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Chapter 14: The Glen Between Shadows

The afternoon unraveled like a colorful tapestry woven by overly enthusiastic hands. After the cake disaster was thoroughly scrubbed from scales and skin alike, Axton was whisked away, never allowed more than a moment’s quiet reprieve. First came the games, tossed rings of woven ivy, riddles offered teasingly by Lyyreth and the dragons, and contests of magical fireworks. Axton found himself gently tugged from one friendly face to another, exchanging pleasantries with grinning townsfolk, being warmly introduced by Infinity, her voice a mixture of pride and protective affection as she proclaimed her "dearest hatchling" to every guest within earshot. He smiled politely, laughed earnestly at playful jokes, and sampled spiced meats, pastries, and sugared fruits offered by a beaming and somewhat recovered Feku.

But beneath the joyful chatter, the gentle hum of lyres, and the gleeful shouts of playing children, his weariness deepened. Each laugh drew a sliver more from his dwindling reserves; each new handshake, every polite conversation, stretched his fading mask thinner. He craved quiet like a drowning man gasping for air.

When finally ushered toward a great cushioned seat placed at the party's heart, every eye turned toward him, glittering with affectionate delight. Then the singing began: the traditional draconic rendition of "happy hatchday," a chorus of growls, rumbling purrs, enthusiastic trills, and rhythmic roars that resonated through bone and heart alike. It was all he could do, sinking into his seat to not die of embarrassment.

Axton shifted uncomfortably, heart fluttering as gift after gift found its way into his hesitant hands. Infinity’s gentle eyes watched him closely as she presented her pendant, a carved feather embracing a quiet flame, warm with unspoken meaning. Lyyreth followed soon after, offering a leather-bound journal, its pages etched tenderly with constellations and notes of gentle wisdom that made Axton's throat tighten with gratitude. Cordenth's gift, a satchel embroidered proudly in Drenedar's colors, came with playful teasing, drawing soft laughter from the gathered crowd, even as Lyndis slipped into his palm a set of lockpicks with a knowing, mischievous wink that left him blushing crimson to his ears.

Then Storm approached, his stern eyes softening as he passed along a brass astrolabe from his own treasured hoard, the gesture speaking volumes in its gruff silence. Fremra, eyes twinkling, pressed a small pouch of dragon scales into his palm, each shimmering piece filled with laughter and promise, to Feku’s envious glare. Finally, the townsfolk offered their humble, heartfelt ribbons, woven blankets, delicate wood carvings, and bundles of herbs wrapped lovingly in bright ribbon. Even Lyndis’ children gave him a pair of fake horns so that he could join ‘the dragon club’ of which when he placed them upon his head, got a series of shouts and trills from the little ones.

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

Eventually, when the last gift was given and he was close to breaking from maintaining a smile, Axton slipped quietly from the warmth of celebration, letting laughter and music blur behind him as he stepped carefully between the moss-grown pillars that marked the deeper gardens of the castle. Here, among gently rustling ferns and blooming dusk leaf, the lantern light softened to a gentle golden glow. Ivy cascaded like quiet curtains from carved stone archways, their shapes softened by years and the embrace of climbing vines. Each step carried him further from voices, from expectations, deeper into quiet solitude.

Infinity herself had shaped this secluded hollow long ago, a small sanctuary carved from a once-ruined alcove, shielded by the remnant of a fallen wall. No banners fluttered here; no statues loomed in proud memorial. Only gentle silence waited within a circle of preserved stones, surrounding a still pool that reflected the shifting dance of sunlight through leaves. A single weathered bench, crooked and familiar, stood nearby.

He sank wearily onto the bench now, alone, letting the stillness finally seep into his bones. Yet solitude brought with it no comfort, only a deepening chill, as his thoughts drifted inevitably toward recent failures. His embarrassment at the enchanted cake lingered bitterly; his dwindling passion, his growing inadequacy in magic, weighed heavily upon him. Here, away from smiles and gentle reassurances, he could not escape the feeling that he was quietly failing everyone, his mom, his dad, even Pyretalon. Their faith in him felt undeserved, their expectations impossible to fulfill.

Axton’s breath trembled softly as the cold within him stirred, a relentless tide of doubt and emptiness, whispering that for all his meticulous effort and careful spellcraft, perhaps he was merely drifting, lost beneath the gentle shadows of leaves, uncertain, hollow, and quietly afraid.

His quiet despair shattered suddenly at the sharp snap of a twig, quickly followed by the unmistakable, muffled hissing of two young, draconic voices attempting—and failing—to stay discreetly silent.

"I know you're there, Kalith." Axton called out softly, with a weary sigh, straightening from the bench. He lifted his head, watching the shadowed ivy curtain with resigned patience. If the spirited half-elf princess was here, then undoubtedly her green-scale brothers, Orturth and Terrin, would be hovering close behind, their curiosity far outweighing their subtlety. And if Cordenth’s young brood had arrived, then Storm and Fremra’s restless, playful wyrmling’s would swiftly follow, dragging with them the inevitable chaos that only young dragons seemed capable of producing. After all, it seemed one group could never stray far without the other trailing closely at their tails.

“Nu-uh, you got hooman ears!” Terrin’s shout burst from the thicket like a battle cry. A flurry of rustling leaves followed, capped with a muffled “Oof!”, likely his brother or sister tackling him mid-bluster.

Axton rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Running from Achaaz? She’s not going to be happy when she notices you’re gone.” He let that threat hang in the air. Silence. No rush of wings, no scrambling claws. Just tension. “Fine,” he added, arms crossing. “Truce. I won’t tell. Happy?”

A head emerged from the brush, chin up, arms akimbo. Kalith stepped into the clearing with all the authority a six-year-old could muster. Her vibrant sunflower yellow eyes, sharp and discerning like her father’s, locked onto Axton with scrutiny. Wild brown curls, the color of warm bark, tumbled down past her shoulders, streaked with leaves and twigs. She liked to call it dragon hair, because it never listened.

She wore her usual adventure-day best: a navy-blue tunic-dress trimmed with storm cloud-gray and indigo accents, cut just short enough to keep her nimble. Silver beads gleamed at her collar and cuffs, crescent and leaf patterns glinting with elven detail. A short cloak fluttered behind her, fastened with a polished stone clasp. Her soft leather boots were already scuffed and muddy from mischief, and from her belt swung a pouch of “important stuff,” half of which likely rattled. Atop it all, a pair of stubby, stone-colored horns jutted from a leather band on her head, her proud homage to Storm, her favorite dragon, much to her father’s annoyance.

“How do we know you’re tellin’ the truth, huh?” she demanded.

“I swear not by the hairs on my chin,” Axton said solemnly, hand over heart, “to tell anyone of your nefarious plots and schemes.”

She raised a brow. “Nefarious?”

“It means ‘I won’t tattle.’”

Kalith squinted at him, then sagged in visible relief. “Alright then. Come on, you two! I found a bee nest! It was humming like this—” She buzzed dramatically, flailing her arms, before dashing off across the glade.

She ran across the field, a pair of wyrmling’s galloping in tow, one of them with a pair of oversized goggles strapped comically over his snout, lenses askew. Orturth, the more magical and soft-spoken of the pair, galloped after her with wide, sunflower-yellow eyes gleaming. His green scales shimmered with a soft luster, accentuated by a tan underbelly and a sweep of black across his wing membranes. Yellow lines traced the base of those wings, mirroring the magical runes his father once carved in starlight. Glass vials clinked at his sides from the small harness he wore, each one sealed tight with cork, some already wiggling with the day’s bug captures.

Trailing behind came the ever-bold Terrin, the loudmouth hero in his own story. His green scales caught the light with a brighter glint than his brother’s, offset by a wash of black across his belly and wings. Gold swirls traced the membrane like stylized lightning, defiant and wild. His sapphire-blue eyes shone with unrelenting energy, his white horns slicked back like a miniature knight’s helm. A blue scarf, identical in pattern to the one his father wore, snapped dramatically behind him, though the image was slightly spoiled as he tripped on a root and skidded on his belly before bouncing upright again with undaunted pride. “I’ll sting the bees before they sting us!” he roared, clearly intending to win the nonexistent battle.

“We’ve gotta hurry before Storm’s kids show up and ruin everything.” Terrin muttered, tossing a glance over his shoulder like a scout worried his flanks were about to be overrun.

Kalith didn’t miss a beat. “You’re just mad Ilvirur beat you last time.”

“She did not beat me,” he snapped, wings flaring with wounded pride. “She cheated.”

“That’s not cheating. It’s being clever. Frema said dragons use their brains, not just their paws.”

The jab hit deeper than intended. “Oh please. What would you know about being a dragon? You don’t even have wings or a tail!”

With a sharp, delighted turn, Kalith spun around and pointed at her backside. Strapped to her belt was a crude but clearly beloved tail made of cloth, stone-gray with silver-thread scales sewn in crooked lines. “Fremra gave me this,” she declared. “Said I was a proper dragon.”

Terrin groaned. “That’s not even—hey!”

The moment she heard his doubt, Kalith lunged. She pounced like a cat, tackling her brother mid-stride and dragging him to the grass in a tangle of limbs. Her hands smacked harmlessly against his chest like a wyrmling’s forepaws, full of theatrical fury.

“No fair!” Terrin squealed, squirming as he flailed back at her with practiced restraint. His claws never touched skin, his fangs never broke through the grin splitting his muzzle. “That’s not how dragons fight!”

“Oh, really?” Kalith crowed, switching tactics. Her fingers went straight for the joints of his wings, tickling with unrelenting precision. “Then take this, great and mighty dragon!”

“No! No tickling!” Terrin howled, laughing despite himself, head flopping to the ground as his wings twitched in surrender. “You said no tickling!”

“Like you care,” she sang, straddling his side triumphantly. “Yield!”

Axton let out a long-suffering breath, arms folded, eyes soft with resigned amusement. The bee nest had been all but forgotten. Off near the tree line, Orturth stood on hind legs, front claws braced against the bark of a mossy oak. His goggles had slipped slightly askew, one eye larger than the other as he stared intently upward. Every so often, he made a chirring noise low in his throat, as though trying to summon something from the branches.

“Bees nest?” Axton called out, wary now of the dragonling’s intent. “You’re going to get stung.”

“No.” Orturth didn’t even glance his way. “We commune.”

Axton blinked. “You mean… you’re immune?”

“Yeah, that.” The wyrmling nodded sagely, adjusting a jar at his side as if preparing for some great entomological pact. “Mom says bugs can’t poison me. ‘Specially if I say hi first.”

“It will still hurt,” Axton warned, watching Orturth nose closer to the hive, his snout tilted high with scholarly wonder. “Even if their stingers can’t pierce scales.”

“Say’s the one without scales.” the wyrmling echoed flatly, as if that single word answered everything. He adjusted his goggles with a snap of his claw, wholly unconcerned.

“What about Kalith?” Axton gestured toward the half-elf girl currently atop her brother, tousled hair sticking out like thistle, cheeks pink from laughter and conquest. “She doesn’t have those.”

“Hey!” Kalith shot upright, leaves clinging to her curls as she gave an intense glare, “I’m not a baby!”

“Yeah!” Terrin huffed from beneath her, tail flicking. “Take it back or I’ll bite you first!”

“I’m not calling you a baby,” Axton said with a weary groan. “I’m saying stings hurt. Even when you act like they won’t.”

Kalith puffed her chest and spread her fingers like claws. “Then scare ’em with fire. Like Veledar!”

“Yeah!” Both wrymlings replied.

“I’m not going to help you terrorize bees,” Axton said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “All I said was I wouldn’t tell Achaaz.”

Three simultaneous groans erupted from the little rebels.

“We not terrzide bees,” Orturth muttered as he trotted over, his gait clinking with the vials strapped to his harness. “Bees pretty. I want one.”

He shook his head, “You want… a bee?”

“For collection,” Orturth said plainly, eyes wide and bright as starlit glass. “Put in jar. Keep it. Maybe two. Bees nice.”

Of course. The hoarding instinct ran strong in dragons, no matter the parentage. Not even Lyndis’s influence had dulled it. “How would you like it,” Axton asked slowly, “if someone scooped you up and took you from your home?”

The little dragon tilted his head. “Like Fremra?”

“What? No—”

“Fremra take me fly,” Orturth said, smiling in memory. “She says I small and light like feather. She spins me in the sky! That fun.”

Axton exhaled through his nose. “That’s… not what I meant.”

“Then not same,” Orturth concluded firmly. “Bee like my home. It nice.” Of course it was. Axton rubbed his eyes and sighed. “How about I show you some magic instead?” Maybe, just maybe, the promise of spells would distract them from kidnapping insects.

“Magic!” Terrin perked up, frills flaring with delight. His claws scraped at the grass as he bounced in place.

“Yeah! Axton magic!” Kalith echoed, beaming as though she’d just been given a crown.

And then came the pounding of many little feet, soft but thunderous in context—four shapes barreling across the glade.

“Did I hear Axton magic?” came a shout from the front, bold and unmistakably smug.

Ilvirur led the charge, her blue scales gleaming like wet paint beneath the sun, under scales shadow-dark, wing membranes inked with delicate white swirls. Her silver eyes sparkled with defiance as she skidded to a halt, tail flicking like a cat’s daring a pounce.

“Yeah, but we got here first!” Kalith shot back, planting her feet in front of Axton like a dragon defending her hoard.

“Hey! You don’t hoard Axton!” A wyrmling by Ilvirur’s side stomped a paw indignantly. “He’s ours—we called dibs!”

“When?” Kalith snarled, hair all askew, hands balled into fists.

“Just now!” chimed a male wyrmling with teal scales and black membranes, Tempest, as he swayed beside Ilvirur with a grin too wide to be innocent.

“You can’t do that!” Kalith roared.

“Yeah,” Ilvirur said, stepping closer, voice lilting with the casual cruelty. “We just did.” Her smirk widened. “Besides, I’m his favorite.”

Kalith gasped, scandalized. “You take that back!”

“Nope.” The blue-scaled dragoness tilted her head with theatrical innocence. “He told me. With his eyes.”

Axton’s groan came unbidden, hands dragging down his face. “Oh no.”

“Why must you all fight over me?” Axton asked, weary already, as though the very air had grown heavier with every shrieked accusation and puffed wing display.

“It’s not all the time,” Kalith replied innocently, brushing a curl from her eyes with dramatic grace. “Just most of the time.” She whirled on her heel, pointing at the intruders like a commander drawing battle lines. “So, leave us alone. Axton’s going to show us magic. And bees.”

Ilvirur gasped, scandalized. Her wings flared wide like sails catching wind, her tail lashing once in righteous fury. “Magic and bees?” she cried, voice pitching skyward. “I’m telling Father on you!”

Kalith went pale. Her hands flew to her mouth as if to catch the words before they reached the heavens. Of course, she admired Storm more than any other dragon, she wore his likeness in stone-colored horns and mimicked his sternest growls when she thought no one was watching. That he returned her affections in his own quiet, bewildered way only made the threat worse.

“Anything but that,” she squeaked.

“It’s just Storm,” Terrin muttered with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t let her scare you—”

“I don’t want him mad at me!”

“Last chance,” Ilvirur warned, tail swaying like a smug metronome. “Share Axton or I tell.”

Shoulders slumped in defeat, arms crossing, “Fine. Just don’t tell.”

Satisfied, Storm and Fremra’s brood paraded forward with self-satisfied trills, tails swishing and bright eyes, already victorious in a war of declarations. They settled around Axton like well-placed chess pieces.

The mage regarded them all, the eager eyes, the twitching frills, the boundless energy, and sighed. Most people might have panicked at being surrounded by so many dragon wyrmlings. But most people haven’t been adopted by dragons.

“You know,” he said evenly, glancing around the circle of scales and feathers, “I haven’t actually agreed to anything yet.”

“You haven’t?” Ilvirur gasped, snapping to Kalith with a narrowed gaze, “You tricked me!”

“No, he’s gonna.” Kalith scoffed, sitting beside her. Though the pair often bickered and fought, Ilbirur still didn’t move away, nor stopped her tail from curling around her ‘rival’.

The wyrmlings froze. Heads tilted in eerie synchronization. Ilvirur’s silver eyes grew impossibly wide, her lips pursed just slightly in a trembling pout. One by one, the others joined in, their expressions transforming as if some ancient spell had passed between them. Tempest tucked his claws under his chin, Orturth sniffled dramatically, Terrin’s frills drooped like wilted ferns, and Aurora’s eyes shimmered with the weight of silent sorrow.

It was devastating.

Axton felt his knees wobble beneath the tidal wave of cuteness crashing toward him. This was no spell from any tome, no incantation from a dusty scroll. It was older. Purer. The most primal magic in existence, one no adult was ever truly prepared to resist.

“Alright, fine!” He flung his hands in surrender, groaning as they erupted into cheers. “You win. You all win. Again.”

The celebration was immediate and thunderous, chirps, tail-thwacks, little attempts at roars, and a chorus of flapping wings that threatened to knock over a nearby bush.

“Who taught you that trick anyway?” Axton muttered, eyeing them with mock suspicion.

In perfect, damning unison, the six answered as one: “Feku.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you like her?”

Enthusiastic nods. Every snout bobbed like a storm-tossed boat, eager and emphatic.

“It’s not just because she spoils you with treats and sweets, is it?”

A long, pointed silence. Then Orturth looked away. Aurora coughed. Terrin scratched his snout. Kalith shrugged with the air of a noble dragoness caught in a morally gray corner.

Ilvirur, however, smiled wide and toothy. “We can like her and the sweets.”

Axton exhaled through a laugh, rubbing his eyes with a groan. “Alright, alright. But no more synchronized pouting. That’s cheating, and you know it.”

They did not, in fact, know it. Or if they did, they didn’t care.

He drew in a breath and shifted his feet, settling into the precise stance he’d practiced for years, the calculated, measured posture of a mage who wielded the weave not by instinct, but with structure, control, and a scholar’s finesse. Or at least, that had been the plan.

“Can I help with the magic?” Orturth had crept beside him, goggles askew, nose twitching as he nosed at Axton’s reagent pouches. “I like helping.”

“Oh right, can I too?” chirped Ilvirur.

Then came the tide. A stampede of tiny talons, trills, and too many questions all at once.

“Do you need sparks?”

“Can I be the boom?”

“Do we get magic hats?”

“Wait—do we clap? Do we chant?”

“Can I make the colors?”

“No, I get the colors!”

“Hey, what’s this do—”

Axton’s eye twitched. “Okay—back off!” Both hands thrust outward, and a controlled surge of air whooshed forth from his palms. The spell was harmless, a simple gust, but it scattered the wyrmlings like leaves in a breeze. They tumbled across the grass with delighted squeals, wings flapping, tails flailing.

Then they came charging back.

He cast again, sending them giggling and tumbling anew. Again. And again. Each time they rose, laughing harder, as if this were the spell he’d promised to show all along.

By the fourth round, Axton threw his head back and groaned. “Hey!”

They froze mid-bound.

“Don’t you want to see the cool magic?”

“Duh.” Kalith replied, flopping down beside Ilvirur with theatrical grace. She crossed her arms, nose in the air, pretending not to glance at the dragoness seated beside her.

Ilvirur mimicked her cousin perfectly, tail curled just so, a bored flick of one wing, a huff that barely masked the smile tugging at her snout.

The rest gathered with tail-thumps and eager eyes, all of them wriggling into the grass in a half-circle around him. And then came the chant.

“Magic! Magic! Magic!” they trilled, tapping tails like drums, their voices rising in tempo and tone.

He exhaled slowly, focusing. It wasn’t exactly the solemn study space he preferred, but… perhaps it was enough.

He started off basic, with a few firebolts to the air to act like miniature fireworks, getting a round of large happy eyes and gasps. Next, he struck simple poses, pulling out his wand from Lyra to move onto crafting lingering runic words in the air. “BUG LORD ORTURTH” and “QUEEN KALITH THE FIREBREATHED” in drifting, shimmering letters. The runes scattered like fireflies as he continues his elaborate dance. He made their wing membranes glow, or their horns shimmer, leaving them pointing and warbling in ecstatic delight.

With a murmur under his breath and a practiced slide of his feet across the grass, Axton shifted into his next spell. His arms moved in careful arcs, left sweeping out, right angled upward, his fingers splaying and curling in a pattern that resembled a sculptor shaping clay from light and air.

What he’d brought forth was a greater illusion spell. His gestures slow, refined, like a calligrapher etching runes into the sky. From the empty space before him, a form coalesced: a massive golden gryphon with feathers that shimmered like starlight and eyes that glowed faintly blue. It reared on hind legs, wings spreading to nearly touch the stone-ringed glade. Then it leapt over them before diving through the air in a loop and letting out a magnificent screech that echoed off the walls.

The children lost it.

Kalith screamed with delight and dove behind Orturth. Ilvirur launched herself straight upward, clearly intending to intercept the image mid-flight. Tempest growled, running in a circle to chase the illusory talons. Even the scholarly Orturth barked a laugh, eyes wide. “That’s not even real? It looks real!”

Axton smiled, wiping sweat from his brow. “It’s light and will alone.” he murmured and let the illusion spiral into feathers and dusk.

Then, with only a moment’s pause, he drew back one foot and planted it. Both hands curled into tight fists at his chest, and he inhaled through his nose. The world seemed to be still falling. Then, he thrust one arm forward, palm splayed wide, and the weave bent.

Drahkoris’ paw exploded into being. A shimmering arcane hand, larger than any adult dragon’s paw, sprang from the air beside him. Glowing with translucent violet energy, it hovered like a gauntlet of pure force. Axton guided it with sharp, intentional movements, his fingers dancing like a puppeteer’s.

It waved to the children. Kalith waved back. It booped their noses. Ilvirur squealed. It slapped the ground with a thump, bouncing the younger wyrmling’s up in surprise, prompting delighted shrieks and a tumble of green and teal scales as they wrestled, pretending to be caught beneath it.

Then, to their further delight, Axton used the hand to mimic them, doing a wyrmling flop, a hop, and a dramatic roll that sent Kalith into a full belly-laugh. It was going well. For a moment, just one blessed moment, he forgot the failures, forgot Nivra, forgot the weight pressing on his chest these last few weeks.

But already the weave trembled, hungry for more. The last spell itched at his fingers, more powerful than any he had performed before, and perhaps… too much. The warmth of their laughter still echoed when he turned his gaze toward the final act.

They wanted more. They always wanted more. For once, he didn’t feel burdened by that, it felt… good. Their joy was balm. Their trust, a kind of alchemy that soothed even the jagged recesses of his worry. He inhaled deeply, steadying the pulse behind his ribs.

The wyrmling’s drew closer, anticipation brimming in every twitch of tail and shiver of frills. Even Kalith, usually quick to jab or bark, sat still.

Axton stepped forward, one foot sliding across the grass, his weight shifting as he fell into form, like a dancer settling into the gravity of the stage. Fingers lifted, drawn taut with tension as though plucking threads only he could see. He inhaled slowly, tasting the edges of the weave on the back of his tongue, a shimmer of something raw and waiting.

The command phrase slipped from his lips, ancient and elegant, like silk soaked in flame. He’d first seen the spell in a fractured tome buried beneath the collapsed archives of Ambermere’s lower spire. A half-burned scroll with shimmering ink, one he and Nivra had salvaged beneath the watch of fireflies and crumbling stone. Prismatic Wave, it had been called. A spell of rare artistry, used by the sorcerer-kings of old to blind, stun, awe, and conquer. He had studied it for years. Traced its shape. Sketched its sequence. Calculated its variables like a monk tracing rune into sand.

The weave coiled beneath his skin, heavy with power. He guided it with care. Will. Precision. And then it came. The air erupted in color.

A blooming fan of light shattered the quiet, a full spectrum of radiance flaring outward in a breathtaking arc. Each ray refracted, split, shimmered like sunlight caught in rain. It carved the glade in hues that rippled like fire across water.

The children gasped, their joy spilling into laughter.

But he felt it before he saw it, the wobble. A sharp twist of resistance along the channel. One of the beams bucked sideways, darting away from the heart of the spell like a misfired arrow.

It struck the underbrush.

FOOM.

A branch went up in flames, fire licking skyward with hungry fingers. It caught fast, heat rippling outward as the bark blackened and the smoke coiled. Still the children whooped and hollered, thinking it some grand finale. They jumped, danced, shouted his name.

But Axton could only stare.

His chest hollowed, breath caught in a prison of his own making. “No—” he whispered, lifting his hand. He called the weave, shaping the next spell from instinct and dread. A Cone of Cold roared to life, slicing through the glade like winter’s blade. Frost surged over flame. Ice bit into ember. The fire hissed once more and died.

The clearing fell quiet but for the clinking of frost on ash. Axton’s shoulders sagged. The spell he’d practiced, poured over, calculated and spent years of refinement on, acted as if it was mocking him.

They thought it was a trick, a miracle, a flourish. But all he saw was the trees scorched and blackened by his lack of control.

And now, the children played beneath the pale light of a smothered blaze, chasing one another through melting frost, oblivious to the chasm yawning opening within. All the pride, all the fleeting joy the children had stirred in him, melted beneath the cold weight of his inadequacy.

A breeze stirred the ferns as two great forms emerged at the glade’s edge.

Lyyreth moved first, his green scales mottled with the dappled light of the canopy. Beside him strode Infinity her wings tucked tight to her sides. Her spines were half-raised, not in alarm, but curiosity.

“You do realize,” Infinity said, with a note of smug amusement, “that the goal of a fire spell is not to immolate the local wildlife, yes? Or is setting ancient trees ablaze part of the new curriculum now?”

Axton stiffened on the bench.

She stopped just short of the pool, cocking her head, one brow ridge lifting in expectation. “Or wait, let me guess. ‘It was a tactical demonstration to enhance the children’s appreciation for panic casting.’ Very advanced.”

His voice cracked like a brittle edge. “Can you just not right now mom?”

Infinity blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said—” Axton stood suddenly, fists clenched at his sides, his shoulders tight, “—not now. I don’t need another joke about how badly I’m doing. I don’t need another sarcastic comment. I already know I messed up.”

The silence afterward was sharp. Even the birds seemed to hold their breath.

Infinity’s spines twitched upward. Her nostrils flared, and her eyes narrowed with a wounded flicker, quickly masked. “Well,” she growled, tail flicking, “someone’s roar has finally started to show up. Still needs work, though. You barely startled the butterflies.” She stepped back once, her tone lower. Not defensive but controlled.

Lyyreth’s flank brushed gently against her side. His presence was a calming tether, not restraint. He moved forward slowly, neck dipping slightly, his sunflower eyes soft. “Axton,” he said, “may we ask what’s happened?”

The human sagged like a tower stripped of scaffolding. He sat back on the bench hard, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“No,” Infinity said, settling slowly beside the pool, her wings folding with the whisper of silk over stone. “You shouldn’t have. But you did. So, tell me, my son, what’s hurting so badly that you thought burning me would help?”

Axton looked up at her. The bite had left her voice, but not the edge. She was trying, and she hadn’t left.

“I don’t know.” he muttered.

“You do,” Lyyreth said gently, lying beside him now, curling just enough that one wing partially covered the bench’s side. “You just don’t want to say it aloud. That’s alright. We’ll wait.”

The weight of their presence pressed down on him, not heavy, not demanding, but grounding. A warmth against shame.

His voice came slow, cracked and bitter. “I’ve lost it. All of it. The drive, the fire, the... reason. I’ve been pushing for so long, trying to impress Nivra, trying to be this great mage everyone thinks I am. But now I dread the work. The magic. Not... all magic. Just... Nivra’s way. Her court. I used to feel inspired by it. Like I was part of something grand. But now... it’s just scripts, patterns, recitations. Cold. Boring. Like I’m repeating someone else’s song without knowing what the words mean.”

Infinity didn’t interrupt. Her ears had dipped back, her tail wrapping around her foreclaws, the motion almost protective.

“I thought if I just worked harder... If I fixed my casting form, focused more, pushed through... maybe I’d feel it again. But it’s not there. I feel like I’m letting her down. Letting you down, father. I feel like I let everyone down.” He drew a trembling breath. “Like I’m falling behind and pretending I’m not. I’ve been working on that spell for years—and I still got it wrong.”

“Mm,” Infinity hummed. “Then it's good you have more years to try again.” She nuzzled at his side with a wistful sigh, “I used to think the world had no place for me if I wasn’t... useful,” she said. “Not strong, not dangerous. Just... a weapon. Because that was the only thing anyone wanted me to be.” Her voice darkened, the rumble curling through her throat. “And when I lost you, I decided that was it. That I’d burned every purpose from the world. So, I tried to end it.”

He’d never heard her say it so plainly.

“But I couldn’t,” she said with a mirthless huff. “Regeneration, and spite, and just enough cowardice. And then I got you back.” She looked at him in the eyes, “I don’t care if you cast spells or play the pan flute. You could do nothing for the rest of your life, and I would still curl around you and snarl at anyone who says otherwise.” She leaned her snout into him gently; forehead pressed to his shoulder. “You don’t have to do anything to be enough for me, Axton.”

Lyyreth nudged gently in with his own warmth, his breath misting faintly across Axton’s wrist. “Magic should not be a chain. It should be the wind at your back.”

Infinity lifted a wing and swept him against her chest, tucking him in. “Come home if you need to. Stay with us awhile. Eat too much. Sleep in. We’ll garden. Stargaze. You’ll trip over Lyyreth’s books, and I’ll hex the pantry closed again.”

“And if one day,” Lyyreth murmured, “your magic stirs again, no matter how small, we’ll be here to help it bloom.”

His cheeks glowed, as the cold inside was swept away by these two dragons. That didn’t, however, stop him from pushing back, he wasn’t some wyrmling. “I’m not coming home, Mom.” Axton groaned, half laughing now, his shoulders finally uncoiling under the pressure of her paw kneading his back. “You say it every time,” he added with a weary smile.

“And I’ll keep saying it.” she rumbled, tail curling beside him like a living rampart. “But I want you to remember it’s always open to you. No shame. No lectures. No one here thinks less of you for your stumbles. Least of all me.”

Her breath came soft and steady, calm to match the hush settling in his chest.

He shifted, leaning his weight onto her cheek. She responded with a warm lick across his temple that smelled faintly of forest herbs and dragon fire.

“Thank you.” he whispered.

The dragoness huffed, emerald eyes flicking to a small cut neat his collarbone, barely visible in the shadows. Her spines rose in a slow, dangerous ripple. “And how did you get that?”

“I tripped on a root.” He sighed, meeting her growling snout with his palm, anything to stop the whirlwind of concern, “It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?” She growled, “Because I will find them, and end them.”

“It was just a root…really.”

“I’ll kill the root too.”

“Mom!” He laughed as her huff of air tickled him.

One of her draconic eyes narrowed like a hunter preparing to pounce, “And while you were tripping on this root where was Pyretalon? How’s he doing at playing your brave protector?”

He’d had this conversation with her plenty of times. “Mum, if you want to critique him go do it. I know you think you’d do a better job.”

“I know I’d do a better job,” she snorted, flicking a paw with theatrical disdain. “He’s so… tiny.” Her voice dripped sarcasm, though it was more playful than mean. “A big gryphon, sure, muscles in all the right places, but he’s not a dragon. Doesn’t breathe fire and probably sheds feathers everywhere.”

Axton’s heart gave a traitorous flutter, the mental image of Pyretalon striking like lightning through the murk of doubt and melancholy. Strong, kind, smugly handsome… calm in a way that made the world feel manageable. He blinked down on his knees. “Course he’s perfect.” he murmured.

Infinity reared her head, pupils narrowing with suspicion and pride both. “More perfect than me?”

He scoffed. “No dragon compares to you, Mum. That’s not even a question.”

“Good.” Her spines relaxed just slightly. “Speaking of which, where is this paragon?”

Axton rolled his eyes. “Playing cards. With Lyndis and Storm. I think Lyndis might be wagering her kingdom again.”

She let out a dragon’s version of a laugh with huffed growl that rustled leaves. “So, while my precious boy wanders off into a clearing full of unstable emotions, your so-called protector flutters off to gamble with old dragons and rogues?”

“Mum, seriously,” he said, poking her scales with a faint smile. “There are like five dragons here, half a royal guard, including you. If there was ever a time for him to let his feathers down, this is it.”

She grumbled but said nothing more on the matter, though the way her tail thumped lightly against the stones made it clear the subject was merely shelved, not forgotten. Then her head tilted ever so slightly, voice sliding into a deceptively casual tone. “So… found a boyfriend yet?”

Axton choked on his breath. “Mom!”

“What?” she said innocently, wings giving a little shrug. “You’re old enough to mate. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at Pyretalon. A mother always knows.”

He flushed scarlet and dropped his gaze. “Not yet. I mean, maybe. I did meet someone.” He fumbled into his robes and produced the pocket watch, its golden casing catching a stray ray of afternoon sun like a secret being let out. “Valeros. Gryphon. He gave me this, met him the other day. We sort of had a date over cards? Said I could contact him if I wanted.”

Infinity’s demeanor shifted like a gust cutting across still air. Her ears perked with curiosity, but her eyes narrowed into something razor-sharp. “A magical gift on the first date?” she muttered. “That’s either sweet or a very elaborate trap. What’s his name?”

“Valeros.”

“Valeros,” she repeated with theatrical disdain. “Sounds like a wine. Or a halfling trying to sell you something.”

“He’s a gryphon, Mum.”

“A gryphon,” she echoed flatly. “A gryphon. You’re telling me you met a smooth-talking feather duster with enchanted jewelry and thought this was a good idea?”

“I like him,” Axton said, folding the watch back into his palm. “He’s kind. Confident. Charming. And I can protect myself.”

“Oh, I know you think you can,” she said with a flick of her tail. “But has this gryphon fought liches? Survived against a dragon demi-god? Flown through lightning storms to deliver healing draughts to dying villages?”

Lyyreth, chuckled, nudging at his mate. “Infinity, dear, you sound like you’re preparing to eat him.”

“I might.” She cast Axton a sideways glance. “Unless he’s adorable.”

“Don’t threaten my dates.” Axton muttered.

“Then don’t bring home gryphons with suspicious names and magic watches,” she fired back, but it was softer now, the thorns wrapped in affection. “All I’m saying is, if he breaks your heart, I’ll pluck him.”

“But until then, perhaps we should let him enjoy the mystery, hmm?” Lyyreth huffed.

Infinity sighed. “Fine. I’ll behave. But if he shows up in the middle of the night wearing enchanted cologne, I’m lighting him on fire.”

Axton chuckled despite himself, the weight in his chest easing as his mother gave his cheek a warm nuzzle.

“Now,” she murmured, “tell me more. What color were his feathers?”

He recalled the events of last night, or at least what he could remember. The enchanting conversation, how his aura quickened his breath, and knees weak as he laughed with each story that tumbled out of him. He recalled his heart fluttering, excitement teasing him, how amazing it had been to be so wanted, desired.

Axton sat nestled in the warm curve of his mother’s side, to his other side, Lyyreth offered quiet presence, his soft green flank pressed close, the gentle rise and fall of his breath a metronome to set his heart at ease. It was in this space, between two timeless beings who loved him without question, that Axton allowed the world to fall away.

He turned the pocket watch over in his hands, the cool metal brushing his fingers like a lover's whisper. “He was... amazing,” Axton said, voice soft, as though confessing to the wind. “He laughed in this way fantastic sort of way, like he knew everything and didn’t care who else did. And the way he listened... like nothing else in the world mattered but what I said next.” He thumbed the edge of the watch.

“And you’re wondering if you should contact him?” Lyyreth’s gaze met his, kind and steady, like a lantern that never flickered.

“I don’t know.” The words left him before he could stop them. “What if it’s too soon? What if I scare him off? What if he only gave me this because he felt bad for me? What if I come off desperate or clingy?”

Infinity huffed, eyes narrowing. “Axton. If someone makes your heart flutter, you don’t wait. You pounce. You secure your claws in their fur before they fly off with someone else.”

“It’s not a hunt, Mum.” he said with a weak laugh.

“Of course it is.” she growled. “Love is the greatest hunt of all. You chase, you risk, and if the prey’s smart, they let you catch them. Just ask your father, quite a persistent one he was.”

Lyyreth’s laughter came gentler, low and full of warmth. “She’s not wrong… entirely,” he said, earning a squint from Infinity. “But listen, what you’re feeling now, that fear? That’s not a flaw. It’s… a sign that it matters. You want this to work, and that’s brave. Reaching out, despite the fear of rejection… that’s the kind of strength no spell can teach.”

Glancing down again at the pocket watch, Axton’s fingers traced the delicate engraving. His breath came slow, shaky. “He was a bright spot. Everything else’s been so dark lately, failure, boredom, disappointment… but last night, with him? It felt like flying.”

“Then fly,” Lyyreth said, “Even if you fall, the sky will still be there.”

He lifted his gaze to the pair beside him, his mother, bold and unyielding in her devotion, and his father, soft-spoken and steady, ever the quiet strength ready to catch him when he fell. He truly was lucky, “What if I scare him away?” he whispered.

“They like being wanted,” Infinity replied with a growl. “You won’t scare him. And if you do…” She snorted, dragging her tail along the grass, “he wasn’t worth your time.”

Lyyreth added, “And if he is worth your time… he’ll understand. Even if you fumble, even if your words come out crooked, if he truly cares, he’ll see you, not just the performance.”

The silence that followed was thick with memory. Of lost years, of battles survived, of pain endured and peace won. Axton wasn’t alone. Not really. He turned the watch in his hand once more. “Alright,” he whispered.

“Good. Sink your claws into that boy and don’t let go.” Infinity grinned, slow and toothy.

“Mom!” He groaned.

“She means well,” Lyyreth added, bemused. “Though her metaphors could use refinement.”

“I’m just saying,” Infinity said, leaning in, “it’s a hunt, dear. And when you find something you want, you don’t just circle and wait. You strike.”

He drew in a breath. Then another. Each inhale a stone set in place, steadying the fragile bridge between uncertainty and resolve. "I’m going to do it," he murmured, a soft, nervous laugh slipping free as color rose to his cheeks. "I’m actually going to do it."

Infinity thumped her tail behind him with a huff that stirred the grass. "Well then? What are you waiting for? You’re stalling."

The watch clicked open in his fingers. Light glinted off the gold inlay, cold and smooth beneath his thumb. He closed his eyes and summoned the image, those turquoise eyes, that smile, the sound of his laugh carried on the wind. He thought of the gryphon clearly.

And that’s when the gold dragon appeared.

** * * * * * * * **

Oh no, who could that be? XD Infinity is going to take this well, probably. Thanks for keeping up with the story, wish you the best, hope you like or comment below, I always take time to read them. Till next time!