Three days after Morthul fell, morning light filtered through the high windows of the Tower of Culture and Education. The pale glow seemed restrained, as if even the sun had learned caution. The chamber smelled of hurried decisions: dust, old leather, warm crystal, and the faint metallic tang of blood still clinging to a councilor’s sleeve.

  Scrolls lay open across the central table, some ancient, some freshly unrolled. Maps overlapped maps. Charcoal marks dotted routes that might already be ash. Isaac stood with his hands braced against stone, staring at a map where three symbols had been drawn. One bore a name that tightened something in his chest: Dragon God Village. The other, smaller and set slightly apart, read Asshel in script so faded it looked older than the parchment itself.

  Deehia stood opposite him, arms crossed, posture rigid. She had not removed her cloak. Zeeshoof sat slightly apart with a stack of brittle codices at his side, fingers resting on their spines. Leelinor remained near the tall window, hands clasped behind his back, watching Eldoria breathe below. Thalion stood instead of sitting, one hand on the back of his chair. No one explained why they were there. They all knew.

  Thalion broke the silence. “You leave within the hour.”

  Isaac did not look up. “I know.”

  Deehia’s gaze flicked to him. “That was decided quickly.”

  “It was decided the moment Morthul’s report arrived,” Leelinor said. “We stopped pretending we had time to argue about it.”

  Zeeshoof slid one of the codices forward, stopping it with two fingertips. “Dragon God Village will need more than healers. It will need understanding. What struck Morthul was not instinct. Not chaos.”

  Isaac’s jaw tightened. “It was doctrine.”

  “Yes.” Zeeshoof tapped the table once, then turned a brittle page. The ink beneath had faded to ghost-script. “And doctrine requires a source. The ruins of Asshel lie less than a day’s ride from Dragon God Village.”

  The name landed like iron on stone. Isaac finally looked up. “Asshel is avoided for a reason.”

  Deehia turned her head sharply. “Avoided is a polite word.”

  Isaac exhaled through his nose. “Among the people of Dragon God Village, Asshel is a scar. A city that listened too closely to the wrong voices and paid for it in fire and silence. They say its stones remember things that should have been forgotten.”

  Thalion leaned forward. “And yet its name keeps appearing. Every report where dragons and awakenings intersect, Asshel is there in the margins.”

  Zeeshoof nodded. “The last confirmed fragments of dragon codices were recovered from Asshel’s ruins. Incomplete. Dangerous. Buried on purpose by people who knew what they were burying.”

  Isaac stared at the map. His finger hovered near the charcoal mark labeled Asshel, then pulled back. “The elders won’t permit it. Asshel is forbidden ground.”

  “They don’t have to permit it,” Leelinor said. “They need relief. Food. Healers. Hope. We’ll give them that.” His gaze shifted to Isaac. “And while we do, you’ll give us answers.”

  Deehia stepped forward. “While we chase ruins, villages bleed. Dragon God Village is full of wounded. Surrounding settlements are barely standing. Morthul’s survivors are scattered and terrified. If we divide our focus, we risk losing both.”

  “We lose fewer people in the long run,” Thalion said. “Every hour we fight blind costs lives we could have saved.”

  Zeeshoof’s voice followed, quieter. “Understanding the enemy is prevention, not abandonment.”

  Deehia’s lips pressed thin. “Or it’s an excuse to dig in graves while the living still need us.”

  Isaac met her gaze. For a heartbeat, something sharp passed between them, the same tension that had crackled in the archives when she’d threatened to kill him if he became dangerous. Then he looked back at the map. “Asshel won’t welcome us. And if there is something buried there that connects dragons, old magic, and control, it won’t give itself up easily.”

  Leelinor turned from the window. “Which is why you are going. You know the people. You know the stories. And you don’t flinch when stones remember the wrong things.”

  Isaac’s throat worked. “And if what we find makes things worse?”

  “Then we stop pretending ignorance was ever safety.”

  Silence settled. Deehia looked away first. “Fine. But I won’t let this turn into a scholar’s pilgrimage while people die waiting for bandages.” She looked back at Isaac. “We secure Dragon God Village first. Aid. Food. Healers. Medicine. Then, and only then, if the ground holds and the survivors are stable, we go to Asshel.”

  Isaac inclined his head. “Agreed.”

  Zeeshoof gathered the codices with care, wrapping them in cloth. “You won’t take these. They’re too fragile, and some knowledge is safer locked in vaults than carried into ruins.” He tied the bundle shut. “But you’ll take what matters. Memory. Pattern. Restraint.”

  Thalion straightened. “Supplies are already prepared. Healers, food stores, medicine. You leave within the hour.”

  Isaac reached for his gloves. Deehia adjusted her cloak, the motion sharp and final. As they turned toward the door, Leelinor spoke once more. “Isaac.”

  He stopped.

  “Dragon God Village trusts you because you stand between fire and people. You were born there. You understand what they fear.” Leelinor’s gaze held his. “Do not forget which side you belong to.”

  Isaac’s chest tightened. He nodded once. “I won’t.”

  Deehia glanced at him, something flickering in her expression, then followed him out. The heavy door closed. Outside, the tower bells began to ring, marking motion rather than alarm. Eldoria was waking, unaware that two of its sharpest minds were already moving toward ash, stone, and answers buried where no one wanted to look.

  ?

  The forest did not slow them. Isaac chose paths that were not paths, narrow cuts between roots and stone where the ground remembered older feet. He moved with the unconscious confidence of someone who had walked these woods as a child. Deehia matched his pace without comment, cloak drawn tight against branches that reached like fingers. They spoke only when necessary. Breath. Direction. Distance.

  As the trees thickened and the air grew warmer, Deehia broke the silence. “You grew up near Dragon God Village.” It wasn’t a question.

  Isaac didn’t slow. “I was born there. Left when I was sixteen.”

  “Why?”

  He stepped over a root thicker than his thigh. “Because I wanted to understand fire, and the village only knew how to fear it.”

  Deehia’s boots crunched over fallen leaves. “And now you’re going back to people who think you abandoned them.”

  Isaac’s jaw tightened. “They’re not wrong.”

  She didn’t answer immediately. When she did, her voice was quieter. “The codex in the archives. The one Zeeshoof gave you access to.” She paused. “Did it show you anything about Asshel?”

  Isaac’s hand twitched near his side, where the bandage from the Hoo shard cut still pressed against his ribs. He remembered the blood. The rune lighting up. The symbols crawling across the page like they were waking from sleep. “It showed me patterns. Old ones. Circles that shouldn’t close. Runes that looked like they were written in two languages at once.”

  Deehia’s gaze sharpened. “The same patterns on the dragon collars?”

  “Close enough.”

  Her fingers brushed the hilt of her knife. “And you didn’t tell the Council.”

  “I told Zeeshoof.”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  Isaac stopped. Turned. Met her gaze directly. “No. It’s not.”

  For a moment, they stood in the narrow space between trees, close enough that he could see the faint scar along her jawline. Her eyes were cold and sharp and searching. “If you get us killed chasing something you don’t understand,” she said quietly, “I’ll haunt you.”

  Isaac almost smiled. “You’d have to get in line.”

  She turned and kept walking. But something in the set of her shoulders had shifted. Not trust. Not yet. But acknowledgment.

  The air grew warmer as they descended. The heat came from life: hearths, bodies, animals, metal worked too often in too small a place. Dragon God Village emerged from the trees without ceremony. No smoke of battle. No shattered palisade. Only motion.

  Stretchers moved through the central paths. Voices murmured, low and strained. Blood-dark cloth hung from lines beside drying herbs, swaying in a breeze that smelled of ash and iron. Bells chimed softly, summoning healers who were already running.

  Isaac slowed. Deehia did not.

  An elder stepped forward before they reached the square. He was thin, bent by years rather than weakness, his staff carved with old marks worn smooth by hands that had leaned on it through too many winters. His eyes were the color of smoke. He looked at Isaac for a long moment. Recognition flickered there, followed by something heavier. Relief. Grief.

  “Isaac,” the elder said quietly. The name carried history.

  Isaac’s throat tightened. “Elder Voruum.”

  The old man’s gaze shifted briefly to Deehia, measuring, then back. “You came quickly.”

  “We came when called.”

  Voruum’s shoulders sagged, as if permission to rest had finally arrived. “Then there is still hope.” He stepped closer. “Elara has held the village together. But the people have been asking for you.”

  Isaac’s jaw tightened. “How is she?”

  “Tired. Angry. Alive.” Voruum’s mouth twitched faintly. “She’ll want words with you.”

  “I’m sure she will.”

  Voruum nodded once and turned without another word. They followed.

  ?

  The infirmary had swallowed half the village. It sprawled across lean-tos, overturned carts, and stretched hides tied between posts that groaned under the weight. The smell struck first: ash, iron, bitter herbs, and beneath it all a faint sickly sweetness that clung to the back of the throat.

  Curandeiras moved like a tide. They did not rush. They did not stop. Each had a rhythm: stitch, press, seal, move. Clay bowls steamed. Threads darkened as they drank blood. A translucent paste hissed softly as it met torn flesh, cooling and hardening.

  “Dragon saliva,” Deehia murmured.

  “Mixed with ash and salt,” Voruum confirmed. “It closes what wants to stay open. We have three vials left.”

  Isaac’s gaze swept the room, cataloging faces. Some he recognized from years of living here. A blacksmith’s daughter who used to steal honey cakes. A hunter who’d taught him to track deer. Others were too young, or too burned, or too still. Then he saw the Morthul survivors.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Toumar lay on a low frame near the far edge, chest bound tight in layers of linen stained rust-brown. One arm was immobilized with splints and hardened resin. His beard had been singed short on one side, the skin beneath angry and blistered. His breathing was shallow but steady. Isaac had trained with Toumar in Eldoria’s compounds, sparred with him in the practice yards. Seeing him like this twisted something in his chest.

  A curandeira pressed two fingers to Toumar’s throat, counted silently, then nodded to another. “He stays.”

  Isaac released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  To the left, Abhoof sat upright on a stool, cloak discarded, both hands wrapped in linen already soaked through. His face was gray with exhaustion. “Brother,” Deehia said, the word clipped.

  Abhoof’s mouth twitched. “You always arrive after the fire.”

  “And you always stand too close to it.”

  She knelt without asking permission, fingers hovering, then resting lightly on his forearm. He didn’t pull away.

  Edduuhf stood nearby, leaning on a makeshift staff, bent under weight that had nothing to do with years. His gaze followed the curandeiras as they moved, cataloging each loss. “It was belief,” he said quietly. “That’s what killed Morthul.”

  Isaac turned to him. “Tell us.”

  Edduuhf swallowed. “They were starving. Desperate. Someone came to them in the dark and taught them words they didn’t understand. Gave them fragments of old script. Told them fire would choose the worthy, that dragons would answer the faithful.” His voice cracked. “They carved symbols into the ground like children copying scripture they couldn’t read. And the dragons came.”

  Deehia’s fingers stilled on Abhoof’s arm. “And the dragons?” Isaac asked.

  Edduuhf’s expression darkened. “They wore collars. Not iron. Not steel. Pure energy fused into scale, glowing with runes I’d never seen before. Commands, not instincts. When they burned the city, every strike was measured. Precise. They weren’t hunting. They were executing.”

  Voruum’s staff struck the earth once. “So it returns.”

  Isaac looked at him sharply. “You know this.”

  “I know of it,” the elder said. His gaze was distant. “Old stories. Warnings spoken by my grandmother’s grandmother. When dragons are bound, it is never by hunger alone. There is always a hand on the chain. Always a voice speaking the words.” His gaze shifted to Toumar. “And never without cost.”

  A voice cut in, firm and clear. “They started arriving two days ago.”

  Elara stood near the water station, sleeves rolled past her elbows, hands stained with resin and old blood. When she saw Isaac, her expression shifted. Relief first, sharp and immediate. Then something harder. She crossed the space between them in three strides.

  “Isaac,” she said. Just his name. It carried the weight of two days holding a village together while the world burned.

  “Elara.” He met her gaze without flinching. “You’ve kept them alive.”

  “We did what we could.” Her jaw tightened. “But it’s been two days. Two days of wondering if Eldoria even remembered we existed.”

  “We came as soon as the Council cleared it.”

  “The Council.” She spat the word. “While they debated, we stitched. While they argued protocol, children screamed themselves voiceless.”

  Isaac’s hands curled into fists. “I know.”

  “Do you?” Her voice dropped, quieter but sharper. “You left me in charge, Isaac. You said you’d be back in weeks. It’s been months. And when the fire came, I had to tell them their leader was in a tower arguing politics.”

  Deehia shifted slightly, watching.

  Isaac held Elara’s gaze. “You’re right.”

  That caught her off guard. Some of the anger bled out of her posture, replaced by exhaustion. “I’m right,” she repeated, quieter. “And you’re here now.” She exhaled sharply. “So tell me. Did you bring help, or just more questions?”

  “Both.” Isaac gestured to Deehia. “Healers. Supplies. Medicine. And answers, if we can find them.”

  Elara’s gaze flicked to Deehia, assessing. Then back to Isaac. “Answers about what?”

  “Asshel.”

  The name hit like a stone dropped into still water. Voruum’s staff struck the ground. Several curandeiras paused mid-stitch. Elara’s face went carefully blank. “No,” she said.

  “Elara—”

  “No.” She stepped closer, voice dropping to something fierce and private. “You don’t get to leave for months, show up after we’ve bled, and ask us to walk into cursed ground.”

  “I’m not asking the village,” Isaac said quietly. “I’m asking you to trust that I wouldn’t go there without reason.”

  “What reason could possibly be worth it?”

  “The dragons that burned Morthul were controlled. Collared. Someone is binding them, teaching fanatics how to summon them, and every report we have says the knowledge came from Asshel.” He paused. “If we don’t understand how it’s being done, more cities will burn. More villages like this one.”

  Elara stared at him. Then at the rows of wounded behind her. At Toumar’s still form. At the child in the corner who hadn’t stopped shaking. “You’re sure,” she said finally.

  “I’m sure the alternative is worse.”

  She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, the anger was still there, but banked. “Then you go. But you take people who choose it. Not conscripts. Not the desperate.”

  “Agreed.”

  Elara nodded once, sharp and final. Then she turned back to the water station, already moving. “Scouts came in first. Then families who ran ahead of the flames. Burns. Shrapnel from collapsing stone. Broken bones. One child hasn’t stopped screaming in his sleep.”

  Isaac nodded once. Deehia glanced between them. “And what you couldn’t save?”

  Elara’s jaw set. “We remember.”

  A curandeira approached Deehia. “If you have strength, use it. We don’t need witnesses.”

  Deehia stood without hesitation. “Where.”

  The woman handed her a needle already threaded. “There.”

  Isaac watched her go, then turned back to Voruum. The old man was still staring at Toumar, staff planted in the dirt. “Dragon God Village still stands,” Voruum said quietly. “But the fire is walking. And it knows our name now.”

  Isaac’s gaze drifted to Toumar, to Abhoof, to Edduuhf. Survivors of one burning, refugees in a village that might be next. Then to the forest beyond the palisade, where the trees bent toward something unseen. “Then we stop it,” Isaac said, “before it learns to speak.”

  Voruum’s hand gripped his staff tighter. “The people remember you, Isaac. They know you left to learn how to protect them, not because you stopped caring.” His gaze sharpened. “They’ll listen to you. Even about Asshel.”

  Isaac felt the weight of that. Leadership he’d never formally claimed but had earned by being born here, by caring when he could have forgotten. “I’m not asking them to follow me into the ruins,” he said.

  “You won’t have to ask,” Voruum said. “Some will volunteer. The ones who’ve lost too much to stay afraid.”

  Somewhere nearby, a bell chimed. Another stretcher arrived.

  ?

  Meanwhile, in Eldoria.

  The Central Hospital smelled of boiled linen and crushed leaves, as clean as pain ever allowed itself to be. Hajeel lay propped against cushions, torso wrapped in layered bandages, one leg elevated and bound in a lattice of cloth and resin. Cuts traced his arms and ribs like unfinished sentences. He was awake. Irritated. Alive.

  Luucner stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, posture straight despite the faint hitch in his breathing. Ziif leaned against the stone wall, helmet tucked under one arm, scanning the room the way veterans always did.

  “You look better than you should,” Luucner said.

  Hajeel snorted. “You look worse than you pretend.”

  Ziif’s mouth twitched. “Fair trade.”

  Hajeel shifted, wincing. “So. You’re leaving.”

  Luucner didn’t deny it. “At dawn.”

  “Desert,” Hajeel said.

  “Yes.”

  “For Sol and JaS,” Ziif added. “And answers, if they’re foolish enough to be lying around.”

  Hajeel swung his legs toward the edge of the bed, jaw clenched. “Then I’m coming.”

  A curandeira appeared as if summoned. Older, sharp-eyed, her hands stained with herbs that never quite washed out. “No,” she said. Flat. Absolute.

  Hajeel ignored her and pushed harder. Pain flared white-hot up his side. His breath hissed between his teeth. “I can ride. I can fight. I won’t slow you.”

  “You can barely stand,” the curandeira said, pressing him back down. Her grip was iron. “Your muscles are stitched together with thread and stubbornness. Your leg is swelling because you keep trying to prove you still have one. If you tear yourself open on the road, you’ll bleed out before anyone can save you.”

  Hajeel glared. “Eldoria is bleeding.”

  “And if you tear yourself open, it will bleed one man more and gain nothing.”

  Luucner stepped forward. “Hajeel.”

  Hajeel looked at him. Really looked. Whatever he saw there made his resistance falter. “We need you alive,” Luucner said quietly. “Not as a name on a memorial stone.”

  Silence stretched. Hajeel’s shoulders slumped. He leaned back against the cushions. Ziif spoke then, quieter. “We’ll carry your name with us. That’s not nothing.”

  Hajeel closed his eyes for a heartbeat. When he opened them again, the fire was still there. Just caged. “Bring back something worth staying behind for,” he said.

  Luucner nodded once. Ziif inclined his head. The curandeira stepped between them, already adjusting bandages. They left without ceremony.

  ?

  Leelinor stood on the high balcony of the Sacred Mountain Tower, hands resting on cold stone, watching Eldoria unfold below. Banners stirred in a thin morning wind that smelled of coming rain. Footsteps approached. Measured. Familiar.

  Luucner and Ziif stopped a respectful distance behind him.

  “I know why you’re here,” Leelinor said without turning. “And where you’re going.”

  Ziif raised an eyebrow. “Efficient.”

  “I’ve already made contact,” Leelinor continued. “The Council of the First Peoples knows you’re coming. They won’t bar the gates. They won’t greet you with open suspicion.” He paused. “At least not openly.”

  Luucner stepped closer to the railing. “You trust them.”

  Leelinor finally turned. His gaze was steady, measuring. “I trust their history. Their memory is longer than ours, and that makes them dangerous in some ways. Honest in others.”

  Ziif’s gaze narrowed. “And you want us to look.”

  “Yes,” Leelinor said. “Listen before you question. Watch before you judge. If someone is abusing ancient craft, it will leave marks. Everything does.”

  Luucner nodded slowly. “Stone remembers pressure. People remember hunger.”

  “Magic remembers blood,” Leelinor finished quietly. His gaze drifted back to the city below. “You’re walking a thin line. The First Peoples will know why you’re there, even if we dress it in diplomacy.”

  Ziif exhaled through his nose. “You’re asking us to smile while we search for knives.”

  Leelinor’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I’m asking you to do what you do best. Go where the truth is uncomfortable and come back alive.”

  Luucner straightened. “We’ll return with materials. Or certainty.”

  “Bring both,” Leelinor said. “Eldoria will need them.”

  For a moment, all three stood looking out over the capital. Markets stirred. Children ran along bridges. Life, unaware of how thin the margins had become. Then Ziif adjusted his grip on his helmet. “Time to ride.”

  Luucner turned away first. Behind them, the bells of Eldoria rang the hour.

  ?

  The balcony emptied slowly, as if the stone itself needed time to forget the weight of those who had stood upon it. Only Leelinor and Thalion remained. Below them, Eldoria breathed. Markets woke. Bells marked hours that still belonged to peace.

  “You’re sending them far,” Thalion said at last. “Ziif and Luucner won’t just be guests in the desert. They’ll be weighed. Tested. Watched.”

  Leelinor rested both hands on the railing. The wind tugged at his cloak, whispering along the carved runes of the tower. “They’ve been weighed their entire lives. That’s why they’re still standing.”

  Thalion’s gaze stayed on the streets below. “And what you didn’t say to them?”

  A pause. Long enough to matter. Leelinor answered quietly. “Remains between us.”

  Thalion turned then, studying him. “The collars.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the pattern?”

  “Yes.”

  Thalion exhaled through his nose. “So it is the same language.”

  Leelinor nodded once. “Close enough to share a grammar. Whoever is doing this didn’t just rediscover old magic by accident. They studied it. Patiently. Methodically. They knew what they were looking for.”

  Thalion’s jaw tightened. “That kind of patience doesn’t belong to fanatics.”

  “It belongs to architects,” Leelinor said. Something cold flickered beneath his voice. “And architects work from plans.”

  They stood in silence. Far below, a cart rattled over stone. Somewhere, laughter rose, too bright and too unaware. “You’re planning something else,” Thalion said.

  Leelinor didn’t deny it. “I can’t afford to move every piece openly. Not when some of them might be working against us.”

  Thalion’s voice dropped. “The Council?”

  “Some of them.” Leelinor’s gaze hardened. “Guhile sees too much and says too little. Karg is loyal, but loyalty without sight is a blade that cuts blind. Caroline wants unity, but only under her vision.” He paused. “I trust you. I trust Zeeshoof. I trust Luucner and Ziif because they’ve earned it through blood and silence.”

  Thalion’s expression shifted. “You’re sending your son into the desert while keeping your own Council in the dark.”

  “Yes.” No hesitation. No apology.

  “They’ll see it as favoritism,” Thalion said quietly. “Sending Luucner on a mission this critical while bypassing Guhile, Caroline, even Karg.”

  Leelinor’s jaw tightened. “Let them. Luucner has never once asked me for privilege because of blood. He’s earned every scar, every mission, every shred of respect he carries.” His voice dropped. “And he doesn’t lie to me about what he finds. That’s worth more than any councilor’s vote.”

  Thalion considered that. “And if the First Peoples are involved?”

  Leelinor’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then Luucner and Ziif will see it. They’re not blind, and they don’t flinch from uncomfortable truths. If there’s corruption in the desert forges, they’ll find it. If there isn’t, we prove it cleanly, without spilling blood we can’t afford to lose.”

  “You’re narrowing the field of suspects,” Thalion said.

  “I’m trying to,” Leelinor answered. “Because every time we widen it, another city burns while the Council argues about protocol.”

  He stepped back from the railing and turned toward the inner chamber. His movements were deliberate, controlled. “I’m sending an owl south. Tonight.”

  “To whom?” Thalion asked.

  “Kooel.”

  Thalion’s brow creased. “You want him to join Luucner and Ziif?”

  “Yes. Quietly. No formal summons. No banners.”

  “That’s three people you trust,” Thalion said. “Against a Council of how many you don’t.”

  Leelinor’s mouth curved faintly, though there was no humor in it. “I trust more than three. But I only need three for this. Luucner and Ziif bring skill and respect. Kooel brings memory and legitimacy. Together, they bring something the First Peoples can’t ignore: proof that we’re not accusing them. We’re asking for partnership.”

  “And if they are involved?” Thalion asked quietly.

  Leelinor’s gaze hardened. “Then all three will survive long enough to tell me. And if they’re not, then they help us prove it without bloodshed.”

  Thalion crossed his arms. “You’re gambling that the Council won’t see this as you consolidating power through your son.”

  “They can see it however they like,” Leelinor said. “As long as Luucner comes back alive with answers we can use.”

  He moved to the writing desk set into the tower wall, already pulling parchment free. His hand was steady as he wrote, each word measured and carefully phrased, nothing that could be twisted if intercepted. Thalion watched him work. “You’re keeping more from the Council than usual.”

  Leelinor didn’t look up. “Because if I’m wrong, the cost falls on me and those I trust. If I’m right, Eldoria survives long enough to argue about it later.”

  “And if you’re wrong about the First Peoples? If Luucner walks into a trap?”

  Leelinor’s hand paused for half a heartbeat. Then he continued writing. “Then I’ll have lost more than a councilor. I’ll have lost my son.” He sealed the letter with wax and pressed his signet in deep. “But he knows the risks. He always has.”

  A soft rustle of wings echoed in the tower alcove as the owl-handler approached, hooded and silent. Leelinor handed over the message without ceremony. “To Kooel. South, then north to join the others.”

  The handler nodded and disappeared. Leelinor returned to the balcony. Thalion joined him. For a moment, neither spoke. The wind rose, carrying the faint scent of rain and distance.

  “What happens,” Thalion asked finally, “if all our careful lines still lead to fire?”

  Leelinor looked out over Eldoria, over rooftops and bridges and lives that trusted him without knowing why. “Then we make sure the fire burns where we choose,” he said quietly. “Not where our enemies do. And not where my son is standing.”

  The wind rose again, carrying the sound of wings departing into the wide, dangerous world. Below them, Eldoria woke to another morning, unaware of how many pieces were already in motion, and how many of them carried the same blood.