The world fell away as Vyrinth surged upward, her wings carving through the rain-laden clouds with a thunderous whoosh. Astris's breath caught, her fingers instinctively digging into the ridges of Zaiden's armored coat as the dragon's muscles coiled and released beneath them. The air thinned, sharp and cold, but Vyrinth's scales radiated a furnace-like warmth that seeped into Astris's bones, a stark contrast to the icy wind whipping her hair into a frenzied banner behind her.
"First rule of dragon riding," Zaiden called over his shoulder, his voice smug, "don't let go!"
Before she could retort, Vyrinth tilted into a steep ascent. Astris's stomach lurched as the ground vanished—forests became patchwork quilts, rivers silver threads, and the Spire a jagged needle stitching earth to sky. The cat, wedged between two spines, yowled its displeasure, claws unsheathed and fur fluffed into a comical halo.
Then the sun breached the horizon.
Dawn unfurled in molten gold and rose, painting the clouds in hues of apricot and amethyst. The light caught Vyrinth's scales, setting them ablaze like a thousand smoldering embers, and for a heartbeat, Astris forgot to breathe. The Spire's growl faded, replaced by the rhythmic rush of wind and the dragon's resonant purr vibrating through her legs.
Zaiden glanced back, his smirk visible even in profile. "Still alive, drafter?"
"Disappointed?" she shot back, but her grip tightened as he leaned into a sudden dive.
Vyrinth plummeted, wings folded, the world blurring into streaks of color. Astris's scream morphed into laughter—wild, unbidden—as the dragon pulled up mere yards above a glacial lake, her wingtips skimming the water and sending up spirals of mist. The cat, now clinging to Astris's shoulder, hissed and batted at the spray with a sodden paw.
"Show-off," Astris muttered, her cheeks aching from the grin she couldn't suppress.
Zaiden's chuckle rumbled against her palms. "You're welcome."
They soared higher, the kingdom's outer gates emerging below—a labyrinth of moss-crusted stone and mana-lit watchtowers. Zaiden guided Vyrinth into a wide arc, avoiding the patrols' sightlines. The dragon's landing was a whisper, her talons sinking into the loam of a secluded meadow just beyond the city's edge. Wildflowers trembled in her wake, their petals dusted with dew and the faint sulfurous scent of dragon breath.
Astris slid down, legs wobbling, the cat leaping after her with a indignant mrrow. "Remind me to never do that again," she said, though her eyes still sparkled with the sky's reflection.
Zaiden dismounted, his boots crunching the frosted grass. "Liar. You loved it."
She straightened, attempting dignity. "It was… tolerable. For a death trap with scales."
He snorted, tossing her a small vial from his belt—a healing draught, its contents shimmering like liquid moonlight. "For the leg. Unless you'd rather limp through the Lower Ward announcing our escapade?"
The cat sneezed, shaking droplets from its fur, and stalked toward the gates as if leading a charge.
Astris pocketed the vial, her tone softer. "Thank you. For the ride. And the… not-dying."
Zaiden's smirk softened, a flicker of something earnest beneath the bravado. "Try not to miss me too much, Doran."
Vyrinth snorted, her tail flicking impatiently. With a final, lingering glance, Zaiden remounted, the dragon's wings stirring the meadow into a storm of petals and pollen.
As they vanished into the dawn-lit clouds, Astris turned toward the gates, the cat weaving ahead like a disgruntled herald. The Spire's growl returned, faint but insistent, yet for the first time, it felt… distant.
Behind her, the sky held the memory of fire.
The palace roof, a sprawling expanse of moonstone tiles and Celestial tapestries weathered by centuries of storms, gleamed under the glowing morning sky as Vyrinth descended. Zaiden dismounted, his boots clicking against the stone, the dragon's ember scales dimming to smoldering coals as she folded her wings. The Spire's growl reverberated beneath the palace, deeper here, more intimate—a sound that seeped into his marrow like a guilty confession.
"You reek of dungeon rot," came a voice from the shadows.
Zaiden turned. Queen Nayeli leaned against a marble gargoyle, her opulent gown blending with the night, her eyes twin shards of polished sapphire. Behind her, King Einar emerged, his silver goatee catching the light of the mana-lit braziers that lined the roof's edge.
"And you've been skulking," Einar said, his tone deceptively mild. "With someone."
Zaiden didn't flinch. "It is none of your concern. A pawn I find useful."
Nayeli stepped forward, her shadow stretching unnaturally to brush Vyrinth's talons. The dragon growled, smoke curling from her nostrils. "You tread close to betrayal, zirana," the queen whispered. "That grimoire is not hers to wield. Nor yours to enable."
"It was Arthain's," Zaiden countered, gesturing to the Spire. "And his sins are ours to bear. Unless you'd prefer the Devourer cracks its cage entirely?"
Einar's hand settled on the hilt of his dagger, its pommel carved into Cybele's lioness. "You presume to lecture us on legacy? You, who squander your birthright chasing shadows?"
Zaiden's laugh was bitter. "Birthright? The throne is a noose, Father. One you've tightened with every lie."
The Spire's growl surged, its vibrations shaking loose a cascade of gravel from the roof's edge. For a heartbeat, Zaiden felt it—not anger, but hunger. A flicker of Arthain's desperation, his fear, etched into the stones like a haunting.
Nayeli's gaze sharpened. "What did you see in that chamber?"
Zaiden hesitated. The portrait of Arthain, the grimoire, the star chart—they were pieces of a puzzle his parents had buried. But the truth was a blade that cut both ways. "Enough to know the lattice is failing. And enough to fix it."
Einar's jaw tightened. "You will not involve outsiders in—"
"Enough." Zaiden's voice cracked like a whip. "The Architects' relics are not yours to hoard. Not anymore."
Silence fell, heavy as the palace's gilded chains. Vyrinth shifted, her tail thumping the tiles in warning.
Nayeli's shadow retreated, her expression unreadable. "You have until the Frostbane Festival," she said finally. "Prove your theory. Or watch your drafter pay the price of your arrogance."
She vanished into the dark, Einar following with a last, glacial glare.
Zaiden stood alone, the Spire's growl softening to a whisper—a plea, or a challenge. Below, the Lower Ward's lanterns flickered like defiant stars. Somewhere among them, Astris would be scheming, her grimoire open, the cat perched like a judge.
He unsheathed Eclipse's Kiss, its starlight blade reflecting the Spire's silhouette. "One problem at a time," he murmured.
But the stars, and the Devourer, were listening.
The Lower Ward's labyrinth of leaning buildings swallowed Astris as she trudged home, her boots scuffing cobblestones still slick with last night's rain. Her apartment loomed above Briar & Bane Apothecary, its sagging stairwell reeking of sulfur and the faint, herbal tang of wilted rosemary—failed attempts to mask the dungeon ichor seeping through the foundation. She shouldered open the door, the hinges groaning like a tired ghost, and blinked against the blade of sunlight slicing through grimy windows. Dust motes swirled in the beam, illuminating the chaos: stacks of parchment avalanching off her desk, quills stabbed into the walls like daggers, and the star chart stolen from the Royal Observatory pinned above her bed, its edges curling like claws.
"Home sweet hovel," she muttered, toeing off her boots. The cat slipped past her, leaping onto the bed with a judgmental flick of its tail.
Astris peeled off her mud-caked coat, the fabric stiff with dried goblin blood and dragon ash, and pulled on a threadbare chemise that smelled faintly of lavender—a relic from a life before grimoires and guilt. She yanked the curtains shut, plunging the room into a murky twilight, and collapsed onto the mattress. The cat grumbled but settled against her shins, its purr a grounding rumble.
Sleep came like a thief, swift and ruthless.
Then came the dream.
Sunlight dappled the cobblestones of Lismore's Scholar's Row, where café awnings fluttered like brightly colored sails. Astris, younger and softer at the edges, sat at a wrought-iron table outside The Starbean Café, her boots propped on an empty chair. The air smelled of roasted mana beans and the energy crackle of the nearby community portal, its obsidian archway shimmering with outgoing travelers.
"Astris!"
Her mother emerged from the portal's rippling surface, her travel cloak dusted with pollen from the eastern farmlands. She was all warmth and wind-chapped cheeks, her smile crinkling the scar that jagged from brow to chin—a relic of her own adventuring days.
"You're late," Astris said, standing to embrace her.
"You're thin," her mother countered, squeezing her shoulders. "Are they feeding you at that university, or just textbooks?"
Astris rolled her eyes. "Yes, Ma. They've got a dungeon core in the cafeteria that spits out roast pheasant."
Her mother laughed, the sound rich and familiar, and looped an arm through hers. "Come. Let's find you a proper meal before the border markets close."
The portal whisked them to a bustling town on the edge of the Razorleaf Wilds, where merchants hawked dragonbone trinkets and fey-spun silks. The air buzzed with haggling voices and the sizzle of skewered duskwolf meat. Astris's mother bartered for a woolen scarf, her hands deft, her grin sharp. "For winter," she said, draping it around Astris's neck. "You'll need it when—"
The alarm tore through the street—a deep, bone-shaking horn.
"Dungeon breach!" someone screamed.
Chaos erupted. Goblins poured from an alley, their venom-tongues lashing, while shadowy demons oozed from cracks in the earth, claws scraping stone. Astris's mother grabbed her wrist, yanking her into a sprint. They wove through panicked crowds, ducking into the forest's thorny embrace.
"Here," her mother hissed, shoving Astris into a hollow beneath a razorleaf tree. "Stay. Silent."
"Ma—"
"Quiet." Her mother pressed a dagger into her hand, "If I'm not back by moonrise, run. Don't look back."
Astris clutched the blade, her throat raw. "Don't do this."
But her mother was already gone, a shadow melting into the trees.
The forest pulsed with danger. Snarls. The wet snap of jaws. Then a scream—human, shattered.
Astris ran.
Branches tore her skin. Thorns bit her palms. She stumbled into a clearing, and there they were: three goblins, their eyes glowing like rotten stars. Behind them, a demon unfurled, its form smoke and serrated teeth.
The lead goblin lunged—
Astris woke with a gasp, shooting upright. The cat tumbled off the bed with an indignant yowl. Her chest burned, a faint amber glow pulsing beneath her sternum. She pressed a palm to it, the warmth seeping into her fingers.
"I haven't forgotten," she whispered.
The glow faded, leaving only the echo of her mother's scarf, still tucked in her trunk, and the weight of the grimoire under her pillow.
She was startled when a knock bellowed, rattling the door. Who could that be? Visitors are not a common occurrence. Swinging her legs over, she stood reaching for her rapier. The third knock rattled the doorframe, sending a puff of dried rosemary drifting from the cracks. Astris tightened her grip on the rapier's hilt, cool against her sleep-warmed palm. Through the peephole—a warped lens of salvaged dungeon crystal—she glimpsed a silhouette broad enough to blot out the hallway's flickering mana-lamp.
She cracked the door, the blade half-hidden behind her thigh.
"Cybele's teeth, Astris," Saul rumbled, his voice a bass note that vibrated the loose hinges. "You gonna skewer me or let me in?"
Her shoulders sagged. Saul Doran filled the doorway like a mountainside clad in soot-stained leathers, his beard threaded with silver and singe marks, the scent of forge-smoke clinging to him like a second shadow. The cat, perched on a teetering stack of tax scrolls, trilled a greeting.
"Hey Saul," Astris said, casually shifting the rapier behind her back. "What's up? Wasn't expecting… anyone."
His gaze dropped to her sleep clothes—a faded tunic splattered with ink and what might've been chili oil—then to the weapon's tip poking past her hip. One bushy eyebrow arched.
"You always answered the door this way," he said flatly.
She tilted her head, feigning innocence. "What do you mean?"
He grunted, the sound somewhere between exasperation and amusement, and scrubbed a calloused hand through his hair. "Just come on. Julia's got dinner waiting. Beef stew. Saffron rolls. The works."
Astris blinked. "Dinner? Since when do you—?"
"Since always. You've dodged the last three." He crossed his arms, the movement straining the seams of his jacket. "Your choice: walk there decent, or I toss you over my shoulder like a sack of turnips. Again."
The cat leapt onto Saul's shoulder, purring as it nuzzled his ear. Traitor.
"Fine," Astris muttered, retreating to yank on a less-embarrassing tunic. "But if Julia's using those firepeppers from the Night Market, I'm not apologizing for the aftermath."
Astris and the Hearth of Hidden Hearts
Saul's cottage crouched at the edge of the Lower Ward, its stone walls streaked with soot from the adjacent forge, where dormant coals still pulsed faintly in the dusk. Smoke curled from the chimney, carrying the scent of seared garlic, caramelized onions, and the earthy sweetness of saffron—a beacon that made Astris's stomach growl despite herself.
Julia stood in the doorway, her apron dusted with flour and her rounded belly leading the way as she waddled forward. Her fiery red hair was piled into a messy knot, strands escaping like wayward flames. "Finally," she said, pulling Astris into a hug that smelled of rosemary and cinnamon. "I was starting to think Saul'd have to drag you here in chains."
"He tried," Astris said, nodding to the faint singe marks on Saul's sleeve. "Your husband's subtle as a dungeon breach."
Julia laughed, her freckled nose scrunching. "And you're stubborn as a mana-starved golem. Now, inside—I want to hear about this new job. Saul says you're drafting contracts for the palace—"
The door swung open again, and Eli slipped in, his healer's satchel slung over one shoulder and his dark hair tousled from the wind. Saul clasped his forearm in a grip that could crush stone, pulling him into a half-hug. "'Bout time," Saul grunted.
"Traffic at the clinic," Eli said, shrugging off his coat. His gaze landed on Astris, and he smirked. "No hug, little storm-cloud?"
She rolled her eyes. "I'll stab you with a quill."
Julia swatted her arm. "Be nice. Eli's been setting broken bones all day."
"And never misses a family dinner that comes with free ale," Eli added, stealing a saffron roll from the table.
The cat chose that moment to saunter in, tail aloft, and leapt onto the counter with a proprietary air. Julia gasped. "Oh! Who's this?"
"A stray," Astris said quickly. "Persistent. Annoying. Probably cursed."
The cat blinked its mismatched eyes at Julia and headbutted her hand until she scratched under its chin. "Someone's a charmer," she cooed. "Look at those eyes—like molten amber and moonstone. I'm calling you Midas."
"Don't encourage him," Astris muttered, as Midas purred and butted a bowl of stew toward the edge of the table.
Saul caught it just before it tipped. "Gremlin."
The stew steamed in chipped ceramic bowls, its aroma—rich with firepeppers and juniper-smoked beef—mingling with the tang of Saul's forge lingering on his sleeves. Midas perched on the windowsill, tail flicking as he monitored the room with regal disdain, his mismatched eyes catching the firelight like twin coins.
"Three weeks," Julia said, patting her belly as she sank into a cushioned chair salvaged from a derelict guildhall. "Assuming this one doesn't decide to arrive early."
Eli snorted, tearing into a saffron roll. "You say that like it's a choice. Kids are chaos. Remember when you—"
"—nearly burned down the barn trying to summon a raincloud?" Saul finished, grinning. "Aye. Ma's hair turned white overnight."
Astris smirked. "And now you're all thrilled to repeat history."
Julia tossed a linen napkin at her. "Says the aunt who'll spoil them rotten between dungeon escapades."
The cat leapt onto the table, sniffing Eli's stew. He swatted it away. "Hospital's stalled again. Kaufmann's coalition's blocking shipments of mana-crystal mortar. Says it's 'allocated to higher priorities.'"
Astris's spoon clinked against her bowl. "Higher priorities like his leviathan fleet. The legal office's subpoenaing his ledgers next week. It's not rumor—Barathiel Ombryn himself is auditing."
Saul whistled. "The Celestial Reformer? That'll scorch Kaufmann's tail feathers."
"And the palace?" Julia asked, ladling more stew into Astris's bowl despite her protests. "Where do the Leclairs stand?"
Astris hesitated, the ghost of Zaiden's smirk flickering in her mind. "Officially? Neutral. But Prince Jace petitioned Parliament to fast-track the hospital. Rumor is the queen's… unamused."
Eli leaned back, his healer's hands steepled. "Unamused won't stop Kaufmann. That man's got templars in his pocket and dungeon cores on his payroll."
"Templars kneel to Cybele, not coin," Julia said, though her brow furrowed.
"Cybele's busy," Astris muttered. The Spire's growl vibrated faintly beneath the floorboards, a bass note only she seemed to hear.
Midas chose that moment to knock over Eli's ale, the foam spreading like a golden stain across Kaufmann's latest trade manifesto left open on the table.
"Perfect," Saul grunted, mopping the mess with his sleeve. "Cat's got better sense than Parliament."
Julia laughed, the sound warm as the hearth. "To Midas. First Doran with a functional moral compass."
Astris raised her cup, her chest tight with something she couldn't name—a blend of dread and belonging. Outside, the Spire's shadow stretched over the Lower Ward, but here, for now, the light held.