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Chapter 35: The Song of Ascent

The dust still hung, turning Axton’s light into a dim, golden haze. Nelneras stood motionless, breath measured, wings tight to his sides. Every instinct in him said to roar, to strike at the mountain that had dared cage them, but the sound that left him was quieter, a hum so low it trembled through the floor. An old hymn. A prayer to steady the fire.

He closed his eyes. In that moment he felt it: the echo of something vast, not gone but waiting. The air still carried Bahamut’s name, thinned by centuries, yet stubbornly present. It filled the hollow of his chest until his fear folded inward, reshaped itself into something sharper.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw not ruin, but inheritance. Dust and silence yes, but also the marks of hands and claws that had once built together. He had dreamed of this harmony all his life, and here it lay buried under the same stone that now trapped them.

Perhaps the gods were laughing. Or testing him. He could not fail them. Not here.

Roran was first to the fallen wall, paws braced against the tangle of rock. “We can dig through.” he said, voice already thick with effort. Stone grated under his claws; a few smaller pieces slid free, then jammed again.

“Step aside.” Zezraya growled. She crouched low and heaved with all four limbs. The cavern trembled, dust falling like pale rain across her wings. When she drew back, the stones had shifted only enough to mock her. “The mountain’s settled its weight here,” she muttered. “Touch one piece wrong and it’ll bury us twice over.”

“Couldn’t we move it with magic?” Roran asked, hopeful as ever.

Axton’s fingers brushed the orb of his staff. “Only in part. The enchantments I know could lift stones the size of shields, not whole walls. The power to bend mountains takes more than one mage.”

Nelneras lowered his head to the collapse, nostrils flaring, eyes tracing the pattern where dust still drifted through tiny gaps. “He’s right. The fall locked itself. Even flame or force would make the ceiling come down. The way behind is lost.”

Zezraya’s tail lashed once. “Then what? Wait for the air to thin?”

Nelneras drew a slow breath and turned toward the unbroken passage. “This isn’t how I intended our visit to go,” he said quietly, voice steady by will alone. “But panic will not open the way. We’ll trace the air currents, look for cracks, secondary halls, anything that leads upward.”

Roran straightened, clapping a dusty hand to his chest. “Aye, good plan. Up’s the way to go. Or out. Or, you know, anywhere that’s not in.”

Zezraya turned her molten stare on Nelneras. “And while we play miners, you plan to admire the scenery, don’t you?”

His gaze met hers evenly. “If we are to die here, I would at least like to understand where we’ve died.”

She snorted. “Spoken like a true scholar.”

“Spoken like one who still has faith that this place holds more than death.”

Axton swallowed, eyes flicking between them. “If the air’s still moving, there’s a way out. Maybe the inner sanctum has another passage. The architecture of old Bahamut temples often favored spiral layouts that mimicked ascension.”

Nelneras’ whiskers twitched faintly, the ghost of a smile. “Indeed. We follow the air. The builders of Bahamut’s halls were never ones to leave worshippers without an escape.”

Roran’s ears perked. “So, there is another door.”

“If we’re lucky.” Axton murmured.

Zezraya gave a sharp snort. “Luck’s a fool’s rope…but I’ll pull it if I must.”

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

Hours had passed since the mountain swallowed them. The air down here felt old, thick with dust and the faint sweetness of incense that had long since turned to ghost. Every breath came with a taste of stone and memory. Their light spells bob like drifting embers, painting the tunnel in shades of gold and shadow. Now and then a droplet fell from some hidden seam above, each one echoing loud as a heartbeat.

Axton’s sphere of light trembled faintly in his palm. He said nothing, but his knuckles had gone white around the staff that anchored the spell. Nelneras walked ahead, wings half-furled to brush the walls, his scales whispering against the rock. He could feel the boy’s fear like static at his back, raw, human, painfully fragile, and it gnawed at him more than the dark itself.

“Still no draft,” Roran rumbled behind them, voice bright as he could make it. “Means no new cave-ins, right? Or maybe it means we’re running out of air. Hard to tell!”

Zezraya snorted. “If we were running out of air, pup, you’d have passed out already. You breathe like a forge bellows.”

“That’s all muscle, not lungs,” he said, wagging his tail once. “Different category.”

Her spined tail flicked, but a hint of amusement tugged at her voice. “Whatever you tell yourself.”

They moved deeper through the ruined heart of the temple, where time itself seemed to have eroded faith into silence. The walls gleamed faintly beneath soot and lichen, their marble veined with gold that caught the light like thin seams of sunlight buried alive. Fallen tiles, once arranged in perfect symmetry, lay scattered underfoot; each step stirred a whisper of centuries.

The corridor ended in ruin. A mountain’s worth of stone had spilled across the passage, sealing their way forward beneath a jagged slab.

Axton stopped short. “Another dead end.”

Roran’s tail drooped. “That’s, uh… number four? Or five? You said the air felt fresher.”

“It is fresher,” Zezraya snapped, rounding on him. Her bronze eyes burned like molten coins. “You think my nose lies? There’s a passage beyond that wall, I can smell it.” Her claws flexed against the stone as she stared at it, breathing hard through her nostrils. “It is not a dead end. There’s something beyond.” She slammed her claws against the slab, “This is the way.”

Nelneras’ fluffed his wings. “We’ve been smelling fresh air for the last three turns, Zezraya.”

She bared her fangs. “Then perhaps stop breathing it and let me work.” Her tail lashed, scattering grit across their claws. “Now let me think, before I show you my ugly side.”

“Oh geeze, Molten Claw, I’m sure you don’t have an ugly side.” Roran’s ears splayed, “You’re beautiful! You know, in that ‘I could crush a cart with one claw’ kind of way. Bet the boy dragons line up for miles. Or girls, if that’s what you like.”

Her snarl shook dust from the ceiling. She thunked her forehead into the stone with a sound that made even Nelneras flinch. “I swear to every god above, I will eat him.”

“Appreciate the offer.” Roran said meekly.

The roar that followed shook the stone. “I SAID LET ME THINK!”

Fire surged from her jaws in a short, furious plume, washing the chamber in amber light before dying against the rock. The walls groaned in answer; dust rained from the ceiling like fine ash.

Roran’s ears flattened. “Right! Thinking time. Got it.”

“Good idea.” Nelneras muttered, stepping backward with all the grace of someone retreating from a live volcano.

Zezraya’s snarl still hung in the corridor like smoke. She had turned her back on them, wings half-mantled, molten light leaking between her teeth while she muttered over the fallen stones. Every so often she exhaled a low flare of flame to test the cracks, each one answering with a sullen hiss. None of them dared interrupt.

Nelneras waited several lengths away, the weight of dust settling across his scales like judgment. The silence pressed was deafening. He should have been able to lead them out of here; a dragon raised among mortals ought to understand both stone and hope.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. Axton had drifted toward one of the mural walls, his little globe of light trembling beside him. The boy’s shoulders were tight, his head bowed, as if the carvings might scold him for living. Nelneras rose and padded closer, his claws whispering against the grit.

“Best not stand too near her tail,” he murmured, nodding toward Zezraya. “When she’s thinking, she tends to swat first and reason later.”

Axton startled, glancing up with a thin, nervous smile. “I… wasn’t going to. She looks like she’d melt anyone who tried.”

“Indeed,” Nelneras said. “It’s her version of prayer.”

The human managed a faint laugh, then looked down again. “I just thought maybe I’d find something useful here. A rune, a passage sigil, anything.” His voice shrank. “But I don’t have the right spells. I should have prepared better. You must think I’m—”

“Stop.” The word was gentle but left no room for argument. Nelneras lowered his head until his eyes met Axton’s. “You are not useless. Look.”

He gestured with a talon toward the wall the human had been studying. Light spilled across the stone, revealing a relief half-buried beneath dust: a dragon arched above a mortal priest, both raising hands toward a shared flame. “These halls were built so long ago that the stone itself has forgotten sunlight. Yet see how the line of the flame still glows when light touches it? That shimmer, mica mixed with powdered gold. Dragons carved it to remind them that devotion should shine even underground.”

Axton’s gaze lifted, caught by the faint glitter. “It’s beautiful.”

“Bahamut’s followers believed flame and faith were the same thing,” Nelneras continued softly. “One gave warmth; the other, meaning. They thought if both burned together, the gods could hear through the mountain itself.” His eyes lingered on the carving’s ruined edges of the carving. “Now the fire is gone, and still the message endures. There’s hope in that.”

Axton’s lips parted, but his answer faltered into silence. Nelneras saw the fear behind it, the same fear he felt coiling under his own ribs. The thought of losing the human here, of that light dimming forever, made something fierce rise in his chest.

He drew a slow breath. “Axton… I owe you an apology. I chased history when I should have minded safety. You trusted me to know these depths.” His voice cracked quietly. “And I do not. Not yet.”

The younger man shook his head at once. “You don’t have to—”

“I must,” Nelneras cut in. “Because guilt is the cousin of pride, and both rot if left unspoken.” He leaned closer, lowering his muzzle until the warmth of his breath brushed the side of Axton’s face. “I will get you out of this, as I think Bahamut would not forgive me if I let fear smother the spark in your eyes.

Axton’s eyes shone, wide and trembling. “You always sound so sure.”

“That’s because I am.” Nelneras said with a faint, crooked smile.

The man’s laugh came quickly and softly. “You’re insufferable.”

“So, I’m told.” He tilted his head, pretending to consider. “But endearing, I hope?”

Axton flushed, the pink climbing to his ears. “Maybe a little.”

Nelneras brushed the tip of his muzzle gently against Axton’s hair. The faint scent of ozone clung to him; warmth seeped through the human’s robe. When he drew back, his turquoise eyes gleamed with quiet mischief.

Axton’s blush deepened. “That’s… not standard teaching practice.”

“Consider it advanced study,” Nelneras said. “One reserved for very promising students.”

Nelneras lingered where he was, the low purr in his chest shading toward a growl, deep and deliberate. His tail swept once across the floor, slow as thought.

“Careful, human,” he said, the words curling like smoke. “That blush does dangerous things to my mind.”

Axton’s lips parted, but no protest came; only a soft, startled breath.

“Mm,” the dragon mused, voice dropping to a murmur that trembled against the air between them. “Perhaps, when we’re free of this tomb, I’ll introduce you to my lance properly. You’ve studied its glow from afar, but a scholar should know what he writes of. It’s a relic of flesh and fire, and I’ve been far too patient.”

“Your… lance.” Axton repeated, half-mortified, half-laughing despite himself.

“Purely for educational purposes, of course.” Nelneras’ grin was all polished gold and sin. He leaned close enough that his breath warmed the shell of the young man’s ear. “And if your curiosity still runs high, we might discuss the finer points of biting. It’s a language all its own.”

Axton gave a helpless laugh, the sound flustered and bright. The dragon’s answering rumble vibrated through the stone, pleased and possessive in equal measure. His tail flicked again, brushing the dust near Axton’s boots.

“There,” The dragon’s eyes half-lidded, a pleased hum rolling in his chest. satisfied with the color blooming across the boy’s cheeks. “You remember how to breathe. Never let the dark take that from you.”

Zezraya’s shout cleaved through the warming air, “If you two are finished whispering to each other, I found a crack that might actually lead somewhere!”

Nelneras straightened with a slow sigh, wings folding back into their elegant lines. “Saved by the copper dragoness,” he murmured. “Come, before she decides the wall’s not the only thing that needs breaking.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Dust still clung to Nelneras’ scales as he slid from the narrow crevice, the rough stone dragging against his flanks until, with a final twist of his wings, he emerged into open air. He straightened to his full height, his body stretching in a long ripple of gold and shadow. The chamber’s stale breath met him first, cool, mineral, ancient, and for the first time since the collapse, he could stand without his horns scraping stone.

Zezraya was already there, shaking soot from her wings like a wet hound. Her copper scales caught what little light Axton’s spell-orbs gave, throwing it back in molten gleams. A grin curved her muzzle, sharp, predatory, and entirely self-satisfied.

“There,” she announced, tail sweeping the floor with deliberate arrogance. “A path. Exactly as I said.”

Roran crawled out behind Axton, coughing into one paw. “I knew you’d find it! Didn’t doubt you for a second—well, maybe a little second. A very short one.” He straightened, brushing dust from his armor, his tail wagging despite the gloom. “Remind me next time to skip breakfast before following dragons through holes meant for squirrels.”

Zezraya turned her head slowly, one eye narrowing to a glowing slit. “You think that was funny?”

Roran’s ears perked. “Wasn’t it?”

She huffed, the sound halfway between a growl and a sigh, and muttered, “Unbelievable.” before stalking ahead.

Nelneras’ whiskers twitched, amusement flickering across his face. He nodded to Axton who was currently brushing off his robes and blinking against the dim light. The dragon motioned for him to follow.

The floor sloped downward, stones cool beneath their claws and boots. The air carried a strange, metallic tang, the scent of old wards long dormant, of magic asleep but not dead. Nelneras’ pulse quickened. He could feel something ahead of them, vast and waiting.

Then the tunnel opened, and the breath caught in his throat.

The cavern widened without sound; its breath held in ages of stillness. Pillars of pale marble rose from the earth like the ribs of some great creature long buried, each one striated with veins of gold that caught and cradled their light. Dust floated in slow spirals, drifting through a gloom that shimmered faintly, as though even the air remembered brightness once.

Between the pillars, the floor was inlaid with fragments of mosaic: scales of colored glass and dull stone pieced into half-vanished patterns. When Nelneras’ steps crossed them, they gave a muted reply beneath his paws, as if memory still answered to weight. The scent here was deep and clean, like untouched water sealed beneath mountain stone; it carried a note of incense, brittle and ghostly, the relic of prayers spoken by mouths long gone to ash.

At the chamber’s far edge stood two colossal dragons wrought in stone, their posture neither threat nor welcome, but vigilance. They crouched with wings folded close, heads bowed toward one another, and in the hollow of their chests lay recesses meant to cradle light, now empty, now cold.

Nelneras gazed upon it all with reverent disbelief. This was not just any other room. Even decay seemed to have kept its distance, afraid to mar what faith had once built. This was a resonance chamber. Every true temple of Bahamut was said to have one, a place where mortal and dragon had once lifted their voices together, weaving flame and song into a single prayer. To stand within such a hall was to feel the echo of that harmony, a memory still vibrating through the bones of the mountain.

Roran’s voice broke softly through the quiet, rough with wonder. “Well, that’s… something. Big, shiny, and still no door.”

“Do not start that again,” Zezraya hissed, her claws scraping against the floor. Smoke curled from her nostrils, catching the thin light. “There is a way through. So, stop staring and look.”

The wolven blinked, tail wagging once despite himself. “Right. Looking. Maybe it’s hiding behind one of the big ones…dragons love their secrets.”

Nelneras lingered where the shadows deepened between the pillars, eyes roaming the carvings as though afraid to blink and lose them. Every chisel mark carried intention; even the cracks seemed to have grown carefully, like vines seeking grace in ruin. This was Bahamut’s craft, faith wrought into stone, and he could already hear Valcagor’s laughter echoing in its future. All this wonder measured in coins. His tail lashed once against the floor, sending dust scattering like powdered gold.

Still, not all would be squandered. The temple might fall to pickaxes and greed, but this moment, this shared discovery beside Axton, would remain untouched. The first to breathe life into these halls again were not thieves, but kindred souls. No hoard could weigh that against its worth.

Yet perhaps, he thought, even Valcagor’s greed might serve the light in its own way. If this discovery brought Bahamut’s name with reverence to both mortal and dragon tongue again, if even one soul remembered her not as myth but as mercy, then the goddess would not remain forgotten.

He drew a long, steady breath, tasting the mineral hush of the air before turning to Axton. The tension eased from his shoulders; mischief replaced it.

“You heard The Molten Claw,” he said softly, a rumble in his throat more purr than speech. “Stay close. I’d rather not have to explain to history how one brilliant mage was devoured by architecture.” His turquoise eyes gleamed, narrowing into slits. “Besides, I find the view far more agreeable when you’re within reach.”

Axton startled, color blooming up his neck. “I—I’ll stay close, then.”

Nelneras’ lips curved, “See that you do, human. The goddess may forgive curiosity, but I’m far less merciful.”

Axton followed a few paces behind, whispering observations in that quick, earnest tone that made Nelneras’ whiskers twitch with amusement. Together they compared glyphs, the younger man kneeling to trace the path of the golden veins that webbed across the floor. Where they intersected, faint points of light glimmered, notes, perhaps, in a song of stone and metal. Nelneras hummed softly under his breath, a low, instinctive resonance that made the air tremble. The lights pulsed faintly answering him, and Axton’s eyes widened.

“Well now…” Nelneras mused, stepping back. “Faith rewards curiosity.” He examined the far wall where the patterns converged into the faint outline of a circle. The shape was subtle, nearly lost beneath centuries of grime. He pressed his paw to it, and the faint shimmer spread outward like ripples on still water. A deep, hollow click answered him from somewhere within the stone. Satisfied, he settled back on his haunch and let out a pleased warble that echoed gently through the chamber. “There. A hidden gate perfectly preserved. You see? Patience and reverence will always—”

Zezraya cut him off with a dry flick of her tail. “Will always what? Leave us staring at another wall? You found the door, goldling. How do you open it?”

Nelneras’ whiskers curled forward, then stilled. His brow ridges lifted ever so slightly as he leaned closer, studying the seal. “Ah,” he said after a pause that stretched far too long. “That… is an excellent question.”

“You don’t know, do you?” Axton stifled a grin.

The gold dragon’s nostrils flared as he snorted. “Not yet,” he said, voice prim with wounded dignity. “But I suspect it involves… music.” His gaze bristled with excitement. The gold dragon bent close to the etched floor, tracing its winding grooves with the care of a jeweler examining a gem. Patterns repeated in rhythm rather than language, curves measured, intersecting, deliberate. “These lines,” he murmured under his breath, “they move as sound does.”

Beside him, Axton knelt, the light from his staff washing across the stone. His eyes darted between draconic glyphs and mortal letters etched in smaller strokes beneath them. “It’s written for two voices,” he whispered. “Here…see how the runes alternate between the mortal script and the draconic? One line for each voice. It isn’t a chant. It’s a song.”

“Not just sound—harmony.” Axton’s fingers followed one of the glowing threads until it curved toward a second set of markings, smaller and sharper, carved in the language of men. “The alternating script, it’s like… two voices written side by side. Draconic and Common. Maybe it needed both.”

The thought hung there, fragile as the dust motes around them. Nelneras’ wings fluffed, his head tilting. “Perhaps. I’ve seen temples that bound dragon and mortal magic together before, but nothing this refined. These recesses—” his gaze flicked to the twin draconic statues, hollow-chested and waiting… “they may once have held flame and light. Offerings, or instruments of resonance?”

Zezraya gave a low sound from behind, somewhere between a growl and a sigh. “Wonderful. Another guess from the gold philosopher. Tell me, if you set this thing off and we all burn, do I get to claw your name into the rubble?”

That earned a soft laugh from Roran, “Aw, let ‘em try. If it works, we walk out heroes. If it doesn’t—well, we’ll be too dead to complain.”

“Unlike us, you and your twigling aren’t fireproof.” She snorted.

Axton, meanwhile, glanced toward Nelneras with a flicker of nervous admiration. “It could react to tone,” he said. “To breath.”

“Or” Nelneras replied gently, “to faith.” His eyes roved the mosaic once more, catching the faint echo of circles arranged like notes on a staff. “It could be a song. One meant to open, or to sanctify. Or to test.”

Silence followed, save for the steady hum of buried magic. Then, with a slow, resigned exhale, he added, “It may also be a funerary ward. There’s a chance it kills us.”

Axton’s shoulders tightened. “And you’re smiling because…?”

“Because” the dragon said, almost fondly, “faith is rarely certain.” He turned toward the human, eyes gleaming like dawn over water. “Stand close. If I’m wrong, we’ll at least go to Bahamut together.”

That pulled a startled laugh from Axton, “That’s the worst reassurance I’ve ever been given.”

“Then it’s honest.” Nelneras stepped toward the nearest statue, firelight blooming faintly beneath his scales. “Care to help me remind it how to sing?”

The golden dragon inhaled slowly, steadying the tremor in his chest, a pulse born of wonder and unease. “Flame and light,” he murmured, the words curling like smoke in the still air. “We’ll weave it together. I’ll breathe the fire into the guardian on the left while you channel your light into the other. But keep your mind on me, not the spell. Feel the rhythm beneath the air; the Weave hums when it’s aligned. When you hear it rise, match your pulse to mine.”

“That’s resonance,” Axton murmured, eyes alight. “If our channels sync, the Weave should—”

His words faltered as quickly as they came. A blink, a shallow breath, and the light dimmed. “Sorry. I—shouldn’t be telling you how to cast.”

The gold dragon’s whiskers curved in a faint arc, a smile in motion more than expression. “You should be telling me.” He said gently. “That is the purpose of study, is it not? To pass flame from one mind to another, until both burn brighter.” His gaze softened as he tilted his head closer, voice lowering to something like a purr of pride. “You see the harmony already. That insight, never silence it for my sake.” He paused, letting the warmth settle before continuing, “Now. We begin as one: my breath in flame, your focus in light. Do you understand?”

A flicker of light danced in the orb of Axton’s staff, trembling as his fingers tightened around the grip. “I think so,” he said softly. The hesitation in his tone wavered like candlelight. “If I fail, it could hurt you. You shouldn’t have to rely on me for something this delicate.”

“You will not ruin it,” he said firmly, shifting his hinds. “Trust is never safer than in careful hands, and yours are careful indeed.” He gave an affectionate chuff, nudging at him with his snout, “Besides, I’ve trusted my life to far rougher spells than yours, human. You’ll manage.”

The light caught in Axton’s eyes then, reflecting the gold of dragonfire that lingered unlit behind Nelneras’ teeth. “And if I can’t keep up?”

A slow smile curved the dragon’s muzzle, equal parts pride and promise. “Then I’ll catch you.” he murmured, the vow resonant and utterly sure.

“Alright.” Axton composed himself with his head held high as a reflection of the gold dragon beside him.

Of the pair, Nelneras moved first, exhaling a soft ribbon of flame curling into the hollow of the left guardian’s chest. The runes took it, reflecting through fine channels in the metal as though the statue were drinking in the dawn. Axton followed, his light flowing into the second statue, pale and steady as moonlight over water.

For a moment, the world waited. The silence stretched. Nelneras’ whiskers curled forward, puzzled. “Perhaps the tone was wrong,” he said quietly. “Or we missed the—”

Then, from deep within the floor, a note answered. Low. Resonant. Like the breath of the mountain itself.

Axton startled, his grip tightening. “Did I—did we—?”

A low pitch stirred beneath the floor, one pure tone, then a second above it, a third like a thread pulling the others higher. Not mere vibration: notes, deliberate, forming the first bars of a melody. The mosaic beneath their claws began to gleam, each line of gold filling as though with liquid faith.

Roran’s ears perked; his tail gave an uncertain wag. “Whoa. Is it supposed to sound like that? Feels like the mountain’s trying to sing along.” He placed a paw to his chest, brow furrowed in earnest thought. “Could be harmony. Or indigestion.”

The chuckle that rippled through the group softened the tension, but the ground continued to tremble, the tone rising higher.

“Listen,” murmured Nelneras, feeling the ladder of sound settle against the bones of his jaw.

“It’s beautiful,” Axton murmured. “Like the mountain’s remembering how to sing. Maybe it wants us to?”

Nelneras inclined his head, pride tempered by awe. “Then let us help it remember…It climbs by thirds, then holds. Do not rush the breath.”

Axton’s throat worked as he listened; then, tentatively, he matched the first tone, his voice small but steady. The sound trembled through the hall, brushing over marble and dust. Nelneras joined him, a deep, resonant hum beneath it, gold and warmth entwining with the younger man’s clear light. The song grew layer by layer, ancient harmony reborn on mortal breath and dragon fire.

The chamber stirred to life. Faint motes drifted from the ceiling like slow-falling snow; the runes beneath their feet awakened, their glow pulsing with each phrase. The great door gleamed faintly, as if wings half-lifted under its surface. For one heartbeat the melody held true, pure, balanced, alive.

Then Axton’s tone wavered. Nelneras, striving to catch him, rose too swiftly, and the harmony split apart. The chamber screamed the wrongness back at them, a shattering chord that cracked the stillness like lightning through glass.

Stone trembled. From either side of the sealed gate, the guardian statues moved, not waking but resuming, as though the centuries between songs had been a single blink. Their platinum eyes flared open, and the fire that burned within them turned argent and wrathful.

When they spoke, it was not voice but choral thunder:

“IMPOSTORS. THIEVES. YOU PROFANE HER MEASURE. YOU SEEK THE GODDESS’S GOLD, NOT HER GLORY.”

Dust fell in slow veils. Axton flinched beneath the sound; one hand instinctively rose to his chest. Nelneras’ wings swept outward, light rippling off each golden pinion. “No!” he called, his voice breaking against the echo. “No—we came to honor her! We seek knowledge, not—”

Roran blinked, ears twitching. “Wait, aren’t we technically here for treasure too?”

A long, withering glance silenced him. “Roran,” Nelneras said evenly, “You are not helping.”

The sentinels stepped from their plinths. Each stride resounded like a drumbeat in the wrong key, the temple’s broken hymn twisting into fury.

The sound that tore from Zezraya’s throat was laughter, sharp, molten, exultant. “AHAHAHAHAHAH—finally!” she bellowed, wings flaring, “Something I can fix!”

Then she lunged, wings flaring wide, flame spilling from her throat in a plume of red-orange brilliance. The marble sang beneath her claws as she struck, a living ember loose upon the platinum guardians.

And to Nelneras’ dread, he could do nothing but watch her joy ignite the room.