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Chapter 8: Gifts Given Freely

The Gilded Feather smelled of warm oils, sunbaked stone, and the gentle sweetness of fresh-pressed fruits. Its vaulted entry, carved by claw and chisel into stone so old it must have remembered the first gryphon songs, opened into a hall filled with soft light that pooled like honey on the polished floor. Axton hesitated, shoes clicking nervously against the stone. This was no common tavern or mage study; this was a place meant for those who belonged. He did not feel as though he did.

The great pyres that served as hearths flared low and lazy, and creatures of every feather and fur lounged, drank, and spoke as if nothing in the world could touch them.

Axton trailed slightly behind as Lyra led the way with the confidence of one who might as well own the place. Pyretalon padded silently beside her, talons clicking with quiet authority, while Roran took it all in with wide-eyed wonder, half-turned this way and that, like a pup who couldn’t decide whether to marvel or wrestle with the nearest gryphon.

The lounge stretched wide, every cushion and couch carved directly from stone and dressed in lush silks. Lanterns swayed gently, illuminating gryphons curled together in idle chatter, wolven sharing drinks without armor between them, bathing in the soft glow of the room like they belonged to it.

Axton’s throat tightened. They all fit. No robes to hide behind tonight. His sleeveless tunic felt almost scandalous, leaving the sharp lines of his shoulders exposed, the silver-threaded trim catching every stray lantern flicker like little constellations. He resisted the urge to fidget.

“Relax, hatchling,” Pyretalon murmured beside him, eyes fixed ahead, though there was no missing the amused glint. “You’ll survive.”

Axton wasn’t so sure.

They passed into the Hearth Room, where a great circular fireplace threw shadows up onto the domed ceiling. Around it, gryphons reclined like hunting cats, wings stretched lazily, eyes half-lidded. The flickering light played on Pyretalon’s feathers, making the blue seem to ripple like moonlit water. Even stoic Pyretalon softened slightly here, shoulders easing. Lyra nudged him with a wing and whispered something that made him smirk.

For Axton, every inch of this place was a reminder. A reminder that while he could memorize a thousand spells, he could not conjure the comfort these others seemed to wear so naturally. He envied it. Then, at last, Lyra pushed open the great archway into The Preeners' heart — the spa.

Steam rose in gentle coils, wrapping the air in soft fingers. Pools stretched beneath high arches, water so still and clear it seemed like glass. The painted dome above showed gryphons soaring across a night sky, the stars gilded in silverleaf. Aromatic oils and herbs perfumed the air with lavender, sweet mint, and something richer beneath, like the spice of some long-forgotten orchard.

“Stars above,” Roran whispered beside him, ears flicking forward. “I reckon this might be heaven.”

Lyra twirled, claws clicking softly. “And you’ve only just seen it. Wait till you feel a Bathwing’s tender ministrations.”

Axton could not help but marvel, even as his insecurities clawed at him. He shifted, tugging at the hem of his tunic. The pools beckoned with gentle promise, yet stepping into them felt like stepping into someone else’s story. Pyretalon’s wing brushed lightly against his back, steadying him.

“Breathe.” The gryphon said, calm as ever, letting him breathe easy.

Before Axton could reply, a figure approached through the mist. Seraphina.

Her gown clung close to where it ought, deep green silk tracing the curve of her strong arms and athletic figure. Silver-threaded embroidery twined like vines across the bodice. Beads and ribbons wove through her braided mane, catching the light with every graceful step. “Well now,” she purred, voice as smooth as warmed honey. “Y’all didn’t start without me, did you?” A playful smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Got caught up bakin’.” She lifted a hoofed hand and gave a small shake of her head. “Set my own tail on fire. Again.”

Lyra snapped around, feathers flaring with immediate laughter. “Again?”

The Ceullus gave a dramatic shrug, though there was nothing but mischief behind it. “Mhm. Was tryin’ to charm the dough with a little bit of warming magic, figured I’d skip proofin’ time. Next thing I know, the dough’s climbin’ up the walls like it’s got legs, smoke’s pourin’ out the windows, and there I am, swattin’ at my poor tail like I’m dancin’ with a devil. Though don’t worry your tails none, I only lost the first round. Dough never stood a chance after that.”

Roran blinked, ears pricking. His gaze lingered longer than he realized, sweeping from her bare shoulders to the curve of her waist and back again. “You look... real nice,” he said, slowly, like he was puzzling out the words. “Like... moss?” He winced mid-sentence. “But the good moss.”

Lyra wheezed immediately, wings fluttering with suppressed laughter.

Seraphina cocked a brow, lips curling. “Moss, sugar? That’s what you’ve got for me?”

“You hold the forest together.” Roran offered proudly, apparently not realizing that he was digging his own grave with every earnest word.

Steam hid nothing of Pyretalon’s subtle puff of feathers, his sharp eyes glinting with restrained laughter.

“Instead of moss,” Axton said, desperate to patch the awkwardness, “I would say she that she looks radiant.” It slipped out like a truth that didn’t need dressing. Embarrassment struck instantly. He could feel the heat of it.

A soft chuckle rose from Seraphina. She reached out—not toward Axton, but toward Roran—and with two fingers, gently brushed some imagined bit of lint from his vest. “Moss, radiant, I’ll take both.” She winked.

“Right,” Roran said, smiling. “Flowers grow on moss too, so that’s good.”

This time, Lyra could no longer contain it and burst into giggles, curling her wing around herself as if it might conceal her amusement.

Seraphina, however, looked far from discouraged. “Hopeless,” she murmured fondly.

And through it all, Pyretalon remained a silent shadow at Axton’s side, though the occasional glance he shared with Lyra told Axton more than words ever could. They were plotting. And tonight, no doubt, the true surprise had yet to reveal itself.

The steam thickened as they moved, curling about their limbs, softening the stone beneath their paws and feet. Warmth bled into bone and sinew with every step, carrying with it the promise of something more than simple comfort. This place was not meant for hurried souls. Here, the very air urged stillness.

Lyra led them down a gentle incline where the stone gave way to smooth slate pathways flanked by carefully pruned ferns and flowering vines that draped lazily from alcoves. The distant trickle of fountains sang a song older than any of them. Gryphons lounged in half-submerged pools, their feral bodies stretched languidly beneath the surface, eyes half-lidded in bliss. A few humans, too, bathed here, their laughter subdued and easy.

From the shadows, a trio of Bathwings glided into view, their feathers shimmering with a faint iridescence. They moved with practiced grace, claws whispering against stone. At first glance, they seemed like any other ordinary gryphon, but the silver bands at their forelegs marked them as attendants.

“Welcome,” said one, her voice gentle as rainfall. “Please, allow us.”

Before Axton could shy away, the Bathwings circled, each taking position beside one of them. One politely helped Lyra unfasten the light wrap about her shoulders, another delicately tugged at Roran’s vest laces, and a third—after a courteous nod—gestured toward Axton’s simple tunic.

His breath caught. No robe to hide behind. No layers of cloth to shield him from the gazes of strangers. He swallowed hard.

Pyretalon leaned close, voice quiet enough that only Axton could hear. “Breathe. No one here sees weakness, only guests.”

With trembling fingers, Axton let the tunic slip free, the fabric pooling at his feet like fallen midnight. His arms, usually hidden beneath layers, felt bare and vulnerable in the scented air. Yet no mocking looks came, no judgement. Only warm smiles and the soft rustle of wings.

Beside him, Roran stood tall and proud, chest bare, muscles relaxed beneath thick fur. He chatted easily with one of the Bathwings as though he were discussing the weather. “You folks do this every day? Bet you’ve got the best jobs in the whole damn Feather.”

With no further ceremony, the group slipped into the water.

The heat was immediate, drawing from Axton a sharp intake of breath as it surged along every muscle and bone. The pool cradled him gently, the minerals and oils scenting the rising steam with calming herbs and citrus. Around them, Bathwings moved with practiced subtlety, refilling drinks, bringing fresh towels, and adjusting the flow of warm water cascading from stone-carved gryphon mouths.

Lyra let out a contented trill, stretching long and luxuriously, her hind paws just brushing the submerged ledge. “I cannot wait for the massage.” Her voice dipped into a sultry hum, wings lazily spreading. “Oiled claws, strong talons tracing every line of tension, kneading until there’s nothing left but warm, melted bliss.” She sighed as if already halfway there.

A beat later, Pyretalon flicked a glance at her, “Ah,” he said, low and smooth. “So, you admit you’re just longing for someone else’s beak preening you.” His beak clicked faintly. “How scandalous.”

“Pyre, darling, you wish.” Without rising, she rolled her haunches against his with a soft splash, bumping him enough to make his paws shuffle along the submerged stone. “Besides,” she added, curling her tail lazily around his leg, “like you don’t want a pile of fine gryphons or sharp-clawed bathers fawning over you.” She reached up, scratching under his chin.

“Well.” Chirped the gryphon with a smirk, “When you put it that way…”

A splash sounded beside Axton. Without warning, he found himself hoisted halfway out of the water as Roran wrapped him in a bear hug, squeezing him against his broad chest like a stuffed toy. “Happy birthday, pup!” the wolven declared, tail swaying happily. “Thought you’d get away without me crushin’ ya a little?”

"R-Roran! Put me down!" Axton yelped, half-laughing, half-dying inside as his heart pounded loud enough, he was sure the others could hear it echo in the steam.

The paladin’s tail wagged, oblivious. “What? This is a birthday tradition! What kinda best friend would I be if I didn’t try to crack your ribs at least once?”

Axton twisted, desperate to slip free, but it was like trying to wrestle a boulder. Worse still, the heat of Roran’s arms, the press of firm muscle against him, wasn’t exactly... unwelcome.

Roran blinked. His ears flicked flat as some dim recognition dawned. “Oh. Right.” He lowered Axton gently, paws lingering perhaps a touch too long on his shoulders. “Forgot you’re… uh… kinda crazy about me.” He turned toward Lyra, voice booming with unthinking cheer. “Hey, Lyra? Maybe this wasn’t such a great plan after all. Poor guys got the hots for me.”

“Bad idea?” Lyra chirped, leaning up to nuzzle against her relaxing mate, her eyes closed and content, “Stop ogling Roran, Axton. Roran, quit makin’ it easy.”

The wolven flew up his arms out with dramatic flair, sending water arcing. “Can’t help it!” He flexed, muscles tensing, “Just look at me! You think I built this temple just so folks wouldn’t notice?”

Across the pool, Seraphina narrowed her eyes, amused and exasperated all at once. She glided through the water and, without hesitation, smacked the back of his thick skull. “Roran, for all the gods’ sake.”

The wolven blinked dumbly. “What? What’d I say?”

Sliding up beside him, Seraphina’s amber gaze lingered like a cat circling a patch of warm sunlight. Her fingers traced idle circles on his arm, voice low and dangerously sweet. “Sugar, you’re gonna make the poor thing’s brain leak right into the water.” She leaned just close enough for Roran to hear. “It’s his birthday, and no, you’re not the present.”

“But—” Roran started, looking genuinely puzzled. “I wasn’t going to say that...I wasn’t!”

“Seraphina!” The word escaped Axton in a strangled squeak as his eyes shot wide, instantly darting away when the Ceullus woman casually began undoing the knot at her wrap. The fabric slid free, leaving her unapologetically bare as she slipped into the water like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The Ceullus gave a low, amused knicker. “Oh, come now, sugar cube.” She eased herself down with a sigh, the steam curling playfully around her fur and figure. “Is all this makin’ your poor little cheeks catch fire?”

“You’re— you’re naked!” Axton stammered, trying and failing not to glance despite himself.

“So’s everyone else.” She shrugged, water rippling as she settled. “Thought you Lumarians were a little less... prudish.” She flicked her mane over her shoulder with a smirk. “But if you insist...” She reached for a discarded towel, twirling it in her fingers with feigned modesty. “I’ll cover up for ya, darling.”

“N-No, that’s—” Axton floundered. “It’s fine! You don’t have to — I just —”

“Sure?” She cocked a brow, voice dripping with amusement. “Sure, you ain’t just struggling not to look?” Without missing a beat, she casually propped up her breasts with both paws, squeezing them together. “They do tend to steal the spotlight.”

Roran crossed his arms over his broad chest, eyes narrowing, “Oh, so it’s fine when you’re flauntin’ your tits around, but the moment I flex it’s a crime?”

Seraphina blew a slow breath through her nose. “Yeah. Guess it is. What you gonna do about it, pup?” Seraphina’s fingers found the thick fur atop Roran’s head, ruffling it with all the smug superiority of a lioness tending her favorite cub. She did it slowly, deliberately, “There,” she purred, voice soaked in warmth and mischief, “now your mane matches that thick skull.”

Roran blinked once. His ears twitched, his brow knit, and then he tilted his head, “At least I didn’t try to make cupcakes with onion powder.” The words fell with the simple weight of truth, not sharpened like a blade, but flung like a log through a window, loud, blunt, and devastating.

She froze, eyes wide, and tail suddenly lashing in protest. “You what?”

“You labeled it vanilla. It was not vanilla.” Roran’s grin was stupidly proud.

A stunned silence hovered in the steam for a moment before Lyra burst into wheezing laughter, slapping the surface of the pool with a forepaw. “Oh stars, that was you?! I thought Finn poisoned us!”

“I didn’t know!” Seraphina’s voice pitched up, as she tried to rein in everyone’s laughter. “It was a mislabeled jar; I was in a rush!”

“Sounds like someone who meant to serve onion-frosted lies.” Roran said, casually reclining in the water like a smug golden idol.

“You oversized mutt,” she snapped, “if I wanted your opinion, I’d bake it into a loaf and watch you choke on it!”

“And it'd still taste better than those cupcakes.”

She splashed him full in the face, and he didn’t even flinch, his grin growing wider. The water hissed and rolled with their movements, their bickering escalating into muttered insults and exaggerated gestures. No one watching would doubt the comfort between them. Their sparks were not the kind that scorched, but the kind that had warmed shared kitchens, storm-watched porches, and long wagon trails beneath starlit skies.

Axton sank a little lower in the water, letting the warmth creep up to his chin. It was like watching a married couple argue at a festival. Loud, strangely intimate, and impossible to look away from. There was no venom in it, only the kind of affection that came wrapped in old arguments and deeper truths. He felt like an outsider, yet the laughter it pulled from his chest was real.

It was exhausting. It was comforting. It was maddening.

His gaze drifted toward the edge of the pool where Pyretalon sat, dignified even when soaked, talons lightly tapping the stone. Lyra floated nearby, wings half-draped in the water, humming faintly to herself, the corners of her beak curved with private delight.

Axton’s brow furrowed. He shifted closer, water rippling with his movement.

“Is this it?” he asked softly, just loud enough for them to hear. “The surprise? A spa trip with flirtation and baked good trauma?”

Lyra opened one eye, slow and predatory. Pyretalon did not look at him, but his feathers ruffled ever so slightly “No.”

Pyretalon’s feathers shifted in a slow rustle as he studied Axton through the steam, eyes half-lidded but sharp beneath their calm. “Be patient,” he said, voice low, like distant thunder rolling over a calm plain. “The night hasn’t offered all it holds.”

“Not yet,” Lyra added with a sing-song hum, the tip of her tail flicking Axton’s side beneath the water. “And no more questions. You’ll ruin the surprise if you try to unwrap it early.”

Axton sank a little deeper into the water, letting it rise to his chin. Despite being himself, he smiled. The mystery still gnawed at him, but it was softened by the warmth of the moment and the even warmer presence of those who’d brought him here.

Behind him, a splash cut the peace like a thrown stone.

“Take that back, mare-girl!” Roran’s voice echoed, loud and unfiltered.

Seraphina raised an unimpressed brow, still lounging like a jungle queen draped in steam. “Or what?” she said sweetly. “You gonna try and make me your good girl, pup?”

He blinked. “No, I mean—I’d never try to—unless you wanted that? Wait, that’s not what I meant.” He scratched the back of his head, expression scrunching in concentration. “Look, you’re just lucky we’re friends. ‘Cause if we weren’t, I’d… y’know. Probably, uh. Wrestle ya?”

That earned a sharp laugh from Seraphina. “Maybe I like it rough, sugar.”

Roran frowned. “I thought you didn’t like fighting.”

“I don’t.”

“…Then what kinda rough are you talkin’ about?” His brow furrowed. “Like… rough massages? That’s not relaxing at all. You’re gonna mess up your shoulders.”

Seraphina stared.

“You’re gonna pull a muscle,” Roran added helpfully, arms folding across his chest. “Which defeats the purpose of a spa.”

A groan echoed through the steam as Seraphina splashed him full in the face. “Oh, my gods, you’re impossible!”

“Hey!” He sputtered, blinking water from his eyes. “Uncalled for!” He splashed back with both arms, sending water cascading over her head.

She squealed, flailing. “Axton! Help!”

From across the pool, Axton snorted. “You started it,” he said, grinning. “I’m not getting involved. That’s a death sentence.”

“You’re all traitors!” she cried, shielding herself with one arm as Roran, laughing now, launched another wave of water her way.

The steam curled around their chaos like a veil, and for a moment, it felt like childhood, the kind that never ends, even when you’ve long since grown into your scars. Then came a deliberate thump from the tiled wall. A Bathwing stood still as a statue near the edge, feathers sleek and gleaming. His eyes were sharp, unimpressed.

“You splash again,” he said, voice as flat as stone, “and you will be escorted from the sanctum.”

Both Roran and Seraphina froze mid-motion, water dripping from fur and mane.

“Yes, sir.” Roran mumbled.

“Sorry.” Seraphina added, smoothing her mane quickly.

The Bathwing waited just long enough to make them squirm, then vanished back into the mist without another word.

“Dang,” Roran whispered. “He was like a ninja.”

Lyra snorted. “You two are like a couple of hatchlings. You know that, right?”

“We are not.” Seraphina huffed.

Roran nodded. “Yeah. We’re like, way taller.”

“What a show,” Pyretalon said, his tone smooth and even, but with a glint of amusement flickering in his eyes. He ruffled his wings once, methodically. “Roran Blackclaw. Rule-breaker. On the very night you take the oath of the Fang. I’m sure the elders would be so proud.”

Roran sank back into the water like a scolded pup, arms crossed over his barrel chest. “Aw, c’mon, Pyre. It was just a splash.”

“A splash that nearly unseated the peace of the entire pool,” the gryphon replied, deadpan. “We’ll be lucky if we’re not put on a list.”

Lyra snorted. “Honestly, I’m more surprised he came out at all. Two parties, same night? You’re not even dragging around a shield. Look at you. Practically a socialite.”

“Yeah, well…” Roran rolled his shoulder and gave a crooked grin. “Moon ceremony’s a moon ceremony. They’re all the same, some glowing, some howling, some fancy robes. But here?” He glanced toward Axton, grin softening. “This? This is where I wanna be.”

Pyretalon turned slightly, watching Axton out of the corner of his eye. Quiet approval lingered beneath his composed exterior.

“Oh, that’s sweet.” Lyra cooed.

“Really sweet.” Pyretalon added, the corner of his beak quirking.

“Except you,” Roran said, matter of fact.

The gryphon blinked, then gave a low chuckle, feathers rustling faintly. “Well. That’s fair.”

“You do steal Axton’s snacks.” Roran added with a scowl of great seriousness.

“I replace them.”

“With ones you also eat.”

“He’s got you there, love.” Lyra laughed, tossing back her head.

Later, as the group stepped from the waters and wrapped themselves in plush towels, Axton fell in beside Roran. The wolven was wringing water from his mane like he’d just survived a storm, humming something tuneless under his breath.

“Hey.” Axton said, softly.

Roran turned, ears flicking. “Hm?”

“Thanks,” he said, eyes down for a moment, then up. “For what you said. About wanting to be here.”

Roran blinked once, like he hadn’t realized he’d said anything of note. Then he shrugged, his voice low and solid. “Pack is pack, Ax, don’t think anything of it.” The words landed like a stone, heavy, honest, unmoving. Then, louder: “Okay!” He turned toward the others with a wide grin. “So... do we want presents now, or should we wait for Pyre to get done bein’ all majestic and mysterious?”

“I wasn’t being mysterious,” Pyretalon murmured, calmly folding a towel across his back. “You were being loud.”

Lyra giggled. “Careful, Pyre. He’ll say you’re jealous he’s the birthday boy’s favorite.”

“Wait—presents?” Axton blinked, laughing as the words caught him off-guard. “I’m turning twenty-two, not twelve.”

Seraphina waved him off like he’d said something sacrilegious. “So?” she scoffed. “Back home, you get birthday presents ‘til death! Sometimes after! I got a candleholder from my great aunt three months after she passed. Creepiest thing I own. Smelled like onions.”

As Lyra cackled with squawks, feathers fluffing, the ceullus continued. “And besides, family birthdays are all about the salt lick.”

Axton’s brow furrowed, “The what now_?_”

“Salt lick,” she repeated sweetly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Big ol’ mineral block. You hang it up at a party and take turns, best way to meet someone, especially at the salt socials.”

“Salt... socials?” Roran’s ears tilted curiously. “Like... everyone just gathers around and starts lickin’ the same rock?”

Seraphina giggled into her hands. “Mmhmm. You should’ve seen it’s a humans the first time. Poor things tried to flirt while lickin’. Looked like lost puppies tryin’ to drink a rain barrel.”

“Right...” Roran squinted, clearly trying to picture it. “So... back to presents, yeah?” He turned, eyes twinkling as he gestured grandly toward the edge of the pool. “Ask the sneaky beaky over there.”

Lyra, caught mid-preen, squawked indignantly. Her wings flared. “I am not a sneaky beaky, Roran Blackclaw. Take that back!”

He grinned. “You’re kinda a sneaky beaky.”

The gryphoness’ ears pinned instantly. Her eyes narrowed with lethal intent. “Roran,” she hissed, “you’re a bad dog.”

For a heartbeat, the wolven paladin froze, ears twitching. “Okay, first off, that doesn’t even work. That’s a common misconception. Dogs don’t—”

“Bad dog!” she snapped again, pointing a talon at him like it was a holy accusation.

“Oh, come on!” Roran threw up his hands. “It’s not even an insult! I was bein’ affectionate! I just meant you were sneaky and... beaky! You did sneak presents in here, didn’t you?”

Lyra blinked, before immediately looking away, wings curling tight. “…Yeah,” she muttered.

Axton couldn’t help it. He laughed, deep and free. It poured out of him, effortless and light, like something sacred had shaken loose in his chest. Was that the surprise? The gifts? The teasing? Or was it simply this—this chaos, this closeness, this joy? He had no idea what Pyretalon and Lyra had planned. But at that moment, he didn’t care. Just being here, surrounded by them — by love dressed in feathers, fur, and too-loud laughter — was reason enough to keep living. He shrugged, still smiling. “Massages first?”

“Oh stars, yes!” Seraphina squealed, and without warning, plucked him into a tight, smothering hug. “C’mon, sugar cube, we’re gonna get you pampered.”

She marched off toward the massage hall, swaying dramatically as she went. “Let’s hope we get a big sexy gryphon with paws.”

Behind them, Pyretalon scoffed, tail flicking. “I have paws.”

“Yeah, but sexy ones, Mother Hen!” Seraphina called back with a wink.

The gryphon drew himself tall, feathers puffed. “You bite that tongue, horsy, or I’ll nip back, and my beak’s sharper.”

Lyra fluttered beside him, beak grinning wide. “He’s not bluffing. He once clipped a minotaur’s braid clean off for calling him fluffy.”

“I was molting,” Pyretalon said with perfect dignity. “He was warned.”

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

The transition from the pools to the massage garden was seamless — too seamless, perhaps. One moment, Axton had been wrapped in warm laughter and steam. The next, the air turned still and scented, kissed with oils and drifting blossoms. The moss beneath his feet welcomed every step, soft as velvet and just warm enough to remind him he wore nothing but a silk wrap and the lingering heat of the spring.

Petals floated in the quiet streams weaving through the floor. Song-orchids murmured melodies he couldn’t name. He barely registered Lyra’s excited chirp or Roran mumbling something about whether the tree in the center was “magic or just sparkly.” The world blurred around the edges.

Because the moment Axton laid eyes on his attendant… his thoughts stopped moving in a straight line.

The gryphon stood poised beside the low stone table, a vision of disciplined elegance and beauty. Broad-shouldered, sleek-feathered, with a coat of rich storm-gray and wings that shimmered like moonlight over steel. His front limbs ended not in talons but lion-like paws, large and powerful, the toes tufted and strong.

Axton’s breath stuttered as their eyes met — those were bedroom eyes, weren’t they? Pale gold, slitted, thoughtful, and focused entirely on him.

“Master Axton,” the gryphon said, voice deep and smooth as polished mahogany. “Welcome to the Aether Grove. If you’ll lie here,” he gestured with a paw, “we’ll begin. I’ll be tending you today.”

Of course you will, Axton thought, stepping forward on legs that forgot how to function. He nodded. Or tried to. It came out more like a jerk. “Thank you. Um. Yes. Hi. I mean—hello.”

A smile came — a real one. Not a smirk, not professional detachment. Warmth. “We’ll start with your shoulders. Please lie on your stomach, arms relaxed. And breathe.”

Axton did as he was told, noting that above the massage table, woven carefully into the vine-curtains that framed his little alcove, hung a delicate feather. Almond-colored, soft and smooth. A gryphon’s plume — the unmistakable mark of Parunga, goddess of love, fertility, and life.

There were more. Tucked into arrangements of flowering herbs. Threaded into hanging charms beside the song-orchids. Symbols not of lust alone, but of something sacred. Desires which were not forbidden but blessed.

From the corner of his vision, he spotted Seraphina settling onto her own padded bench a few feet away, attended by a graceful human woman and a massive gryphon whose sheer bulk put even Roran to shame. His paws were broad, almost bear-like, his fur and feathers golden-brown and streaked with sun-blessed markings. Seraphina hummed, clearly pleased with her draw.

“Some of us have all the luck.” she whispered toward Axton, not looking at him.

The table was warm beneath him — far too warm — or perhaps it was just the rising heat in his chest, the sting in his ears, the way the damp silk wrap clung to him in all the worst places. Axton kept his face buried in the massage cushion, breath shallow, eyes shut tight as if the darkness might protect him from himself.

But nothing could protect him from this.

The gryphon’s strong paws pressed slowly along his spine, firm enough to draw sound from his throat. A satisfied grunt mixed with a moan. The muscles in his back surrendered without permission. There was no choice.

“You’re carrying far too much tension here,” the attendant murmured, voice like dark velvet. Low. Patient. Almost... indulgent. “Tense shoulders. Knotted along the hips.” A pause. “Very telling.”

Axton swallowed. Telling? Of what?

“You don’t let yourself rest, do you?” The gryphon’s paws dragged deliberately down the sides of his ribs, “Always alert. Like prey listening for the next step of something larger.”

That voice — low and smooth, with a teasing purr curled inside it — was dangerous. Not in the way a predator threatens, but in the way that desire threatens to unmake the spine. Every time the gryphon leaned in close — feathers brushing his back — his thoughts plunged headfirst into forbidden places.

He saw himself pinned. On all fours. The weight of that muscular body above him. Those strong lion paws braced on either side of his waist. That powerful chest pressing close as the gryphon bent his neck and whispered something obscene into Axton’s burning ear. Then... pressure. Fullness. A steady, unrelenting rhythm behind him as his legs trembled and his breath broke apart into shivers.

All guided by that same deep voice—commanding, tender, utterly in control. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. Gods above, what was wrong with him?

The paws found his lower back now, kneading slow circles just above the curve of his hips. One paw slid to the side, pressing gently at his back with maddening precision. “You respond beautifully,” the gryphon said, soft but deliberate. “The way your body melts under my paws... It’s a shame you hide so much of this tension. Do you let anyone else see it?”

Axton couldn’t answer. His mouth had forgotten what words were. His fingers clenched at the table’s edge like he could anchor himself with pressure alone.

“No?” the gryphon continued, clearly enjoying the silence. “Then I’m honored. To be the first to help you loosen like this.” Another pause. Then, with just enough purr to strike like lightning: “Unless I’m not the first.”

Axton let out a tiny sound, somewhere between a squeak and a strangled moan.

The gryphon chuckled low. “I’ll take that as a no.”

As the gryphon’s paws worked lower — circling now just above the base of his spine — Axton dared to lift his eyes, just for a moment.

And he saw it. Just below the table’s hem, nestled within the gryphon’s powerful haunches, lay the outline of his sheath. Subtle, natural, nothing grotesque, nothing exaggerated, but visible. Real. Axton's breath caught in his throat. His cheeks flushed hot, as if the steam from the nearby pools had surged back into his blood.

Don’t look. Don’t think. Don’t picture it.

But he did. On all fours. Back arched. That voice murmuring encouragement as he rocked into him again and again. Not rough — never cruel — but steady. Powerful. Claiming.

His hips pressed unconsciously into the table, shame flickering behind closed eyes.

The gryphon’s voice hummed low near his ear, unknowingly deepening Axton’s unraveling. “You’re quiet,” he said, the edge of his beak brushing the mage’s shoulder. “Is that peace… or temptation?”

Axton made a sound in the back of his throat, a nervous little half-laugh, too breathless to answer properly.

The gryphon chuckled, and the sound was like dark honey. “You don’t have to choose. Parunga teaches us that want, and worth, need not be enemies.”

One of the almond-colored feathers drifted down from the breeze stirred by his wings and landed just near Axton’s elbow, where his hand gripped the table.

A sign. A blessing. Or a test?

He didn’t know which — but the ache in his chest said he couldn’t look at this creature again without feeling it. That longing. That wish to be seen not as delicate, but held — not pitied, but wanted. To be pinned beneath those paws and made to feel safe even in surrender. And yet… still he said nothing.

In that quiet space between his shame and his need, Pyretalon's face rose in his mind, not just the majestic poise, or the way the light caught his feathers when he preened after a flight. No, it was the feel of him. The way Pyretalon always stood near when Axton felt small. The way he placed himself between danger and mage with a silent promise.

Within this image, Pyretalon pinned him, his voice low, almost purring. “Let go. I’ll hold you.” Axton swallowed a moan.

Or... gods. Valaros. That beautiful gryphon he’d met earlier that day, the charming one, the mysterious stranger who’d made him feel like someone seen. He’d offered a drink. A touch. A night.

Axton had declined. And now? Now his hands were trembling. Why did I say no?

His skin burned beneath the gryphon's paws. His thoughts were a storm, his body traitorous. And still, the massage continued. As if the body knew what the soul feared to admit: He didn't just want to be held. He wanted to be taken. By Pyretalon. By Valaros. By anyone who could silence the noise in his head and replace it with the clarity of motion and moaning and meaning.

He clenched his jaw and breathed in the oils. Parunga did not judge. The feathers reminded him of that. Life. Fertility. Love. Even the messy kind. Especially the messy kind.

“That’s it, little one,” the gryphon murmured, thick with satisfaction. His feathers fluffed with a pleased ruffle, a soft chirp escaping him like a secret note shared between lovers. “You melt like one of our own. I didn’t think I’d see anyone enjoy this quite so much... save for gryphons.”

Axton’s eyes flicked open, just for a heartbeat, only to find the gryphon watching him with that same lazy intensity, the kind that sets fires in forests long before the lightning ever strikes.

A glint shimmered behind those pale gold eyes, playful… and edged with something darker. Hungrier. “Mmm. Gives me a few ideas.” the attendant added, barely above a whisper.

Axton’s gaze darted away.

But a trill followed — soft, musical, pleased — and that was almost worse. He wasn’t being mocked. There was no teasing. Only the steady pressure of those paws continuing their work, more deliberate now, almost affectionate. His beak dipped and gently nibbled at Axton’s shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind him that gryphons didn’t need permission to show affection. It was maddening. And yet… he loved it. He loved all of it.

The warmth, the softness, the ache being gently pulled from his bones. He was melting. Unraveling. Sinking into some sacred cloud of touch and breath, with the quiet whisper of Parunga’s blessing hanging thick in the air. It was like floating in a dream he didn’t know he needed, a holy lullaby disguised as a massage.

And then it ended. Too soon, too sudden, like all perfect things.

Stepping back, the gryphon adjusted his plumage with graceful precision, one paw smoothing a feather along the line of his flank. When he looked at Axton again, he gave a slow nod… and a wink that lingered just a second longer than polite company would allow.

No words escaped his beak, none were needed.

It was there; the invitation laid bare, shimmering between their bodies like heat between sun-warmed stone. His pose, half-turned toward the path that led to the private upper levels of the Gilded Feather, told the rest of the tale.

Should Axton follow him — if he asked — he would be led into a room filled with soft furs and scented light. The gryphon would take him there, lay him out beneath Parunga’s feathered blessings, and make love to him like a storm rolling over a helpless field.

There would be nibbles, tender firm paws holding him as he was claimed. He would cry out. He would be undone. For the briefest moment, Axton let the vision take root, the weight of a powerful body pressing him down, the brush of a beak against his neck, his cries echoing in the dark velvet as he trembled and broke and bloomed in the arms of someone who wanted him. His face burned with it. And still… he didn’t go.

Because it would have only been a night. A sacred one, perhaps — but fleeting. He wanted more. He wanted meaning behind the touch. Besides… the gryphon probably thought he was some worldly, experienced mage, not a stammering virgin with fantasies louder than his courage. So, he smiled, shy and quiet, bowed his head with respectful gratitude… and turned away.

Back through the veils of flowers and feathers, beneath the latticework of enchanted light, where laughter drifted like smoke from a nearby grove, his friends waited. Lyra stretched out like a sunlit cat, Roran laughing with a drink in one hand and wet fur spiked in all directions, Seraphina already charming a nearby attendant.

“I’m just sayin’,” Roran rumbled as he leaned back on his elbows, “The oath-swearin’ was noble and all, lots of glowing stuff, proud ancestors, moonlight on armor. Real nice.” He took a long sip of the tankard of cider in his paws, then smacked his lips, and sighed, contentment written all over him. “But this right here? Feels like what the gods had in mind when they gave us backs to rub.”

“You pitched a tent during the massage,” Lyra deadpanned, her eyes half-lidded with amusement as her feathers fluffed around her shoulders. “You were one paw away from claiming the poor girl.”

Roran didn’t even flinch. “Hey, that just means they did a good job. Can't fake that sort of response.” He took another sip, eyes bright. “It's a compliment.”

“You didn’t accept her offer, though?” Lyra tilted her head, “She looked eager.”

He scrunched up his nose and waved a paw dismissively. “She was nice. Kinda smelled like honey biscuits. But... I dunno. It felt wrong. I’d rather it be someone I already care about. Y’know... someone who matters.”

“A romantic heart beneath all that fur and flexing.” Pyretalon murmured, his voice a warm hush, more amused than surprised.

“I think it’s sweet,” Seraphina drawled, lounging like a lioness beside her cup of mint-laced wine. “Mine was downright celestial. That gryphon had paws like a dream and a voice like candlelight. I almost proposed.”

Pyretalon arched a brow, looking toward Lyra with theatrical disappointment. “And yet mine were merely ‘adequate.’”

Lyra fluttered her wings, entirely unapologetic. “You were molting.”

“I was still me.”

“Which is why I was so generous with my silence.”

He let out a low, dramatic sigh. “Do you want another massage?”

“Do you want to be coddled?”

“Yes,” Pyretalon fluffed his wings indignity. “Vigorously.”

Their laughter danced like sunlight across water, but it quieted as Axton returned, cheeks still painted a tender rose. His walk was a little slower, his gaze downward, the air around him warm in ways that had little to do with the spa.

He found his seat waiting: a folded blanket, a cup of fruit wine, and the entire group watching him like he’d walked back in feathers instead of skin.

Lyra was the first to speak, of course. “You were gone a long time.”

Axton cleared his throat. “There was a knot in my back. He… he found it.”

“Mmm.” Seraphina leaned in with a purr. “He found something, alright. I saw your face comin’ out, sugar. You looked like someone just sang Parunga’s name real close to your ear.”

“It was just a massage,” Axton insisted, ears flicking down, voice wobbling. “He was professional.”

‘Just a massage huh?” Lyra cooed.

Axton froze.

“Doesn’t seem like one,” Pyretalon said smoothly, though a glint flickered in his eyes.

“I—I didn’t—”

“You’re still blushing,” Seraphina teased.

“I am not!” Axton hissed into his cup, hiding the redness in his cheeks plain as day.

“Parunga sees all,” Lyra said sagely. “She knows the truth.”

“I am going to die right here,” Axton muttered, curling in on himself.

Roran, ever the rescue hound, clapped his paws and stood like he’d had a brilliant idea. “Presents!”

Axton blinked. “What?”

“Birthday presents!” Roran beamed, eyes sparkling. “You didn’t think I came empty-pawed, did you?”

“I didn’t expect—” Axton began, visibly moved, thankfully for anything to distract from his lack of courage in regard to the gryphons of his life. “—you didn’t have to.”

Bounding back from behind a low bush, Roran was like a victorious hunter returning with prey, a box clutched in his oversized paws. It was… something.

The package looked like it had survived a gryphon dogfight and lost. The wrapping paper, which might have once been a regal night-blue with stars, had been mangled into loose folds and bunched corners. One edge sagged open, revealing a flash of soft fabric beneath. The twine was tied so tightly it bit into the paper, crisscrossed a dozen times like Roran had tried to trap a small animal inside. No tag. No ribbon. Just a dried leaf shoved into the top knot, brittle and proud, like a badge from a forest shrine.

And then — with all the delicacy of a trebuchet — he slammed it into Axton’s lap.

The mage yelped, legs instinctively drawing in.

“Wrapped it myself.” Roran grinned, tilting his head, oozing with pride.

“Careful, you blasted dog!” Pyretalon barked, wings flaring protectively as he clacked his beak. “You nearly shattered his loins!”

The mage wheezed, both hands gripping the box tight.

“But I didn’t, Pyre,” Roran said proudly, tail flicking as he stood over Axton with an unshakable grin. “Calm your tail feathers. I am a master of applied force. Precision strikes.” He puffed out his chest. “If I wanted to destroy any part of Axton, I could.”

“You nearly made him a soprano,” Lyra muttered with a long sip of her drink. “Honestly.”

Lyra collapsed, laughing so hard she knocked over the tray of drinks beside her with a chirp and a squawk. One of them tipped into her feathers.

“Besides,” Roran added, tail now wagging, “if his balls are that delicate, I could show him a few techniques to toughen them up. There’s this one exercise—”

“Thanks for the gift!” Axton cut in, voice high and brittle as he tried to steer the wheel of conversation before it hit something anatomical.

All eyes turned to him.

Axton looked down at the chaotic, crumpled box. Bits of twine still clung to it like the aftermath of a failed ritual binding. The paper was already half-ripped from the impact. But despite it all, it made his chest ache with something warm.

“Should I even ask what’s inside?” he said cautiously. “Please don’t tell me it’s enchanted undergarments or something cursed.”

“What? No!” Roran’s ears pinned in embarrassment. “Why would you think? No! I promise, it’s nothing strange.” His tail picked up again. “You’re going to love it, I swear.”

Axton narrowed one eye, pointed a finger into the wolven’s broad chest. “If this turns out to be a prank, I’m transmuting you into a frog.”

Roran blinked. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

With one last breath, Axton tore through the paper. The box half-exploded under the pressure of its own wrapping, the lid springing off and skidding across the moss.

Inside, nestled in soft cloth, was a thick sweater in storm-blue and silver — the colors of the Skymaw Strikers, his favorite Gryphball team. Beneath it, a matching hat.

“For Gryphball!” Roran shouted, tail now a blur. “The Strikers!”

“You remembered?” Axton whispered, his fingers brushing the embroidery.

“I watched you,” Roran said proudly, crossing his arms. “Back at the tournament you couldn’t take your eyes off the pitch. You were hooked!” He lifted an arm, mimicking a player soaring through the air, ball tucked beneath one arm. “You had this look, awe-struck, completely amazed! You were meant to be a fan.”

He stared down at the sweater, fingers brushing the embroidered crest — a gryphon mid-dive, wings flared, talons clutching the curved ball as though seizing lightning from the air.

And suddenly, he was there again.

He remembered it, clear as moonlight over the pitch. The shrieking of horns. The thundering of paws and claws. Two teams of armored gryphons and human riders soaring and darting through the air like a storm of feathers and fury, each trying to drive the enchanted sphere through one of the elevated hoops that floated like halos above the arena.

The air had roared with cheers, with the snap of wings and war cries.

Axton laughed, low and genuine. “You were half-leaning on me the whole time. Shouting plays into my ear like I knew what they meant.”

“Exactly! That’s half the fun!”

He looked down at the sweater again. It was a size too big. The hat would probably cover his whole head.

But he’d never seen anything more perfect. “Thank you.” Axton said softly.

“Next match is in three moons,” Roran said. “And we’ll be there. Front row.”

“Ah… Gryphball,” Lyra sighed, her feathers fluffing with nostalgia as she leaned up into Pyretalon’s side, rubbing the curve of her beak along his jaw. “That takes me back.”

She chuckled softly. “Remember that match in Zephyr’s Hollow? Syrani Windlash practically threw herself into your wings after the final score.”

“I remember,” Pyretalon said with a slow nod, voice touched with amusement. “Golden coat, silver-tipped plumes, and a celebratory dive that nearly took out the announcer’s booth.”

Lyra preened, “She wasn’t watching the ball.”

“She was watching you,” he murmured, brushing the back of her neck with his beak. “And I still can’t decide who made the more beautiful music, her, or the feathered menace on my left flank who scored the winning goal and sang like a starling in heat.”

Lyra let out a melodic chirp, smug and pleased. “Obviously I hit the high notes.”

Pyretalon’s crown feathers lifted ever so slightly, voice dipping lower. “Shall we send Syrani a letter? Let her decide which of us she misses more?”

She clacked her beak against his in a playful peck. “Only if I get to sign it with a feather.”

Though no one had asked, Axton tugged the colorful Gryphball hat onto his head. It drooped a little over one brow, lopsided, ridiculous, and utterly endearing.

Roran beamed like a proud smith admiring his finest blade. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

“You look precious.” Lyra chirped, tail flicking with glee.

“Like a baby hawk that got lost in the laundry.” Pyretalon added dryly, though the glint in his eye betrayed his fondness.

Axton huffed; cheeks red beneath the brim. “It’s warm.”

“That’s the point,” Roran declared. “Comfy and stylish. Can’t beat it.”

Before Axton could retreat into his wine, another box was placed in his lap. This one came with a bow that was neatly tied, the corners perfect, the parchment wrapping enchanted with gentle flourishes of herb-patterned embossing. It was shaped oddly, like someone had tried to wrap a pair of stacked teapots. He glanced up.

Seraphina was trying very hard not to bounce in place.

“Well,” he said, cautiously weighing the package in both hands. “This one looks... less like it was fought then wrapped.”

“Hey!” Roran barked.

Axton gave the box a little shake.

Thump. Clink. Rattle.

“Don’t shake it!” Seraphina gasped, lunging forward with her hands out.

His brow arched. “Why not? Is it rigged to explode?”

“No!” she said quickly — too quickly — ears flicking back. “But there's a glass vial in there with powdered void thistle and heat-reactive crystal caps and if you jostle it too hard it might, um... leak.”

“Leak,” Roran repeated flatly. “Like… leak into his lap?”

“If he’s lucky.” Seraphina muttered under her breath.

“I suddenly feel very honored,” Axton said, and set the box down like it was sacred. “You really shouldn’t have. No, really.”

“It’s not dangerous if you open it right!” Seraphina said, flustered now. “Just—don’t tip it, and no shaking!”

“Is it food?” he asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

She rolled her eyes and hands on hips. “It’s not food. I’m more than a one-trick pony, thank you kindly.”

“Debatable.” Pyretalon murmured with a flick of his tail.

Seraphina smacked his flank. “Keep it up, and I’ll swap your feather polish with cooking grease.”

Pyretalon gave a slow blink. “That would be war.”

“Then behave yourself, pretty bird.”

Axton gently ran a finger down the seam of the parchment. There was love in the way it had been wrapped, not just skill, but care. The ribbons were enchanted to shimmer when touched. He could smell faint traces of lavender and rosemary stitched into the twine. “Should I open it now?” he asked, voice low.

“Well, sugar,” Seraphina said, that warm smile sliding back into place, “I didn’t go wrappin’ it up all pretty just for you to stare at it like a nervous colt. Go on.”

He peeled open the wrapping like someone defusing a trap, though Seraphina’s soft knicker of anticipation made him smile despite himself. The last folds gave way, and nestled within the box, glimmering like a treasure hoard, lay a new potion kit.

Elegant vials and slim, enchanted tubes gleamed in nestled compartments. Thin runes shimmered along the inner lining. The casing itself was polished duskwood — dark as a starless sky, etched with silver filigree, and humming faintly with stabilizing magic.

Axton let out a quiet gasp.

“I heard you broke your last one,” Seraphina said, hands behind her back, smiling like she hadn’t just gifted him something priceless. “So, I got you this one. The casing’s enchanted duskwood, heat resistant, alchemically tempered. It's perfect for field brewing.”

“He’s going to destroy it anyway,” Pyretalon sighed beside him, wings shifting. “And I’ll be the one catching glass in my flank. Again.”

“Or in mine,” Lyra chirped, feathers puffed with delight. “Wanna bet who explodes first?”

“Don’t stick your beak so close next time,” Axton replied primly, though he was grinning, eyes never leaving the kit. “Problem solved.”

He turned and opened his arms, but before Seraphina could crush him with the full force of Ceullus affection, he held up one hand, a silent, wise plea for gentleness.

She chuckled, looping her arms around him in a softer embrace. “You're welcome, sugar.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, hugging her back. “Really.”

They lingered a moment before Seraphina stepped away, and Roran clapped a hand over his own chest.

Axton turned next to Lyra’s gift, a slender, feather-wrapped case tied with shimmering silver thread. She chirped expectantly, tail flicking behind her like an eager metronome.

The ribbon slipped free with a whisper, the silver thread catching firelight like frost over moonstone. The case creaked gently open beneath his hands, revealing soft velvet the color of dawn-shadow, and nestled within—

A wand. But not just any wand.

It was carved from storm-birch, the pale wood veined with natural arcs like lightning frozen mid-strike. Along its length, delicate gold filigree spiraled in Tweetish script — ancient, fluid, and precise — subtly woven with runes that pulsed faintly beneath his touch. The base was wrapped in deep violet leather, soft as a whisper, clearly shaped for his grip. The balance, even in stillness, felt perfect. Centered. Alive.

He lifted it with reverence, as though it might sing.

Magic pulsed faintly through his fingers, not like the commanding weight of his staff, but something quieter. Quick. Intimate. This was a tool meant not for display, but for reaction, for focus in motion, for spells on the run, in rain or flame or chaos.

Behind him, Lyra fluffed her feathers proudly, a warm trill escaping her throat.

“I thought you liked staves.” she said, playfully coy.

“I do,” he murmured, eyes never leaving the wand. “The staff feels… proper. Familiar.”

“But not always practical,” she chirped, her beak tilting into a sly smile. “You can’t exactly haul it into a ballroom or dodge arrows in a library. That’s for moments when you need magic and can’t wave around a pole taller than you.”

His lips curled into a rare, bashful smile.

Without thinking, he reached out and gently scratched beneath her ear plume, a soft, affectionate motion. She leaned into it, trilling with satisfaction, eyes fluttering closed for just a breath.

Then, just as shyly, he tucked the wand into the sweater

Lyra chirped with a pleased trill, clearly savoring how well he’d taken to it, and Pyretalon leaned forward, wings shifting to curl subtly around them all.

“Forgetting someone?” Chirped the blue tiger gryphon, tilting his head.

“Let the man relax how he wants,” Lyra said, flicking her tail over Pyretalon’s haunch with mock scorn before turning her gaze toward a passing attendant gryphon. She raised a talon with a flourish, her voice high and lilting. “Yoo-hoo! Hot stuff, menu please!”

The gryphon who sauntered over did so with the practiced. Bronze plumage gleamed beneath the soft lanternlight, and his lion-like gait carried an easy poise. He passed out the menus with a courteous nod, his voice polished and articulate as he recited the house specials.

What he handed out were simple menus, thick parchment tucked between carved wood covers, stained by time, drink, and handling, corners curled from use. Across the top, in bold ink, danced the names of signature drinks: the Braestair Sunburst, the Nathryl Frostbloom, and Wolvenfire Mead. At the bottom, circled in red ink, a warning blocky and blunt read: GRYPHON AND DWARVEN BREWS NOT RECOMMENDED FOR HUMANOID DIGESTION. (No refunds.)

Lyra and Pyretalon flipped lazily through theirs, feathers brushing as they leaned close. Whatever she whispered into his ear made him chuff low in his chest and return a gentle nuzzle, followed by a few quiet clicks of a private gryphon tongue that Axton had come to recognize as fondness, if not always understand.

“Alright,” came Roran’s cheerful voice, “what’ll it be, lovebirds? I’m buying.”

A few eyebrows lifted.

“Well now,” Seraphina said sweetly, her tone like honey slow poured over thorns, “aren’t you just a gentlewolf tonight.”

The paladin puffed his chest. “A knight of Sartren always honors the feast.”

Her fingers brushed beneath his muzzle, and her voice slipped into that smooth, low register that Axton had begun to associate with trouble. “Tell me, sugar... did you remember to cast protection from poison today?”

Roran blinked, ears perking. “Course I did. Why?”

The way she leaned in, the glint in her eye, the slow curl of her lips, it was clear she wasn’t talking about drinks.

“Because I plan to be dangerous tonight.”

He blinked again. “Well, that’s... good! I like a spirited match.”

From behind him, Lyra all but collapsed into Pyretalon, smothering her laugh. “And we’re the lovebirds?”

When the server returned, they placed their orders with varying degrees of restraint. Axton selected something elegant, an iced fruit wine from the southern cliffs, colored a pale violet and served in a tall glass with a sprig of mint. Just for once, he would drink what he liked, not what others expected. It felt oddly rebellious.

The drinks arrived not long after, steaming or frosting depending on the choice. Roran’s order came in a squat tankard, the liquid inside bubbling with relentless cheer. The foam hissed and popped as it reached the rim, casting bursts of strawberry scent into the air.

“Look at that!” he laughed, holding it up like a trophy. “It’s alive!”

Pyretalon regarded the tankard with disdain, then lifted his own drink, a deep black dwarven spirit in a wide stone bowl, the rim stained from years of flame and soot. He took a sip and let out a low, full-body shudder. “Ahhh. Old dwarven reliable.”

The scent alone made Axton wince.

“Care for a taste?” the gryphon offered; eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.

“Not after last time,” Axton muttered, clutching his own glass protectively. “It tastes like scorched wood, death, and regret. And it set my throat on fire.”

Seraphina burst out laughing, nearly hiccupping into her drink. “Oh gods, I remember that! You were downin’ bread like it was gold and screamin’ for milk!”

“And vomiting,” Lyra added serenely, “a lot. Good distance, though.”

He groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Must we relive this?”

“No,” Pyretalon said with dignity, “but we will.”

“And you’re not alone,” Lyra added sweetly, turning a grin toward the larger gryphon. “Need I remind you of your prideful dwarf-bowl chugging contest?”

“Which I won,” Pyretalon said stiffly.

“Only if ‘winning’ means ‘collapsed on a bathhouse floor’ and singing about feathers for an hour.”

“...It was a very good song.”

Then the final gift waited in silence.

No bright wrapping. No ribbons. Just deep indigo silk, folded with reverent care, resting on a low stone bench within their shaded alcove, a place softened by flowering trees and the distant lull of music drifting through the Gilded Feather’s lantern-lit paths.

Axton reached for it slowly, the weight of the night settled around him like a hush. The cloth was smooth beneath his fingers, cool from the evening air, and somehow... comforting. He didn’t need to be told who it was from.

Across from him, Pyretalon watched in still silence, his wings neatly folded, his presence calm as moonlight on dark water. He said nothing, not yet. But his gaze never left Axton.

The silk unfurled easily beneath careful fingers, revealing a polished box of deep, feather-grained wood, onyx-dark with moonwood striations, carved with a single almond-shaped feather upon its lid. Not just any feather. A gryphon feather, familiar, elegant, unmistakable.

He opened the lid. Inside, resting against black velvet, was a sculpture small enough to fit in his palm. Three figures, shaped with aching precision: Axton stood at the center, robe flowing, his posture slightly forward as if caught mid-step… and flanking him on either side, two gryphons — one lithe and poised, her form unmistakably Lyra’s; the other strong and broad, his wings half-curved around them both in a protective arc. Pyretalon. Together, the trio stood like a crest — not of nobility, but of something older. Chosen. Found.

Beneath the sculpture, engraved in the wood, were just three words: “Always with us.”

The breath caught in his throat. He didn’t speak. Not at first. Axton swallowed hard. His vision blurred.

Pyretalon, seated just beyond the low table, watched with calm eyes and a posture carved from patience. His voice came low and warm. “I had it commissioned,” he said. “Some time ago.”

Axton traced the curve of the wings with one finger.

“I’ve seen how you look at your own shadow,” the gryphon continued. “Like you think it might disappear. You never say it aloud. But I see it. The weight you carry. The doubt. The way you never quite believe you're... held.” His wings adjusted slightly, though his expression remained composed. “I couldn’t take the doubt away. So, I made you something to hold onto.”

His vision blurred, not just from tears, but from being blinded by the light that was held in a heart too small. “I don’t know what to say.” he managed.

“You’ve already said it,” Pyretalon replied.

Axton stood, the carved figurine still cradled in his hands, its edges warm from his grip. The quiet between them had not broken, not truly, it lingered like the perfume of wildflowers after rain, soft and undeniable. No one pushed him forward, no one spoke. The others watched, yes, but they did not prod or tease. They waited.

His steps were steady as he crossed the short space to Pyretalon, who sat with the dignity of a monument, his wings half-folded, his eyes unreadable, and yet… waiting too.

He didn’t stammer, didn’t glance around to see who was watching. There was nothing awkward, only a quiet purpose. The world narrowed to feathers, breath, and the slow, deliberate beat of Pyretalon’s heart beneath his chest. And then, without ceremony or self-consciousness, he leaned in and wrapped his arms around the gryphon. Right where he wanted to be.

It was not a gesture of surrender, nor of neediness. It was something mutual, something whole. Pyretalon shifted immediately, not startled but responding like a dancer who had practiced the steps for years with wings easing forward, not too tight, not possessive, just present. His beak dipped low nudged gently into the crook of Axton’s neck, a breath warm and grounding stirring through the man’s hair.

No words passed between them. There was no need.

The rumbled sound that rose from the gryphon’s chest was low, a vibration that Axton could feel more than hear. It wasn’t a purr, not quite, and not a growl. It was something older, something he could feel in his bones, a sound meant for him, a sound that said you are safe here. Pyretalon’s wings curled inward, not fully, not enclosing him, but enough to shelter. Enough to say: I see you. Around them, the world held still.

Silence lingered only a moment longer, soft and golden. Axton stepped back, still holding the sculpture close to his chest, his expression unreadable to most, but the shine in his eyes said everything to those who knew him best.

Pyretalon, ever composed, offered no grand reaction. Just a slow dip of his head, a subtle shift of wings, and that same unwavering presence he always carried, except now, perhaps, just a touch warmer.

The world faded for a moment between them, as if the gods willed this moment in time to stretch on just a little longer.

“Alright,” Lyra sang, breaking the silence like a stone tossed into still water, “any longer and I was going to start coughing just to see if either of you remembered if we were here.”

Roran raised his mug. “That was the longest hug I’ve ever seen. Thought we were gonna need a chisel to get ‘em apart.”

Seraphina chuckled, swirling her drink. “Y’all hush. It was sweet. Let the boy have his moment with his gryphon prince.”

Axton flushed a shade redder than the emberwine in Seraphina’s cup. “I—it wasn’t that long.”

“It was an epic,” Roran insisted, wide-eyed. “Like, hold-you-on-the-battlefield-as-you-die epic.”

“You’re not helping.” Axton hissed into his sleeve.

Lyra leaned forward with a mischievous grin. “I was starting to think we’d need to plan the wedding ceremony tonight. Honestly, Pyre, if you had lifted him off the ground I might’ve fainted.”

“I considered it.” Pyretalon replied smoothly, sipping his dwarven brew without even glancing up. “But I didn’t want to damage the grass.”

That earned a round of laughter, warm and easy.

And just like that, the weight lifted. Not vanished — not forgotten — but absorbed. Transformed into warmth, into belonging, into the kind of teasing that only lives among those who love each other without condition.

Axton sank back into his seat, cheeks pink, smile tucked behind the rim of his cup. For once, he didn’t mind the teasing. Not really. Because tonight, he was theirs. And they, wonderfully, chaotically, fiercely, were his.

As the laughter rolled on and the tankards slowly emptied, the air around their fire grew richer, heavy with warmth, with the scents of fruit and spice, and the soft glow of contentment. Conversation blurred into memory. The garden beyond the lanterns pulsed with life and light strung across carved stone arches, soft canopies of silk swaying with the breeze. And threaded through it all, the music.

At first it was distant, a beat beneath the hum of conversation, but gradually, it crept closer, coiling around them like smoke. Deep drums, slow strings, the occasional wild trill of flute. It wasn’t meant to command. It invited. Called the body to sway, the limbs to loosen, the breath to deepen.

Tails twitched. Ears perked. And then Lyra rose with a chirp of delight, her feathers glimmering like burnished gold beneath the lanterns.

“Oh no,” murmured Axton, already knowing.

She turned toward him with eyes alight and dangerous, gleaming with intent. And before he could offer anything resembling resistance, her beak dipped forward with graceful speed, catching the collar of his robe and yanking.

“Lyra—wait—I’m not—I'm not that good at it!” he protested, stumbling after her as the rest of the group erupted into laughter. His drink nearly toppled. Roran clapped. Seraphina howled.

But she didn’t answer right away. She was already pulling him toward the open garden floor where others danced, gryphons spinning like wind-swept leaves, humans clapping, a minotaur keeping rhythm with thunderous hooves in the far corner.

Axton half-stumbled, half-followed, robes fluttering. “I don’t even know the steps!”

“You don’t need to know the steps!” she called back, voice gleaming with joy. “You just need to move!”