FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Chapter 23: When the Sky Came Calling

They flew westward over the Twilight Plains; a sea of wind-bent grass washed in violet and amber under the lowering sun. To the south, the dark thread of the Nearon River split the land, its surface glimmering like poured silver. Far ahead, the Ruby Mountains burned crimson at their peaks, snowcaps catching fire in the day’s last breath. Here and there, ruins broke the horizon, collapsed mage-road arches, shattered pylons still faintly humming with ward-light. Nelneras’ gaze lingered on some of them, where the glimmer of old crystals shone faint as dying stars.

They banked toward a lonely tower rising where grassland met forest. Pale blocks quarried from the Ruby Mountains still held their seams despite a decade’s neglect, though the crown of blackened stone had crumbled inward, jagged against the sky. Nelneras descended into a wide spiral, landing lightly so the grass bent without breaking.

“This,” he said, folding his wings, “was once the sentinel of Vaelthar himself, a mage-lord who ruled these plains with unyielding gaze. The Spire stood as both shield and eye that would watch for gryphon flights from Lumara and for those bold enough to flee Rothdell’s grasp.” His foreclaw traced the base stones, where dead wards left a faint metallic taste. “Its walls once sang with magic. Now, only stone remains.”

Inside, the spiral stair was blocked with rubble after the first turn, but the lower chamber still stood. Murals lined the walls: human and elven mages robbed in violet and gold, Gnoll enforcers at their sides, and towering naga with eyes like molten coin. The painted rulers gazed down their noses at chained figures of farmers, traders, and children bowed under baskets or shackles.

Roran’s ears tipped back. “Not subtle about it, were they?”

Axton’s fingers tightened on his staff. His gaze lingered on the cold, imperious eyes of a naga in the mural. “They painted themselves as gods.” he murmured. “And the rest as dust beneath their feet.”

Nelneras’ gaze lingered on the chained figures at the mural’s base. “Even the mightiest empires carve their lies in stone,” he said quietly. “They believe if the walls remember their cruelty as glory, then the people will forget it was chains that held them.” His eyes slid toward the painted naga. “But stone crumbles. And those who walked in chains remember far longer than the tyrants ever plan for.”

That night, they found shelter at the base of the forgotten tower. Its black silhouette rose against the dying light, stone edges softened by moss and a decade of neglect. From here, the Twilight Plains unfurled in endless gold and shadow, and beyond them, the dark line of the Ruby Mountains crowned the horizon. Above, sunlight dwindled, a lover reluctant to part, while night crept in on velvet paws. Sartren’s silver breath began to touch the edges of the world, drawing Fureen’s fire into her embrace, a dance older than the realm itself. Nelneras had lit a fire with a single breath, coaxing flame from a curl of dry grass. Supper was simple, travel rations, Roran’s stubborn attempt to make them taste better with a sprig of something green he’d found in the grass, and a strip of smoked meat Axton produced from his pack.

Nelneras eventually curled close, talons tucked beneath, turquoise eyes reflecting the firelight as an ancient draconic tale spilled forth, an old story of honor and loss that, to Axton’s surprise, echoed a song Roran knew well. The two exchanged verses, their laughter weaving through the night air, and, unless Axton’s eyes betrayed him, their mirth spilled into a mock wrestle that left them grinning like boys unburdened by the weight of the world.

Who knew he could have this much fun? Danger still lingered at the edges of thought, but Nelneras’ strange lessons and Roran’s easy company had carved a space for something lighter. The magic was coming to him differently now, not as words or handshapes but as a thrum in his bones. For the first time in years, he felt like he could breathe.

The bandits they had spared. Killing them had no taste to it, though punishment was another matter. Stripped of their weapons, Romari and his gang were sent limping into the plains. Nelneras’ parting wink, along with Roran’s rumbling chuckle at his side, had made the charming wolf blanch and hurry off with his tail down.

Old Lumarian craftsmanship marked the stolen arms, their mechanisms still serviceable but crying out for maintenance. Axton turned one over carefully in his hands, while two curious snouts peeked over his shoulder, Roran and Nelneras sharing yet another unexpected interest. With pack space precious, trophies were out of the question, so Axton began dismantling the weapons, salvaging only the mana crystals. Yet, he pressed one of the crossbows into Roran’s waiting hands.

Gratitude came with a powerful tail thump and a hug that nearly knocked the wind from Axton’s lungs. “Always wanted one.” Roran rumbled contentedly, holding on until Axton gasped for mercy.

Carefully, the crystals found their way into Axton’s satchel, each heavier than its size suggested. Their dark secret was not unknown to him; since boyhood, he’d known of his father’s hand in their creation and the trapped souls within. Though Nivra had long since ceased their production, those still in service would linger for centuries. He’d considered destroying them, but had heard of the effects of their destruction, sadly, they were essentially permanent. That knowledge settled in his chest like a stone, dampening the warm glow of the evening.

By the time the fire burned to embers, Roran was curled against Travis, his warhammer within easy reach. Axton lingered by the dying light, then drifted toward the curve of Nelneras’ foreleg. Without a word, he settled into the dragon’s warmth.

He told himself it was for warmth. He told himself it was habit after the night terrors. But every time Nelneras’ breathing shifted, every subtle ripple of muscle under his cheek, it stirred something far less innocent. His face burned, and he was grateful for the dim light, though he knew, somehow, that Nelneras was aware of every heartbeat.

Nelneras said nothing, only adjusted his wing slightly so it curved nearer over Axton, sheltering him from the night wind. In the quiet, with the smell of campfire smoke and the faint metallic tang of the tower stones in the air, Axton closed his eyes, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of a dragon’s heart.

Sleep came easier than he had expected.

** * * * * * * * * *

Dawn crept in with the hush of a held breath. The air was cool enough to sting Axton’s cheeks as he stirred, the faint scent of wet grass and woodsmoke lingering from the fire. Mist clung low to the plains, curling around the scattered stones and tufts of wind bent sage. Above, the eastern sky bloomed in bands of rose and gold that spilled over into the deeper blue of retreating night. Somewhere beyond the horizon, a meadowlark called, clear, bright, and alone. He rolled onto his side, blinking away the last threads of sleep… and froze.

High in the brightening sky, cutting through the clouds with predatory grace, sailed the Valient.

Sleek as a hunting falcon and twice as sudden, she seemed almost alive, her long hull sweeping in a single fluid curve, narrowing into a beak-like prow of storm-oak and skysteel that caught the dawn’s fire in sharp flashes. Protective runes shimmered faintly along the grain, as though the wood itself breathed. Tall, blade-shaped fins of windweave and skyglass extended her hull on either side like the wings of some great sea bird, their rune-bound spars pivoting with minute precision to hold her steady in the shifting air. Beneath the hull, rings of glowing skyglass thrusters pulsed in steady rhythm, mana stone heart’s beat carrying her forward with effortless command.

Even from this distance, Axton knew her. Knew the captain who commanded her. And knew exactly who might be flying at his side. The sight landed in his chest like a hammer, scattering what warmth the morning had offered.

Skywing.

And if Skywing was here… Pyretalon would be with him.

A hollow ache swelled beneath his ribs. He didn’t know how they had found him, but the why was obvious enough. It had all been foolish to think he could outrun Pyretalon, of course that stubborn catbird would rally whatever means he had to pursue. He trembled, what would be in his crush’s face? Anger, hurt, disappointment, perhaps betrayal of all things, betrayal in their friendship and trust from his use of magic on him.

“Ah. You’re awake.”

The voice drew him from his thoughts. Nelneras crouched a short distance away, the morning light tracing the clean lines of his scales, turquoise eyes fixed on the sky. “We have company.” he said, tone almost conversational, though his whiskers curled forward in interest.

Axton swallowed. “How… how long has it been there?”

“Twenty minutes or so,” Nelneras replied, gaze locked on the vessel, eyes narrowed. “Curious thing. No propellers, no balloon. Mana-driven, surely, but the design…” His voice took on that telltale cadence, the one that meant his mind was already pulling it apart piece by piece. “Perhaps they’re mapping the plains. Or surveying aether currents. Or ferrying diplomats to some hidden summit…hmm.”

Roran pushed himself upright with a low grunt, stretching until his joints popped in quick succession. “You think they’ve heard of me?”

“While your reputation as a consumer of improbable quantities of meat may indeed precede you… “Nelneras’ whiskers twitched. “I suspect they have other quarry in mind.”

“Maybe they’re here for you,” He planned his feet wide as he reached one arm across his chest and pulled it tight with the other.

Nelneras’ rumbled, shaking his head. “While flattering, and admittedly amusing, I doubt it.”

Switching arms, the wolven rolled his neck and pulled the opposite shoulder into its stretch. “Or maybe they’re here to arrest us,” he mused, a half-grin curling his muzzle. “You didn’t steal anything, did you?”

The dragon’s head turned slowly, fixing him with the sort of look reserved for fools and blasphemers. “Do I strike you as a common thief?”

A casual twist at the waist accompanied the reply. “Well… you did tell us that story where you and your brother robbed that group of travelers—”

“That,” came the sharp hiss, whiskers curling forward, “was not like this time!”

A toothy grin spread as the wolven straightened. “That’s just what a thief would say.”

“I am not a thief!” The dragon’s tail lashed, wings giving the faintest flare for emphasis.

From the great ship’s flanks, dark shapes unlatched one after another, sliding free like leaves caught in a sudden wind. Lifeboats, sleek, rune-bound craft, dropped into open sky. Above and between them wheeled a dozen gryphons, their wings flashing bronze and silver in the morning light, each armored and flying tight formation toward the plains below.

Roran gave a low, amused whistle. “Huh. Would you look at that, they are coming for us.”

“Coming this way, certainly. For us?” The dragon snorted, “Unproven. And even if they were, it would hardly warrant your triumphant gloating.”

Axton’s stomach knotted. He told himself it could still be coincidence, even as his hands betrayed him, slipping toward his satchel, checking the clasps, tucking in loose straps. A few steps took him toward where his bedroll lay folded, and in a practiced motion, he rolled and lashed it tight.

“They’re still a fair way off,” he said, forcing lightness into his voice. “If we were thinking of moving, now would be the time.”

Nelneras didn’t look away from the approaching shapes. “And why would we?” he asked mildly.

“No reason.” His fingers tightened on the straps. “Just… easier to make good time without company shadowing us.”

Roran gave him a puzzled look. “You’re packing like a pup who just heard the dinner bell.”

He laughed too quickly. “Travel habits. Hard to shake.” The satchel came up onto his shoulder with a practiced swing, and he kept his eyes down, fussing with the strap as if it didn’t sit quite right. Anything but meet the gryphons’ gleaming forms with his gaze.

A shadow fell across him as the dragon shifted, planting himself in the dirt with a weighty finality. “I have done nothing wrong.” Nelneras said a will that of iron.

“Unless you’re lying and stole something,” Roran put in, folding his arms like the case was already closed.

I did not steal anything!” The growl carried enough bite to send a faint curl of heat from his nostrils.

“That’s exactly what a thief would say.”

A paw dragged down his snout in long-suffering fashion. “We are not in Lumarian lands. I have no cause to run. “Still… one wonders where it came from.”

“The sky.” Roran said, deadpan.

“Yes, I know the sky,” came the hiss, followed by a shove that rocked the paladin back a step. “But was it invisible? I saw nothing for leagues.”

“Why not ask them when they arrive?” Roran shrugged, brushing dust from his chest.

“A fine suggestion!” Nelneras rumbled. “And I have more, what mana source do they use? How many could such a hull carry? Are those fins or stabilizers—”

Axton’s pulse quickened with every musing that rolled from the dragon’s tongue. If Nelneras kept on, they’d still be standing here when the first lifeboat scraped dirt. His eyes kept sliding past the curve of golden scales beside him, drawn again and again to the dark flecks breaking free of the airship, falling slow and deliberate, ringed by the steady wheel of gryphons.

One shape seized his breath. Blue-jay wings catching the light in a flare of color, black fur striped like shadow and flame, a form he knew as well as his own reflection. Even across the distance, Pyretalon’s gaze seemed to spear through the open sky, finding him as unerringly as if no time had passed at all.

The sight bled the warmth from his veins, leaving his chest a hollow of cold. There was no escape, not with the sky itself folding inward. He wanted to speak, to urge Nelneras to flee, but the words stuck fast behind his teeth. And some quiet, immutable part of him already knew the dragon would not run.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The lifeboats fanned out overhead in a measured arc, keeping it far enough from a dragon’s reach to avoid being caught in a single breath of fire. The heavy barrels of their energy cannons tracked lazily across the ruins, never quite settling on a target, but charged and ready all the same.

Below, armored gryphons touched down in neat succession, talons scoring the earth as they closed ranks in a half-circle. Not one bore the lazy ease of a ceremonial guard, every wing, every muscle was coiled to strike at the first sign of movement.

At their head strode Skywing, white feathers catching the morning light, the black of his stripes as stark as the steel in his gaze. His soldiers’ discipline seemed to radiate from him, yet his own posture was relaxed, as if he were the one receiving guests rather than arriving armed to the beak.

From his place in the shadow of the ruined wall, Axton kept low, the gold sweep of Nelneras’ flank a wall between him and the Lumarians.

Nelneras lifted his head high. “Lumara sends quite the welcome party,” he said, voice smooth, almost warm. “If I’d known you were coming, Commander, I’d have laid out wine and honeybread.”

“And if I’d known you’d stay to greet us, I’d have brought the wine myself.” The gryphon’s beak curved in a small, knowing smile. “Most dragons prefer to be smoke on the horizon by the time we arrive.”

“I prefer honest conversation to long chases,” Nelneras replied, tail curling loosely around his haunches. “Besides, I’ve nothing to run from.”

“Perhaps not,” Skywing said mildly, his gaze never leaving the dragon’s. “Or perhaps you simply don’t fear we can catch you.” He let the words hang, light but edged, before adding, “I’ve met both kinds before.”

The tip of Nelneras’ wing flexed, more in curiosity than tension. “And which do you take me for?”

“The courteous kind, I hope.” Skywing’s tone softened, but his eyes shifted past the dragon’s shoulder to the gap in the stone where Axton crouched. “Though that may depend on whether you’re willing to let us speak with the human doing his best impression of masonry. I can see you, Axton.”

Heat shot up Axton’s neck. He pressed back against the cold stone, wishing the cracks were wide enough to swallow him whole. Every instinct screamed to stay hidden, but Skywing’s voice had already pinned him in place like a spear through cloth.

Slowly, he edged out from cover, clutching the strap of his satchel like it might anchor him to the ground. “I was… fixing my boot buckle.” he blurted, eyes fixed firmly on the dirt.

A faint smile tugged at Skywing’s beak. “That must be quite the elusive buckle,” he said lightly, “if it hides behind gold scales.”

He couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting past Skywing’s shoulder. There, half a wingspan behind the commander, stood Pyretalon.

The gryphon’s armor was clean but travel-worn, the blue-jay sweep of his wings catching the light as they shifted restlessly at his sides. His talons flexed in the dirt with slow, deliberate scrapes, but his gaze never wavered, storm-bright eyes locked on Axton like a tether pulled taut between them. No snarl, no easy grin, just that unblinking intensity Axton had seen only a handful of times before… and never aimed at him quite like this.

It wasn’t anger alone. There was relief there, threaded tight with disappointment, as if Pyretalon couldn’t decide whether to embrace him or scold him raw.

Axton could feel every set of eyes on him, the air between them drawn taut as a bowstring. The question itself was simple, but the weight behind it was anything but. Had Pyretalon told them he’d been taken against his will? The thought set his jaw tight.

“I’m here because I chose to be,” he said, the words cutting sharper than he meant, heat creeping into his cheeks. “No one forced me, and I am not being held.”

Skywing’s keen gaze held him for a long, measuring moment. Then, as if the wind itself had shifted, his posture eased and the sharpness in his eyes gave way to something lighter. “That is answer enough for me.” His voice carried clearly as he looked to his assembled company. “Stand down! It seems we’ve merely come upon a fine little road journey. No crime in that, most of us have had our share, if we’re honest.”

Blades lowered, wings folded, and the tension in the air loosened by degrees.

“I must admit,” Skywing added, his tone turning wry as his eyes went to the dragon, “I regret assuming you’d taken him against his will.”

Turquoise eyes narrowed a fraction. “An assumption I take no small offense to, Commander,” Nelneras replied with silken formality, though the edge beneath it was unmistakable.

“A fair rebuke,” Skywing said, “And undeserved.” Orders followed, brisk and practiced. “Get the lifeboats aloft. I want full reports on the teleport drive and every cannon’s cooldown. Bring them to my cabin within the next few hours. Let’s see how far she’ll fly.” He turned then, a gleam of mischief in his eye as his gaze slid between Axton and Nelneras. “You’ve good taste.” he said to the mage, the words striking like an arrow loosed without warning.

Axton’s ears burned hot. He managed something between a laugh and a cough, eyes darting to the ground. Relief that they’d avoided a fight twisted into something else entirely—because now, Pyretalon was waiting.

** * * * * * **

Nelneras pulled back, blinking, “Thank you, Captain. Your restraint is…a welcome rarity.”

Skywing’s beak curved in a sly half-smile. “Just because I know how to wrangle a dragon doesn’t mean I’ve no manners.”

The words barely registered. Axton’s mind had already turned to the greater threat waiting beyond the captain’s shoulder. The thought of facing Pyretalon now knotted his stomach harder than anything the unknown could conjure.

Relief hit him before he could brace for it. Lyra’s tawny shape broke from the others, green eyes bright, wings half-spread as if she feared he might vanish again. Her talons thudded into the grass, and she was on him, beak clicking soft with a rush of chirps and low rumbles.

“Axton!” she breathed, feathers warm against his cheek as she pulled him in, chest to chest. “Finally—there you are. I was sick with worry.”

He stiffened under the press of her wings, heat creeping into his face. “You didn’t need to be.”

“Of course I did,” she said, voice breaking from coo to scold. “You disappear without a word—”

“I left letters,” he muttered, catching sight of Pyretalon over her shoulder. The tiger-striped gryphon stood still as carved stone; eyes fixed on him.

“A letter? Really?” Lyra repeated, drawing back just enough to look him over as though checking for damage. Her feathers ruffled, eyes like blades. “Ink scratches aren’t the same as seeing your face. Do you know how it feels to wake up and find nothing but parchment where a friend should be? To read your reasons without being able to answer them? Without hearing your voice?”

Her wing curled tighter around him, holding him in place. “You made your choice before I could even open my beak. That isn’t fair.”

The protest rose before he could stop it, a reflex born of equal parts hurt and pride.

Her closeness made it harder, the warmth of her feathers pulling at memories he’d tried not to think about. He straightened, meeting her gaze. “I wasn’t alone,” he said. “Roran came. And Nelneras.” A tilt of the head gestured to the dragon.

She tilted her head, beak clicking once in disbelief. “Roran’s family to you, yes—but even family can’t fill every place in your life. You left the rest of us behind.”

That struck deeper than he expected. For a heartbeat, he saw the empty table back home, the quiet evenings without her laughter, Pyretalon’s shadow missing from the doorway. He told himself he’d left to grow, to breathe, but the ache in his chest made a liar of him.

“I needed the change,” he said at last, the words coming out more defensive than intended. “A fresh start. Somewhere to flourish.”

Her feathers fluffed, and she gave him a shove with her wing that was more exasperated than rough. “Flourish? You could have done that with us. We’ve been right there, cheering every time you so much as made a spark.” Her eyes narrowed, and the edge in her voice sharpened to a playful slash. “Sounds more like you just traded us in. Left us for some golden hussies.”

“Golden hussies?” Nelneras repeated, one brow arched like the curve of a drawn bow.

Lyra jabbed a wing toward him, feathers ruffling. “You heard me. All silver tongue and dragon charm, seductive as a siren and just as smug. No wonder he followed you.”

A slow exhale left Nelneras’ nostrils, more amused than insulted, though the flick of his tail betrayed a prick to his pride.

“It wasn’t about that,” Axton said, the words tumbling out before he could temper them. “I won’t deny, maybe some part of me thought about it. But that wasn’t why.”

He drew a slow breath, “I’d been… stuck,” he went on, softer now. “Failing. Every day felt the same until he showed me another way to be. Casting without words, trusting what I felt instead of what I’d memorized. It’s the first time in years I’ve felt like I could actually grow.” A small smile ghosted across his face despite himself. “Traveling with him, it’s different. New places, new challenges. I wake up… wanting to try again. I’m happy.”

The easy tilt of her head straightened, crest feathers rising in a sharp line. “If you were so happy learning from him…, why did you have to vanish like a thief at dawn? Why leave Pyretalon in an empty nest and me to come home to a hearth gone cold?” She stepped in close enough that her tail brushed his boots before lashing behind her. “You talk about growing, about finding yourself, yet you couldn’t even face the gryphons who love you.”

He had thought himself ready for their anger, had even rehearsed the reasons in his head, but hearing her speak of “home” made every excuse taste hollow. “I…” His gaze faltered toward the ground before dragging itself back to hers. “I couldn’t stay. Not if I was ever going to be more than what I was. And if I’d faced you—either of you—I’m not sure I’d have had the strength to leave at all.” His voice tightened. “You want the truth? I didn’t think you’d understand.”

Her crest feathers twitched, and the light in her eyes dimmed. “Not understand?” she echoed, the words quiet but edged. “After everything we’ve shared, that’s what you think of me?” Her beak clicked sharply, the hurt giving way to accusation. “And that’s why you put Pyretalon to sleep? Because we wouldn’t nod along to whatever path you’d picked for yourself?”

Of all the things she could have thought that he’d acted out of cold dismissal cut deepest. He drew a breath, trying to steady the quiver in it.

“It wasn’t about silencing him,” he said, voice low but steady enough to hold. “Do you think I wanted to do that to him? To my friend? If there had been any other way, I’d have taken it. But when I tried to leave, he… he grabbed me. Held me like I was some runaway to be dragged back. In that moment, it was the only choice I had if I wanted to go at all.”

Lyra’s crest rose high. “You didn’t think that was worth telling me?” She snapped to her love, eyes narrowed and burning.

Pyretalon’s beak angled toward Axton. “He made a reckless choice to follow this golden tart. What else was there to say?”

“That he’s not a gryphet, Pyre. He can choose his own flight path — even if it takes him into a storm.”

“You’d have me sit and watch him break his wings?”

She stepped closer, beak clicking once. “You were daring him to fight you. You’re lucky all he did was put you to sleep.”

His feathers lifted along his neck. “And what? I should just let him run off and ruin himself?”

Her voice came quickly, each word sharp as a talon. “This isn’t ruin. Or have you forgotten the storms you dove into when we were younger — the ones I had to drag you out of before your father clipped your pinions?”

His eyes narrowed. “That was not the same.”

“It’s exactly the same,” she shot back, “except this time you’re the one trying to clip wings before the flight’s begun.”

Axton almost dared to believe he’d escaped the worst of it, watching the pair squabbling with feathers flared. Somehow, he’d managed to slip free without a single talon raking him, a small miracle in his book. “Thanks, Lyra.” he murmured, daring a breath of relief.

Her beak snapped inches from his ear, a sharp crack that made him flinch. “Oh, I’m still mad at you, mister. Don’t think I can’t preen one friend and pluck another in the same breath.”

“Ah….” he stammered, eyes darting away, finding it suddenly difficult to meet hers.

The words still rang in his ears when a heavier shadow passed over him. Nelneras had turned, and though the dragon said nothing, his eyes fixed on Axton, clear and cutting, like rivers frozen hard under winter’s grip.

Pain gnawed at his chest. Every instinct urged him to stay where Lyra’s chatter and Pyretalon’s ire still rumbled, or to edge closer to Roran’s steady bulk. Anywhere but beneath that gaze. Yet his feet betrayed him, carrying him forward until he stood apart from the others, close enough that they might still see him, far enough that their words would be their own.

Nelneras held himself like a coiled bow, whiskers trembling faintly in the morning breeze, tail rigid against the earth.

When his voice came, it was low and precise, underscored by a rumble that vibrated in his chest. “Do you understand how much trouble you’ve brought upon my door?”

Axton’s mouth went dry. “I—”

“No.” Nelneras’ pupils thinned to slits, sharp enough to pierce straight through him. “You do not. You cannot. When a dragon is seen taking a young mage from his home, with gryphons scouring the skies to reclaim him, especially one that calls himself the apprentice of the queen it stirs not just whispers but roars. Roars that become calls to action, of which light fires of vengeance. Mere stories have been enough to end dragons.” He lashed his tail, “Do I need to even say what your mother will do to me?”

His voice sank lower, resonant with a rumble that almost masked the hiss of his breath. “There was Veyndar, a silver of The Moaning coast. He guarded merchantmen from raiders, stilled storms with a single breath, even bore half-drowned sailors on his back to shore. Yet the ports never opened their gates to him. They remembered the Tempest Unbound, the Bringer of Ruin. To them, one dragon’s mercy could never wash away another’s crime.”

A whisker twitched, the motion sharp as a quill scratching judgment. “So, when lightning burned a granary, they named him culprit. When a child strayed too close to the cliffs, they whispered his claws had taken her. None saw him commit these things, yet none needed to. He was a dragon. That was proof enough.”

His tail struck the earth, like a distant drumbeat. “And when he descended at last to the ports he had shielded, hoping for thanks, fear rose higher than gratitude. Old wounds guided their hands. They saw not the guardian, but a specter of every wyrm that had burned them. So, they raised their spears against one who had only wished them safe and claimed his life upon the stones he’d defended.”

Eyes gleamed, hard as granite. “Do you see? What I build with one paw, stories such as these tear down with the other. Every stumble, every shadow, feeds the lie that we are no more than beasts, tyrants that deserve no mercy. And everything I long for—a world where dragons stand as equals—threatens to crumble into ash.”

The mage’s stomach knotted, heat prickled his skin. He hadn’t thought, truly thought, about how far the ripples of his choice might spread. He felt like a child playing at power, too blind to see the ruin his play left behind.

His voice caught, thin and unsteady. He forced himself to swallow and lift his gaze, even as it quivered under the dragon’s. “I only wished to find my place. To prove I could be more. I didn’t think it would… tarnish yours.”

“Yet that is exactly what silence does.” Nelneras huffed, nostrils flaring, “You withheld the heart of it from me, let me think this was a clean parting, chosen with open hands. Instead, I learn, not from you, but from quarrelling beaks, that your leaving was not clean but marred—fought for, messy. When pressed, you answered not with words but with a spell. Do you see what picture that paints of you, Axton? A fledgling who conceals truth until it festers. A boy who strikes even at friends when denied. And of me? A dragon left blind to the storm brewing at his side.”

His head bent low, muzzle close enough that Axton could feel the heat of his breath. “How can I be your teacher if you will not trust me with your shadows? How can you grow when you choose silence over honesty? And—” a whisker flicked, sharp as a quill’s stroke “—how could I ever allow myself to grow fond of one who does not trust me at all?”

The words struck with more weight than anger alone could carry. Nelneras’ voice softened, though it did not lose its edge. “You sought my guidance. My tutorship. If you cannot give me your truth, then you withhold the very thing I would guard most fiercely. Trust is not a courtesy between us; it is the marrow of what we are building. Without it, all else crumbles.”

Axton’s breath caught sharply, as though the words themselves had struck. “No—that’s not… that isn’t who I am.” His hands trembled at his sides, fists tightening against the urge to fold in on himself. “I wasn’t trying to hide it to wound you. I was afraid.” His throat worked, unsteady. “Afraid that if I told you the truth, you’d think me weak—or reckless—or unworthy of following you. That you’d decide I wasn’t worth the trouble and leave me behind.”

He forced himself to keep his gaze up. “When Pyretalon grabbed me, I panicked. I thought if I faced him, or Lyra, or anyone, I’d never find strength to go. That everything I wanted, everything you offered, would slip away before it began. I didn’t put him to sleep to hurt him. I did it because I couldn’t see another way. I was desperate, not cruel.” The words slipped out sharper than he meant, and his chest seized with the weight of them. His eyes stung, the edge of tears pressing hot at their corners. “I never wanted to deceive you. I never wanted to drag you into danger. I only—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, forcing it out anyway. “I only wanted the chance to stand beside you. To matter. To be more than… than a burden who pretends at magic.” He took a half-step closer, as though trying to bridge the gulf he himself had opened. “Please. I’m sorry, Nelneras. I should have told you. I should have trusted you. Don’t cast me off for one mistake. I’ll do better. I swear it.”

Nelneras did not relent at once. “Intent does not cleanse consequence,” he said, voice low and edged. “If you remain at my side, if you would call me master, you will not bury truths again. I will not be made blind. You will trust me with the storm before it breaks, not after its ruin scatters across the ground.”

The mage nodded, throat tight, the motion jerky. His chest felt caged in iron. The words came unbidden, small and trembling. “You’re… really still taking me with you?”

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Nelneras’ head tilted, the faintest curl of smoke slipping from his nostrils. He chuffed; hot breath brushed the mage’s skin. “Still taking you?” His voice deepened. “Dearest Axton,” A whisker brushed against his cheek, “Do you truly think I’d let you go so easily?”

The words struck him harder than any reprimand. Surprise crashed through his chest, tangled with something warmer, fiercer, that left his knees weak. For all his apologies, all his fear, the dragon still wanted him.

Relief broke through so suddenly it hurt. Before thought could stop him, Axton flung his arms around Nelneras’ muzzle, clinging with all the strength his slight frame could muster. His cheek pressed to warm, living gold; his eyes clenched shut against the flood of everything he’d feared and nearly lost. His fingers trembled against smooth scales, but he held on as if letting go might see the dragon vanish.

The dragon went still, a great weight pausing in surprise—then a deep, rolling rumble rose from his chest. Whiskers brushed through Axton’s hair. “Careful, human,” he murmured, voice curling like heat from a forge. “Cling to me so tightly, and the world will think you’re already mine.”

Heat rushed to Axton’s cheeks so fast it stole his breath, a startled laugh breaking loose before he could stop it.

Relief still hummed through Axton, leaving his chest too tight and his fingers trembling where they had clung to gold scales. He let go only when Nelneras eased back, the dragon’s voice low, measured, but carrying steel beneath it.

“I’ll leave the rest of this storm to you,” Nelneras said, voice low and final. “But mark me, Axton, if you are still walking at my side, they will not take you from me. Not gryphon, not kin, not queen herself.” His gaze tilted skyward, to where the faint silhouette of an airship glimmered like a shard of glass against the dawn. “Now, if you excuse me, you’ve wrung enough contrition out of me for one day.” The dragon fluffed his wings with an amused rumble, “if I don’t satisfy my curiosity about that vessel, I’ll be insufferable the rest of the day.” His turquoise eyes cut back to Axton, softened by the smallest curve of a grin. “Do not vanish while I’m gone. I would rather not fetch you from another gryphon’s nest.”

With a decisive turn, he trotted across the camp, the dragon’s voice rose to Skywing, ringing clear and scholarly across the clearing, “Tell me, is it bound upon leylines or does it drink from a captive storm? Its hull bears no sails, no balloons, what then bears its weight against the breath of the sky?”

He turned to Roran and the others and froze. There was Seraphina. She must have come with the lifeboats.

Her chestnut coat caught the morning light, glossy as polished wood, with pale streaks along her neck and arms like strokes of sunlight across fur. She wore a soft green traveling blouse cinched at the waist with a leather belt, over fitted trousers the shade of wet earth. Her boots still held the shine of polish, though travel had dulled their edges. A thin cloak, forest-grey and trimmed in beadwork, hung from one shoulder, more for style than weather. Her mane had been braided into a loose cascade, ribbons of gold and blue woven through, beads clinking faintly as she moved. Near her brow, a crescent-shaped hairpin glimmered, stars catching the sun, Axton’s gift. The sight of it nearly stopped his breath.

But her amber eyes were not soft. They fixed on him bright and unblinking, and Axton’s stomach dropped. She stood stiff as a spear haft, arms crossed, her tail flicking in sharp, restless arcs.

Roran looked like he’d rather face a charging minotaur. His ears dipped, shoulders hunched in that sheepish, guilty way Axton knew too well. He tried a word, a placating gesture, but Seraphina cut across it, her finger stabbing at his chest, her ribbons jangling with the force of her movement. The wolven winced, his muzzle soundlessly before he managed to answer, palms raised in defense. Whatever he said, it only made her stamp a hoof against the stone, cloak swishing with the sharpness of her motion.

Every instinct begged him to shrink back, but guilt dragged his boots forward. He drew in breath and started toward her.

The wolven noticed first. Roran’s ears twitched, shoulders stiffening as if he’d been caught mid-sentence. “Ah—” he rumbled, forcing a smile. “Look who the wind carried in. Been, uh… askin’ after you.”

Amber eyes pinned him, bright as coals in the sun. “Well, ain’t that just perfect,” Seraphina said, “I step off that airship, and what do I find? The pair o’ you skulkin’ around like guilty colts.” Her mane beads clinked faintly as she turned her gaze on Roran. “And don’t you try smilin’ your way through it, Blackclaw. You marched off right beside him, didn’t ya?”

Roran’s tail stilled, ears flattening halfway. “I—well—I thought—”

“Thought nothin’!” she snapped, cloak swinging as she jabbed a finger into his chest. “You’re supposed to be the anchor, not the accomplice. Carry the load or clear the path, that’s what we say back home, and you carried him straight off without so much as a backward glance!”

His jaw opened, shut again, ears flattening tighter. “I… might’ve done that, yeah.” he muttered.

Then her glare swung back on Axton, cutting even sharper. “And you. Four days gone, leavin’ me a scribble on parchment, not a word o’ what you were truly plannin’—”

Her voice cracked there, the anger fraying for half a heartbeat before she steadied it, rawer than before. “Tell me, was there one single moment where either of you thought, ‘Hey, maybe Seraphina might wanna come along’? Hm?”

Axton flinched. Roran blinked. Both looked at each other, then back at her. Silence stretched.

“I mean, honestly!” She flung her arms wide, ribbons in her mane jingling with the force of it. “A dragon, boys! A real, flesh-and-scale dragon, and not a single soul thought, ‘Reckon our cook might like a chance to toss herbs in a wyrm’s stewpot’?”

That cracked something. Roran’s jaw dropped like she’d just told him the moon was cheese. Axton nearly choked on the absurdity, eyes darting anywhere but her face. “You’re… mad because we…. didn’t… ask?”

“Damn right I’m mad!” Her voice thundered as much as it hiccupped, a sharp little squeak tumbling out in the middle of her words. She clapped a hand over her mouth, scowled through her fingers, then pushed on anyway. “What, you think my dreams to peel potatoes in Entis ‘til I keel over? I been prayin’ for somethin’ like this since I was a foal, and y’all up and ride out without me like I’m some afterthought!”

Roran’s mouth worked uselessly. “It—happened so fast,” he stammered. “Didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think I’d want to?” she barked.

“I…I thought it’d be too dangerous—it was really a last minute…sorry-” Axton tried to say.

“Dangerous?” She let out a sharp snort, half fury, half laughter. “Boys, I handle open flame every damn day. Ride the storm, don’t be swept by it, that’s what Thor taught us. And you left me behind like I’d break.”

Her shoulders rose and fell, her breath finally slowing. For a moment none of them spoke. Then Roran dared a crooked smile. “Well… you woulda had to share camp stew with us. Maybe we were just sparin’ you.”

Seraphina blinked at him—then barked a laugh, hiccup cutting through it sharp. She clutched her ribs, glaring at him even as her lips twitched. “Saints above, you’re impossible.”

“Stronger in the herd, Seph,” Roran said softly, rubbing the back of his furry neck.

She huffed, shoulders loosening. “Aye. Stronger in the herd. Even when the herd’s a pair of mule-headed fools.” Her eyes softened then, landing on Axton. “Next time, sugar, you look me in the eye, and you ask. Even if the answer’s no. Don’t rob me of the choice.”

Axton swallowed hard, shame and relief tangled in his chest. “I… I’m sorry. Truly. I won’t again.”

She studied him for a breath, then pulled him into a swift, firm hug. Over his shoulder she tossed Roran a look, sharp but not without warmth. “You too, wolf boy. You owe me.”

“Reckon I do.” Roran said with a wolfish grin, before surging forward to wrap them both in a fortress like hug. Axton wheezed, Seraphina let out an undignified hiccup of laughter, but neither pulled away.

When he finally eased back, Seraphina dusted at her blouse as though to reclaim some sort of dignity. “Right then. Where’s this golden dragon o’ yours? If y’all are marchin’ off to this dragon kingdom or what have you, you bet your hides I’m marchin’ too. I’ll see if he’s got sense enough to make room for a cook.”

Color drained from the mage’s face, he hadn’t even thought of that. He gave a nervous laugh, “I—I don’t even know if Nelneras is taking… anyone else…”

“Then I’ll give him reason.” she declared, unslinging her pack to delve out a wicker basket with a theatrical flourish. Steam and spice drifted up, fresh bread, little hand-pies, and a crock of something rich enough to make Roran’s stomach growl on instinct.

“Wait…you’re thinking about…bribin’ a dragon,” Roran said flatly, tail wagging despite himself. “With food.”

“Worked on you well enough,” Seraphina shot back with a smirk.

Helpless was the laugh that escaped him; to think he’d thought he was giving up his friends, yet there was another clinging to him. “Gods above, I don’t even know anymore…”

She turned with a snap, mane ribbons jingling like herald’s bells, and marched toward the looming gold dragon. “Steady hooves, steady heart,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Let’s see if your dragon’s got either.”

The two boys stood watching her go, silence stretching before Roran rumbled, “Poor dragon don’t stand a chance.”

Axton’s laugh returned, softer this time. “Not when she’s got her mind set.”

However, just as relief had run its course, Roran too pinned his ears, eyes narrowed, arms crossed over his chest, his shadow falling across Axton like a wall. His voice was quiet, but it struck like a hammer. “So. You lied to me.”

“I—I didn’t technically lie—” Axton flinched.

“Ax.” Roran’s growl cut the words short.

Heat climbed into Axton’s face. “Look, it wasn’t my proudest moment, alright?” His words came too fast, brittle. Shame pressed tight around his ribs, because he knew what was coming, knew he deserved it.

“I’m your Pack.” Roran’s voice dropped, low and steady, the kind that brooked no wriggling free. “That means you don’t shut me out, not for fear, not for pride. The same goes for her as well.” His eyes flicked toward the ceullus now standing proud and confident by a head cocked dragon, wondering who this fireball was. “She deserved better, same as me.”

He tried to answer, but all he found was a broken whisper. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Because it is.”

“I was afraid,” Axton said, the words tearing out raw. “Afraid of what you’d think—of losing you both. I didn’t know how else to hold on.”

For a long moment the wolven said nothing, tail flicking once behind him. Then his shoulders eased, and the air between them shifted. “It’s alright,” Roran said finally, the edge gone, warmth slipping back into his voice. “I would’ve come anyway. But no more holdin’ back the truth, you hear me?”

Bless him. Axton’s throat closed tight, relief flooding him until his vision blurred. Then Roran’s arms came around him, squeezing him into a chest that felt more wall than flesh. Warmth pressed in on every side, steady and unshakable. His heart leapt painfully at the contact, longing thrumming through every nerve. He buried it beneath the nod he forced, as if the embrace hadn’t nearly unraveled him.

When he finally let go, the wolven smirked down at him. “Sorry. Forget sometimes I hold on like that. Packs meant to stay close, right? ‘Course, prob’ly puts thoughts in your head. Me squeezin’ too hard, pressin’ in, makin’ it feel like I’m—” He stopped himself with a chuckle, ears flicking. “Well. You know.”

Heat shot through his face. His throat clamped shut. Don’t think about it. Don’t you dare think about it. But he was already picturing it. Roran’s weight, the growl in his throat, those strong arms holding him down. “W-well I am now!” he blurted, high and strangled.

Roran barked a laugh, chest swelling with easy pride. “Ha! Knew it. Can’t blame you, Ax—look at me.” He grinned. “Unless you’d rather keep thinkin’ about me pinning you down.”

“Roran!”

The wolven chuckled, unbothered. Then he sighed, his voice came steady and firm, “C’mon. Enough starin’ at me. Go talk to them.”

“What? Who, I talked to everyone!” Axton blinked.

“You know who I mean, the birds you’re avoiding, and yea, now,” Roran said, arms crossing. “What’s the worst that happens? You already butted heads once. Packs fight, Ax. They talk, wrestle, bleed, sometimes draw blood for real. Never the end of it. You care about ’em—so say it.”

Axton hesitated, eyes flicking to the pair still caught up in their quarrel, beaks clacking “I…did before. It ended badly. They just started fighting.”

“So?” Roran’s ears pricked, blue eyes unwavering. “You goanna fight too?”

“No.”

“Then say your piece. Bury the hatchet.” His smirk curved back in, equal parts teasing and encouragement. “Beats sittin’ here moonin’ over me.”

He huffed from the wolf’s look, but the blunt wisdom struck home all the same. Perhaps it really could be that simple. Boots heavy with nerves, he drew a breath and stepped toward the gryphons. Axton found them where the argument had dwindled into silence, feathers still ruffled and tails still restless. Pyretalon’s gaze cut toward him first, sharp as a talon.

“Of all the messes I pictured,” the gryphon said, voice low and hard, “I didn’t think it’d be you dragging me by the tail into one.” He shifted his wings stiff. “So. What now?”

“I’m…going with Nelneras.” His voice caught but steadied as he forced himself to meet that piercing stare. “It means a lot you came after me, and I’m sorry for what I did. But I can’t change how I feel. Pyre—if you could see what he’s already shown me…” His words trailed off as he glanced toward the golden dragon. “It’s like I can breathe again.”

Lyra’s ears flicked back, her green eyes soft but searching. “Is it truly so bad back home?”

“In a way.” Axton let out a breath, “Day by day, I felt like I was…fading. No purpose, no spark. Just…existing. But out here?” He looked toward Nelneras, where Seraphina’s voice was already cutting into him like a kitchen knife through butter. “Strange as his lessons are, they speak to me. They make me feel alive.”

“You’re free to choose.” Lyra’s ears drooped, “even if I wish you wouldn’t. The house feels empty without you.” She stepped forward and folded a wing around him, tugging him close.

“Cause it literally is.” he murmured, and she nipped his hair for it.

“I’ll be coming with you, too,” Pyretalon said then, feathers bristling as he fluffed his wings. “Terrible decision though it is. Which everyone seems content to overlook.”

Axton blinked. “…You still want to come?”

“You may throw me off, Axton Turnvoth — but you’ll not outrun the oath I made. I said I’d keep watch, and I will. Even if you think me your jailer, not your friend.”

The sting of Pyre’s words sank deep, heavier than any chain. His lips parted as if to protest, but the sound caught, dying in his throat. Shame burned hot across his face, and his gaze dropped, hands knotting in the folds of his robe.

“Pyre, was that necessary?” Her crest feathers bristled, tail lashing once against the ground as though she might swat him for it. “He knows what he did. No need to drive the talon deeper.”

“If he crumples at this, he’s got no business chasing dragons. Better he learns to carry the weight of shame now than let it break him later.”

The gryphon turned on a whip of feathers, stalking off toward Nelneras, wings flaring once before folding tight again. Axton watched him go, throat knotted, and the sight only twisted the knife deeper. Nelneras already had Seraphina tugging at his patience, and now Pyretalon was striding in, heavy as judgment.

Silence pressed down like a millstone, thick and suffocating. His boots felt heavy, as rooting him to the dirt. When his voice finally broke loose, it was little more than a rasp.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, unable to meet Lyra’s gaze. “For… for pulling him from your side. I never meant to drag you both into this.”

Her sigh came soft and long. “Oh, Axton…” Her wing drifted against his shoulder, feathers warm. “You didn’t take him from me. Pyre follows his heart, always has. I’m sorry for his sharp tongue. He can be a proud beast, but don’t think for a breath that he doesn’t care. We both do. You know that.”

He swallowed hard, shameful and gratitude tangling in his throat. “I know. I just— I’m sorry.”

“He knows that too,” she said simply. “He always has.”

The quiet stretched again, though this time it didn’t choke so tightly. He shifted, “So…what now?”

Lyra tilted her head, and then, almost too casually, said, “Guess I’ll just have to come along as well.”

“What?” He had to have heard that wrong.

Her crest feathers perked in amusement. “What, you thought I’d let Pyre flap off after you without me? Don’t be daft.”

“You—you can’t!” His voice cracked, _“_But the library, your archives, if you leave, who will tend them properly?”

A chuckle trilled from her beak. “You think the shelves will mourn me? Please, they’ve got shelves full of clerks who can count scrolls and chase dust. But there’s only one of you. Only one Pyretalon. And I’ll not sit on my perch while the two of you fly off and leave me behind.”

He opened his mouth, but she cut him off with a flick of her tail. “Don’t argue. You’re more important to me than any stack of parchment. Pyre too, though don’t tell him I said it.”

The dam inside him broke. He stepped forward, arms slipping around her feathered. Her wings folded briefly around him in return, before she pulled back, talons clicking. “Don’t think this means you’re off the hook. I’m still cross with you for running off.”

“I know.” He mumbled as he managed a watery smile.

“Good.” She straightened, fluffing her feathers. “Now, let’s go tell your dragon friend the good news.”

Shoulder to shoulder they walked toward Nelneras. Axton’s heart thudded, caught somewhere between dread and reluctant amusement at what was about to happen.

The gold dragon turned his great head as they approached, turquoise eyes narrowing. He took in the sight of them together, then the gryphoness at Axton’s side. His nostrils flared, and his voice rolled like an exasperated thunderclap.

“It would seem Bahamut has mistaken me for a shepherd, not a dragon. I take it another stray wants to join the flock?”