A shriek of flame tore Swift-River from sleep.

  She rolled from her pillow bed, hand finding Serpent's Kiss before her feet touched ground. Across the grove, BlazeBurst dove at a pooling darkness. His feathers burned white. The shadow creature writhed beneath the phoenix's assault, its formless body smoking under sacred flame.

  Vardan's scouts. Again.

  Swift-River raised her hand and spoke the word of power. A column of pale silver light descended from above, trapping the shadow in its radius. Ghostly flames licked through the creature's form. It convulsed, caught between phoenix fire and moonlight.

  No escape.

  BlazeBurst dove again, talons of living flame raking through the weakening form.

  The shadow dissolved with a hiss. Ash scattered across the grove floor.

  BlazeBurst landed on the flat river rock beside the stream, chest heaving. His flames dimmed to their usual gold. He chirped once, then sagged on the rock.

  Swift-River sheathed Serpent's Kiss and crossed to him. She ran her fingers through his cooling feathers. "Second one this week," she murmured. "They're testing us."

  The phoenix nuzzled against her palm. His warmth steadied her.

  "But they underestimate you, old friend." Swift-River smiled despite her concern. "The Grand Druid himself chose you to guard this grove. You've faced shadow wyrms, corrupted elementals, and Crimson Ruby's own spies. Vardan's tricks are child's play compared to what you've survived."

  BlazeBurst puffed his chest. His flames burned brighter.

  "That's my guardian." She stroked his crest. "Keep watch. I'll return with answers about who's sending these probes."

  Swift-River straightened and faced her armor on its mannequin. Pain flared at her back. Her shoulder blades burned. Her skin stretched tight. Another transformation is coming.

  "But first, I need to adjust my armor," she said to BlazeBurst. Her gaze wandered to the weapon array beside the mannequin. Dragon's Reach with its deadly dragon-fang tip. Wyvern's Whisper with its wyvern-bone construction. Serpent's Kiss back at her hip, the dagger that served as her only tether to a family she had never known. Behind her, the copper-scaled breastplate gleamed on its stand.

  She moved to the sturdy worktable. "I cannot afford any risks when I transform." Her tools emitted a gentle glow as Swift-River worked, cutting through leather and shaping metal, creating adjustments to accommodate her changing form. She carefully expanded the chest plate and adjusted the joints to allow for her draconic growth. The wing slits needed widening. The back panels required reinforced hinges that would spread rather than tear.

  "You'll hold the grove while I'm gone," she continued, speaking as much to reassure herself as the phoenix. "BlazeBurst the Eternal, they called you in the old songs. You've outlived empires. A few shadow scouts won't break you."

  BlazeBurst trilled in agreement. His flame steadied to a confident glow.

  She held up the finished breastplate. The copper scales matched her own. "Perfect," Swift-River murmured, then set it on the mannequin beside the mirror.

  She reached for the small leather pouch at her hip. Intricate runes etched in silver thread adorned its surface, no larger than her palm. One by one, she placed her copper-scaled armor pieces into the magical bag. Breastplate, greaves, and gauntlets. Next went her weapons. Wyvern's Whisper disappeared into the pouch's depths. Dragon's Reach followed. Finally her dragon-headed helmet.

  "Always my most useful possession," she said as the items vanished without changing its shape.

  Swift-River smoothed her emerald tunic, adjusting the copper-scaled belt where Serpent's Kiss hung in its sheath. "Perhaps Zirien would prefer to see me as myself, not hidden behind dragon scales." A thoughtful smile crossed her face. "I can travel light until needed."

  She turned to BlazeBurst one final time. "Guard the fort, old friend. I'll return with stories of our hunt for Vardan's shadow creature." The creature disguised as an Orc that would unleash deadly spores among the tribes.

  The phoenix spread his wings and settled onto his perch above the grove entrance. Sentinel position. Ready.

  Swift-River embraced the gnarled oak at her grove's heart. Magic pulsed at her fingertips, and the bark parted.

  She plunged into the oak's heart, aiming for the roots. "Deeper, that's the key," she muttered as magic spun her. She emerged from an ancient oak at the edge of a mountain forest, the bark parting and sealing behind her like water. The mountain air carried whispers of danger. They were closer to where Vardan had conducted his ritual, where even the trees grew wary.

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  She breathed in the crisp mountain air and stretched her limbs. Swift-River strode along a narrow path, her boots crushing fallen leaves. After walking a short distance, she spotted a familiar figure ahead.

  "Zirien," she called, quickening her pace.

  As she approached him, the world around her blurred at the edges. Colors intensified. Sounds faded. Zirien's movements slowed, his gaze tracking her with predatory intensity. The blue of his eyes darkened to midnight. Three rapid strides closed the distance between them.

  Zirien's arms crushed her against his chest. Pine and earth. She gasped. Swift-River's legs wrapped around his waist without thought, tunic sliding. His rough hands gripped her waist, tangled in her hair. Her fingers twisted into his hair, pulling him closer. Their lips met with hunger. Her heart thundered against her ribs.

  The vision shattered like glass. Reality snapped back into focus.

  Zirien stood before her, a respectful distance away, blue eyes crinkling at the corners as a smile spread across his face. He placed his hand over his solar plexus as he observed her with quiet affection.

  "The trees whispered your arrival," he said. "Nature always announces you."

  Swift-River steadied her breath. Focus. "Another shadow scout hit the grove at dawn. BlazeBurst handled it, but Vardan's escalating."

  His expression darkened. "The Great Dying accelerates while we prepare."

  "Then we stop preparing and start hunting."

  "Wolves!" Iandel's voice rang across the clearing. He vaulted down from a rocky outcrop, his mithril armor catching the light. The chest plate bore their father's insignia. Captain of the elven king's guard. At his hip hung Whisperwind, its runes catching the light. "Took you long enough, Swifty."

  Streed appeared from behind a boulder, silver daggers already spinning between his fingers. "The Sovereign of Night graces us," he announced with a flourished bow. "Truly, the dawn weeps with joy."

  "Report," Swift-River said.

  Iandel's sardonic tone sharpened into tactical precision. "I found a Nether Vine not far from here. It's the perfect start for our hunt." He tapped his vine-carved bow. "Those vines only grow where dark magic has seeped into the soil. If we follow them, we'll find the creature's trail. The one Vardan summoned to infiltrate the Orcs."

  "The spore-spreader," Swift-River said.

  "The very same." Iandel's crooked grin held no humor. "Disguised as one of them. Carrying spores that would kill every last clan in ten days."

  Zirien stepped closer, his earth-hued tunic blending with the surrounding greenery. The subtle glow of his amulet caught the forest light. "The spell we've been working on. I think it's ready," he said, his voice lowering. "The Arboreal Embrace will grant us passage through living vegetation and into the Nether Vine itself."

  "Then we go now." Swift-River's jaw tightened. "The Orcs can't wait for deliberation."

  "Always in such a hurry," Streed murmured, pocketing his daggers. "The Empress of Impatience, they'll call you."

  "They can call me whatever they want. After we stop the slaughter."

  As they approached the training ground, telltale warmth spread beneath Swift-River's skin. Her transformation approached.

  "Turn around, all of you," she commanded, her voice already deepening. "I need to change."

  The brothers exchanged glances. Streed raised an eyebrow.

  "Oh come now, Swift-River," Streed protested with theatrical flair, gesturing grandly with bejeweled fingers. "We're practically family! Besides, I'm a master of the arcane. I've seen far stranger metamorphoses than yours." He offered a sharp smile. "Your modesty is charming but unnecessary, Your Eminence."

  Zirien stepped forward. "Enough, Streed," he said. He placed a hand on his half-brother's shoulder. "Some transformations are sacred journeys. We honor them with respect."

  "Wolves!" Iandel grumbled, grabbing his twin's shoulder and forcibly turning him around. "Show some respect, brother. This isn't one of your tavern shows."

  Streed sighed dramatically, bowing with a flourish despite facing the opposite direction. "As the Harbinger of Doom commands. Though I maintain scientific observation would benefit my spellcraft." His fingers idly traced sigils in the air that sparkled and faded.

  Swift-River quickly reached into her magical pouch, withdrawing her copper-scaled armor. She shed her emerald silk tunic and donned her battle gear. The copper plates had been adjusted for exactly this moment. As her shoulder blades burned and wings began to emerge, the reinforced hinges spread apart. The back panels separated along their seams, making room for the membrane and bone pushing through her skin.

  "Almost done," she muttered through gritted teeth as her bones shifted beneath her scales. The breastplate expanded across her broadening chest. The greaves stretched to accommodate lengthening legs. Her gauntlets reshaped around fingers becoming claws.

  When the brothers turned back, Swift-River's body had surged, expanding and shifting. An eight-foot-tall half-dragon now stood where she had been moments before. Copper scales gleamed across her form. Shield-sized wings stretched wide, then folded against her armored back. Her tail lashed behind her, finding its balance. Fully armored and battle-ready.

  "Let's begin," she growled, her voice carrying that familiar southlands drawl that emerged with her dragon form.

  Iandel unsheathed Whisperwind with a practiced motion, the blade singing against the scabbard. "Whisperwind's been thirsty. About time she drank." He extracted his Combat Net from his quickfire satchel and donned the single glove with practiced ease.

  Swift-River reached into her pouch and drew Dragon's Reach. The glaive's dragon-fang tip caught the light as she tested its familiar weight. "Iandel, lead us to the vine. We hunt today."

  Streed's silver daggers reappeared between his fingers. "The Nether Vine awaits our magnificent intervention," he declared, falling into step. "Strategy dictates caution, but I defer to your superior knowledge of reptilian psychology, Sovereign of Night."

  Swift-River met Zirien's gaze. Something unspoken passed between them. Concern. Trust. Something warmer beneath.

  Later, she promised herself. After.

  "Move out," she commanded, her newly-formed tail lashing with anticipation. "Vardan's creature won't spread its poison any further."

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  Author's Note: Some armor is made to break apart. Some is made to grow.

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  Breach of Balance ---