieces of themselves.

Nelneras gave Axton a glimpse of his past, told him of a farm nestled between wind-worn cliffs and swaying golden grasses. Of how his egg had been found in a shattered nest tangled in bramble, how his human parents had taken him in not as a curiosity, but as a child. They had placed his egg in the warmth of their hearth, and when he hatched, feathers wet, eyes blinking at the strange world, they did not hesitate for even a moment, loving him before he even hatched.

“My father,” he said, voice soft, “had hands like granite but a laugh that could break glass. He’d carry me under one arm while swinging an axe in the other, said I squawked louder than the hawks. He called me his stormbird.”

“And my mother,” he went on, “was small and stern. Smelled of chamomile and ink. She taught me to read, and how to stitch torn feathers. She wasn’t afraid of talons.”

He sipped from his glass, something herbal and strong, Valebark Shimmer, a gryphon liquor that left a faint silvery glow on the tongue. His eyes, though cast toward the ceiling, burned not with longing, but with love.

“I had a brother and a sister. Human. Loud. Messy. Perfect.” He chuckled. “They taught me how to cheat at cards, incidentally.”

He didn’t mention the way his sister used to sit in his curled tail to read. Or how his brother had once punched a full-grown man for calling Nel a “pet.” He didn’t say how their names were carved into a shrine on the back edge of his farm, stone feathers set beneath their memory. He didn’t need to.

He painted it all as though he were a gryphon taken in by kindly humans, as if it were nothing more than an odd tale of charity and open hearts. And that, too, was almost true.

“That explains it,” Veska cackled, draining the last of her Cinderfruit Emberwine. “Sure, you’re not two humans in a gryphon costume? Probably stitched your wings on in the barn.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Grellith muttered, his low voice muffled by a mug of Stonebarrel Blackroot. “No normal gryphon talks like a poet and plays like a knight.”

Nelneras only smiled. He didn’t need to defend what was real.

Axton, meanwhile, was flushed from more than just wine. His third Moonberry Sparkle had gone to his head, sweet, glittering stuff laced with starpetal and rivermint. It brought out the dreamer in him, loosed the tongue just enough to let the stories tumble out.

He told them of stargazing nights, how he used to chart constellations on old parchment and whisper the names of each light like they were sacred words.

Later, when Axton was deep into his fourth drink and flushed with lavender delight, the subject turned to his friend. “Roran and I—my dearest friend—he’s wolven. Towering. Stronger than most beasts I’ve met. But kinder too. Like if a mountain knew how to hug. One time we were exploring this old ruin,” Axton said, tipping forward dramatically. “There were rumors, a basilisk had been nesting beneath the temple. Everything stank of old magic and moldy blessings.”

Pausing to take a sip of his wine to build tension, “We explored the ancient ruins finding nothing but dusty crypts, but then, right as we were leaving, we found this statue, glowing eyes, serpentine tail—looks exactly like what the legends warned about. I ducked.”

He thumped the table.

“Roran lifts his hammer, full moons in both eyes, and shouts, “I SHALL STRIKE YOU DOWN, Moonstrike!’ and hurls his hammer. Direct hit. Shatters the glamour field. Turns out? It was a statue. An enchanted statue. Explodes in a puff of acid-colored powder—covers everything.”

“Let me guess,” Veska leaned in, eyes narrowed. “Latrine.”

“A collapsed cesspit, actually.” Axton nodded solemnly. “He fell through the floor, straight into sewage older than most civilizations. And you know what he says as he climbs out?”

He tried to sit upright and failed, giggling into his sleeve.

“He goes: ‘I regret nothing.’ Arms are raised like a war hero. Covered in green sludge and magical compost. And then—then—he pulls a scroll from his pouch and says, ‘We must press on. The gods are testing us.’”

Veska wheezed, nearly spilling her drink. Korrin clapped his talons. Grellith muttered something about divine stupidity and brave hearts.

“A heart the size of his shield,” Axton added dreamily. “And not a shred of shame in his entire body.”

“He’s either blessed or brainless.” Grellith muttered.

“Probably both,” Veska said. “I like him.”

As the laughter settled, Nelneras leaned toward Axton, offering a small toast. They sipped, smiling.

“What a collection of lives you’ve built around you,” Nelneras murmured. “It’s rare, you know. To live through so many stories... and tell them so well.”

“Mm, I try.” Axton blinked, cheeks aglow. “Helps to know the best people.”

Then, something shifted. A new laugh broke between them.

Nelneras had offhandedly mentioned the Battle of Marrowfield, a little-known border skirmish between two minor kingdoms over a ruined temple rumored to house an oracle’s tooth. Axton nearly spat out his drink.

“Wait—Marrowfield? With the illusory oxen charge?!”

Nelneras chuckled, arching a brow. “So, you do know it.”

“Are you kidding?” Axton wheezed. “It’s one of my favorites! The commander who conjured a herd of stampeding oxen illusions, only to forget the spell’s anchor point. They trampled onto his own camp! Seven tents flattened. Two officers were in need of clerics! And the tooth? It turned out to be a fossilized turnip! I had to write an entire thesis on that disaster.” Axton groaned.

The other gryphons blinked. “What?” Veska said, looking between them. “That’s not real.”

“You’d have to know the story.” Nelneras said smoothly, taking a long sip of his drink.

Axton grinned wide. “It’s in the annals of the First Scholar’s Folly. You’ve no idea what you're missing.”

“What a charming life you’ve made for yourself, Axton,” Nelneras said, his voice low and smooth, like a river flowing over dark stone. His golden eyes gleamed in the dim light of the Gilded Feather. “Some might say you’re a man of mystery. Telling tall tales to enchant innocent gryphons.”

He smiled, not mocking, but something quieter. Genuine. “I’ll say it again. You’re a rare breed indeed. I’m glad you found your courage.”

Axton flushed under the compliment. Or maybe that was the drink. He was deep into his third—or fourth—Moonberry Sparkle, and it showed. The sparkle part, mostly.

He leaned back too far, caught himself, then grinned like someone who didn’t care he’d nearly toppled.

“Well, my friends wouldn’t forgive me, you know?” he said, slurring slightly. “Told them a gryphon—very handsome—made a pass at me today.” A pause. He locked eyes with Nelneras, all flushed bravado. “And I ran off like a coward.”

That earned a few chuckles. Veska rolled her eyes. Korrin smiled like it was a love story. Grellith, predictably, said nothing.

“So, I told them,” Axton continued, with the solemnity of a drunk giving a sermon, “next time I wouldn’t let that handsome bastard get away.”

He crossed his arms like it was law. A pause. “What kind of son of two dragons would I be, huh?” And then, quieter, almost to himself, “None at all.”

Nelneras blinked, a slow drag of breath resting behind his eyes. Two dragons. It should have been a jest. It still might be with how much the human had tonight. But the way Axton said it, head tipped with reverence, mouth laced with slurred conviction, it didn’t sound like a lie. It sounded like a truth no one else had believed before.

Veska laughed. Of course she did.

“Oh, you poor lost lamb. Next, you’ll say you were suckled by a manticore and raised by phoenixes.”

“Did they roast marshmallows with their breath?” Grellith shook his head with chirping laughter, “Or light your bedtime scrolls on fire by accident?”

“And burped fire,” Veska said. “That’s probably how they lit the candles.”

Korrin blinked, tail giving a hopeful little wag. “I think it’s sweet. It sounds fantastical!”

Axton didn’t flinch. That was the strange part. No flustered denial. No wide-eyed backtracking. Just a calm sip from his cup. “They adopted me,” Axton said, softer now, tracing a fingertip around his cup. “I was twelve. Not... young enough to be cute about it.”

He smiled crookedly, not quite meeting anyone’s gaze. “I wasn’t easy. But they never asked me to be.” A quite breath passed through him, “Night Rising, my mother...she’s loud. Protective. You always know where she is, even before she speaks. She taught me to fight, not with fists, but with posture. With presence. Watch out if you cross her, lightning bolts are her favorite.”

“Benevolent Scholar, he’s gentler. He likes riddles and books; he and I would trade spell theories and experiments each all the time. He gardens with one paw and reads with the other.”

He chuckled, tipsy affection curling in his voice. “They didn’t try to make me anything else. Just theirs.” A pause. His voice grew smaller, but brighter for it. “That was all I could ask from a loving family.”

Nelneras studied him over the rim of his cup. There was no swagger in Axton’s voice, only warmth. Pride, maybe. Not the kind that shouted to be seen, but the quiet kind that grew in someone who’d been shown kindness when it had meant the world.

Dragons, it was unbelievable, though he said it like someone telling the truth, not spinning a tale. But why would he lie? Then again, wine was a dangerous confidant. And stories, especially the sad ones, had a way of slipping loose when you drank among strangers.

Still… it felt real. And if it wasn’t? Then Axton was an astonishingly gifted liar. He didn’t believe it. Not yet. But he wanted to.

Veska broke the silence with a scoff.

“Alright, enough,” she said, shaking her head. “Nice story. You almost had me.”

“Had you what?” Axton blinked.

“Believing any of it,” she said. “Come on, mage. Raised by dragons? Please. That’s the kind of thing bards sing because it sells drinks.”

“Even I’ve heard better,” Grellith muttered, swirling his tankard. “And one of them involved a goose, a volcano, and three love potions.”

“No offense,” Veska added, though it clearly was, “but you don’t exactly look like someone from a draconic bloodline.”

“I'm not,” Axton protested, sitting straighter, hands flaring slightly. “I wasn’t born to them. They chose me. They raised me. Everything I am, is because of them.”

“Sure,” Veska said. “Next you’ll say one of them’s the Moon Tyrant herself.”

“No,” Axton said. “But I know Crimson Sky.”

The table stilled for a beat, no one answered. Then Grellith let out a laugh. Low. Dismissive.

“Now he’s just collecting titles.”

“You know Crimson Sky?” Veska said, splaying one ear. “The Crimson Sky? The firestorm who burned through Braestair? The one who married the last Lund?”

“Yes.” Axton’s cheeks were flushed, but his voice didn’t waver. “He’s... a friend of the family.”

That earned a snort from Grellith. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re about to eat your beak,” Axton snapped. “I’ll prove it.”

Power glowed from Axton’s fingertips as the room dimmed as he began to cast, the magic drawing light into itself. Symbols flared, elegant, intricate, and far too steady for someone swimming in a haze of drunken bliss.

Nelneras leaned forward, pupils narrowed. It couldn’t be, he also knew Crimson Sky? The same dragon he was looking for?

Then it happened. A shimmer bloomed in the center of the table, heatless flame and red-gold glow. The illusion swirled upward, forming a horned silhouette far too large for the tavern ceiling. It stopped at the neck for any more would have shattered the illusion’s containment. The head of a dragon took shape in perfect detail. Crimson scales. Sapphire eyes. A regal brow that had likely glared kingdoms into silence.

And then, with the weight of someone who knew his time was valuable and his patience was finite, the dragon’s voice rang out, “Axton.” A pause. “Where... are you?” Another pause. “…Is that a bar?” His wings twitched, barely visible in the background as the floating dragon head and neck rotated around to take in his surroundings, “Axton, have you summoning me from a drinking table?”

Axton gave a sheepish hiccup and a wave. “Hi.”

“You couldn’t wait? I’m halfway through a collapsed ruin on the Moonspine Peninsula, trying to dislodge a vault door older than most civilizations, and you’re holding a reveal party in a tavern?”

The table was silent for a moment before continuing, “Let me guess. Someone didn’t believe you knew me. So rather than let it go... you summoned a dragon to win an argument.”

“It was kind of important…” Axton shrugged helplessly.

Crimson Sky gave a languid blink, as if the weight of the world had paused solely to witness his suffering. “I should have known.” His voice curled like smoke through ancient rafters. “I always know. The moment the air shifted the winds of magic tasted of desperation and ill-timed flattery, and so I think, ‘Axton must be summoning me.’”

The red dragon sniffed. “So, there I am, wrenched from a ruin half-collapsed on my tail, squeezed through divine wards older than gryphon civilization, only to be projected like a stage curtain fluttering over a tavern table.” His eyes slid over the gryphons, narrowed like twin blades unsheathed. “I see feathers. I see drinks. I see strangers.” He paused, disdain sharpening. “And you.” His gaze fell on Axton, a smoldering judgment wrapped in affection he’d never name aloud. “What if I’d been bathing, Axton? What if I’d been in the middle of something glorious? You’re very lucky I wasn’t rutting. Again.”

Veska sputtered.

“You laugh, but truly, have you ever seen a rutting dragon? I assure you; it is a symphony. Interrupting it is a sin punishable by poetic justice.”

He flared his frill slightly, whether in genuine offense or self-declared majesty was anyone’s guess. “And no, I do not mean you would be punished. I mean the world would be.”

Axton raised a finger. “I just wanted—”

“To impress someone, that much is obvious.” Veledar cut in. “Everyone pales in comparison to my magnificence and legend, it’s our greatest curse now.” His voice softened, dangerously. “Every new friend, every borrowed heart, and suddenly I become their demonstration piece.”

A beat passed. “I am not a flame to warm your confidence. I am not a story you unfurl when the room turns cold.” He leaned in slightly. His eyes gleamed. “I am Crimson Sky. Wyrm of legend. Herald of the Ember Oath. Arcturus Lund’s mate, star-blessed and sky-borne. And yet somehow, I am also your emergency spell-slot.”

Axton winced. “You’re not wrong…”

“Of course I’m not wrong. I am never wrong. I just let you live as if I am.” Then, a flick of his gaze off to the side, beyond the illusion as another voice was heard in the background. “No, Arcturus, I’m finishing. He deserves this.” And back again, fire dancing behind his teeth.

His frills rose in a crown of firelight, and his wings folded with theatrical disdain, as if even the illusion couldn’t bear to remain in this tavern another heartbeat.

“This concludes your demonstration. I hope your little game was worth interrupting the wrath of a god on the verge of climaxing with victory and—” A pause. His gaze drifted, and his tone changed, only slightly, into something more familiar, softer, but still prideful. “No, Arcturus, I’m ending it now. I’ve made my point. I wasn't that—”

The projection cuts. Clean. Not a flicker. Gone like breath from a forge. The air over the table still crackled faintly where the dragon’s image had vanished. No one spoke. No one moved.

Even the bar staff in the far corner had paused, wings half-spread behind overturned trays and startled expressions. A waitress poked her head up from behind the bar, blinking like she expected a second dragon to arrive.

Axton stood frozen in the awkward silence he’d created. His hand was still half-raised from casting. His mouth opened, closed, then he gave a weak little smile and lifted both hands in mock triumph. “...Tada?”

The silence cracked.

Veska barked a laugh, loud, half-choked, “You weren’t lying,” she gasped. “By the Sartren’s fluffy ass. That was him. That was Crimson Sky.”

“He was beautiful,” Korrin whispered, eyes wide. “And so angry.”

“He could’ve bitten the moon in half,” Grellith muttered, glaring into his cup. “And you summoned him. Sure, he’s not going to come flame us?”

Axton hunched slightly. “He’s not usually that dramatic... well, sometimes. But you were all laughing at me.”

“We were laughing because that sort of claim deserves to be laughed at!” Veska said, throwing a wing wide. “Who brags about knowing Crimson Sky in a bar?”

“Me,” Axton said meekly, lifting his cup. “Apparently.”

Before anyone could laugh again, a stern voice rang out from across the bar:

“Who cast that?”

A gryphoness stormed over, white-feathered with streaks of gold down her chest and legs, the crest of the Gilded Feather branded faintly into the leather torque at her neck. Her talons clacked against the floor with the finality of judgment.

“Illusion magic?” she snapped. “Dragon illusion magic? With no warning?”

A second gryphon followed, a lean, gray-plumed male with a permanent scowl.

“We had three customers take off out the front, one didn’t even pay their tab!” he said, tail lashing. “Thought the place was under siege.”

Axton tried to smile. It didn’t help. “Apologies, I’m very sorry. It was a scholarly demonstration. With... personal stakes.”

“Scholarly demonstration,” the gryphoness repeated flatly. She narrowed her eyes, then turned to Veska. “Was this your table?”

“Don’t look at me,” Veska said, raising her talons. “I just heckled him.”

“This is why we don’t let mages drink unsupervised.” the gray gryphon grumbled.

“I’m so sorry. Deeply. Really. It won’t happen again. Ever. I swear.” Axton stood. Or tried to. He got halfway up before bowing awkwardly, nearly tipping his chair.

The gryphoness stepped closer, beak inches from his nose.

“Next time you summon a fire-breathing legend in my establishment,” she hissed, “you’ll be tossed out on your ass so fast your boots will still be drinking.”

“Understood,” Axton squeaked. “Firmly. Ass-tossing thoroughly understood.”

“Good,” she snapped, turning away in a swirl of feathers.

“You’re lucky he didn’t burn the rafters.” her mate muttered.

Nelneras had said nothing throughout. He hadn’t needed to. He was still watching the air where the illusion had been. Not with fear, but awe, it would appear the human he’d been chasing was far more interesting than he could have possibly imagined. Slowly, Nelneras turned to Axton. His expression had settled into something calm, but far from neutral.

“Well,” he said at last, his voice smooth as silk and twice as cutting, “You’ve certainly made an impression.” He lifted his glass. “It’s not every day one gets scolded by a legend.”

Axton swallowed before managing a shaky laugh. “Y-yeah, well... I was aiming for charming.”

He gestured vaguely at the lingering scorch of embarrassment still hanging in the air like a scent. “Overshot, slightly.” His smile was crooked, self-deprecating, and sincere in the way only Axton could be. “But... you’re not running, so I’ll take that as a win.” Then, trying not to sound too hopeful, “I, uh... hope it wasn’t a bad impression.”

“A bad impression?” he echoed, as if tasting the words. He took a slow sip, never breaking eye contact. “Oh, no.” He set the glass down with care, one talon tapping once against the wood soft, precise. “You’ve carved yourself into memory tonight, Axton. With a flame none of us will forget.”

“Good,” he said, shoulders sagging with tipsy ease. “Because honestly, I thought you were about to say something embarrassing.” He gestured with his cup, rambling now. “Like, I don’t know, how I was practically swooning earlier. Or how I wanted to...”

He trailed off. “—shove my face into your balls and just... rub back and forth across the big, furry things—” He shook his face rapidly back and forth, “Like—like that.”

Silence. A beat. Two. Axton blinked. “...Wait.” He froze. His eyes widened as the weight of his own sentence slammed back into his skull like a spell backlash. “Nope. No. Nope-nope-nope.” He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes darting around the table, already redder than the illusion of Crimson Sky. “That—that was in my head voice. That was supposed to stay there.”

Then Veska howled a piercing, wheezing a crackle that shook her entire torso. “By the feathered god, look at that Val!” she shrieked, slapping the table. “He wants you to mount him right here! Go on, give the little star-lover what he wants!”

Korrin was half-horrified, half-impressed. “I didn’t know humans were that direct,” he whispered. “Or that descriptive.”

Axton made a squeaking sound behind the hand clamped over his mouth, then slumped forward with his forehead on the table. “I’m going to evaporate,” he mumbled. “Melt into the wood like a cursed stain.”

Nelneras hadn’t laughed. But stars, he looked amused. He leaned in just a little. “I take it back,” he said softly. “That was the impression. How many drinks have you had, Axton?”

Axton raised his head just enough to speak, words muffled. “Three. No—four. I think. There was a glowing one. And a second glowing one. Then one that had... smoke?” He wobbled upright, blinked, and fell sideways off the chair with a thump.

Veska shrieked again.

He rose, not hastily, his shadow stretched long over Axton, who lay blinking up at him from the floor, cheeks flushed and dignity leaking out through his fingertips. The gryphon tilted his head. He held back the laughter but couldn’t the amusement on his beak. He clicked it once. “I suppose,” he said, voice dry “I’ll have to wait to hear the rest of the fantasy.”

The laughter was starting to spiral now, gritty, wheezing, feather-ruffling. Veska had collapsed against the table, wings shaking, tears in her eyes.

“Val, you have to take him now,” she cackled. “You can’t leave a man on the floor after he begs for your balls!”

Grellith grunted into his mug. “He’s earned something after that spell.”

“I think it was sweet.” Korrin said gently, blinking down at Axton like he was a half-scorched puppy.

Nelneras said nothing. He stood still amidst it all, tail flicking once, ears poised, feathers settling along his spine. Not in tension. In calculation. He let his gaze glide across the room.

The bar had already begun to recover from the summoned dragon. A spilled tray had been righted. Conversations resumed. Somewhere, someone laughed too loud at something else entirely. The pulse of the place had steadied, but no one was watching Axton.

No friends lingered in corners. No concerned companions rose to help. No guiding hands waited by the exit. The mage lay draped half-under the table, one cheek pressed to the floorboards, legs akimbo like a marionette left to dry. No one was coming from him, a request to him if he knew anyone got a response as ‘gryphons.’ Nelneras exhaled slowly through his beak. He took a step forward, claws silent on the worn oak floor.

“I’ll take him back.” he said, voice quiet but pointed.

Veska’s head whipped up like a hawk spotting prey.

“Oh, I bet you will.”

“Not like that.” Nelneras said, without so much as a twitch in his brow.

“Some of them like it that way,” Grellith muttered, lifting his mug in salute.

“I do,” Axton mumbled into the wood. Then, louder, hopeful: “I very much do.” He looked up at Nelneras with eyes half-lidded and swimming, lips tugged into the dopey smile. “Please be gentle you sexy thing.”

“I’m not doing this to sleep with you.” Nelneras said flatly.

“That’s fair,” Axton slurred, with an earnest nod. “We can build to that.”

Veska shrieked like a dying kettle. Korrin thumped the table once in support. Grellith didn’t even try to hide the groan.

Enough, Nelneras thought.

He stepped beside Axton, crouched low, and in one clean motion, hooked a forelimb under the mage’s ribs and hoisted him up onto his back. The human let out a pleased noise, arms flopping loosely across Nelneras’ feathered shoulders.

“Mmm,” Axton murmured, nuzzling faintly into a wing joint. “You smell like... destiny.”

Tavern soot, Nelneras corrected in his head, and poor decisions.

The other gryphons continued to laugh as he stepped away from the table. He gave them nothing, no smile, no look back. Just the clean finality of retreat, tail sweeping wide as he passed through the open partition leading toward the Feather’s quieter halls.

The other gryphons were still cackling. Veska leaned sideways against Korrin, wiping her eyes. “Val, he’s practically melting on you!”

Korrin gave a chirp of encouragement. “Good luck!”

“You’d better not return him broken,” Grellith grunted. “Unless you’re trading for one of equal or lesser value.”

“Good evening,” he said smoothly, tone even, unbothered. “Try not to die laughing before I get back.”

And with that, he passed into the hall, the sound of feathers brushing wood and firelight catching along the curve of his wings. The laughter followed him like a tide, fading but refusing to vanish entirely.