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Chapter 13: A Spoonful of Chaos

The morning air flowed soft and cold across his feathers, a clean wind that whispered beneath his wings and down his throat, summoning from him a low, satisfied chirp. He dipped once in the air to catch the current more fully, angling himself into a gentle glide over the hills and fields that spread out beneath him like a quilt stitched in ochre and green. Dirt roads crossed the landscape in crooked seams, connecting the countless hamlets and villages nestled within the Lumarian countryside. Some still wore the golden haze of dawn; others smoked from early fires, their people just beginning to stir.

Birds chirped and fluttered about the upper branches of a nearby stand of elms, wholly consumed by their little world of leaves and clouds. Nelneras spun into a brief spiral, letting the sun warm the down beneath his wings. Nothing could rival flight. It wasn’t just speed or height, it was the quiet liberation of it, the sense that nothing could bind you unless you allowed it. For a moment, he was not the dragon-scholar, not a seeker burdened with lore and prophecy, just a creature of the sky.

But duty followed even the freest of wings.

He could feel it again now, tugging behind his thoughts like a chain wound around his horns. His quest to find Arcturus and Crimson Sky remained ever present, a mere ghost of it once was. That thread pulled at him with its own weight, trying to dissuade him from this passing curiosity, find that couple and ask for their assistance. He knew he should follow it. He knew this detour was foolish.

And yet.

Nelneras turned his gaze forward, where the familiar shape of Axton rode steadily through the open sky, seated with casual ease on the back of Pyretalon. The tiger-striped gryphon’s mate, Lyra, kept close, gliding just above with grace. To any other observer, the trio might have seemed unremarkable, just another mage and his escorts traveling toward some forgotten hamlet. But Nelneras knew better. The sight of them stirred something sharp in his chest, a frustration he could not quiet. They had lied to him, or at the very least, buried the truth so deeply it may as well have been a lie. Axton had spoken of dragon parents, then dismissed the words as though they had never been said. Nelneras could not let it go. He needed to know. Needed to see. Curiosity pulled at him like a chain, not cruel, but constant, and no matter how far he flew, it refused to loosen its hold.

The form that he concealed himself was that of a common falcon. No grand gryphon feathers, no gold or silver to mark him as dragon-born—just muted browns and sharp, narrow wings. He had no desire to explain himself if one of the town gryphons mistook him for a wild bird and tried to seize a mid-morning snack. In theory, he could shift back in time to avoid harm, but it would be awkward. Worse, it would ruin everything.

Not everyone understood curiosity. They called it stalking, gave it ugly names. He saw it differently. They had presented a mystery, set it in motion, and left it dangling in front of him like bait. Following them was inevitable.

At first, it was easy.

They followed the roads, veered past riverbanks and through thin woodland groves. He expected the boy to lead him toward some hidden hamlet, a draconic guardian in disguise. Perhaps a hut tucked along a riverbend, or a mage’s tower veiled in illusion. That would have made sense.

But they didn’t head toward safety. They flew west. Past the settled lands. Past the edges of Entis. And as the roads thinned to trails and even those began to vanish, Nelneras felt the wind shift. He saw the line in the land before he crossed it.

He hadn’t realized where they were going until the first hints rose from the land below. The change in color. The way the trees didn’t sway so much as curl. The scent of wet stone and withered roots carried on the wind, heavy and clinging. The tree line wasn’t a border. It was a boundary. A warning. The land before it still bore grass, but it had stopped growing straight. Vines looped across the road like old scars. Mist clung to the ground, thicker here, refusing to lift. And past that curtain, darkness. Not night, but a deeper kind.

The Forest of Despair had many names, most of them whispered by men who never returned. It was said monsters walked beneath their boughs, beasts of bone, wood, and hungering magic. Vines that could think. Spirits that remembered your name. And worst of all, the ruler of this domain, The Emerald Lady.

She was a dragon without a peer. The stories spoke of her as something greater than a mere beast or sorceress, but one who plucked at the threads of fate itself, twisting them to her design like a loom no other could wield. To cross her was to challenge death, not through steel, but through inevitability. None could rival her mastery of spellcraft. And if her name appeared in a tale, the wise knew it was already too late.

Nelneras’ wings held steady on the updraft, yet his thoughts spiraled. Below him, Pyretalon drifted with unhurried grace, cutting through the morning air with the ease of one long familiar with the forest ahead. Axton sat atop the gryphon’s back, relaxed, unconcerned, his robes flaring slightly in the wind. It was as though he was heading home. Nelneras’ eyes narrowed, tracing their descent as they approached the fog-shrouded treetops.

What could possess them to come here? They act as though they were welcomed. If he was welcomed here, then what did that mean? Was the boy part of something older? Something darker? And then, a thought struck him that shook him to his core. What if that was the answer? What if Axton's adoptive mother, this mysterious dragoness he had half-admitted existed, was none other than the Emerald Lady? It was foolish. Impossible. Except that it wasn’t.

The thought curled along his spine, sending a tingle of unease down through his tail feathers. He wanted to dismiss it, but the question clawed at his mind with every beat of his wings. What if she had not vanished? What if she had chosen not to fade, but to change, to soften? To raise a child in her image, or worse, craft a new vessel through which her will could act unnoticed?

Axton, for all his charm and scattered focus, could be more than he seemed. That easy smile, the clumsy curiosity might all be a mask. A veil hiding the kind of calculated intelligence that dragons had learned to fear.

He should have turned back.

Arcturus and his mate should have been reason enough. Axton was a detour, a curiosity, nothing more. But reason held no sway here. A fire burned in his chest, kindled by the mystery, fanned by his pride. Few could claim to have seen the Emerald Lady’s domain and lived. Fewer still walked its paths, seen her face, and escaped untouched. And Nelneras was not like most. He would not run. He would not turn aside. Not when the path forward was one so few dared tread.

Still, caution guided his wings. He dropped low, hugging the canopy, weaving between limbs that reached like fingers into the sky. The trees grew thick and twisted, their bark dark and split, as though the forest had once suffered a wound and never truly healed. Fog clung to the boughs in sheets, thin enough to see through, thick enough to muffle every sound. He moved silently, shadow to shadow, using what cover he could find.

If Axton was linked to the Emerald Lady, then there was no telling what defenses watched the forest. Pyretalon seemed harmless, but appearances can deceive. And the boy, that quiet little mage, could very well be a force beyond reckoning. Nelneras scanned the limbs above and below, expecting danger at every turn.

Yet nothing came.

Instead, the forest revealed itself. Slowly. Subtly. Where he expected thorns and rot, he found beauty, not pristine, but purposeful. A silver river snaked between the trees, its surface catching the morning light in gleams like scattered coins. He followed it briefly as it fed a waterfall cascading down a wide cliff face, the mist rising from its base carrying the scent of wet stone and moss. Birds called through the canopy. Small animals darted through the undergrowth, leaving behind nothing more than the rustle of leaves and the occasional flash of fur.

It was peaceful.

The realization hit him slowly, and then all at once. This was not the place the stories warned of. This was not a lair of death and despair. The dread he had carried for so many miles faltered beneath the weight of what his eyes saw.

Was it all a lie? Had he misunderstood?

He nearly lost them.

Caught in his thoughts, he looked up just in time to see Pyretalon’s form slipping through a break in the canopy. Axton turned slightly in his saddle, unaware of the falcon that clung to the treetops behind him. Nelneras surged forward with a burst of wing power, pushing past a curtain of leaves just in time to catch the last glimpse of their forms. They did not slow nor veer until suddenly, they vanished.

One moment they were there. The next, they were gone—swallowed by the forest, not by crash or concealment, but by magic. The trees hadn’t opened, hadn’t parted. The air had simply bent, folded itself inward, and taken them.

An illusion.

Nelneras’s breath caught, his wings faltering for the space of a heartbeat. This forest was not what it seemed. And that, above all else, made it more dangerous than he had imagined.

When he followed them through the illusion, the forest did not resist. The treetops parted without sound or motion, untouched by even his smallest feathers. The air shimmered, not with heat, but with a calm breath, an enchantment long woven, older than most spells, and more refined than any illusion he had encountered in years. And then the veil fell away.

What waited beneath was not ruin, not the death-stained glade of myth. It was a sanctuary.

The castle did not rise like a monument to power, but rather emerged from the land like a truth the forest had grown to protect. Its stonework was dark, veined with moss and flowering vines, each seam softened by time and purpose. It did not defy the forest—it belonged to it. Towers curved upward like trunks shaped by wind and age. Perches jutted from the upper spires, shaped wide and sturdy enough to cradle even the largest dragons. One tower, smaller and set apart, held what could only be an observatory, with its brass telescope angled toward the cloud-swept morning sky.

He scanned the grounds and faltered. Where he had expected a field of frozen stone, a place the stories claimed had once held petrified victims of the Emerald Lady’s wrath, instead there bloomed a garden lush, winding, and wild with color. It spilled out across the southern courtyard, flowers and herbs arranged not in rigid beds, but in living paths that invited wanderers to lose themselves. Arches woven from trellised vines framed mosaic pathways, and dragon-shaped banners stitched in forest green and gold flapped in the gentle breeze, their silk heavy with pride, not fear.

People filled the space between.

There must have been hundreds of them spread across the garden, the terraces, and the long-stretching lawns beside the castle. Humans in sun-washed linen mingled with elves wearing draping silks, their gestures smooth with practiced grace. Gryphons strode between food tables, sharing flasks and stories, while wolven stood near the dance circle, tapping paws to the rhythm of pipes and drums. Dwarves sat near stonework benches playing board games with halflings, who were already bartering drinks and souvenirs at hastily raised stalls near the eastern archway. Kobolds scampered between tents, laughing, juggling, shouting over one another in chaotic harmony. Even a Ceullus with ceremonial sashes and an Ilbir stood shoulder to shoulder, watching a game of ring-toss being played.

What shocked him was not the presence of non-dragons. It was their ease. They laughed. They danced. Some smoked fragrant herbs from carved pipes. Others sat under shading canopies of silk, playing music or telling stories with wide gestures and louder voices. There was no fear in their eyes. No reverence, no deference, only joy. But what stole his breath were the dragons.

The first was a massive blue, his body half-curled across a tree-lined fountain and moss, his tail flicking with slow, idle interest. He watched a trio of children darting between his scaled tail and the roots with the lazy attention a lion might watch cubs wrestle in the dust. The second, a teal-scaled dragoness with bright orange frills, her form more suited for water, was draped in garlands as she danced through a circle of children, human, gryphon, elf, and more, she moved with a grace and care as to not knock them over with her size. The third rested beneath a wide-limbed tree near the reading steps, teal-scaled with dark blue frills and wing membranes was surrounded by a flurry of wrymlings of green, teal or blue scales. These dragons, no larger than wolves growled, darted, tumbled over one another, chasing after mortal children and being chased in return, their squeals of play indistinguishable from the others.

To the east, beneath the shadow of a pergola wrapped in runes and vine, a green-scaled dragon sat in still solitude, his black-winged membranes etched with glowing script and tipped with waves of lime green. He seemed content to observe rather than partake, a quiet presence amid the liveliness, eyes like sunlit petals tracking the movements of the crowd with a distant, internal focus. His twin in shape and form moved through the gathering like a favored son returning home. Another green dragon, his bearing bold, his horns, one a deep onyx and the other gold were polished to a near mirror-shine. He was draped in lavish clothing, of blues, golds and bright whites. A scarf was wrapped around him, a vibrant sapphire with white diamonds stitched into the cloth. Rather simple, all things considered, the gem studded rings around his horns and tail frill. If Nelneras had to guess, he looked like a king as he drifted between mortals. Laughter seemed to follow him. What followed him less willingly was a trio of knights, human and wolven clad in steel and chain, their crimson tabards marked with a simple sigil over their hearts. They kept a measured distance, their expressions taut with frustration, clearly tasked with a duty their charge made no effort to ease. He seemed to slip just beyond them with every turn, always one jest or drink ahead, as if the dance of evasion was the very reason he came. Further off, a black-scale dragoness wove between the party’s heartbeats, her wings spread half open beneath the sun, speckled like the night sky with stars. Where the others dazzled or drifted, she prowled. Her movements were precise, her gaze unblinking. If the garden had a heart, she stood beside it, silent and sure.

This was not domination. It was coexistence.

His heart swelled till it pressed against his ribs, fierce and unrelenting. What he saw below defied every bitter tale he’d ever been told, every cynical warning whispered in shadowed corners of dragonkind. Dragons and non-dragons moved together without fear or reverence, without chains visible or implied. They shared food and stories, danced in circles beneath lantern-strung branches, and laughed, not with caution, but with ease.

Harmony. Real and unforced. The dragons were not worshipped nor feared. They were companions, partners in laughter, protectors of peace. This was what his parents had dreamed of. What he had fought to believe might someday exist. Axton, that strange little mage who lied so poorly and smiled so easily, had led him to it.

He circled wide, taking in every detail. The smell of roasted sweetroot and glazed meats from the food tables. The soft perfume of flowers from the gardens. The low hum of conversation punctuated by the clink of mugs and the rise of music. He caught sight of a kobold darting past a Ceullus’ legs, shrieking joyfully with a string of pastries in her arms, green scales brimming across her as she was pursued by a laughing elf.

Below, Pyretalon began to descend, his feathers glinting in the sun, wings held wide and sure.

Nelneras kept his distance. He knew he should turn away. This was not his place. He had come here as a shadow, chasing ghosts and suspicion. And yet... this was a gem set into the heart of the world, a living answer to every question that had ever haunted him.

Whoever Axton truly was, he was beyond something sacred. Perhaps, Nelneras thought, more sacred even than Arcturus or Crimson Sky. He could not yet name what the man meant to him. But he knew this, he would not let it go, not until he knew who this mage truly is.

With a final sweep over the clearing, he gave a small, falcon’s chirp, and drifted downward into the trees. He would watch. He would listen. And he would remember every moment.

** * * * * * * * * *

The wind whispered against his robes, tugging them like the fingers of an old friend eager to remind him of all he had left behind. Beneath him, the world drifted in gold and green, but he barely noticed the countryside or the way the forest rolled forward like a living sea. His grip tightened in Pyretalon’s feathers, not out of fear, but from the weight that pressed against his chest, familiar, unwelcome.

Normally, he would have studied the winding paths below, counted the river bends, traced the forest’s shape with his eyes like he was etching it into memory. Today, his thoughts pulled him elsewhere. He should have been imagining his mother’s voice, already hearing her cooing over his robes, her claws fussing with his hair as if he hadn’t aged a day. She would call him hatchling in front of the townsfolk, puff with pride, and insist he stay longer than planned. They would argue, in that passive, familiar way of people who love each other too much to let it go.

Somewhere below, they were already preparing. The villagers, no doubt, were lighting lanterns and tying ribbons on trees. He hated being the center of it. The cheers, the gifts, the endless toasts, he never knew what to say, how to look, whether to smile or disappear. His mother never listened. Every year, she did it anyway. For him. For her son.

Last night had felt like a dream suspended in warmth. His friends had lifted him above the mire, as they always did. For a few hours, the cold creeping through his soul had been held at bay. But joy, he had learned, was a fire that flickered when left unwatched. When the lights dimmed, and the voices faded, the silence came rushing in again, sharp, patient, cruel.

He shifted in the saddle, brushing one hand over the inner pocket of his robes. The watch was still there. The gryphon, Valeros, with that impossible confidence and those molten eyes, had given it to him with a smile. A token. A link. All he had to do was think of him. And part of him longed to. That brief, dazzling night had felt unreal, like catching lightning in his hands and daring to believe it wouldn’t burn.

The mere thought of Valeros left him blushing, knees weak beneath the wind. That voice, that face, everything about him had been sculpted from the sort of fantasies Axton only dared to whisper to his pillow. But fantasies had no business in daylight. Valeros deserved someone better. Someone bold, brilliant, burning with purpose. Not a mage with failing spells and a fading name.

He tucked the watch deeper, where it would not be seen.

If Pyretalon suspected anything, he didn’t show it. He flew with that same dignified rhythm, all strength and control, feathers neat even in the wind. He hadn’t mentioned the coin Axton had wasted last night, nor the drinks, nor the choice that had led him away from the others. But Axton could feel something unspoken in his silence, something matched in the sidelong glances Lyra had given him that morning, quick, careful, not quite accusing.

They hid it well, whatever it was. Still, disappointment clung to the edges of their smiles like frost beneath sunlight.

Axton leaned forward slightly, resting his cheek against the gryphon’s shoulder. No place felt safer than this. The wind didn’t scare him here. The heights didn’t threaten. On Pyretalon’s back, he could almost believe he belonged to something solid.

The trees beneath them thickened, ancient limbs clawing toward the sky. The castle came into view, not as a structure, but a shape born from stone and memory. It rose not with the sharp edges of conquest, but with the slow elegance of a forest grown wise. Vines crept lovingly along their walls. Moss clung to its towers. The garden where statues once had stood now bloomed with riotous colors of red, violet and gold, like fire spilling across stone.

He felt it a heavy hum of magic, old and familiar. The bones of the Emerald Lady still lingered in the air. Not her body. Not her presence. Just the weight of what she had done. What she had been. Axton did not fear her, not really, but he was glad she was gone. The pain she had wrought in the world was like ash in the soil, still there, even if the flames had died.

His parents had done something better. They had taken a lair of terror and made it a home. They had grown peace in a place sown with grief. His mother had done it with soil and soot-stained claws. His father with soft words and patient spells. Together, they had breathed life into this place, and now it lived.

They passed over the great lawn, and he saw movement, dragons, gryphons and people in every shade and shape. Music drifted up like a spell of joy. Someone was singing. Somewhere, a child laughed. Lyra flew close, silent for once. He could feel her nerves in the way her wings tilted, ever so slightly off balance. She had never met dragons. Not his.

He reached forward again, curled his fingers around a tuft of Pyretalon’s mane, and closed his eyes for a moment. The scent of blooming roses and fresh bread hung in the wind. Lanterns danced below, painting the courtyard in soft firelight.

This was it. The castle. His family. Whatever judgment waited. And he would face it.

Last time they had landed here, it hadn’t taken five minutes before his mother’s snout had been thrust into his chest so forcefully, he thought he might bruise. She had wrapped him up like a hatchling and immediately dragged him off into the gardens to dance with Arcturus, a smattering of gryphons from the town, and, of all people, Skywing, Lumara’s gryphon sky captain, resplendent in full regalia and completely unbothered by it.

As they circled the landing green, a neat patch of flattened grass fringed by ivy-strangled stone, Lyra’s voice broke the air.

“Are you sure she’s not going to eat me?” she chirped, though her wings twitched at the edges.

“You’ll be fine,” Pyretalon replied calmly. “If she bites, I’ll chew her tail.”

Lyra blinked, feathers rising in alarm. “That’s not comforting!”

“Then stop asking.”

The gryphoness laughed, though it warbled slightly. “Right, right, cool, calm. I’m just casually meeting dragons for the first time, no big deal. I’m totally prepared. Should I have brought a gift? I feel like I should’ve brought a gift. Do dragons like bread? Or tea? What if they hate tea? What if—”

“She’s going to love you.” Axton said, sliding off Pyretalon with the tired resignation of a man expecting impact. “Just… maybe don’t mention politics or her stew. She’s sensitive.”

“Helpful!” Lyra squawked, her eyes darting. “Wait. Who’s the grumpy one again?”

“That would be Storm,” Axton muttered, brushing off his robes. “He’ll say you should’ve brought a gift. But if you tell him, you like Kalith, he’ll melt.”

“Kalith?” Lyra perked up. “As in Queen Lyndis’s Kalith?”

Axton nodded.

Her beak parted in slow horror. “You mean the Lyndis? As in Queen of Drenedar Lyndis? The one who enchanted a dragon and helped Arcturus and Crimson Sky save the realm?”

“Yes,” he replied with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We play chess. She cheats.”

“Just because she beats you at it, doesn’t mean she cheats.” Pyretalon fluffed his wings, “Now cards? She cheats…She has to.”

Lyra froze. Then wheeled on Pyretalon.

“You didn’t tell me I’d be meeting Drenedarian royalty! I should’ve dressed up! Or preened! Pyre—why didn’t you say anything?!”

“She’s not royalty here,” he replied, inspecting one claw with serene indifference. “She’s just part of the crowd.”

“You’re not helping.”

“You’re panicking.”

“I’m allowed to panic!”

As their bickering turned to tweetish clicks and dramatic wing-flicks, Axton smoothed his sleeves and quietly hoped his mother wasn’t already waiting at the edge of the landing field. If he could get through the next five minutes without being lifted off the ground by her teeth, it would be a good start.

The air was rich with the scent of roasted sweetroot, sizzling herb-glazed meats, fresh bread, and citrus wine chilled in clay pitchers. Smoke curled lazily from several fire pits spaced across the courtyard, where thick logs had been arranged in rings and cushioned with woven mats for lingering conversation. Somewhere nearby, a pot of spiced stew bubbled under watchful kobold eyes, filling the garden with a savory aroma that clung to the breeze like memory.

Laughter rippled through the open lawn. Children tore between the flowerbeds, gryphons, human tots, elven twins with glitter-streaked cheeks, chased illusionary butterflies. A shriek erupted as a paper drake exploded into sparks, followed by a kobold proudly claiming it had done exactly what he meant. No one believed him, but the cheer that followed drowned out the argument.

Music drifted in layers across the grounds. Near the eastern stone fountain, a trio of elves played reed and harp while a Ceullus tapped a rhythm against his own flank, eyes half-lidded in contentment. Further toward the garden edge, a group of halflings strummed lutes atop crates, their songs spinning tales of heartbreak, flying potatoes, and one very unfortunate barmaid who mistook a salamander for a foot warmer. A gryphoness in painted gold feathers added harmony, her voice bright and clean, rising like birdsong above it all.

The feast tables had been arranged in curved arcs beneath hanging lanterns. Grapes burst with juice, cheeses glistened beside thin-sliced meats, and glazed pastries steamed under their cloth covers. Decorative banners in greens, crimsons, and amber hues fluttered from tall poles, each embroidered with stylized dragons and gryphons locked not in battle, but in mirrored poses, reaching claw to wing, fang to feather.

Non-dragons filled every space. A minotaur traded riddles with a wolven cleric. A dwarf taught a gryphon child how to play dice using carved bone markers. A centaur snored beneath a tree; two elven teens tucked against his side sharing a scroll of jokes. Laughter and voices lifted in a dozen accents, some guttural, some lilting, others rough and musical. There were no titles spoken. No stations were held. Only names and stories.

“Any sign of your mother?” Pyretalon asked, adjusting a few errant feathers as he scanned the crowd. His wings half-flared in that subtle way he did when he felt exposed. “I’d appreciate at least a warning.”

“Is she dangerous?” Lyra kept close to his side, her tail flicking anxiously. “You didn’t say if she breathes fire, throws furniture, or—gods forbid—gives hugs.”

“She’s not dangerous,” Axton replied, already regretting this part of the visit. “She’s just... observant. Like a predator waiting in the brush.”

Pyretalon twisted his neck suddenly, wings fluffing as he turned a full circle. “She’s here. Watching. I can feel it.”

“I doubt we’ll have to wait long,” Axton said with a resigned sigh, starting toward the edge of the crowd. “She’ll find us. She always does. Usually with a guilt trip and pie.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.” Lyra offered, ears twitching.

“It’s a mother missing her baby,” Pyretalon teased, bumping lightly into Axton’s side. “To dragons, he’s still practically a hatchling.”

“How adorable!” Lyra trilled.

“It’s not.” Axton deadpanned. “Try reasoning with someone who thinks throwing a children’s party for your twentieth birthday is completely acceptable.”

“You looked very dignified in the jesters hat.” Pyretalon said, utterly straight-faced.

Axton shot him a glare cold enough to freeze soup.

The gryphon’s eyes sparkled. “Throw all the fire you want, Ax, but you know I’m right.”

Lyra’s gaze darted across the crowd. “Wow, this is... a lot of people. Are you some kind of local legend?”

“Yes and no,” Axton muttered, then gestured to a trio of townsfolk wearing green sashes and little draconic horn circlets. “They’re not here for me. It’s a tribute thing. You see the decorations, green threads, wing patterns, stylized horns. That’s for the Benevolent Scholar and Radiant Star.”

He caught himself. He hadn’t said their names aloud in public for years. It felt... grounding. Like brushing off old dust.

“Which ones are they?” Lyra asked, ears flicking.

“The green dragons,” Pyretalon said smoothly. “You won’t miss them. One reads a lot. The other likes to flirt with everyone and lose his guards.”

“They’re... important?”

“Not rulers,” Axton said. He waved to a passing wolven, who smiled in return. “They don’t ask for worship or tribute. It’s more... respect. Tradition. They stayed when others left.”

“Stayed for what?” Lyra asked, eyes narrowing. “Are they in charge of the town?”

“Not quite.” Axton looked toward the far gardens, his tone softening. “This place used to belong to the Emerald Lady. She was... complicated. Manipulative. Dangerous. A lot of people were trapped here. The townsfolk were part of her hoard.”

Lyra stopped walking, her beak parted slightly. “That’s... awful.”

“No more awful than a king or queen,” Axton said with a shrug, his tone caught somewhere between logic and resignation. “And anyway, after she was gone, they chose to stay. My father—Benevolent Scholar—he tried to send them off. Gave this whole speech about how he didn’t own anyone, went on for paragraphs.”

He chuckled softly at the memory, shaking his head. “They smirked. Hugged him. Told him they’d watched him hatch. That he was family whether he liked it or not.”

Lyra turned slowly, taking in the garden, the laughing families, the dancing figures, the sea of banners rippling in the breeze. Her feathers fluffed. “So, this whole thing...?”

“Just a celebration. Like if your cousin came to visit and the whole village threw a feast.” He gestured at the banners overhead, their draconic patterns glinting in the sun. “Head into town, you’ll see more. They hang them high, though. Last time Crimson Sky got his horns caught in one and thrashed like he was drowning in laundry.”

“Crimson Sky?” she echoed, blinking.

“Another dragon,” Pyretalon supplied. “Big, red, breathes confidence. And fire.”

“I know who he is smart ass, who doesn’t?” Lyra’s beak parted slightly. “How many dragons do you know?”

“More than I meant to.” Axton gave a weary chuckle, realizing how strange that sounded to most. “Arcturus once said, ‘Once you do business with dragons, you keep doing business with dragons.’ He was right.”

Lyra’s eyes narrowed slightly as she watched a group of gryphon’s twirl with elves in the grass. “So... why don’t you like it here? This seems like an amazing party.”

He flushed, the tips of his ears burning. “Because everyone knows me here. They expect things. Great things. And I don’t always know how to live up to that.” He glanced down, brushing a smudge from his robe sleeve. “Why don’t we trade places?”

Before Lyra could respond, a sound reached them. A sharp snort, low and full, like a forge exhaling through coals. The kind of sound that demanded silence without raising its voice.

Axton turned, already wincing.

From behind one of the old vine-draped statues—ironically shaped like a younger, leaner dragon—stepped a figure that swallowed the light behind her. She was immense, easily three times the height of a man at the shoulder, cloaked in black scales that shimmered like obsidian. Her underbelly, throat to tail, was layered in slate-grey plates, scarred and not shy about it. Each mark told a story that no one dared to ask about. Her nostrils flared again, tasting the air. Her eyes—cut emerald and sharp as knives—scanned the gathering with narrowed focus, until they settled, inevitable as gravity, on her son.

Her wings remained tucked, but even still, they gave the impression of depth, of stars held captive in stretched canvas. The membranes shimmered with constellations: pale pinpricks, glimmering in slow motion as if the night sky itself had been sewn into her bones.

She was stunning. Terrifying. Unmistakable.

“You’re late,” Growled the dragoness as she strode forward, claws digging slightly into the moss-covered stone with each deliberate step. Her back spines flared, settled, then flared again, pulsing in sync with her narrowed eyes. “Should’ve sent a search party. Or a rescue team. Or a hunting dog.”

“All my fault,” Pyretalon replied easily, smoothing his feathers with a casual shake. “We overslept.”

“Of course,” she huffed. “You get pampered for a few years and grow soft. How tragic.”

“No softer than your scales.” he said dryly.

That drew a grin from her, brief and toothy. “Careful, Pyretalon. You’re one quip away from being renamed Toast.”

“Dashingly handsome Toast?” He mused, giving her a smirk.

It was Lyra, startled by the growl in Infinity’s voice, dropped low to all fours. “Oh, great dragoness Night Rising,” she blurted out. “I apologize for not bringing a gift! I didn’t know if I was supposed to and—”

Infinity blinked once. Then she slowly tilted her head, ears splayed. “We don’t do that here,” she said, voice flat as a stone. “But if you tell Storm that, he’ll try to make you leave a tribute on his perch. Something shiny, ideally scented.”

She gestured offhandedly toward a blue dragon lounging like a monument, while two children crept up behind him with suspicious grins.

“Oh... right,” Lyra mumbled. “First dragon meeting. Sorry.”

“Not the worst guest he’s brought,” she muttered after a long look, then added under her breath, “Nervous is good. Keeps you polite.”

“Hi, Mom,” Axton cut in, arms folding as if to brace himself. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Not quite.” She stepped in close and pressed her snout against his chest with surprising gentleness. “But I might be now.”

Her scales were warm beneath his hands, an old comfort, familiar despite time and space. He traced one of the ridges along her jaw, and when she exhaled, it rumbled through his bones like thunder wrapped in velvet.

“Missed you.” she murmured, low and unguarded.

“Yeah... missed you too,” he replied. “dad still giving garden lectures?”

“He’s on hour three. I love him, but stars help me.” She pulled back slightly, watching him with eyes that saw too much. “You look thin.”

“I’m fine.” he lied reflexively.

“You’re not. But you’re stubborn, so we’re calling that a draw.” She sniffed. “Your room’s empty, you know. The blankets are probably sad.”

“Don’t start.” he warned.

“I’m just saying, weekends are a thing. You could use a few.”

“Mom, Pyretalon and Lyra take good care of me.” he said firmly, lifting her chin with his hands.

“Very well!” Lyra chirped brightly. “No burning needed!”

“She won’t burn us.” Pyretalon said flatly.

“Don’t lie to her, Pyre,” Infinity drawled. “I burn selectively.”

“You’re not helping!” He squawked, flaring his wings as Lyra yelped.

“Don’t worry, feathery thing.” Infinity rolled her eyes before shifting her snout to Lyra. “I won’t burn you; I’m teasing.” She gave a brief nuzzle, tail swishing. “Thank you for caring for my son.” Then she turned to Pyretalon, eyes narrowed, “Why is it she actually believes she’s going to get burned?”

Pyretalon jabbed his beak toward her snout. “Maybe because you keep growling at her?”

Infinity huffed, spines flaring just slightly. “Skywing wasn’t scared.”

“Skywing shares a bed with Crimson Sky. He’s a feathery goblet of ego and poor life choices.”

“Mm. So?”

“So?” His ears flicked. “So, he’s not exactly a good bar for a social fear response.”

Infinity let out a grunt, straightening up to her full, looming height. Her wings folded tight, her claws adjusting as she surveyed the courtyard. “We’re still making adjustments,” she said, half to herself. “Trying to get everything just... perfect.”

“It looks perfect to me.” Axton said, eyes sweeping across the celebration, banners rippling like leaves in the breeze, laughter spilling from every table, children shrieking with joy as enchanted paper kites swooped above them. He spotted a gryphon and a wolven twirling together in a slow dance near the wine tent.

“They think it’s perfect,” Infinity muttered, tossing her head toward the central kitchen terrace. “But Feku’s up in flames—figuratively. Probably. Last I saw her, she was threatening to hex the stew. And I’m pretty sure she enchanted the cake to sing.”

“A singing cake?” Pyretalon gave a low whistle. “Why does that remind me of Axton?”

“Mom—” Axton groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t need to be perfect. Really. I’m just happy to be here.”

“Oh, now that’s a lie,” Infinity said with a bark of laughter. “My son doesn’t settle for half-decent. Don’t insult both of us.”

She spun on her hindlegs and called out, “Hey! You! Yes, the one with the flowers! Do the thing!”

A halfling jumped, dropped a wreath, and scurried toward the stage.

“So, should I be afraid of what’s coming?” Axton asked with a half-hearted chuckle, trailing alongside his mother’s steady gait. The crowd was thickening around them, kobolds in garden hats darting between their legs, dragging wagons full of streamers, potted herbs, and sparklers. A pair of wolven padded past, waving long lengths of red-and-gold silk like ceremonial banners.

“Not much,” Infinity replied with a smirk. “I talked Lyndis down from making it a full-scale royal spectacle.”

“Oh gods.”

“You know how she is with those ruby guardians. It’s like they’ve never seen a party without a perimeter. There are dragons here. We’re the perimeter.”

They paused as a small wooden cart trundled past, pushed by a halfling whistling a tune. Behind it, a wizened old man summoned a trail of sparkling butterflies that sent a horde of children squealing in delight after him, their laughter echoing off the stone.

Infinity waited for the chaos to pass, then gave her son a sidelong glance. “I don’t want to ruin your day, but the little ones are here. Running around with Achaaz.”

Axton groaned, covering his face with a palm. “Storm’s daughter? Who thought that was a good idea?”

“She’s babysitting,” Infinity said, deadpan. “And I use that word generously.”

He could picture it now, Achaaz, teal-scaled and glaring, her frills flared in warning while five wrymlings bounced and roared around her legs like sugar-drunk beasts. Probably making a game of trying to climb her tail.

“They bribed her, didn’t they?”

“With treasure,” Infinity snorted. “Probably the shiny kind. But don’t worry, she hasn’t swatted anyone yet. She’s lounging by a tree, pretending she’s above it all. Just like her father.”

Axton exhaled through his nose, gazing at a line of painted lanterns that bobbed over the heads of the crowd. “Why are the kids even here?”

“Before you start,” Infinity growled, “I made sure this wasn’t a kiddie party. No balloons, no singing hedgehog illusions. But you try telling Storm and Fremra the little monsters aren’t invited. Family means all of them, like it or not.”

And so, he endured it.

The walk became a parade. One wave after another. There was a handshake here, a hug there. People he barely remembered, humans, elves, gryphons, even a dwarven apothecary who insisted he still owed him a tea recipe, all came to greet Lyyreth’s son. Axton. The boy who was raised by dragons. The apprentice of the Queen. A walking curiosity, a living proof of something poetic.

He smiled. He nodded. He thanked them for coming. And with every smile, every warm “We’re so proud of you.” something in his chest sank further. They didn’t see the failures. The fading spark in his spellwork. The sleepless nights questioning his place. The feeling of drowning in expectation and never quite reaching the surface.

They saw what they wanted to see. Axton exhaled slowly, cheeks still sore from smiling. It was going to be a long day.

Eventually their journey of handshakes and greetings brought them to more familiar faces. Infinity slowed as they reached the edge of the central green. She gave Axton a sideways look, exasperation playing behind her emerald eyes.

“They’ve been waiting to see you,” she said, matter of fact and with no hint of mercy. “You’re going to have to put up with it.”

Axton exhaled slowly, already feeling the weight of it gather in his chest. One where he’d have to endure hugs, snout nuzzles and all manner of family greetings.

The path curved beneath flowering arches, and beyond it lay the Singing Tree—an ancient, wide-limbed sentinel that loomed over the garden like an old god at rest. Its bark shimmered faintly where old enchantments hummed, and its branches cradled long strands of ivy and lanterns that chimed softly in the breeze.

And there they were.

Fremra was curled in the grass beneath the tree, her body sprawled in lazy, artistic coils. Her scales gleamed in shades of river-teal, the under scales along her belly and throat a bright, warm red orange that contrasted with the soft moss she lounged in. Flower crowns clung to her horns, some freshly woven, others clearly made by children. One hung askew over one of her bright purple eyes. She was humming to herself, the tune drifting somewhere between lullaby and tavern jig, while her tail idly wagged in time to the music drifting over from the far fountain.

Beside her was her mate, Storm.

He lounged like a statue of sharpened sky, tall and unmoved, all pale blue armor and silent power. His silver eyes watched the crowd without comment, reflecting the light like still water. His wings rested tight against his flanks, his claws still save for the occasional flick of one white talon against a stone at his feet.

Fremra and Storm had been the ones to bring him hope, when there was none left. Ten years ago, when Axton had been a half-broken shell of a boy with no family left and no future in sight, it was those two dragons who found him. Fremra, all warmth and laughter, had wrapped him in her coils like a sunlit tide, while Storm had stood firm as a wall between him and the shadows that chased him. Together, they had helped defeat Nigel, finally putting an end to the terrible undead creature that was Axton’s true father. Together, they had led him back to Infinity, whom he had believed was dead at the time.

He hadn’t seen them often in the years since, only on rare occasions, like his birthday parties. While Fremra’s teasing never failed to fluster him, and Storm’s silence could still shake him to his core, he cherished them in his heart for all time.

Fremra noticed them first. She gasped, loud, delighted, and rolled upright, scattering flower petals in her wake.

“Well, well, well! If it isn’t my favorite little existential crisis!” she cried, her voice bright and merciless as she rose to gently nuzzle at the mage, “Always wonderful to see you!”

Axton gave a beleaguered sigh. “Hello, Fremra.”

Storm didn’t move at first. Then after a flick of his tail, “Hmph.”

Fremra waved a claw at him like shooing smoke. “Stormy, say something nice. It’s his special day.”

Silver eyes shifted to Axton, impassive. “You have not died,” Storm said flatly. “This is favorable.”

His mate gasped, placing a paw to her chest. “Did you hear that? The warmest thing he’s said all month!” She turned with a wide grin. “Infinity! Our midnight ember.” She nuzzled the black dragoness like a daughter greeting her mother, her tail looping affectionately around Infinity’s. “You look exhausted. Which is good. Means you’re doing something interesting.”

“I danced. I drank. I only knocked over three benches and one halfling.” Infinity said without missing a beat.

“Four benches,” Storm corrected.

Infinity snorted. “Fine. Four.”

“And he deserved it.” Fremra added proudly.

“Storm. Fremra.” Pyretalon bowed his head in respect, more for Storm than his mate.

“Pyretalon.” Storm returned the nod, slow and deliberate.

“Silly gryphon, you don’t have to bow to me.” Fremra snorted, giving him an affectionate nuzzle, “Still my favorite gryphon knight! Have you finally taught Axton how to flirt properly? Or is he still making tea and blushing?” Then Fremra’s gaze landed on Lyra.

“Ohhh?” she drawled, her pupils narrowing playfully. “And who is this delightful bundle of nerves and feathers?”

Lyra opened her beak, then closed it, then opened it again.

Infinity stepped in, lips twitching. “This is Lyra. Axton’s dear friend. First time meeting dragons.”

Fremra’s grin could have split the sky. She lowered her head until her snout was nearly touching Lyra’s beak.

“Darling,” she said, voice a velvet purr, “breathe. We don’t bite. Not unless you ask very sweetly.”

Lyra’s feathers puffed out in all directions. “I—I—I didn’t bring a gift—!”

Fremra blinked. Then cackled, “Oh, perfect. You’re my new favorite.”

She gave a warm nuzzle that nearly knocked Lyra over. “You’re doing splendidly. We like the anxious ones. They taste better. Emotionally, of course.”

Storm groaned low in his chest, already shifting his weight like he was about to intervene. “Do not terrify the guests.” he muttered.

“I’m welcoming them.” Fremra rolled her eyes, batting her mate with her frilled tail. “Besides, we’re keeping her, right?”

“You are not—” he began, but she already bound off.

“I promised the juggler I’d juggle him.” She paused. “Or maybe his torches. Or maybe just his patience. Depends on how coordinated I’m feeling!”

“Fremra.”

Turning around, her humming interrupted, her gaze traveled up and down, “Yes, love?”

“You are not juggling.”

“But I could!”

“You are not.”

A grin found her snout as she tossed her head, continuing her gait, “Come on Rammy, darling, live a little! Oh, and have fun Axton! Nice meeting you Lyra, and if Feku comes looking for me, tell her I have no idea what she’s talking about!”

Stoic and controlled as the blue dragon might have been he sighed, shook his head and followed upon the heels of his mate.

“Are…they always like that?” Lyra asked, blinking.

“Sometimes she’s worse.” Infinity snorted. “How he puts up with her all the time is anyone’s guess, but she’s alright.”

Axton chuckled, shaking his head, they were still the same, even after all this time. They had only traveled a few paces when the wind shifted.

He barely noticed at first, too many sounds mingled in the air, too much life blooming in every corner of the celebration. But this change came with a certain flavor: the sour note of something enchanting has gone awry. It drifted beneath the laughter, beneath the strings of a fiddle, even beneath the spicy-sweet smoke from the food tents.

Then came the clatter of wood. A mug flew across a table and clattered against the cobbled path. It righted itself. Then promptly began chasing a lantern. Infinity’s ear twitched. Her head turned slightly, her wings rising with an exasperated sigh.

The grass parted behind them. A kobold, a small lizard shaped humanoid no taller than a table leg but possessed of more urgency than a warhorn, came pelting across the green. His scaled feet scrabbled for traction on the mossy stones. He tripped once, recovered, and barreled straight to her side, panting, wild-eyed, arms flailing like wings that never quite learned to fly.

“Mistress Night Rising! The Joyfire keg—it tipped! Someone opened it early!” Blurted the little lizard. He drew a ragged breath, continuing before he lost momentum. “The mugs are chasing the plates! The banners are singing, and the napkins—” he trembled, breathless, “—have declared war on the fruit!”

Infinity closed her eyes slowly, the kind of slow, knowing close a dragon makes when the exact thing she warned about has come to pass, and the world now expects her to fix it. “Of course they have.” she said

Axton stepped forward, brows drawn in concern. “Want help?”

That earned him a glance. Not unkind, but sharp. A look shaped like tempered iron and bone-deep affection. “Help? With a keg that thinks it’s headlining the midsummer festival?”

She stepped close. Her snout brushed his brow, firm and brief. Not just a touch, but a promise that she still saw him, even amid chaos.

“Stay here. Smile at people. Pretend you’re not miserable.” Her voice dropped. “It’ll confuse them.” A beat passed. The fire dimmed, but never quite left her eyes.

She turned, muttering to herself about ale, enchantments, and the general stupidity of barrel-bound performance magic.

Axton remained where she left him, watching lanterns twitch above the drink tent and mugs attempt choreography with the self-importance of actors on stage. Somewhere nearby, a napkin stabbed an orange.

** * * * * * * * *

It wasn’t long before the noise and commotion of the party wore thin on the gryphons’ nerves. Pyretalon and Lyra had slipped away for a quiet flight together, a shared breath of calm above the crowd. They’d exchanged a few parting words, a brush of feathers, a flash of a grin, before lifting off toward the tree line, wings catching the last gold light like banners pulled gently skyward.

Now, alone amid the hum of music and flickering lights, Axton turned toward the garden’s edge. He’d barely rounded a hedge when movement caught his eye, quick, subtle, unmistakably evasive. A rustle of blue fabric beneath ivy, a glint of bare ankles disappearing behind a stone column.

She was perched like a hawk atop a low stone ledge near the edge of the garden path, one leg drawn up beneath her, the other swinging lazily in the air. Lyndis, Queen of Drenedar, at least in name, though she looked more like a thief who’d borrowed royal colors for the evening.

Her dress was cut from deep indigo silk, rich in color but light enough to move like water. Gold embroidery chased the hem in curling, careless loops, as if it had been stitched by someone too impatient to care about symmetry. A white sash, tied askew, broke the color at her waist, half-slipping like it might fall off at any moment. Her hair was a mess of chestnut waves, pinned behind one ear with a single silver clip shaped like a curling dragon tail, her only nod to her title. She was barefoot, of course. Her sandals dangled from one finger like a taunt to decorum.

Even seated, she carried herself with the ease of someone who knew every eye in the room could be watching, and didn’t care. She looked amused, annoyed, and faintly dangerous, like a woman halfway through a game she was winning just by refusing to play it properly.

“Axton Turnvoth.” she said with theatrical exaggeration, dragging out his name like a bard announcing a tragedy. “Twenty-two years old and still allergic to proper celebration. Don’t tell me someone’s made you the centerpiece already. They haven’t tied you to a maypole yet, have they?”

Her eyes sparkled, but the smirk that followed was lazy and indulgent, the kind a woman wears when she’s three steps ahead of everyone, including herself.

He folded his arms with a weary grin. “Should I ask what you’re doing out here?”

“Avoidin’ my chaperones.” she said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most reasonable thing a queen could be doing at her honorary nephew’s birthday party.

And sure enough, just past the far corner of the hedgerow, two figures prowled through the crowd: one broad-shouldered wolven, armor creaking under the weight of duty and barely veiled fury, and one human captain, scanning faces with a scowl that spoke of someone who’d done this song and dance before.

Lyndis didn’t bother ducking. She simply shifted her mug to the opposite hand and leaned further into the shadows, the movement as smooth as silk on stone. “They’re right diligent, I’ll give ’em that. Poor souls think I’m still worth protectin’.” She snorted. “My husband’s a dragon, for flame’s sake. Not to mention I’m still the best rogue this kingdom ever birthed, ask your friend Arcturus, if he ever stops makin’ goo-goo eyes at Veledar long enough to breathe.”

She raised her mug in a mock toast to the sky. “But between you an’ me, love, it’s not just about escapin’. The closest thing I get to a thrill these days is givin’ them the slip. We can’t all go gallivanting’ across the realm on some heroic quest, not with storms rollin’ over the east cliffs, monster sightings near the border, and refugees floodin’ every road between here and Drenedar proper. Oh, but you don’t want to hear that.” She waved it away with a flutter of fingers. “It’s your party.”

A long sip. Then her expression twisted playfully.

“I mean… not my sort of party. Bit too well-behaved. Not a single tavern brawl. But it’s very you. Which is charming, really. Honest.”

“I’ll try not be offended.” He muttered, avoiding her gaze, he and Lyndis never quite saw eye to eye. She was well enough, more like a distant aunt than anything else. “Where’s Cordenth?”

“Flying,” she said, her tone softening just a fraction. “Took the kids up, first time all three stayed on long enough to count. Another few years and they’ll be gliding on their own, but for now, well… still need their da for lift.”

She tilted her chin toward the distant canopy.

As if on cue, the trees broke open with a rush of wind and green. Cordenth soared into view, his powerful emerald form gleaming in the light, wings outstretched as he glided over the celebration. Kalith, Lyndis’ half-elf daughter and the spitting image of her mother with her father’s sunflower eyes, clung to the green dragon’s neck with fearless delight, had a crown of feathers wrapped around some fake, stone-colored horns, similar to Storm’s. Hugging her close was Orturth, her wyrmling brother, scales like his father but having a tan underbelly, his yellow eyes wide beneath his goggles, while Terrin, his brother with sapphire eyes and black under scales shouted something gleeful clinging to his sister like his life depended on it, sporting a vibrant blue scarf, in style to how his father did.

Behind them, three pegasus-mounted guards followed in vain pursuit, trying desperately to keep formation as Cordenth dipped and twisted with exaggerated showmanship, drawing laughter from below.

“Show-off.” she murmured, but her smile said otherwise. She took another sip, eyeing him sidelong over the rim of her mug. “So then, how’s court life treatin’ you these days, my little arcane prodigy? Still drownin’ in scrolls and compliments? Or have you started settin’ things on fire for fun? Gods know I would.”

He brushed it off with a smile and a vague “Things are fine.” Not wanting to really trouble her with his personal problems.

Lyndis’s gaze lingered a moment longer, sharp enough to carve through castle stone. Then she chuckled, letting it roll past her lips like a well-loved tune.

“Ah, that tone.” She tapped her mug against her knee. “That’s the one people use right before they vanish into the forest and befriend a badger named Jeffery.”

Axton winced, smiling despite himself. “It would be an improvement. At least badgers don’t expect essays.”

That earned him a short bark of laughter. “Too right. But you’d have to teach it how to read, and I don’t trust you not to try.” She leaned back slightly, letting her hair fall away from her face, and for a moment, her voice dropped into something quieter. Not softer, but closer. “You don’t have to talk about it now, mind you. I’ve got enough grey in me not to go pryin’ like some well-meaning auntie with a basket of muffins.”

A knuckle tapped his arm, just above the elbow. “Just don’t wait ‘til things explode, yeah? You’re clever, but I’ve seen what happens when clever lads try to outmaneuver themselves.”

The smile on his face faltered, but only just. He looked down at the path beside her, then offered a small nod. “I’ll keep that in mind.” It wasn’t a promise. But it was enough.

Lyndis let the silence hang for precisely one heartbeat too long, straightened and grinned, devil-may-care once more.

“Now then, I’ve got two very shiny, very flustered royal guards currently circlin’ like hounds with blindfolds. What say you and I confuse them a bit more?” She set her cup aside, cracked her knuckles, and looked at him with a gleam in her eye. “I’m thinkin’... spontaneous interpretive dance. Or a heartfelt speech about turnip farming. Which feels more devastating?”

A shout echoed in the distance, one of the guards, barking her name. Lyndis winced, then chuckled under her breath.

“Tch. Persistent bastards. Guess it will have to wait.” She turned her attention back to Axton, the smirk reforming. “Anyway, I’ll make meself visible again soon enough. Just wanted a breather before the real fun begins.” She gave him a wink and downed the last of her drink, she then whistled, sharp and surely, two fingers to her lips.

Far above, Cordenth heard. He banked hard to the right, wings flaring wide, then swooped down low over the treetops. The pegasus riders shouted something too late. By the time the guards reached her position, Lyndis had already extended her hand skyward.

“Lift me, love.” she called, voice full of daring.

Cordenth obeyed with dragonic flair, talons out, he dipped, catching her beneath the arms with gentle but practiced ease. The wind from his wings knocked the ivy sideways, sent streamers dancing, and nearly knocked one of her guards flat.

She looked down as she rose, hair whipping behind her, laughing like a silk storm. “Apologies, gents! I believe I’ve found a better vantage point! Better luck next time!”

And with that, she was gone, lifted into the sky on the back of her dragon consort, trailing laughter and defiance in her wake.

The grass thinned beneath his steps as he sought out a hidden alcove, trailing into the lesser-trodden paths that veined the outer edge of the courtyard. Behind him, the laughter still carried—low and warm, like hearth-smoke curling through pine. Somewhere, Fremra’s voice rang out in musical delight, and the sharp crack of a juggler’s misfire chased a cheer through the crowd.

But Axton didn’t turn to look.

He let the sounds blur behind him as he slipped between the moss-grown pillars that bordered the castle’s deeper gardens. Here, among the ferns and flowering dusk leaf, the lantern light dimmed to a quiet golden hush. Ivy hung in long curtains from carved archways. Pebbles shifted softly underfoot. This way led to the hollow.

Infinity had shaped it herself years ago, a little glen carved from a ruined alcove, tucked behind a fallen wall and draped in vines. No banners hung here. No dragons rested on the stones. Just a circle of silence, a pool reflecting dappled leaves, and a crooked bench where once he’d fallen asleep reading, wrapped in a nest of shawls and parchment.

He remembered her voice when she first showed it to him. “For when the noise gets too loud, hatchling. You don’t always have to listen to the world.”

And today, the world has been deafening.

Lyndis’s words still clung to his ribs like burrs, her jokes, her warnings, the way she peeled back the corners of his careful smile. She meant well. They all did. But that didn’t change what was weighing on him. That didn’t fix the way it hollowed inside him, this growing doubt, this gnawing sense of falling behind.

A sigh curled from his lips, quiet as a spell undone. The path narrowed ahead. Just a few more paces, and he could slip into the green and hide, let the vines swallow him for a time. Let the weight of dragons and duties fall away for a while.

“AXTON!” The sound struck like a thrown spoon against a copper pot.

She hit him like joy incarnate, wrapped in scales and chaos.

A blur of grey and gold streaked from behind the hedgerows, barreling toward him on two clawed feet. Before he could react, arms barely thicker than scroll rods locked around his waist, clutching him with surprising strength for a creature that stood barely to his hip.

She was a kobold, a diminutive dragonkin species whose appearance hovered somewhere between adorable and absurdly dangerous, depending on their mood. This one happened to be Feku: culinary menace, self-proclaimed pirate, and head chef to the Queen of Drenedar.

Her grey scales shimmered with yellow streaks, flashing along her tail in an animated warning of barely contained mischief. The shifting hues marked her mood, green for joy, yellow for curiosity, red for fury, and right now she seemed to be cycling through at least three. A massive purple feather, entirely too large for her head, was pinned jauntily to a worn black tricorn hat, which wobbled dangerously as she clung to him like a ship in storm seas.

“You hatched today! Hatch-hatch-hatch! Happy hatch-day!” she squeaked, scales now flickering pink at the tips of her cheeks. “Feku made cake! Best cake! But now—CAKE CURSED!”

Axton blinked, mouth half-open. “What?”

“I KNOW!” she wailed, stepping back only to tug his sleeve with both claws, barely able to stay in place. “Feku bake sweet thing! Pour sugar! Pour love! Pour STARS! But now, cake sing. SING! Not pretty! It howl-song! Warble like dying goose!”

He opened his mouth to reply—some weak protest about needing quiet—but she was already yanking him along the path with the momentum of a gale-force wind made of sugar and indignation. “Feku needs wizard-boy! You smart! You fix it! Before cake shame family and sing rude things to Queen again!”

Feku pulled Axton through the fluttering curtains of colored streamers, her claws like tiny anchors dragging him toward the disaster unfolding within. A chorus of murmurs and amused laughter grew louder with each step.

"There!" the kobold squeaked dramatically, jabbing her wooden spoon forward like a sword. "See! Cake is monster!"

Indeed, the cake sat proudly atop the main dessert table, intricately iced in delicate swirls of white, gold, and sapphire-blue, except now, those same swirls were shifting and writhing about, spelling out nonsensical lyrics as the cake itself warbled in painful discord:

"And he sailed from the bay, with a bucket of whey, Oh, wizard-boy’s hatchday, so cursed and astray!"

Axton stared, dumbfounded. "It sings sea shanties?"

"Worse!" Feku shouted, tail thrashing, scales now burning vibrant red. "Sings badly! Insults queen! Insults guests! Insults Feku’s artistry!"

From behind the dessert table, a familiar emerald-scaled dragon leaned closer, a spitting image of his brother Cordenth, save one of his onyx horns was chipped and his wing membranes were adorned with various arcane tattoos. Sunflower eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the spectacle before him. Lyyreth, calm as ever, was gently prodding the cake’s icing with a single extended claw. He tilted his head slightly, humming softly to match the dreadful melody as though deciphering a particularly intriguing puzzle.

"Ah," Lyyreth murmured, almost cheerfully, "it appears our dessert has achieved some level of sentience. Remarkably off-key, though. I think it’s rather charming, in an embarrassing sort of way.

Feku’s eyes flashed violet indignation as she rounded on the scholarly dragon. "Charm? Charming!? Lyyreth, you say that about Feku’s cake? Feku expect better from wise dragon father!"

Lyyreth gave her a serene glance. "To clarify, the cake itself is superb, as always, dear chef. The enchantment, however,..." He nudged the frosting, causing the singing to shift into a distressed wail. "...leaves something to be desired."

Axton stepped closer, a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Did you enchant this, Father?"

Lyyreth blinked, his face a careful mask of mild offense. "Certainly not. You should know, son, my spells sing beautifully."

"Oh? Remind me of the self-singing teapot incident."

The dragon coughed politely, adjusting his wings. "A minor miscalculation. The kettle was overly enthusiastic."

Feku threw her arms up, frustration radiating from every twitching scale. "This no time for teapot debate! Cake is ruined! Fremra do this, Feku know! Fremra giggle suspiciously, with eyes all sparkly-dragon-prank-like!"

Axton glanced toward Lyyreth, eyebrow still raised. "Would Fremra do this?"

Lyyreth’s snout twitched into a subtle smirk. "Well... it does fit her sense of humor."

"Is criminal humor! Feku spun dramatically, clutching her spoon as if it were a weapon ready to smite a great villain. “Feku adore dragons, give dragons sweets, love dragons, maybe rescue a scale or two, but Fremra cross line!" She stomped her foot. "Though... if Fremra gave Feku one shiny teal scale, maybe two, and little dragon nuzzle of apology... Feku could forgive. But NOT BEFORE!"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Axton struggled not to laugh outright. "All right, so assuming Fremra enchanted your cake... how do we fix it?"

Tapping his tail, Lyyreth tilted his head in deep thought, “A good question. Enchantments of mischief, especially draconic ones, tend to be rather... stubborn."

"Maybe we feed cake to Fremra," Feku grumbled, "See how she like song in her belly!"

"Tempting," Lyyreth chuckled softly, gently placing one wing around Axton’s shoulders. "But perhaps you might attempt to undo it yourself, son. A good exercise in careful disenchantment."

"You realize, if I fail, we’ll never hear the end of it." Axton groaned, as the offending dessert burst into another verse about drunken gryphons.

"Of course," Lyyreth responded dryly. "That’s precisely why I suggest it. Motivation."

Feku bounced eagerly in place, her scales flashing gold and green again as she tugged urgently at Axton’s robes. "Yes-yes! Wizard-boy fix cake, make Feku happy again! Then Feku baked a new cake for wizard-boy, quiet cake, good cake, no sea shanties!"

"Fine. But if Fremra shows up, you're distracting her." Axton sighed, stepping forward and rolling his sleeves back.

“Yes, Feku distract with shiny things! Fremra like shiny, just like Feku!"

"At least we agree on something," Lyyreth said quietly, his voice warmly amused as he stepped back to let his son work.

Axton reached out, magic flickering at his fingertips, wondering briefly how he’d gotten from quiet solitude to disarming musical pastries. But glancing sidelong at Lyyreth's proud, quiet gaze and Feku's wide-eyed, expectant stare, he felt warmth spreading through his chest. Perhaps this, at least, was exactly what he needed.

Axton took a measured breath, quieting his mind until the commotion around him faded to a distant hum. Extending his hands carefully over the chaotic dessert, he gently touched the weave, feeling its intricate patterns settle beneath his fingertips, delicate as threads of gossamer silk. He visualized each element clearly, his body becoming a precise instrumental brush guided by calculation, each gesture purposeful and exact.

Feku watched anxiously, shifting from foot to foot, scales rippling in anxious gold and pale blue waves. "Wizard-boy so slow! Dragon just wiggles claws, spell go poof—wizard-boy doing numbers, magic should no have math!"

Lyyreth gently raised a wing, signaling quiet. "Feku, patience. Let him work. Wizardry is precision, not impulse."

With a held breath he continued, as if balancing on the edge of a knife, Axton drew his fingers slowly through the weave. One shimmering strand snapped free, then another, each precise movement carried out with mathematical elegance. But as he approached the final knots, a miscalculation—a single fraction of a thought—twisted his hand ever-so-slightly. The weave trembled and bucked beneath his touch, threads were soon snapping and recoiling with violence.

"Wait, that’s not—" he gasped, alarm surging through him as the weave suddenly surged outward, uncontrolled, volatile.

A heartbeat later, the cake erupted in a furious splatter of frosting and crumbs, pelting toward him. In an instant, Lyyreth moved, his massive wings unfurling to shield them all from the sugary explosion.

Silence fell heavy, Axton stood, heart sinking, heat flooding his cheeks with shame. "I—I had it…" he murmured, mortified. "I must’ve miscalculated—I’m pathetic—"

"Son, we learn more from our mishaps than our triumphs," Lyyreth said gently, resting his snout upon his shoulder. "Believe me, this was neither the first nor the most disastrous culinary enchantment I've witnessed.

"Still," he murmured, "I ruined everything again."

"You ruined nothing.” Lyyreth tilted his head, his snout pressing comfortingly against Axton’s forehead, warm breath washing away some of the tightness in his chest. “A bit of frosting on scales isn't the end of the world. I promise you."

"Speak for dragon self!" Feku wailed dramatically, clutching her hat, now hanging lopsided, dripping with frosting. "Feku’s world is dessert! Cake WAS whole world! Whole world now splattered on friends!"

"I’m certain Fremra would offer you scales as recompense.” Lyyreth glanced down at her with quiet humor, flicking a bit of icing gently from her horns with a claw. “Perhaps even two, given this... dramatic turn of events."

"Two scales?" She glanced up, scales flickering hopefully to a softer gold and pink. "Two shiny dragon scales?"

"Possibly even three, if you promise not to steal any from the rest of us."

Feku drew herself up haughtily, eyes glittering mischievously. "Feku would never steal dragon scales!" She paused, tail swishing. "Only... borrow, maybe. Small borrowing. Totally innocent.”

Axton couldn’t stop the quiet chuckle that escaped him, relief finally softening his tension as he leaned into his adoptive father’s warmth. His embarrassment lingered, yes—but beneath Lyyreth’s steady comfort, it was bearable.

"You know," he murmured softly, finally managing a small, rueful smile, "this might be the most memorable birthday I've ever had."

Lyyreth gave him an affectionate nuzzle. "And it’s not even over yet."

Sighing dramatically from below, Feku planted her claws firmly on her hips. "Birthday no over, but Feku’s cake is certainly dead! Now wizard-boy help Feku clean this disaster, yes?"

Axton exchanged a glance with Lyyreth, a weary yet fond smile crossing his lips as he nodded, reluctantly accepting his fate.

"Yes, Feku," he conceded with a sigh. "Let’s clean up the 'dessert massacre.'"

The kobold puffed her chest proudly, scales shimmering happily gold once again, as though disaster had never struck. "Good! After, maybe Feku forgive wizard-boy... maybe."

*** * * * * * * * *

Thanks for keeping up with the story, sorry about the delay. Had some stuff going on in life, and waiting on proof reading. Alas, I think it ended up fairly good. :> Don't forget to leave a comment and favorite it, keep peeps eyes on it. <3