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Chapter 16: Where Magic Lives

Valeros… was a dragon? It made sense, in a way. All of it. The poise. The impossible charm. That reverence for draconic spellcraft. The air he carried more like legend given breath than mere traveler. Of course he was a dragon. What else could he have been?

Axton sat with his back against a gnarled elder root, the bark rough against his shoulder blades, breath shallow in his throat. Around him, wild herbs curled skyward, lemon-thyme, feathergrass, and bruised sprigs of lavender, their perfume thick in the sun-warmed air. He had not meant to stay. He certainly hadn’t meant to listen. But when his mother had warned him away, it just made him more curious about who this dragon was.

So, he lingered. And what he heard surprised him. Thankfully he’d sent the wrymlings scampering away before such revelations reached their ears. Valeros…no, Nelneras—had shed more than disguise. His voice had cracked open, and with it poured not just truths, but desires. Dark, unguarded things. Raw. Primal. The man had been witnessed to all of it. And now he could not unhear a single word.

And what a confession it had been.

“His neck, made for biting. I want to mount him—like a dragon. Knot him so deep he swells. I want to hear him scream my name, echo it across kingdoms...”

The words struck him like fire, searing hot and immediate. There had been no veil, no shame. Only an unbridled hunger in a voice. Axton’s heart stuttered, then surged. Blood roared in his ears.

Don’t think about it. His mind desperately tried to plead, but it was useless. The image was rising, unbidden and maddening.

He, on all fours. The dragon behind him, massive, inexorable. Talons braced to either side, body pinning him down with the ease of a mountain pressing into earth. Each thrust slick and deep, the slap of scaled hips cruel and perfect.

He clenched the soil beneath him; knuckles pale with strain.

Hot breath coiling against the nape of his neck, warm words growled into his ear, praise and promise blending as the dragon pushed him further, stretched him wider. Sounds he shouldn’t make slipping from his throat—whimpers, gasps, his own name broken between them...

Axton shivered, his entire body betraying him. It was obscene. And he wanted it. He wanted it. “Stop,” he whispered to himself. “Just… stop.” But the memory pressed tighter.

And of all the people to hear it— “He said that to my mother.”

A loud groan escaped him as he curled in on himself, face pressed to his hands. He could barely breathe. He didn’t know if he wanted to run far from the glen and forget this moment entirely…or turn back to that golden figure and ask, trembling,

“Did you mean it?” It didn’t make sense. Axton Turnvoth, nervous, unsure, second-guessing every spell he ever cast. The man who couldn’t even say out loud that he liked strong men without turning red to his ears. That same man was now the object of a dragon’s deepest, filthiest hunger?

“Stars preserve me,” he muttered, voice hoarse, “I’m not built for this.”

The words had barely left his lips when a familiar rustle stirred behind him, the sound of someone moving through the brush with practiced grace.

“Figures I leave you alone for ten minutes and a dragon falls on you.” came Pyretalon’s voice, calm and dry as parched earth.

Axton flinched like he'd been caught summoning demons. He turned his head, half-expecting the gryphon to be wearing that smug grin he usually reserved for winning card games or delivering insults with surgical precision. He wasn’t wrong.

“He didn’t fall on me.” Axton grumbled, trying for nonchalance and failing spectacularly. The heat in his cheeks hadn't lessened, it had spread, blooming into the tips of his ears and down the back of his neck.

“Didn’t attack you either, then?” the gryphon asked, as he padded over.

He gave a strangled chuckle, desperate for levity. “No. I mean… technically he fell out of a tree. A very unfortunate tree. If we’re measuring intent by altitude, I think he qualifies as non-hostile.”

That earned a raised brow from the gryphon. “Mm. So what made you blush hard enough to light your collar on fire?”

He should have stayed quiet. He should have claimed Nelneras said something about the weather. The forest. Magic theory. Literally anything other than what he had just said.

“It’s… nothing. He said something about—about my mother.”

The silence that followed was painful.

“Your mother,” Pyretalon repeated, as if the words didn’t fit his beak.

“Yes,” Axton lied. “Something flattering. I don’t… remember the exact words. Graceful, I think? Like a comet. Or a summer storm. Please don’t ask her about it. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Pyretalon stared.

He took another step forward, slow and deliberate. His eyes glinted with something that might have been amusement, or judgment, or worse, knowing. He didn’t press, not yet. But his feathers ruffled faintly as he came to stand beside Axton.

“So that’s what had you muttering to a fern and sweating like you cast fireball on yourself.” he said.

“I was meditating.” Axton insisted, voice cracking under the strain of his own flustered dignity.

“Ah. My mistake. Meditating. With flushed cheeks and a racing pulse,” Pyretalon murmured. “Inner peace smells a lot like arousal these days.”

Axton gave a strangled noise and buried his face in his hands.

Pyretalon paced slowly behind him, his voice dipping like a predator’s shadow sliding across open ground. “Tell you what,” he said smoothly, “you don’t have to tell me what he said. But if you keep squirming like this, I’ll start guessing. Out loud. In detail.”

“You wouldn’t.” he looked up in horror, eyes wide.

“Try me.”

The gryphon leaned in, feathers whispering as he folded his wings and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial purr. “Was it something about your thighs? The way you sigh when you’re overwhelmed. Or maybe… something about your voice, just before you beg?”

Axton covered his ears. “You’re awful.”

“You adore me.”

Grinning, not unkindly. Not cruelly. There was warmth in his voice beneath the teasing, an assurance that whatever had shaken Axton, he was still safe here. He sat down beside him, close enough for their shoulders to brush, and let silence settle again. Then, after a long pause:

“You don’t have to tell me,” Pyretalon said gently. “But you should know… wanting something doesn’t make you weak. Being desired doesn’t make you less.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “But if he said anything that made you feel bad… that would be worth a fight.”

“He didn’t.” Axton exhaled shakily, the flush still lingering, but something inside his chest eased at that.

“Good.”

Axton stiffened as the gryphon’s tail flicked across his ankle, light, unbothered, playful in a way that made his spine light up like someone had cast spark through his bones. It wasn’t possessive.

Pyretalon didn’t need to be. The weight of his gaze, the way his voice dropped to that gravel-rich murmur, was enough. “Still,” he said, watching Axton with that infernal gleam in his eye, “he said something, and you blushed like that?” His head tilted, all predatory mischief. “Careful, Axton. Keep reacting like that, and someone might get ideas.”

Gods, he tried not to react. He looked away, to the nearest tree, to the breeze teasing the canopy, anywhere but the gryphon beside him. But he could still feel the golden heat of those words along his neck. He crossed one leg over the other, folded his hands too tightly in his lap, as if sheer willpower could bottle up the mess Nelneras had stirred and Pyretalon was now gleefully unstopping. He didn’t trust his voice. When it came, it was low, barely audible. “I want to speak with him again.”

There was silence. Not long, but enough to weigh a breath. When Pyretalon responded, his tone was smooth, neutral, but Axton could feel the edge beneath it. “You do?” The gryphon pulled back his head, one ear tilted, “I think his actions have already spoken rather clearly.”

“Not to me.”

Another pause. The gryphon exhaled through his nose. Measured. Faintly disapproving. “Axton,” he said, calm but resolute. “Just because he flirted with you doesn’t make him trustworthy. Dragons can purr while planning your burial mound.”

Axton’s response came sharper than he intended. “Pyre.”

It landed like a whipcrack. Not enough to wound, but enough to startle. Pyretalon’s ears shifted back. “All right,” the gryphon’s voice softened. “Talk to him. But not alone.” He stepped closer, “One dragon. At all times. Preferably two.”

“What am I, royalty? Must I be escorted every time I open my mouth?” Axton groaned, rubbing his face with both hands.

“You’re precious,” Pyretalon replied. “Which is worse.”

“They put him under a truth spell.” Axton let his hands fall. “If he was scheming, I imagine my mother would’ve redecorated the grove with his spleen.”

That brought the faintest smile to the gryphon’s sharp beak. “Mm,” he said with a chuckle. “That does sound like her.”

“Besides…If he wanted to hurt me, he had every chance. We were alone. In the tavern room. He could’ve done anything.”

Pyretalon’s tail flicked, “Sometimes waiting is the cleverer strike.”

“I thought you liked him this morning?”

“That was before he stalked us home.”

He folded his arms, and groaned, “You’re not listening.”

The gryphon didn’t move, but there was a tightening in his posture. “He also lied. About whom he was. About why he was there.”

A huff escaped Axton, his eyes tightened. “To avoid attention. You know as well as I do, dragons tend to attract attention.”

There was no denying that truth. Still, Pyretalon’s feathers shifted in a slow ripple down his shoulders. “I don’t like it.” Eyes narrowing, he studied the clearing beyond, then returned his gaze to the human standing beside him. “Truth spell or not, I wonder what he’s keeping to himself. Says a lot about his character, telling such mistruths.”

“Oh, come on Pyre, I lie all the time,” Countered the mage. “About my parents. Other things as well, does that make me a bad person?”

“That’s not the same.” He clacked his beak, “You lie to shield yourself. He lied and stalked. That’s the difference.”

“It still sounds like bias.”

A snort. Dry, almost amused. “Fine. I’ll admit it. I’m biased. Biased in favor of keeping your spine exactly where it belongs.” With a slow, deliberate step, he circled around, just close enough to brush a wingtip across the fabric at Axton’s side. His tail curled behind him like a question without a mark. “You know…You’re defending him an awful lot for someone who insists they aren’t infatuated.”

The response was fast, sharper than intended. “I’m not—! That’s not what this is.”

“Right.” His voice remained cool, unreadable. “Sweating. Blown pupils.”

A frantic hand waved toward the sky. “It’s warm out!”

“Oh, of course.” Pyretalon’s brow arched ever so slightly. “And the little tent in your robe? That part of your new weather-based magic?”

Axton groaned, burying his face in his hands. “It was just a little fantasy. That’s all.”

“A little fantasy.” The words were repeated with a purr, and then he leaned in again, this time slower, closer. “Doesn’t look so little. Let me guess,” he whispered, “Golden scales. Strong wings. That voice of his curling around your name like a silken ribbon.”

“Stop.” Axton croaked, voice barely above a breath.

“No shame in wanting him.” The grin in Pyretalon’s voice was audible now. “Just in pretending you don’t.”

“I just want to talk to him.”

“Yes. Talk.” The word dripped with sarcasm, drawn out with a flourishing of tail and a gleam in his eyes. “Conversational mounting. As one does. I’m sure Parunga will smile.”

Axton’s hand moved to swat at him, but the gryphon didn’t budge, he never did.

Then, with the faintest smile, the gryphon tipped his head. “Just think with your head, Axton,” he said, low and fond. “Preferably the one you use for casting.”

Just as Axton gathered the frayed edges of his breath, a rustle broke through the brush, slow, deliberate. The kind of sound that made the birds go still.

Then came her voice, crisp and smooth as a dagger sheathed in velvet.

“Well,” Infinity announced, padding into view. “We’re done with your golden suitor.”

“He’s not—” Axton stiffened.

“He’s still in one piece. Impressive, considering what we pulled out of him.” She gave a soft, rumbling chuckle. “You can go speak to him now. If that’s still what you want.”

His heart kicked against his ribs like it was trying to cast its own spell. He tried for deflection, but the heat rising to his cheeks betrayed him. “I didn’t say I was going to.”

“You didn’t have to.” Infinity’s tail flicked behind her, a slow, lazy arc through the grass. “I saw your face the moment I walked up. If you didn’t want to talk to him, you’d already be halfway to the edge of the grove.”

He looked down. Swallowed. “I just think I deserve to hear some of it from him. Directly.”

That, at least, brought no sarcasm from her. “I’ll be nearby. I’m not about to let my son wander off with a stranger who just described his mating preferences with… theatrical detail.” she growled, looking over her shoulder, “Truth spell or not, he’s still a dragon. And you, unfortunately, are still quite breakable.”

“I—I—could we not repeat that part?”

Infinity raised a brow. “You mean the part about you being pinned and—”

He threw up a hand. “Mother. Please.”

Her tail flicked again. She was enjoying this. “Then go,” she said, stepping slightly to the side, just enough to give him passage, but nowhere near far enough to be out of range. “I’ll be here. Watching….and listening.”

Pyretalon let out a soft, thoughtful hum, then leaned just slightly toward Axton—close enough that his shoulder brushed the man’s arm, just enough to remind him he wasn’t alone. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Think she’s warming up to him,” he mused, deadpan. “That’s her friendly tone.”

Axton shot him a look, part glare, part plea for mercy. “You’re not helping.”

“Helping?” Pyretalon arched a brow. “I’m here to escort you to your date. Would you prefer I bring flowers?”

“It's not a date.”

“It was last night.”

Axton blushed so hard he nearly steamed.

Infinity, still standing nearby, didn’t move, but one of her neck spikes twitched upward in clear warning.

“It’s a conversation. Nothing more.”

“Mm,” Pyretalon murmured, taking a deliberate step back. “Well then. Go… converse. I’ll be just over here. Not watching.”

“You’re definitely watching.”

“And judging,” he added helpfully, with a flap of his wings. “But from a respectful distance.”

Then, as Axton took a breath and stepped forward toward the glade, Pyretalon offered one final, velvet-soft warning, just for him.

“But if he so much as thinks about biting that pretty neck of yours…”

He left the threat unfinished. But the sound of his talons flexing into the earth said the rest.

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

He tried not to stare. Truly, he did. But gods above—how could he not?

Nelneras stood at the edge of the glen, framed by the fading weave of Lyyreth’s enchanted vine spell, and he looked… divine. Not in the holy sense, no, Axton didn’t think the heavens had ever conjured anything quite so sinful. His scales shimmered like polished coins under sunlight, each golden plate catching light in a way that made it hard to tell where radiance ended and the dragon began. His underbelly bore the soft warmth of toasted bread, that gentle gradient from pale cream to honeyed bronze that ran from jaw to tail, an unbroken line that somehow made Axton’s throat dry.

His wings were feathers, not the usual membrane he’s seen on other dragons. Cream at the base, black at the tips, like dusk falling across parchment. They shifted slightly as the dragon stretched, dislodging a few stray plumes that drifted to the ground like soft, whispered thoughts.

And those eyes, turquoise, deep as glacial lakes and twice as cold turned toward him. Axton’s mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. He wasn’t supposed to like this. The man…dragon…had lied to him. Had followed them. Had described, in humiliating, spell-loosened detail, precisely how he wanted to ruin him.

So why did his legs move of their own accord? Why did his stomach twist, not in fear, but in _anticipation? _ He hated that part of himself. The part that lingered on the fine lines of Nelneras’ musculature. The way his whiskers curled with faint motion, twitching toward Axton like they were tasting the air. Like they remembered him.

Stop it, he told himself. Stop thinking about being pinned by that neck. Stop picturing those wings enclosing you, hiding you from the world, holding you down—

With a forced swallow, he nodded to his mother and stepped forward, feet dragging a little more than he’d like.

Lyyreth relinquished his spell with a graceful curl of the claw, and Nelneras shifted in place, unfolding limbs with fluid grace, stretching as though he hadn’t just confessed half a mating fantasy under compulsion.

Axton waved. Sheepishly. Weakly. Like a man walking into a den with full knowledge of what hunted there.

“I’ve tangled with storms less volatile than young romance.” Storm grumbled, the large blue dragon starting to pad off back towards the party. “Do try not to make it more awkward than it already is.”

Axton gave a startled cough, somewhere between a laugh and a hiccup, and straightened like a man caught mid-daydream. “Oh. I wasn’t—I mean, I’m not… It’s not awkward.” He cleared his throat, tugging at his collar even though it wasn’t tight. “Just talking. Nothing… dramatic.”

The look Ramakox gave him in reply said it all: So are mating calls.

“I mean it,” Axton added quickly, cheeks going redder. “No awkwardness. Absolutely none. See?” He gestured vaguely toward Nelneras. “Completely professional.” He sounded as convincing as a drunk owlbear promising sobriety.

Pyretalon made a low sound behind him, something between a squawk and a cough that could have been a laugh, if one were cruel enough to name it.

Infinity’s gaze flicked toward her mate, softened, but no less certain. “Lyyreth,” she said quietly, “you’ve done enough. Pyretalon and I can manage from here.”

Lyyreth gave no protest. He dipped his head in a shallow nod, wings folding close as his gaze found their son. For a moment, all the world narrowed to that one line of sight: sunflower like dragon eyes meeting the quiet flicker of uncertainty behind Axton’s.

“You’ve grown,” Lyyreth said gently, but there was pride in the quiet. Not the kind that boasted, but the kind that knew. “Even if you don’t feel it yet.” He stepped closer, his breath touched Axton’s brow as he leaned in. “Speak with honesty and listen with more than ears. The truth worth hearing isn’t always in the words.”

He stood still for a breath longer, watching the path Lyyreth had vanished down. Then, straightening his robe with fingers that no longer trembled quite so much, he exhaled once through his nose. “I’ll be alright,” he whispered, not to Infinity, not to Pyretalon. To himself. And then, with Nelneras still waiting ahead, he stepped forward.

Axton moved carefully, as though each footfall might crack the spell of calm that hung like glass over the grove. Behind him, he could feel Pyretalon’s watchful stillness, Infinity’s narrowed gaze like a shield raised behind his back. But they didn’t follow. Not yet.

As Axton drew nearer, his breath hitched. Up close, it was worse. Or better. He hadn’t decided. Nelneras was massive, radiant, terrifyingly beautiful. Not the blinding, divine sort of beauty Axton read about in scripture, but the dangerous kind that crouched in the pages of old spellbooks and legends. The kind with teeth.

“Ah, freedom.” Nelneras groaned, rolling his shoulders as his wings gave a practiced fluff, like a nobleman shaking off a rain cloak. “I don’t recommend magical bindings unless you're paying someone very well for the experience.” He paused, eyes found Axton’s. “Though I suppose for the right company, I might reconsider.”

Axton nearly tripped on a root. Not literally, but something in his spine buckled, as if his balance had momentarily forgotten how to work. He cleared his throat, trying to smother the heat crawling up his neck. “I—uh…” His voice cracked. “You seem… limber.”

Gods, why did I say that.

Nelneras arched a brow ridge, clearly delighted. His whiskers curled like punctuation marks to a smirk he didn’t bother hiding.

He tried again, straighter this time. “What I mean is—” he gestured vaguely, “—you, uh, look uninjured. From the spells. That’s good.” He hated how warm his face felt. Worse, how his eyes kept drifting, to those stretched wings, to the sleek line of scale down the dragon’s chest, to the gleam in his turquoise gaze. “I just… came to talk,” he said finally. Quiet. Honest. And then, under his breath, as if trying to convince himself: “Not for flirting.”

The dragon glanced once at those watching—Infinity, Pyretalon—then exhaled, a sigh that felt like a wing lowering its guard. “I take it they’ll be staying close. I don’t blame them. Not after how I arrived into your life.” His head bowed, just enough that his horns caught the light. “I owe you an apology, Axton. For hiding. For watching. For pretending to be something smaller than I am.”

A pause. Then, softer still:

“Entis isn’t kind to dragons, even when we mean no harm. And when I saw you… I told myself it was safer if I stayed a bird a little longer.” His turquoise gaze met Axton’s again. “But truthfully, I just wanted to stay close. You were… remarkable. And I was afraid that, once you saw all of me, you’d ask me to leave.”

Lowering his gaze, Axton watched the wind stir the grass around his boots. “I don't know what I expected when I saw you,” he said, voice low. “Maybe to be angry. Or to feel… foolish.” His fingers curled around the edge of his sleeve. He didn’t look up yet. “But instead, I keep thinking about the gryphon who let me win at cards. You should’ve told me. But… I’m glad you didn’t leave.” A breath, almost too small to be called a sigh. “I don’t want you to.”

Nelneras stilled, his turquoise eyes searched Axton’s face like a scribe seeking the truth between two ancient lines of script. “I’m glad I didn’t leave, too,” he said finally, voice low and warm as dusk. “And I swear to you, I won’t—unless you ask it of me.”

The distance between them seemed to shrink. Then, at last, a flicker of that familiar, theatrical grin ghosted across his muzzle. The fog of tension lifted, not erased, but reshaped into something gentler. He tilted his head, whiskers coiling like lazy question marks. “So… just out of scholarly curiosity,” he murmured, “how much of my interrogation did you happen to overhear?”

Axton’s cheeks went scarlet. He tried—tried—not to think about every word that had tumbled from that golden maw like honey laced with heat and sin. Not the way Nelneras had whispered about mounting. Not the image of himself collared, kneeling, worshipping—

His brain practically melted. “All of it,” he managed, the words stumbling out on a breath. “I… I heard all of it.” He looked anywhere but at those turquoise eyes. “You, uh… have a very vivid vocabulary.”

Nelneras groaned like someone remembering leaving their journal open in a public square. “By the stars.” His whiskers flattened against his snout, his tail curling around his hunch like he could hide behind it. “You heard that? With the—” He made a vague circling motion with one claw. “The kneeling and…gods, the collar?”

A huff escaped the dragon as Axton nodded. Nelneras gaze darted away before returning, grudging but composed. “For the record,” he said dryly, “when not bound by magic to confess my most salacious thoughts, I am considerably more poetic. If I were to describe such carnal acts to you,” his voice dipped, smooth and smoky “, every syllable would be intentional. And you’d remember each one.”

“Is that so?” Axton asked, his voice was thin. He gave a soft, sheepish laugh—one that almost covered the way his posture tightened under Nelneras’ gaze. “Guess we’ve both said some… memorable things now.”

The dragon’s brow lifted, inquisitive.

Axton exhaled. “Balls. In my face.” Then, with a resigned sigh, he lifted both hands and pantomimed the motion, dragging them slowly down either side of his face, as though cradling the memory with solemn reverence.

The dragon stared for a moment. And then a rumble, deep and warm, spilled from Nelneras’ chest, the kind of laugh that lingers, rich with delight and disbelief. “Well,” he purred, voice curling like smoke from a brazier, “you certainly had bold taste. I’ll give you that.”

“Though I believe I still owe you an apology,” Nelneras continued. “First for the deception of my form. Second… for keeping it, when honesty might have served us both better.” He gave a quiet laugh, whiskers twitching. “I know that doesn’t make it right. But you, you had this whole mysterious scholar thing going on. So serious, so focused. Gods, it was attractive. And when I got here?” His eyes lifted again, gentle. “I didn’t want to leave.”

Axton blinked, heat blooming behind his ears. Had he heard that right? There was no way—no sane reality—in which he, the shy, robe-clad academic with tea stains on his cuffs, was a lustful fixation for a dragon who looked like sculpted sunrise and spoke like velvet wine.

The words hung for breath, too big to respond to. Axton had no idea what to say. None. Thankfully, Nelneras spared him the pressure.

“So.” The dragon rolled one paw over the other in a gesture almost sheepish. “You’re still talking to me. Which means either you’re planning to curse me like your mother, or whatever spilled out of my enchanted mouth didn’t scare you off.” He leaned in, “Frankly, I’m relieved. You’re not like your mother. She’s terrifying, did you know that?”

“That’s not even the worst of it,” Axton said, a nervous laugh escaping. “You should see her truly mad.”

Nelneras winced. “Truly?” His wings tucked a little tighter. “Remind me never to provoke her. I’m sure she’s charming, once she’s stopped evaluating which organ to eviscerate first.”

The dragon offered a shallow bow; one paw pressed with exaggerated dignity to his chest. “Then perhaps we begin again.” His wings fluffed in a subtle flourish, “I am Nelneras. Keeper of Misjudged First Impressions, Former Archivist of Slightly Cursed Scrolls, Twice-Voted Most Likely to Offend a Council with a Compliment, and—on rare moonlit occasions—Terror of Tea Sets.” His whiskers twitched. “Sometimes I prefer Valeros. A name with fewer footnotes, more mystery… and, well, far less wingspan.”

“And was that real?” Axton asked, trying not to sound too hopeful. “Last night… was it all just a mask?”

“Not entirely,” Nelneras said, turning his paw in a loose circle. “Some was performance. But the talks we shared? The glances? The way you smiled when you didn’t think I saw it?” He met Axton’s gaze, soft and sure. “Those were real. You were real. And I meant every word I said.”

Axton bit his lip. His heart whispered, this is foolish, but something deeper, warmer, refused to let him walk away. He cleared his throat. “And you followed me. Out here. Me. Not Arcturus and Crimson Sky. Just… a shy mage with ink-stained sleeves and a shaky fireball spell.”

Nelneras scoffed, amused and tender, all at once. “No, not just that. You’re not a warrior. Or a legend. You’re something rarer.” He waved a claw toward the trees, the distant sounds of family and safety. “You’re a reminder that dragons and non-dragons can live together. That there are places not ruled by fear. What you have, this life, these bonds, it’s something many of my kind only dream of. You made it real.”

Silence stretched between them, rich and full. Finally, the dragon laughed under his breath and gestured to the not-so-subtle line of guardians nearby. “They’re not going to leave us alone, are they?”

A half-smile crossed the man’s face, “Not a chance. You’d think I was royalty the way they hover. One wrong glance and Pyretalon’s probably composing your eulogy.”

“Well,” Nelneras gave a thoughtful flick of his tail, his gaze sliding toward the tree line where wings and watchful eyes surely lingered. “Perhaps they’ll settle for hovering if we stayed within view. Would you care for a walk?” He gestured, like a noble offering a dance rather than a dare. “Somewhere quiet. Honest. With enough clearance for a rescue squad, if necessary.”

Axton blinked, his fingers twitching against his sleeve. “Is this your way of saying I’m safe enough to flirt with in motion?”

“I intend to take your charge for a brief walk,” he called, tone clear, measured, with the flourish of a diplomat rather than a prisoner. “Nothing nefarious, unless you count terrible poetry and some light self-deprecation as wicked acts.” He smirked to Axton, eyes alight with mischief, “I’ve no illusions of outrunning you two. I rather like all my limbs precisely where they are.”

Infinity didn’t move. Her wings remained folded like sheathed knives, her tail coiled beneath her, every breath quiet and measured. But her eyes, gods, her eyes narrowed with a precision that would shame a hawk. “I’ll allow it,” she said evenly. “But know this, if he limps back, even a little, you won’t.” Her spines rose a fraction, like drawn quills. “Try not to give me a reason to follow too closely.”

Beside her, Pyretalon ruffled his wings, adding a stern nod, “If you vanish behind a tree, we’ll assume the worst.”

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

They walked for some time, the hush of the forest rising to swallow the fading echoes of the glade behind them. The soft crunch of Axton’s boots was the only sound for several paces, saved the low rustle of leaves and the distant sigh of branches high overhead. Nelneras followed at a careful distance, his weight making a little more sound than the wind passing through stone columns.

The path he chose led them beneath a vaulted canopy where the world felt dimmed and slow, the kind of light that made you whisper without knowing why. Sunlight spilled in long, broken shafts, dappled gold fractured through branches like light through shattered glass. Ferns carpeted the path’s edge, brushing Axton’s robes as he passed, their fronds beaded with dew that had not yet given up its hold.

In time, the air cooled. The scent of damp earth and clean water rose up ahead, and soon the trees parted just enough to reveal a quiet stream, thin and silver, its voice barely more than a whisper. It moved lazily between stones, gliding past the gnarled roots of an ancient tree that hunched by the bank like an old sentinel.

The tree’s bark was split and furrowed, a thousand stories etched in ridges and scars. Its roots knotted into a shallow rise that held a stone, flat, sun-warmed, worn smoothly by time and the weight of quiet souls. Here, the forest held its breath. Even the birds seemed to perch in silence, as though listening.

“So…” Nelneras coughed, head tilting just so. “What I said—back there. Just to be clear… you weren’t frightened?”

Axton blinked. His eyes found the stream instead of the dragon. The memory of Nelneras’ voice, unfiltered, filthy, clung to him like steam. “No,” he said softly, and cleared his throat. “Why would I be?” He swallowed, cheeks blazing, voice straining to remain composed. “If you must know… it sounded rather hot.”

A silence followed. Then—that grin. Like sunlight breaking through a storm. Nelneras’ lips pulled wide, revealing a sliver of teeth and the smug tilt of pride reborn. His wings gave a single, lazy fluff.

“You could try not to look so pleased with yourself.” Axton muttered, crouching briefly by the stream to splash water on his neck. It did little.

“Can’t help it,” the dragon rumbled, stretching his shoulders, sleek muscle rippling beneath shimmering scale. “It’s not often that, at your most unguarded, the object of your affection calls it arousing. I’m savoring this. Fate, it seems, still enjoys her little mercies.”

A glance passed between them, caught between fern-shadow and sunlight. Axton’s throat tightened. The birds above remained still, watching, listening. He could feel his thoughts spiraling. If he didn’t say something, the dragon might ask what part he liked. The collar? The pinning? The heat, the knot, the—

He choked on his breath and straightened too quickly. “Right,” he blurted, voice higher than it had any right to be. “And you… you talk a lot for someone who just survived an interrogation.”

“Would you rather I stayed silent and brooding? I can pout, if it helps.”

“I, uh—no, no need for pouting,” he mumbled, waving a hand vaguely. “You pout and I might actually expire.” He cleared his throat, adjusting his robes trying to hide how red his ears had gone. “Besides, you don’t exactly strike me as the brooding type.”

A sideways glance. “…But if you did brood, you’d probably look very… compelling while doing it.”

“Compelling, you say,” he echoed, voice velvet-smooth, like a bard testing a lyric. “That almost sounds like a compliment, Axton. Careful. You keep saying things like that, and I may get the wrong idea.” He tilted his head, just slightly. His eyes flicked over Axton, not lewd, but lingering, as if committing the lines of his posture and flustered expression to memory. “Tell me something, if you don’t mind. Do you always deflect when someone desires you… or is that reserved just for dragons?”

His smile lingered for a breath, but when Axton didn’t answer right away, or look away, Nelneras let the moment pass.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice quieter now. “Old habits. I forget not everyone grew up in courtrooms where banter was currency.” He glanced toward the old tree, the stream curling around its roots. “So let me ask something easier, then. Something honest.” He glanced back, “What’s your favorite spell?”

The question caught him off guard. It was gentle. No double edge, no teasing twist. Just curiosity, his kind of question. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, the tension in his shoulders uncoiling like drawn wire finally released.

A half-smile tugged at his mouth. “Favorite?” he echoed, “That’s a bit like asking a bard their favorite verse, or a mother her favorite memory.” He ran a thumb along the edge of his robe. “But I suppose… it’s Featherstep. It’s not flashy. Not destructive. Just… grace. It lets you move like a whisper—lighter than breath, no sound, no weight. Perfect for walking over snowdrifts. Or dew-covered leaves like these.”

He gave a glance toward the tree roots, where droplets clung like tiny stars. “I used to cast it before sneaking out of bed to read by moonlight. My parents…never heard me.”

“Or maybe they did and just… let me believe I was clever.” He laughed quietly. The sound was fragile, “It felt like magic was letting me belong in the world. Like the world made room for me when I cast it.” His fingers were stilled. He glanced over, wary now. “That probably sounds childish.”

He didn’t speak right away. When he did, it was low, quiet. “That,” Nelneras said, “is the most beautiful reason I’ve ever heard for loving a spell…Featherstep.” He tasted the word like a memory. “Not power. Not spectacle. But the feeling of being part of the world, rather than apart from it.” He gave a soft rumble, like tumbling stones, “You understand magic better than most arch-mages I’ve met.”

Then he added, a little more gently, “I think the world is lucky you chose to live in it.” His whiskers twitched, “Now I must rethink my answer. Mine was going to be ‘Controlled Detonation.’” He swished his tail with a pause, “But I suppose throwing lightning at ruins doesn’t quite compare to moonlight and silence.”

A quiet laugh slipped from Axton, unsteady but real. “Well,” he murmured, “I suppose Controlled Detonation has its own poetry. Subtle, understated... if you're a crater.”

Beside him, Nelneras smirked but didn’t press. Then, almost absently, the gold dragon began to trace something in the earth, just a spiral at first, then branching lines that hinted at sigils. “I saw what you tried to do,” he said at last, his voice smooth. “Back in the glade, with the wyrmling’s.”

The laughter in Axton’s chest turned to stone. “You were watching?” The words came out tight, almost ashamed.

“I recognized the form,” Nelneras replied. “The stance. The phrasing. That wasn’t something you pulled from a spellbook in a tower. It was old. Draconic.”

Axton looked away, heat prickling at his ears. “It was from a ruin,” he admitted. “Ambermere’s lower vaults. The scroll wasn’t complete, but the glyph work was mesmerizing. It felt like it wanted to be cast. I thought... maybe if I studied it long enough, felt it deep enough…”

“But it twisted,” Nelneras said softly, finishing the thought.

A nod came, slow and reluctant. “Lit a tree on fire.”

“A sapling,” came the amused correction. “And honestly, it was asking for it. But back to you,” Nelneras murmured, a smile playing at the corner of his long snout. “The way you tried to cast that prismatic wave, your style had the signature of the Galden school. Old. Rare. Favored by mage-duelists in the Second Concord.”

“You know that one?” Blinked Axton.

“Axton,” the dragon said with a sly gleam, “we clearly read the same books.”

He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes. I’ve been working on it for years. But I still can’t get it right.”

Nelneras tilted his head. “Years, and you’re only… what? Twenty?”

“Twenty-two.”

“You’re practically an egg,” Nel chuckled. “And already that far along? Most dragons wouldn’t attempt such a spell until their eighth decade. You ought to be proud.”

Axton’s shoulders hunched. “I’d be prouder if I didn’t keep failing in front of everyone that mattered.”

“Would you like some help?”

“How could you help? You’re a dragon. You cast… differently.”

A slow grin spread across Nelneras’ face. “Then it’s fortunate, isn’t it? You’ve never cast with me before.” He turned toward the trees and called, “Infinity! May your son demonstrate a spell for my scholarly amusement?”

“What kind of spell, you feathered deviant?” came the sharp reply.

“The harmless kind,” he called back, laughter in his voice. “Prismatic spray. I intend to offer guidance, not corruption.”

“Fine. But if he explodes, I’m blaming you.”

Nelneras returned to Axton’s side with a smirk. “Crisis averted. Show me.”

With Infinity’s dry warning still ringing faintly behind them, Axton drew a tight breath and glanced toward the dragon at his side. Nelneras said nothing, only watched, his presence warm and patient, like a sun that refused to rush to dawn.

“I don’t know what you expect to see,” Axton murmured, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve. “It never works. Not once. It always… breaks.”

Tilting his head, the gold dragons gaze was lowered to meet the mage’s eyes without towering over him. His voice was gentle, but steady like river stone. “Magic leaves echoes. Your body remembers, even when you forget. Let me witness how it moves in you. That will tell me more than failure ever could.”

Axton hesitated. He didn’t want to be watched. Not while failing. Especially not by him. But the gold didn’t press. He simply waited. Reluctantly, Axton stepped forward. He squared his shoulders, inhaled, and began. The arcane phrase left his lips like hesitant prayers. The air shimmered, a curtain of refracted light blooming at his fingertips. Then, as always, it twisted. Collapsed. A riot of unstable color surged wide, fracturing mid-gesture. But this time, before it could spark wild into the trees, a shimmer of golden energy intercepted it, fluid and clean, part shield, part counterspell.

“See?” came Nelneras’ voice, deep and calm.

“I always see,” Axton said bitterly. “That’s the problem.”

The dragon tapped his snout, whiskers flicking with thought. “You’re aligning the spell work correctly, your stance, your weave contact, the incantation. But the moment you release it… the structure folds in on itself. Like a cathedral built on sand.”

“I tried tugging more of the weave,” Axton muttered, folding his arms. “But then it flooded too fast. Almost singed my eyebrows off.”

Nelneras gave a thoughtful hum. “And what if you stopped trying to tame it?”

Axton blinked. “What?”

“What if you stopped tugging the leash,” the dragon clarified, “and let the magic flow through you instead? Like a river carving through stone.”

“That’s… old magic.” He hesitated, “Sorcerers, dragons, that’s how they cast. It’s not how we—” He faltered. “Nivra said it’s dangerous. Outdated. Reckless.”

“It is,” Nelneras admitted, voice quieter now. “But so is fire. So is flight. They called it reckless because it couldn’t be measured. Because it refused to kneel to parchment.”

“You’re saying the old ways were better?”

“I’m saying they were real,” Nelneras replied. “Not safer. Not cleaner. But raw, and honest. And sometimes, more truthful than all the equations in the world.”

“You know why they stopped casting that way, don’t you?” he asked. “It wasn’t politics. It was death. Students exploded. Magic warped bodies. Some never came back.”

The gold dragon winced. “Yes. But most had no guidance. No anchor.” His gaze softened. “What they lacked, Axton… was someone who could show them how to do it right.” Then he smiled. Not smug, not indulgent, just warm. “Fortunately,” He folded his wings against his side, “you have me…If you’ll let me,” the dragon cocked his head, whiskers curling, “when the familiar path leads only to failure, shouldn’t you try another? I thought wizards took pride in themselves on exploring new methods.”

His mouth opened, then closed again. Words skittered across the edges of his thoughts, none of them brave enough to reach his tongue. "You say that like I’m worth teaching." he finally murmured.

“I do.” Nelneras said, without hesitation.

Axton exhaled through his nose. “Then… I’ll try.”

Nelneras stepped back. Lavender smoke curled off his scales, thick and unyielding as his great draconic shape began to change. Upright, bipedal, his limbs adjusted, spine drawing straighter. Wings shifted to drape behind like a cloak. His tail remained, curling with restrained power. Onyx horns swept back above his brow, and beneath modest robes, his scaled frame emerged, tall, muscular, with the same glinting gold hide that shimmered like hammered sunstone.

He crossed the space without hesitation.

Breath caught in Axton’s throat as a firm warmth met his back. The dragon’s chest pressed against him, solid and certain, the kind of presence that could carry storms or silence depending on its mood. Clawed hands—deft, careful—slid down his arms and found his wrists, positioning them gently.

Then came the dragon’s breath, it swept against Axton’s neck, hot, rich with spice and something deeper. Every muscle in the young mage tensed as that exhale ghosted across skin, as if a storm had learned to whisper. Sparks ran down his spine. His knees nearly buckled. He knew Nelneras was attractive. He’d tried not to dwell on it. But here, like this—body to body, heartbeat to heartbeat—it was something else. He could feel the scale-rough strength behind him, the heat radiating off that impossibly firm chest. His thoughts disintegrated.

“You alright?” asked the dragon.

“I—I’m fine.”

“You’re trembling.”

“I’m not.” He stammered.

“You are,” Nelneras said gently, breath brushing his ear. “But that’s alright. Even dragons take small steps before they fly.”

“Hey, what are you doing?!” Pyretalon squawked from behind them, ears perked, eyes narrowed. “Better not be anything funny!”

“He’s f…fine Pyre…just showing me the proper stance!” Said Axton.

“Such a protective thing is he not?” Nelneras chuckled, “It’s almost like he’s a mother hen.”

Axton laughed, “Oh, you have no idea.”

The dragon guided Axton with gentle pressure, outward, then in a slow circle, lifting, turning, as if shaping the air itself. The pattern wasn’t rigid. It flowed, like a river winding through muscle and breath. “Let the weave come to you,” he continued, “not through force… but permission. Invite it. Let it bloom.”

“We’re taught to act like brushes,” Axton’s throat tightened. “To move the spell, not… become it.”

“Then stop brushing,” came the low reply. “Paint with all of you. Magic doesn’t want control…it wants surrender.”

“And… if I lose control,” he asked, voice soft, cracking slightly, “how are you going to draw the magic out of me?”

Silence. Then, with no warning, one of Nelneras’ hands left his wrist, only to rise, slow and deliberate, to Axton’s throat. The claws didn’t tighten. They steadied. Held. Lifted his chin just enough to meet that dragon’s gaze. Snout met nose.

“You’ll be fine.” came the promise in a seductive whisper.

The world narrowed to heat, breath, and the arms that held him fast and tender. Axton nodded once, gathering what courage he had. “I trust you.”

He drew in a breath and began the incantation, not with rote calculation, but with awareness, feeling each syllable thread itself into the weave. His hands moved in the rhythm Nelneras had taught, fingers curling like trailing ivy, wrists arcing in gentle spirals, forming a cradle to invite the spell’s shape.

The magic responded. Heat sparked through his blood, a rising warmth, slow and steady, like coals awakening beneath skin. It coursed through his arm, curved around the cradle of his ribs, and wrapped his heart in a pressure that made his chest tighten, eyes prick with sudden tears. There was awe in it. Terror, too. And still, he pressed forward.

Where once he might have panicked—might have clutched tighter to numbers and diagrams—he trusted the current, let it flood through his veins like spring melt through dry earth. Nelneras’ presence loomed close behind, grounding him. The scent of parchment and windblown scales. The press of a strong chest. The whisper of claws still resting over his pulse. It anchored him more than words ever could.

Then, with a cry he flung the spell free. A fan of multicolored light bloomed outward, perfect and unmarred, no stray spark or distortion upon the air. The leaves rippled gently in their wake, as if bowing in reverence. He stared, heart hammering in stunned silence.

It had worked.

“I did it.” he whispered, the words almost too fragile to carry. Then louder, laughter breaking from his chest: “I did it! By the stars…I did it!” He spun and threw his arms around the dragon behind him, burying his face in that warm chest with a giddy shout. “Oh gods, I actually did it!”

“Yes,” Nelneras said, low and rumbling, arms folding around him like a sky closing over a mountain. “You did. As I knew you would.”

The embrace was gentle, not triumphant, a shelter rather than a prize. Nelneras said nothing of the technique, the structure, the theory. Only you did it. And that made Axton’s throat tighten all over again as the cheers of Infinity and Pyretalon joined them.

This moment was his. Still, the glow in his chest flickered with doubt. He stepped back, just enough to breathe, and looked down, voice softening. “It’s not always like this.” he admitted.

Nelneras tilted his head. “No?”

“No. I mean, this was… amazing. But I’ve been behind for months. Years. Others my age have surpassed me. I’m still stammering my way through third-tier invocations, freeze when I need not to…” His eyes dropped. “I’m a disappointment. Honestly.”

The gold dragon didn’t scoff. He let the silence settle first, wings shifting slightly behind him. “Growth isn’t a race, Axton. You’ve not fallen behind; you’ve simply been climbing a different mountain. And now, you’ve found your footing.”

Axton bit his lip, unsure if he wanted to cry or hug him again.

“Besides,” Nelneras smiled with a low chuckle, “I believe you just painted the sky. That seems... a rather fine start.”

They lingered by the stream, time unspooling in golden strands between leaf and sun. Axton cast again, simpler spells now, familiar incantations he’d once whispered to empty rooms. Sparks arced from his fingertips, illusionary motes spun like fireflies, and at one point he shaped a spiral of water droplets that hovered between them, turning in slow circles as they caught the light, each one reflecting the gold of Nelneras’ approving grin. Every attempt came easier. When he faltered, Nelneras was there, never stern, never correcting as a master might, but warm, gentle, confident. A nudge to his wrist, a word close to his ear, the low murmur of, “Yes, like that.” like coaxing breath into dying coals. It felt like music. And with Nelneras beside him, Axton wasn’t wrestling the spell work anymore. He was dancing with it.

And through it all, he kept watching him. The curve of his smile, the flick of a whisker when amused, the way a rumble of laughter passed through his chest when a spell misfired, it all pressed in too close, too warm, too perfect. He didn’t know when his heartbeat had aligned with the dragon’s breathing, only that it had. They joked now, without shame. They shared quiet glances that lingered. And when Nelneras watched him, not his hands, not the magic, but him, Axton had to turn away, his face too hot to hide. The stream wouldn’t cool what had taken root inside his chest. Because somehow, this wasn’t just about casting spells anymore.

Pyretalon had settled into a half-sprawl on a moss-covered stone, wings tucked but tail twitching with the slow rhythm of someone trying to look disinterested. His head rolled forward now and again, only to snap upright with a snort as he caught himself dozing. Nearby, Infinity had taken carving shapes into the dirt with one claw. Not menacing ones, no, these were unnecessarily detailed little flowers, each more aggressive than the last. Every so often she’d glance up, stare daggers at the two spellcasters, and mutter, “Any day now…” under her breath. When Pyretalon chuckled and whispered, “It’s romantic, admit it.” she smacked him with her tail and returned to her etching, but the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement.

Axton had taken to sitting by a stone, watching the gentle roll of the stream, carrying lose twigs or leaves down through the moist rocks. Nelneras was close, curled around him like a wall, every breath filled with his enticing scent. Axton plucked a small stone, hurling it into the water with a splash, “So this home you spoke of…Drakhaldeir…what’s it like?”

“It’s… not like here,” Nelneras rumbled, voice hushed, nearly reverent. “The bones of it are ancient, older than most dragons remember, and full of wonder. Mountain ridges that rise like spines from the sea, stone towers weathered by wind and war, forests that hum with old magic. It’s breathtaking. But beauty can be deceptive.”

His claw idly drew circles in the earth between them, not quite restless, more like one tugging at a thought that refused to unravel easily. “When I first brought my family there—I believed we were walking into a new era. Enchanted Ruby, my queen, spoke of unity, of dragons and non-dragons living not just side by side, but together. I wanted that. I still do. But truthfully… we’re not there. Not yet.”

He kept his eyes on the stream. “Dragons keep their distance. Not just in the high areas, but in the deepwater coves, the forest groves, the obsidian flats beyond the cliffs. We’ve always lived apart—but now, we just pretend the divide is polite. Non-dragons rebuild their lives in the valleys below, in towns raised on Rothdell’s bones. They’re tolerated, yes. Permitted. But rarely embraced.” A heavy sigh shook him, mixed with a growl. “It’s coexistence… but not connection. Nothing what I hoped for.”

There was a pause, and then a dry chuckle, soft and tinged with something older than humor. “But I’m nothing if not stubborn,” he said. “So, I stayed. Built a farm at the edge of one of the southern glades. Quiet land. The sort that remembers you if you treat it well.”

His eyes drifted upward, to where the canopy broke and pale sunlight filtered through. “The ones who raised me are long gone now. But their children had children. And those children have little ones of their own. They still call me Uncle—some, Granduncle, though I refuse to answer to it unless bribed with pie.” His whiskers twitched faintly, the barest smile chasing the words.

“So…you’re the one who leads them?” Axton gave a nervous chuckle,

He gave a soft huff, “I never really meant to lead them. But… time has a way of pressing crowns on heads that never asked for them. I fix the fences. Settle the feuds. Tuck in the little ones when thunder shakes the windows. And they call me wise, which is very kind of them—if terribly optimistic.” He smiled crookedly, eyes distant. “One of my nieces—Sarabeth—she’s especially convinced I’m overdue for senility. Tells me I’m not allowed to climb trees anymore because, and I quote, ‘One of these days you’ll forget you don’t bounce.’” He chuckled, as if he could picture her right there, scowling at his golden hide, “I watched her take her first steps. She now swats me with a broom when I wax poetics at supper. Insists I don’t let her children play with fire.” A sigh left him, “She’s the one truly in charge, I think. The rest just pretend I am, so I don’t feel old.”

“How old exactly are you.”

Nelneras, in a low purr slipping beneath his words, responded. “If you must know, I’m somewhere around one hundred and thirty. Give or take a winter storm or two.”

Axton stared. “You’re—”

“Older than you,” he said, leaning just slightly closer, turquoise eyes catching the light like polished sea-glass. “But not so old I wouldn’t climb trees again, if you dared me.” A pause, then his grin widened. “Unless you’d rather keep me on the ground… close. At your side.”

He opened his mouth to reply. Nothing came out. Not a spell, not a retort—just a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a squeak.

Nelneras chuckled, victorious. “Ah,” he said, voice all silk and embers. “I do love when the brave ones go quiet.”

Gathering his wits about him, even as his cheeks burned, Axton gave a nervous laugh, “So…what do you do there? You farm?”

“I mean, there is nothing wrong with tending the soil. Fix fences. I also tell some mean stories by the fire. And when I’m not home, I work. I recover relics, old scrolls, broken artifacts, mysteries of dragon kind that need illuminating.”

“For the queen?” Axton asked gently.

“Hardly. I work under Valcagor, but don’t mention you know his name.” Nelneras snorted. “One of the more cantankerous lords in the region. He calls it 'preserving draconic history.' I call it fetching rocks for someone too proud to bend his own neck. But… It’s always been a fascination of mine, our lost culture. And sometimes, the things I find help more than him. A lost sigil for a mourning widow. A lullaby etched on a relic that soothed a child back to sleep.” He shrugged one broad shoulder. “There’s magic in memory. And truth buried in ruin.”

The hours bled away like ink in rain, conversation replacing spell work as the sun slipped westward and they began walking back to the glen proper. Nelneras asked questions, not idle curiosities, but gentle, earnest probes that invited truth. He asked about Axton’s past, his hopes, the heavy silence that sometimes lived behind his eyes.

Axton didn’t intend to say much. But in that quiet, with no audience save the forest’s sounds and the dragon’s patient eyes, the words came anyway.

He told him about the failures, about Queen Nivra, the weight of expectations, the endless grasp for mastery that always seemed to slip between his fingers. He admitted he felt passionless, without purpose, like a child trying to play scholar in robes too large. He spoke of shame, the guilt, the nights where sleep was a stranger and self-doubt his only companion.

And then, softer, almost ashamed, he added: “Last night… and today… I think this is the best I’ve felt in years. Maybe ever.”

Nelneras didn’t interrupt. Didn’t offer shallow comforts. Just listened, eyes never left him. Eventually, the dragon asked about his friends and family.

Axton smiled. “I love them. Truly. They’re my family. But even with all their love, all their care… it hasn’t been enough to pull me out of this.” He looked at the water. “I think… something’s broken in me. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

Whiskers tapped against Nelneras’ snout as he glanced toward the trees, then the skies, then back to Axton. A slow rumble rose from his chest—thoughtful, curious.

“I might have an idea,” he said at last. “Call it crazy—”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Nelneras said, tail curling behind him, “you clearly want to improve your magic. Your teacher has proven…less than capable at the moment, while we have had success. I propose I could be your teacher.”

“You? A teacher?” Axton turned to him with a skeptical look. “Have you even done that before?”

“Not exactly.” The dragon rubbed his snout with his whiskers. “I’ve been busy. But now, well, now the opportunity’s here. If you give me a little slack, we can figure it out together. I mean, look at you…casting Prismatic Spray like you were born to it.”

“That’s not exactly comforting. That’s a red flag.”

“But what a good-looking red flag.” Nelneras grinned, tossing his head with a smug grin.

Axton snorted, though the smile tugging at his lips was impossible to hide. What would Nivra say? Would she be furious? Or proud? Did it even matter anymore? He thought of all the failure. The disappointment. The hollowness. And yet—just the thought of going with Nelneras made something in his chest feel lighter.

“Well?” Nelneras leaned back, brow arched. “You look like you’re about to explode. What do you say?”

“How do I know this isn’t some elaborate trap?”

“Please,” Nelneras snorted. “Your charming family already grilled me within an inch of my pride. I think we both know I passed.”

“But… don’t you have to go back? Arcturus, Crimson Sky—you said you came for them.”

“True,” the dragon nodded. “But alas my time has run short, I need to return home.”

Axton’s brow furrowed. “So how would you—?”

“I’d like you to come with me.” Nelneras said plainly.

The words hit like a lightning strike.

“You want to take me with you?” Axton blinked.

“Exactly.” The grin that followed was wide, dazzling. “You’ll get to see the farm, Drakhaldeir proper, meet the family. They’ll adore you. Then we’ll cast magic every day. We’ll get that spark back. That confidence you lost. We’ll dig it out together.”

Axton opened his mouth. Closed it. His hands found his sides, fingers twitching in stunned thought. He looked around at the trees, the stream, the fading sky.

“You’re right.” he said flatly.

“I am?” Nelneras looked pleased.

“Yes. That would be crazy.” Axton exhaled, “I have a life here. Responsibilities. A family. A queen. Friends. You’re asking me to just up and leave.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything,” Nelneras rolled a paw in slow emphasis. “I’m offering an opportunity. If you’d rather stay here, in this role that drains you, with magic that leaves you hollow, and a future shaped more by duty than desire—then that’s your choice.” His nostrils flared, the breath softening into something gentle. “But if you ask me? You’re standing on the edge of a choice. You need to decide not where you’re needed… but where you can breathe.”

“But- “, Axton swallowed hard, hands clenching at the fabric of his robe, “what about Arcturus and Crimson Sky? Am I just the backup because they were busy?”

“Again,” Nelneras murmured with a soft rumble, “that’s the doubt talking.” His eyes flicked over Axton’s face. “They are remarkable, yes. But so are you. A human raised by dragons… I was a dragon raised by humans. Don’t you see? We are the bridge. We were born in the cracks between two worlds—and maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what the Isles need.” He fluffed his wings, “I’m not saying you must stay there forever, just long enough to taste freedom and know what you want.”

“What if I go and it changes nothing? What if I fail again? What if I let you down?”

Nelneras smiled, warm and patient. “Then we fail together. And try again. I have centuries, Axton. I can wait while you find your paws.”

“But what if the dragons don’t accept me?”

“Then they’ll answer to me.” He said it plainly,

The wizard’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “I’m not like you. I’m not… bold. Or strong. Or sure of myself.”

“And yet here you are, casting ancient magic with nothing but your heartbeat and breath.” Nelneras’ snout drew closer, but a touch away. “You don’t need to be bold to be brave, Axton. And you don’t need to be perfect to be wanted.”

The gold dragon shifted his weight and rose in a smooth motion, stretching his wings just wide enough to catch the fading light. His eyes swept southward, toward the hills veiled in haze and silence.

“I’ll be heading toward Velnareth,” he said, his voice calm but deliberate. “A small town just beyond the other side of the forest of despair.”

“Emerald Twilight actually.” He sheepishly chuckled, “They renamed it.”

“Ah, better name that.” Nelneras snorted, “Still, if you decide… that you’re ready for a different path, meet me there before dusk tomorrow.” He turned partway, talons stirring the earth, then glanced back over his shoulder. Their eyes met. “And Axton…” His whiskers curled faintly as the breeze ruffled his feathers. “I think you and I could shape something extraordinary—together.”