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Chapter 19: Where Dragons Wait

The grass whispered beneath their boots, the land quiet save for the hush of wind rolling through scattered thistle and morning dew. Entis stood behind them now, its spires a distant memory softened by mist and unspoken goodbyes.

No farewells were needed. When Roran told the Moonguard where he was going, no one tried to stop him. His commanding knight had clasped his shoulder, offered a firm nod, and said only, “Bring him back safe.”

Axton stood at the edge of an arcane circle etched into the soil, the wind curling through the grass like a whispered warning. Cold clung to his sleeves, but it was the weight in his palm that chilled him more. His fingers closed around the silver watch—cool, silent, waiting. It felt heavier than it should have, as though it knew what it carried. He hadn’t told Nelneras Roran would be joining him. He hadn’t told anyone. Not out of malice. Not out of deceit. Simply because the words refused to rise. Something in him, soft, wounded, and wary had curled inward and held them back. It might have been fear. It might have been shame. Or perhaps he simply wasn’t ready to risk the sound of disappointment in that voice.

He worked quickly, carefully tracing each rune with a focused hand, lips moving in practiced silence. Glyph-light flickered in answer.

Behind him, Roran loomed, arms crossed with one ear tilted, “Uh… what are you doing?”

Without looking up, Axton replied, “Summoning a horse.”

“Fancy.” The paladin shifted in his armor, watching the circle spark to life. “That Valeros guy know we’re coming?”

Axton paused, fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve where the silver watch nestled against his heart. He nodded, almost to himself. “I used the watch this morning. Told him I’d be there by sundown.”

Roran whistled softly. “That thing really works, huh? What’d he say?”

The circle pulsed. Axton hesitated.

“He said…” His voice grew quieter. “He said, ‘Then I’ll wait in the light for you. And I won’t look away until you arrive.’”

“That’s… poetic.” Roran tilted his head.

“He’s like that.” The word’s lingered within, curling in his chest like warmth from a long-cold hearth. He didn’t know what to do with that kind of promise. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Behind him, Roran sniffed and clapped his paws. “Alright, horse mage. Impress me. Which…since when can you do that?”

The spell shimmered, hooves forming in a ripple of silver dust. “Since I started walking farther than the bakery,” he said without looking up.

“You never told me.”

“You never asked.” The glyph snapped closed with a faint pulse of heat. Where the spell-circle had been, a spectral steed now stood, tall, lean, semi-transparent, its form stitched from lines of silvery white, eyes glowing faintly like twin moons lost in fog.

Roran gave a low whistle, stepping around the summoned beast. “Pretty,” he admitted. “But I’ve got something better.”

Axton frowned. “Better than this?”

“Well, not exactly.” He flapped his arms with a theatrical flourish. “My mount has wings.”

“…Wings.”

Roran nodded, pride gleaming in his bright blue eyes. “Yep. Big ol’ wolf. Feathers. Glorious. I call him Travis. Doesn’t seem to mind.”

“…Travis.”

“Yes.” Roran blinked. “Is that weird?”

“Yes!” Axton laughed despite himself, half horrified, half charmed. “Why would a spiritual direwolf have a name like Travis?”

“‘Cause it’s cool?” Roran scoffed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on, yours has a name, right?”

“It’s a spirit horse. It’s not even real.”

“That’s rude. You’re telling me you never named your summon?”

“No.”

Roran gave a mock gasp of offense. “Unbelievable.”

Axton rolled his eyes and rubbed his temples.

“And the best part,” Roran continued, circling like a bard stalling for applause, “is that since Travis has wings, we don’t have to follow the road. Straight flight. We’ll beat sundown easy.”

The wolven widened his stance, paws firm against the earth. His voice dropped low and sure. “Moon Force.”

A burst of silver light surged from his chest, flaring out in concentric waves. Axton shielded his eyes as wind tore through the ridge, scattering dust and strands of wild grass. When the light faded, Roran was gone.

In his place stood a massive dire wolf, fur black as storm midnight, eyes glowing like the sea at dawn. Towering, feathered wings spread from his shoulders in a majestic arc, glinting with threads of pale light. The creature gave a low, satisfied growl that sounded suspiciously like a smirk.

“See?” the beast said in a voice still unmistakably Roran’s, smug and full of pride. “Cool, huh?”

Axton stared. “You’re… you?”

“Sort of! I am Travis. I mean, not really. I’m in Travis. I am Travis.” He paused. “Look, it’s complicated, but watch this.” The wolf took a few casual steps, then shimmered as Roran stepped free from the form, ghost-like, petting the shoulder of his own conjured beast.

“I can leave him like this,” he explained. “Scout. Guard. Roam around a bit. Then—” He stepped back into the form, light folding over him like water drawn into muscle.

The direwolf blinked. The smirk returned. “Boom. Back in. And if I need to launch into the sky—” With a beat of his wings, he leapt into the air, soared for a breath, then landed again with unnerving grace. “—I fly.”

Axton struggled to keep his voice level. “How fast does it fly?”

“Almost gryphon speed. Haven’t tested it properly yet.” Roran grinned wide. “But it feels awesome.”

A pause hung between them, silent like the rising sun.

“So…” The wolf lowered itself with a knowing gleam in its eye. “Want a ride bitch?”

Axton flushed scarlet. “Could you not call it that?”

“That’s what all the knights say!” Roran laughed, shoving him with a wing, “Afraid someone’s going to call you a bitch?”

“Roran!” He groaned, tossing his pack against the side of the wolf’s flank.

“Fine, fine.” The beast backed away a few paces, still grinning. “I won’t say anything. Now get on.”

Just before climbing on, Axton hesitated, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Moon Force?” he echoed, incredulous. “That doesn’t sound like a real command phrase. Did you… make that up?”

Roran huffed through his nostrils, feathers twitching with offense. “Of course I did. I had to call it something.”

“You could’ve used something draconic. Celestial. Anything with arcane weight.”

“I’m not writing a thesis,” Roran muttered, glancing over his shoulder. “It works. That’s what matters. I'm not looking for notes, professor.”

Axton bit back a laugh as he swung his leg over. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re stuck to my back.” Roran grinned. “So maybe don’t critique the ride before takeoff.”

He grabbed thick fur in both hands. Realization struck, how had he not seen it before? “There’s no harness.”

“Nope.”

“Have you flown someone before?”

“Not yet,” Roran replied brightly. “How hard can it be?”

“Oh gods.” Axton immediately cast Spider Climb, murmuring the words while clinging tighter. His hands stuck like glue to the creature’s hide, and he muttered a quiet prayer to every deity listening. “Safety enabled,” he murmured to himself. “Let's hope that’s enough.”

The direwolf crouched low, wings spread wide. Then, with a snarl of wind and a bound that cracked the stillness, they launched skyward.

Grass whipped beneath them. Wind roared. Axton’s heart thudded against his ribs as air clawed past his hair. He held on. The dread in his stomach remained… but behind it fluttered something warm and wild. A spark of adventure. A breath of freedom. And the taste of something beautifully unknown.

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

The lands of Lumara sprawled beneath them, not as some idyllic canvas for passing daydreams, but as a realm alive with meaning, raw, breathing, vast. Fields of gold waved like summoned armies of grain, orchards clung to the folds of distant hills, and rivers glinted like sharpened blades drawn across the countryside. Above all, Roran flew, a great shadow against the clouds, muscle, fur, and iron devotion. His wings did not glide; they drove forward, beating a rhythm of purpose, of strength made motion.

Villages passed below in quiet reverence, each scattered of stone and wood clinging to the bones of the land, rooftops bristling with skybridges and glowing lanterns. Magic hummed in the air like breath half-held. A caravan marched beneath a banner of green and brass, guarded by gryphons that wheeled in slow circles overhead. Further east, a skyship drifted past on silver wings, its hull carved with glowing sigils—an ark of commerce and dreams drifting toward horizons unnamed.

Though Roran would have flown until the sun collapsed into stars, Axton tapped his shoulder, voice sharp with exhaustion. “Even dragons eat.” he muttered. Roran relented with the grin of a man too proud to admit he needed the break.

They stopped twice, once in a field where lavender bloomed like violet flame, where they sat among the bees and shared salted meat, honeyed buns, and sweetroot tea that tasted faintly of home. Later, atop a lonely cliff, Axton stretched sore legs and wrote down the wind’s dance in his journal. Roran carved a howling wolf into the stone face, declaring it art. Axton had laughed, real laughter, brief but bright. Once their break ended, they returned to the sky, leaving behind no footprints, only echoes.

But joy, for Axton, was a fleeting thing.

The wind carried more than scent and sound, it carried hungry teeth to his gut. He could imagine the fury that pulsed through Pyretalon’s feathered head, the curses that would flow from his beak. The mage would tremble, picturing those eyes and be unable to meet them. He had taken loyalty from a gryphon, something known across the globe and spat right in its face. What would Lyra think, to hear of what he’d done, of the empty room he’d left? Then of course there was Nivra.

For a mage of her skill and with the resources of an entire kingdom at her disposal, there wasn’t an inkling of a response from her, nothing but silence. No gryphon envoys trailing his sky-path. No wind-carried words through the enchanted feather she once gifted him. No magical summoned storms to drive the duo back to Entis. The quiet stretched on like a blade, and he couldn’t tell if it was mercy… or judgment.

Part of him hoped she understood. That she read his letter, saw the truth between the trembling lines, and chose to let him go, chosen not as ruler, but as a mother might let a bird fly from her shoulder. But another part, sharper, crueler, whispered that maybe she hadn't reached out because he had disappointed her. That she was waiting in silence not out of grace, but out of deliberation. That she sat upon her throne in Entis, feathered crest still, icy blue eyes narrowed, wondering if her once-promising mage had finally gone mad. Or worse… if he had betrayed her trust.

It wasn’t like her to delay. Especially not on a Moonday, when missives were read and inquiries made. Which meant, either she trusted his choice… or she had already set someone on his trail. Axton hugged his satchel a little tighter, heart caught between hope and dread.

As the golden light of late afternoon angled low across the countryside, the town of Velnareth rose into view, nestled like a sun-warmed stone in the gentle cradle of Lumara’s northern valleys. The air shimmered faintly with the last heat of day, and the wind carried the scent of rich soil, feather-oil, and bread baked with honeyed herbs.

At first glance, the town might seem unassuming—a handful of buildings in stone and timber scattered like a broken circle around a wide central plaza—but as they drew closer, the careful architecture revealed a dual design. Buildings bore slanted roofs and open-roost balconies, jutting from second floors like tiered perches for gryphon visitors. Wide terraces wrapped around the inns and guild halls, allowing a gryphon to land mid-conversation and speak eye-to-eye with those within. Beneath, arched doorways and sturdy wooden porches spoke of the town’s human roots, built first by settlers who carved this place from forest and glade, long before sky and feather joined their hearths.

The streets were clean, lined with smooth river stone and trimmed with flowering planters, many perched high on poles or rooftops where gryphons could tend them from the air. A broad windvane sculpture stood at the town center: a bronze gryphon with outstretched wings and a human figure reaching up to meet its talons in a clasp of unity. Below it, a market had already begun to shut down, stalls packing up dried fruits, healing salves, travel charms, and spiral-cut meats seared with crisp herb crusts.

The population here was small, no more than five hundred, by Axton’s guess. Mostly human, with a healthy population of gryphons. He spotted a halfling woman bartering with a dwarven smith, while a pair of kobolds raced across a low roof, carrying books as though they were treasure.

Roran circled once before descending toward the roosting post near the main inn, his wings wide and dramatic as ever. He landed with a theatrical sweep of his wings, stirring dust and drawing half the town’s attention as he touched down. A few gryphons lifted their heads in mild alarm, and the kobolds squealed, scattering like startled cats across the rooftops.

Axton clambered off with a grunt, brushing his robes where they'd caught wind-tossed feathers and fur. “Do you have to land like that?”

“What?” Roran grinned, tail flicking. “That was graceful. Like a snowflake. A powerful, majestic snowflake.”

Axton gave him a flat look and shouldered his pack. His eyes roved across the town, modest, sun-warmed, with that easy hush only small places carried. Human-built, but the gryphon presence was undeniable: broad-beamed roosts perched atop flat-roofed homes, wing-cut alleys widened to accommodate gliding takeoffs. Off to the side, a lone minotaur sharpened a blade that looked more like a battering ram than a weapon, offering a slow nod as they passed.

But Axton’s gaze didn’t linger long. It drifted east, toward the slope just outside town. The tree-lined hill, the field beyond. “We’re not meeting him here.” he said.

Roran’s ears twitched. “We’re not?”

“He was gonna meet us outside the town. Ridge beyond the trees.”

“Is he shy or something?” Roran’s brow rose.

“Not exactly.” He started walking. “He just... prefers open air. Fewer eyes.”

Roran followed, quickening his step, amusement prickling in his voice. “What, is this some mysterious other catbird you’re courting? One of those brooding, silent types that only talks in riddles and stares dramatically at the sky?”

“No.” Axton said too quickly.

“I thought this Valeros catbird was rather charming? Or was that just me?”

Axton’s steps slowed. He didn’t look back. “Just… trust me, alright? You’ll understand when you see him.”

A puff of breath escaped the wolven’s nose, half-laugh, half-exasperation. “Is this going to be another magical ‘Axton thing’ I don’t understand until someone’s glowing or flying?”

“That’s the plan.”

Roran snorted and muttered something about “mystery mages and their secrets.”

The ridge beyond town held a tranquil quiet, broken only by the hum of insects and the far-off whisper of town life. The two companions settled beneath a leaning pine, its long shadow creeping slowly with the shifting sun. An hour had passed, no sign of the dragon in sight.

Axton sat cross-legged in the grass, his staff across his knees, flipping through a book he hadn’t really read. The magical pocket-watch, etched in gleaming silver and sapphire runes, rested just beside his boot. He glanced at it every few minutes but didn’t open it. Nelneras would come. He had to trust it; did he want to appear to be some impatient twit?

Roran, once more returned to normal, let out an exaggerated sigh nearby, tossing a pinecone at the base of Axton’s boot. “Tell me again why we couldn’t wait in the town with food and drink?”

“Because he asked us to wait out here.” Axton muttered.

“Sure, and an hour later, here we are, no mystery gryphon. Just a growing list of questions.” Roran leaned back on his elbows, his tail flicking. “You’re sure you didn’t get stood up?”

Axton looked away. “He’s not that type.”

Roran raised a brow. “So, you are courting.”

“No.” But the heat in Axton’s ears said otherwise.

The wind picked up, stirring the tall grass and sending birds fluttering from the trees behind them. For a moment, Roran squinted at the sky, ears twitching, nose lifting.

“…You smell that?” he murmured. “Something’s—”

The wind came first, cool and sudden, rustling the trees in a way that set the world on edge. Then, a rush of shadow rolled across the grass, long as a war-banner and just as silent. Roran's ears flicked up fast, muscles tensing beneath his leathers.

Then the sky split.

With the grace of falling moonlight, a massive shape descended from the clouds, a dragon, radiant gold and bronze, his scales glinting like hammered sunlight beneath a halo of gleaming wings. He swept low overhead with the roaring gust of his feathery wings beating once, just once, and every pine along the ridge bent like wheat. His wingspan eclipsed the hill, and his tail carved the air behind him like a trailing banner of living metal. The force of his passage sent dust and leaves into a spiral.

Roran lunged.

He tackled Axton sideways, rolling them both down the slope with a startled grunt. They came to rest in the tall grass, Axton beneath him, eyes wide with shock, a breath knocked from his lungs.

“Dragon!” Roran growled, bracing protectively over him, one hand on the hilt of his blade. “Where did that thing come from?!”

Axton tried to push up on his elbows, breathless. “Roran—”

“No, don’t talk yet, he’s circling—” Roran’s eyes snapped skyward, watching the golden shape spiral overhead like a divine omen, radiant and terrible. His tail lashed behind him, every inch of his wolven form on alert.

“I know him,” Axton wheezed. “He’s, he’s not dangerous. That’s Valeros.”

Roran slowly looked down, eyes narrowed in suspicion, nose flaring as if trying to catch the scent. “That’s… Valeros? Hello, that’s a dragon! And here I thought you were the smart one!”

Axton gave him a strained look. “That’s Valeros without his glamor.”

Roran blinked. Looked at the dragon. Back at Axton.

“Why,” he said slowly, “am I only just learning that Valeros is a dragon?”

“Because I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Well,” Roran exhaled, eyes still on the descending figure of golden wrath and myth, “consider me thoroughly surprised.”

The wind quieted as the dragon wheeled into a wide arc, banking over the treetops like a golden storm given wings. With practiced grace he lowered himself, wings spread wide, back-arched, tail counterbalancing as his claws touched the earth. Dust scattered in reverence. Birds burst from the trees behind him. His wings folded with slow majesty, a breeze curling around the folds like it dared not rush him.

A smile played at the edges of his mouth like he knew full well the effect he had on the landscape, and the hearts within it.

“Well, hello there.” Nelneras said with a rumble.

Axton freed himself from his furry jailor, stepping forward. Cool. Calm. His face absolutely didn’t twitch with relief. “We’ve been waiting for hours.”

“I was delayed,” came the rumble, amused rather than apologetic. “I landed in sap. A lot of sap. It took three river-washes, a songbird's judgment, and one very judgmental hawk to get it out.”

Axton stared. “You smell like a very wise pinecone.”

“Thank you,” Nelneras said without shame, dipping his massive head. “I chose juniper as a distraction. I smell rustic.”

While they greeted, Roran stood still, his ears were forward. His jaw slackened slightly. And the look in his eyes raw amazement you only got once or twice in a lifetime, if you were lucky.

Nelneras’ talons crunched gently into the earth as he folded his wings. “And why is Roran here, I don’t recall inviting him?”

“He, uh… he wanted to come.” Axton rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t plan it, I swear. He just showed up. Said he was going with me whether I liked it or not.”

The dragon arched a single golden brow, his whiskers wiggling.

“I was going to ask,” Axton added, more sheepishly, “but by the time the thought occurred to ask, we were already halfway to Velnareth.”

“I see.” Nelneras snorted softly. “And does this… uninvited guest often threaten to insert himself into your journeys?”

“Only the ones he thinks are dangerous.” Axton muttered with a faint smile.

That earned the ghost of a grin on the dragon’s snout. Then Roran found his voice.

“You’re a dragon,” he said at last, low and breathless, as though naming the truth might scatter it like morning mist. “You’re… truly a dragon.”

Nelneras tilted his head, regal and bemused. “So, I’ve been told, but don’t go spreading it around.”

“I’ve never a gold dragon before,” Roran went on, the awe leaking into every word whether he wanted it or not. “The way your wings caught the sun, I thought the sky itself had broken open.”

A slow, pleased breath stirred Nelneras’ chest, “A poetic way to say hello.”

Roran managed to blink, his jaw tightening as if trying to cage the words before they escaped again. “I didn’t know they made you so… polished. Most stories talk about dragons as wild things. Untouchable. But you look like you were carved to be seen.”

Nelneras blinked, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat. “I do rather enjoy being admired.”

“He’s not usually this flustered.” Axton said.

“I don’t doubt it,” Nelneras chuckled. “Though I must say, he wears it well.”

Roran opened his mouth, closed it again, then muttered, “I’ll need to do a proper greeting once I remember how to speak like a knight again.”

“You may take your time,” Nelneras said, “I am in no hurry.”

“So… we’re off to a good start, then?” Axton sighed.

“Oh yes. The best.” The dragon then yawned, “How was the journey? Uneventful, I hope?”

Axton hesitated. A flicker of tension passed across his shoulders, barely more than a shift in the wind. He glanced down, scuffed the heel of his boot through the grass, and then offered a small shrug with more care than confidence.

“It was quiet,” he said, which was true, if you didn’t count the fight with Pyretalon. The letter he’d left behind. The knot of guilt that hadn’t untied since sunrise. “We made good time. I packed light.”

Nelneras studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing not in suspicion, but in the gentle way someone searches a face for what wasn’t said. Then he let it go with a soft exhale.

“Good. We’ll have a bit more sky yet before we rest for the night.”

As he turned slightly and crouched low, preparing to launch again, Roran blinked at the movement, then frowned. “Wait. Where exactly am I supposed to sit?”

“You aren’t.” came the answer, calm and unyielding.

“Oh. I didn’t mean, I wasn’t assuming…”

“I do not carry passengers like a wagon horse,” Nelneras said evenly. “At least not those who haven’t earned it or asked.”

“I wasn’t trying to insult you,” Roran muttered, ears dipping low. “I just figured, with the distance…”

That’s when Nelneras tilted his head with a flick of curiosity. “Then how did you get here?”

“He has a spell,” Axton interjected quickly, a bit too quickly. “Kind of… a travel spell. Temporary flight. Nothing too impressive.”

“Not impressive!?” The wolven’s gaze sharpened.

“What?” Axton said, trying to sound innocent. “It’s just… the name’s a bit dramatic, that’s all.”

Nelneras raised a brow ridge. “What name?”

Axton hesitated. Then sighed. “Moon force.”

There was a pause. Roran muttered, “It’s not that silly.”

“You literally shout it,” Axton replied, trying not to smile. “With a flourish.”

“I have to shout something. That’s how it works. What would you shout?”

“I don’t know, anything but Moon force!”

Watching this exchange with growing amusement, Nelneras took a seat and flicked his tail. “I’ll judge for myself. Show me.”

Roran’s chest puffed ever so slightly. He stepped back, adjusted his footing in the grass, and then extended one arm skyward, “Moon force!”

Nelneras inhaled sharply, his eyes suddenly wide as the direwolf form took shape, “Oh.”

His cheeks burned brighter with every passing second, the flush crawling up to the tips of his ears. “S-sorry about him,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as he avoided Nelneras’ eyes. “I know it’s not… I mean, it’s not exactly advanced magic or anything. He’s just really enthusiastic.” He winced. “Which is… good. That’s good.”

But the scholar of a dragon did not have the reaction he expected. Instead, the gold trilled, deep in his chest, his turquoise eyes sparkling, “Oh fascinating! Is it divine in nature? It feels divine. And is that silver luminance a fixed trait or does it shift with lunar phases? Do the wings function under normal gravity or is there a lift matrix involved? How long can you hold it? Does it drain you?”

“Uh…” Roran, still glowing, let out a huff.

“I need to see you in flight,” Nelneras continued, already pacing with excitement. “Does the transformation alter your balance? Do you retain your wolven senses or are they altered by the aerial instincts?”

“I…uh…it flies,” Roran managed. “Pretty fast.”

“Is this common?” Nelneras asked, as he studied the shimmering form.

“Not that I know of.” Roran admitted.

“How is it cast?”

“I… don’t know.”

“You’re a fountain of knowledge.” Axton exhaled, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

For the next several minutes, the dragon peppered Roran with rapid-fire questions on how long the form lasted, whether it felt warm or cold beneath him, what sensations accompanied the ascent, what strain it placed on him, if it retained wolven scent markers during sustained altitude shifts. Roran answered what he could, though more often than not, it was with a shrug and an apologetic smile.

Eventually, Nelneras gave a quiet shake of his wings, testing the breeze, his eyes drifting toward the golden-dipped horizon. “We should continue on,” he said. “Still a few hours of light left. The sooner we get above those eastern ridges, the easier tomorrow will be.”

Roran, stretching his arms with a grunt, tilted his head. “How long do you reckon the trip will take?”

“If we don’t rush?” Nelneras’ tail swept behind him thoughtfully. “A week. Maybe less, if weather favors us and you don’t need to stop every few hours to sniff flowers.”

“I only did that once.” Then, more seriously, he reached for the silver medallion tied to his belt. “If we’re traveling long… I should do The Guide’s Offering.” He walked a few steps from them, quieting. “Won’t take long.”

Nelneras tilted his head, voice lowered in interest. “The Guide’s Offering,” he echoed. “I’ve read of moonlit oaths but never heard of this one.”

“It’s a rite,” Roran said softly, “for long journeys. One of Sartren’s, for those who walk under moonlight and don’t always know where the road leads.” He turned his gaze forward again, thumb brushing the medallion. “You give water touched by moon or starlight, doesn’t have to be much, and ask her to help you find the right way, even if you’re not sure what that is yet.” His tail shifted behind him. “It’s not about knowing where you're going. It's about walking with purpose.” Then, with a small, sheepish smile, he added, “Plus, it keeps the storms away, usually.”

The wolven then knelt in the amber grass, facing the darkening sky. His head bowed as he raised the pendant to the light, catching the last gleam of the sun like it might ignite the stars themselves. Murmuring words only Sartren’s faithful knew, he dipped the charm into his waterskin, touched it to his brow, then heart.

“Guide us,” he whispered, “as you guided those before.” A moment passed, and the breeze carried his prayer away like breath on the edge of dusk.

Nelneras inclined his head. “A good omen,” he said gently. “Your goddess is welcome among my skies.”

Roran grinned wide, standing tall again. “She always flies with me, though I do believe they are her skies.”

“Never say I argued with a goddess.” The dragon turned to Axton with an amused snort. Twin turquoise eyes held the weight of the sky. “And you my new apprentice? Would you care to fly with me this time?”

Axton froze. Heat climbed his neck like a rising storm.

Fly with him? With Nelneras?

That wasn’t a casual offer. That was an invitation that meant something. It was too much. Too close. Too perfect. And yet he wanted it. Gods, he wanted it.

His thoughts turned to chaos: He smells like parchment and the wind before a storm. His voice could make the world stop turning. Don’t scream, be calm, don’t be an idiot. You're going to scream.

“I…uh, I mean…I, yes?” Axton stammered, mortified at how high his voice pitched at the end. His brain had melted the moment the dragon’s smoldering gaze held him, every spell he'd ever learned fleeing his memory like birds from a startled tree.

“Splendid.” came the dragon’s reply.

Before he could correct himself, Nelneras scooped him up with terrifying ease, paws holding him tight.

“WAIT…NELNERAS!”

They leapt. Wind roared in his ears as they shot skyward, limbs tangled in warm scales and forelegs. Axton’s scream vanished into the rushing air, part laughter, part horror, and entirely real, his heart soaring just as wildly as the rest of him.