Chapter 22: Whetstone and Will

The land had changed.

Where once they passed through the skeletal remains of Rothdell’s pride, broken towers, scorched halls, roads that led nowhere but ruin, now the earth showed signs of stubborn life. Here, nestled between two ancient hills worn blunt by time, nature had reclaimed what war, and arrogance had not wholly ruined.

They had landed beside a spring-fed basin, a still mirror set into the earth by the patient hands of wind and water. The spring emerged from a cleft in a stone slab, worn smoothly and sacred in its stillness. The water was cold and clean, clear enough to show the bones of the earth beneath, pebbles, roots, old forgotten things. It smelled of iron, pine, and moss, as if the land itself still remembered what it once was and had not yet given up hope.

The sun stood high, not tender but absolute, a sword of gold drawn overhead. Its light bleached shadows from the world, nothing left to shadow. No mercy in the light. The sky above was a vast and ruthless blue, cloudless, humming faintly with the wings of bees and the rustle of wind through green.

Nelneras lay beside the pool, his wings half-folded. His form sprawled like a golden river held in check by reverence, not rest, every scale dulled by sunlight, not dimmed by time. He watched the pool, not admiring, but remembering. When he breathed, the leaves trembled. When he blinked, it was with the weight of thought.

Axton sat by the water’s edge, knees drawn up, boots off. He rested his chin on one knee, arms loose, hands tracing idle circles in the soil. His spellbook lay untouched beside him. He’d sorted out a small cluster of herbs on a cloth square, but he hadn’t moved to mix them.

Roran leaned against a fallen log nearby  his warhammer beside him forgotten for the moment. In his hands, a knife and a block of wood danced in quiet rhythm. He carved with intention. Something round and stubby was forming beneath his claws. Possibly a bird, or a wolf. Or both. He didn’t seem to mind either way. His ears twitched toward every sound. His tail occasionally flicked through the grass like a sentry keeping time.

Gentle fingers brushed over the dry soil, chasing circles Axton didn’t quite see. The sun painted heat across his robes, but his thoughts were caught elsewhere, on feathers and wind, on the rush of air beneath his wings, on the feeling of Nelneras’ magic wrapping around him like a second skin.

He hadn’t just flown. He had been the flight. There was a difference, and he still didn’t have the words for it. He'd tried to recapture it in his notes last night, scratching lines into parchment by firelight, but all his equations and magical diagrams felt like trying to map a heartbeat. It had been wild, unstructured, terrifying. And yet, in that single soaring moment, it had also been beautiful. Not because it worked, but because he had worked. Because Nelneras had believed he would.

That dragon. That maddening, mysterious, radiant storm of a dragon.

Axton drew his knees up slightly and hugged them. He hadn’t thanked him yet. Not properly. He didn’t know how. Everything about Nelneras made his thoughts tangle into knots, his voice, his confidence, the quiet way he noticed everything and never mocked it. He teased, yes. But never mocked. His cheeks were warm again.

Trying to shake the feeling loose, he exhaled sharply and looked toward the rippling stream ahead. “Do you think…” he started, then stopped. A swallow. He tried again. “Do you think the dragons in Drakhaldeir would… even accept someone like me?”

He glanced up at Nelneras. Wings curled loosely, eyes half-lidded. But Axton had known dragons long enough now to read the signs, he wasn’t asleep. His breathing was too controlled. His tail had stilled entirely.

Nelneras’ head tilted, just slightly. “You mean, will they see you as one of us?”

Axton nodded, throat suddenly dry.

“No,” Nelneras said plainly. Then softer, “Not at first.”

Axton flinched.

 “They’ll see a soft-spoken mage who wears more silk than scale,” Nelneras continued, “One who speaks the tongue of scholarship but not of instinct. And they’ll mistake that for weakness.”

Each word landed like a drop of ink on already-scorched parchment. He wanted to disappear into the earth.

“But” Nelneras added, voice sharpening like a fang behind velvet, “if you speak as you feel… if you show them the truth of your magic, your mind, your spine, then yes. They’ll come to see you for what you are.  And if they do not… they’ll learn the price of ignorance.”

His throat tightened. Axton nodded, eyes down. His mouth moved, but no words came. Roran saved him the trouble.

“So, the towns there…” the wolven said, clearing his throat and giving the air a casual wag of his tail. “Are they built all, y’know… grand and massive? Or do dragons and folks actually live together? ‘Big houses are fine. Just don’t hand me a chamber pot that weighs more than my warhammer.

“It depends where you land your feet,” he said at last, “Some towns are carved into cliff faces, perches and caverns shaped for wings and scale. Others sprawl along calderas and coastlines, where dragons walk the markets at twilight and humans build terraces beneath their shadows.” A flick came of his whiskers. “And some, yes… were built for dragons alone. We are not, I’m afraid, a modest species.” He smiled, but it was softer, “Yet in many places, people and dragons live beside one another. Not always equally. But together. That… is something.”

Axton bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t know what he was hoping for “And the people? What do they… do there? After Rothdell, I mean.”

This time, Nelneras did not answer right away. “They serve,” he said simply. “They are taken in… under oath. Fed. Clothed. Given tasks. Some even earn the favor of their draconic patrons and rise in station.”

“But they’re not… free?” Axton asked, his chest tightening.

“They are not enslaved,” Nelneras replied, firm but gentle. “It is not the cruelty of chains. It is… structure. Order. A promise that, in exchange for their loyalty, they will never go hungry again. Many came with nothing. The dragons gave them shelter. Purpose. Some call it servitude. Others call it survival.”

Roran’s tail had stopped wagging. “Sounds like a deal you can’t walk away from.”

“That,” Nelneras said, “is precisely what it is.”

 “Do you believe in it?” Axton stared at him, lips parted. That got another long look. The kind that didn’t blink.

“I believe in change,” Nelneras said, shifting his weight. “It’s why I brought my family there. Why we still live there. No one is injured. No one is left to starve. It is not perfect… but it endures. And for many, that is salvation enough.”

His eyes flicked toward Axton again, briefly, but with weight. “It is no different than what your Queen built in Lumara.”

 “Well, if they don’t like gryphball, singing, or people who cook good stew, I already don’t like ‘em.” Roran snorted as he tossed the carving knife into the air, caught it, and returned to whittling.

Axton gave a breath of a laugh, but his mind didn’t let the moment pass so easily. He hesitated, then leaned forward, elbows on knees, the tips of his fingers steepled beneath his chin. The breeze brushed a strand of hair into his face, and he didn’t bother fixing it. His tone, when he spoke, was quieter, more personal. Not demanding. But wondering.

“If you serve Bahamut,” he asked, “how can you live in a place like that?”

“I do not serve her,” Nelneras said. “I belong to her.”

His voice dropped slightly, the cadence slower. “Bahamut is not a goddess of comfort. She is a goddess of truth. Of fire and mercy. Of holding yourself accountable to justice even when it is inconvenient, even when it costs. She is not a soft-winged savior. She is the weight of expectation on your spine when no one else is watching.”

Nelneras continued, his voice gentler now. “Drakhaldeir is not a holy land. It is fractured. Flawed. Governed by dragons more concerned with hoards than harmony. But if I were to flee it… what would that say of my faith? That justice is something only to be carried in fair weather?” He looked down at the pool then, at his reflection, caught between the lilies and the sky. “My oath isn’t to comfort,” he said. “It’s to those who need someone to stay.”

Silence followed. Even Roran, ever casual, paused his knife.

There was conviction behind every word. Not arrogance. Not showmanship. Purpose. Nelneras wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He was simply telling the truth. And it stirred something in Axton that was far too large to name.

Roran broke the silence with a quiet, “Damn.” Then, brightening with a grin, he added, “Still goanna make you try stew when we get there, though.”

Nelneras’ tail gave a single, dignified flick. “So long as it lacks cheese, we shall not come to blows.”

 “Wait.” The wolven tilted his head, squinting. “You said you were raised by humans, right? Farmers. So, how’d you even know about Bahamut?”

The golden dragon’s expression didn’t falter, but his wings shifted behind him just slightly, like someone straightening a coat before telling a story worth dressing up for. “How indeed,” Nelneras mused, “Let us say… it began with a campfire. And poor impulse control.”

 “So… you stole something?”

 “Borrowed…without prior consent. Entirely different matter.”

That earned a snort from Roran and a quiet grin from Axton, who leaned forward slightly now, hands clasped around one knee.

“I was perhaps… fourteen?” Nelneras continued, tilting his head toward the sky as if plucking the very memory from it. “My brother and I, Rylmandas, a menace in every sense, spotted a caravan camped near the edge of our valley. Travelers, not merchants. They called themselves the Platinum Song. I was drawn by the name alone. Platinum. I’d never heard of such a metal at the time, and to a young dragon raised on dirt and bread crusts, it sounded like a promise.”

A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth, eyes sharpening with remembered mischief. “They sang, those travelers. At night, beneath the stars. Wordless harmonies that stirred the wind, stirred the air itself. Magic, real and heavy and old as stone…My brother suggested we sneak close. I think he was hoping to lift a sausage.” His whiskers twitched. “I had more elevated ambitions.”

“We crept in after dusk, beneath their wagons, through the nettle brush and pine. One had left a satchel unattended. Or so I thought at the time.” Nelneras’ voice softened, “Inside was a book. No title. Just a single eye carved into the leather, rimmed in platinum gilt. I opened it beneath a hanging lantern, and the words inside…” His voice trailed for a breath. “They burned.”

 “Burned?” Roran furrowed his brow. “Like magic-burned? Or kid-playing-with-fire burned?”

“Not literally,” Nelneras huffed, “Though in retrospect, that might’ve been easier. No, I mean they burned into me. Into my thoughts, breath, she, Bahamut, was not just depicted as a goddess of dragons. She was something older than the word ‘god.’ A truth the world forgot how to carry.”

His voice quieted. “She was justice without cruelty. Order without oppression. Mercy, not as weakness, but as strength that chooses not to crush.” His eyes lingered on Axton now, and for a long, deep moment, the air seemed to still between them.

“I read that book until sunrise,” he said. “Then hid it in the hayloft of the barn for fear my father might mistake it for kindling. I studied it in secret. Every page. Every line. Rylmandas told me I was obsessed. And he was right.”

“And the travelers never noticed?” Axton asked, wide-eyed.

Nelneras chuckled, low and velvety. “One would think they might have. A missing book, among mages? I imagined myself quite the thief in those days. Or perhaps, as Rylmandas later muttered, ‘they knew exactly what they were doing.’ I choose not to dwell on that version. It ruins the mystique.”

 “So, they let you take it.” Roran let out a loud, amused scoff.

“Let is such a clumsy word,” Nelneras replied, curling his tail tip with dramatic elegance. “I prefer to think of it as... destiny facilitating acquisition.”

Axton didn’t laugh this time. He just stared at Nelneras, softly, wholly, and for a moment he imagined that wyrmling under the stars, cradling a book as if it were sacred flame. Alone. Reaching toward a god no one had told him was his to love. And at that moment, Axton liked him a little more for it.

“Who were they?” Axton asked, the words slipped his tongue before he could temper them. “The… Platinum Song. Do you know who they were? Where they came from?”

“I searched,” The curl of his tail slowed. “For years. Tracked names, routes, even old bardic circles. But no trail ever lasted more than a whisper. No one seemed to know them, and those who claimed to, but had only stories already told.” His gaze turned toward the horizon, distant and thoughtful. “It was as if they had been a dream the world woke up from… and forgot. Sometimes I wonder if they were not wandering sages, but something older. Something cloaked in dust and mercy.”

Roran scratched behind one ear, then gave a thoughtful grunt. “So… mysterious travelers appear outta nowhere, sing spooky songs, leave magical books lyin’ around like breadcrumbs... and vanish without a trace?” He blinked, tail giving a lazy flick. “Sounds like the setup to every bedtime story where someone ends up cursed, blessed, or married to a talking deer.” He paused, “...You’re not secretly betrothed to a stag, are you?”

Nelneras blinked slowly. “Not to my knowledge.”

Roran pointed his carving knife. “That’s exactly what someone married to a stag would say.”

Axton broke into full laughter this time, breathless and red-cheeked. Nelneras only sighed, long-suffering, before his gaze eyes narrowed just slightly, like a cat sizing up prey it had no real intention of eating.

“Roran,” he said, voice velvet-wrapped steel, “you are a monument to your people.”

The wolven grinned, puffing up proudly. “Aw. Thanks…wait...”

Before the realization could fully bloom, Nelneras extended one languid forepaw and gave Roran’s back an effortless shove.

Thunk. The paladin toppled backward like a felled tree, his half-carved figurine landing in his lap as he flailed once and ended up staring at the sky.

“A fallen monument,” Nelneras snorted at his mischief, folding his wings with a rustle. “The scholars will mourn.”

 “Y’know, for someone who reads poetry, you’re a real bully.” Roran groaned.

“You mistake mercy for indulgence,” Nelneras replied, not even glancing back. “Had I wished to wound your pride, I’d have critiqued your singing voice.”

“Right then,” Roran sat up, brushing grass from his fur. “If I’m about to be humbled for the next month straight, might as well know what food we’re flyin’ into. What’s it like over there? In Drakhaldeir?”

Nelneras hummed through his nose, whiskers curling in amusement. “Flavorful,” he said, as if testing the word against memory. “If unrefined. They’ve learned to please dragon appetites, large portions, smoked meats, spiced stews that linger like war songs on the tongue. But ask for subtlety, and you’ll be met with a ladle of salt and pride.”

His wing flicked out briefly, brushing the air as though swiping away the memory.

“Still,” he added, almost fondly, “there’s one innkeeper beneath Valcagor’s southern ridge who roasts river stag with juniper ash and fermented honey. I believe you’d devour the table as well.”

He preened a primary feather mid-sentence, watching Roran from the corner of his eye like a cat watching a wagging tail.

Roran’s ears perked. “Stag, huh? That’s a good start.” He stretched his arms behind his back, claws flexing into the dirt. Then Roran added, with the guileless sincerity of a pup, “They got any good rocks?”

The dragon snorted shaking his head, “The caldera of Mount Ysyra sheds obsidian like dragon tears, veined with starlight, touched by magic.” His wings folded slowly. Deliberate. “You may find shards in the riverbeds if you’re patient… though the best ones hide beneath the ash, waiting to be chosen.”

“That’s a real good answer.” Roran’s tail thumped the grass behind him.

Nelneras inclined his head. “I rather thought so.”

Roran leaned back on his palms, glancing toward the tree line as a breeze rolled lazily through the clearing. “We’ve still got time, yeah? Before we head out?”

 “Enough for a short respite. So long as it does not become an expedition.” Nelneras’ eyes half-lidded, and he gave a small, affirming nod.

 “Well, come on then. We’ve been riding all morning.” Roran stretched to his full height, casting a long shadow over Axton. “You’re gonna fuse with my spine if you don’t move.”

Axton glanced up at him, then down at his own legs, “I wasn’t fused.”

“You were leaning on me like a sleepy kitten.”

“I was…” Axton stopped, sighed, and stood. “Fine. A lap.”

 “That’s my twig-armed champion.” Roran grinned.

“I shall remain,” he murmured. “A pair of birds have taken interest in my pack. they may claim it for nesting.” His tail flicked lazily toward the satchel resting on a flat stone nearby. Sure enough, two sparrows perched upon it now, tilting their heads in careful study, each chirping a brief debate over territory and twine. “I have learned that when small creatures settle, they do not relinquish the claim easily.”

Roran scratched the back of his neck, fur ruffling with the motion. “Huh. Guess I never thought about that.”

 “That is because you do not make a habit of being still long enough for things to nest on you.”

 “Fair.” Roran snorted.

The dragon closed his eyes once more, folding his limbs beneath him like a statue carved in gold. “Go on then. Stretch your legs. I shall guard what remains of my dignity.”

Axton smothered a laugh behind his hand.

Roran gave the dragon’s side a playful pat as they passed. “We’ll be back before they start building a shrine.”

** * * * * * * * * *

The footpath wound gently between slender trees, their pale bark sunlit and dappled, like ghostly sentinels keeping silent watch. Fern brushed Axton’s robes as he passed, damp with clinging dew even in the noonday warmth. Overhead, leaves stirred in a lazy rhythm, rustling like old parchment shuffled by invisible hands. A dragonfly darted past Roran’s muzzle, wings humming like a distant harp string. Somewhere deeper in the woods, the slow clatter of a creek spoke of life older than war, older than Rothdell’s fall, still moving.

The air was rich with the scent of wild mint and damp moss, sun-warmed bark and turned loam. Birds chirped and fluttered unseen, and something, fox or fawn, perhaps, crashed softly into the brush and vanished again.

They walked side by side, the wolven’s long strides slowed for Axton’s sake, though he didn’t seem to notice. Roran’s tail flicked absently behind him as he scanned the underbrush, always half-prepared for a threat.

“So,” Roran said, bending over to inspect the brush, “y’think I’ll find one of those fire-glass pebbles out here? What was it, obsidian tears or somethin’? Sounds like something a bard would sell you in a bottle.”

Axton gave a soft laugh under his breath, pulling his sleeve tighter against a breeze that barely existed. “Only if the bard’s a dragon quoting poetry about volcanoes.”

“I like it,” Roran said with a shrug. “Half the time I’m not sure what he’s sayin’, but it sounds real smart. Makes me wanna carve the words into something.” He bent briefly to inspect a rock, then tossed it aside with a grunt of disappointment. “Not glowy enough.”

The smile that lingered upon him faded after a moment. Thoughts tugged backward, over cliffside towns and dragon-markets, over words like shelter and tribute. The quite pressed in, fragrant and thick, as if the trees themselves had paused to listen. Axton hesitated. The words sat behind his teeth, uncertain. But the silence didn’t lift, and so he gave them voice. “You think he’s… sugarcoating it?” he asked, quieter now. “About Drakhaldeir. About the people working there.”

“Sounded nice at first,” Roran muttered. “But then he started soundin’ like he was describing a gilded cage. Polished floors, good meat, warm hearth… but a lock all the same.”

That sat heavy in Axton’s chest. “He’s not lying, though.”

“No,” Roran agreed, “but he ain’t telling the whole story either.”

They walked a few more paces in silence. Leaves crunched underfoot. The world felt too quiet, too still, like something just beyond the trees had paused to listen.

Then Roran cleared his throat, “Still. I am gonna find one of those rocks. If not for Seraphina, I’ll keep it for Travis. He’d look good with a fancy collar.”

“You’re going to give a divine wolf a sparkly rock collar?”

“He earned it.”

“Hold it right there, lovelies!” The voice dropped like honey over hot bread, thick, warm, and shamelessly self-indulgent.

From the undergrowth ahead, a wolven stepped out. He was tall, nearly Roran’s height with fur the shade of burnished mahogany, combed so immaculately it shimmered with every self-satisfied turn of his head. His chest was bare, a crimson scarf flaring at his throat like a matador about to challenge the gods themselves. Around his waist, an ornamental belt bore a dozen throwing knives so polished they looked allergic to violence. His breeches were tight. His grin, tighter.

“Oh, my stars,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest as if winded. “Tell me I haven’t arrived too late. Has the scaled menace stolen your virtue, my sweet summer bloom?”

Axton blinked. “I—what—”

“Shh,” the wolf said, lifting a finger to Axton’s lips without actually touching them. “Not a word. Your silence is a sonnet, your eyes, a desperate cry for rescue. It’s a tale as old as time, a captive beauty, a cruel enchantment, a wedding pyre built on dragon scales.” He spun, mane tossing over one shoulder like a curtain parting for the climax. “It is always the dragons.”

From the underbrush behind him, half a dozen figures stumbled forth like a chorus line that had lost both the rhythm and the choreography, arms swinging, boots catching roots, one tripping on his own lute strap. A surly minotaur in an oversized tabard. Two gnolls wrapped in more belts than armor. A wolven wearing his own wanted poster as a cape. Several held Lumaran energy crossbows along with three of them who aimed shoulder mounted energy cannons with the wild-eyed confidence of men who had definitely not read the instructions. One kobold clutched even a frying pan like a holy relic. Another strummed a lute so badly the strings begged for mercy.

Roran, one hand slowly reaching behind his back for his hammer, muttered, “Stars above…”

“And who are you?” Axton stuttered, pulling away from the charming wolven’s touch.

“I am Romari Brightmane, outlaw of mercy, hero of the misted pines, temptor of tyrants, seducer of storm maidens, and captain of the Wild Howl Bandits, defenders of the downtrodden, robbers of the rich, and givers to the needy!”

“We, of course,” added the grinning kobold from the back, “are the needy.”

Axton stared, dumbfounded, then blinked as Valen swept forward and took his hand.

“You poor thing,” the wolf purred. “I can see it now, your cries lost to the clouds, your dreams shackled in scale and smoke. But worry not! For fate has delivered you… unto me. You tremble. Of course you do. It’s the shock. And my devastating good looks.”

Roran’s hackles bristled. “Excuse me?”

“My dear,” Romari gazed into Axton’s eyes, as if he hadn’t heard a word Roran had said, “I am your salvation. And your reward.”

“Reward…?” The word left his lips like it burned.

Romari winked. “Naturally.”

Behind him, a kobold made a show to raise their crossbow. One Gnoll leaned toward another and whispered, “Does he always say this bit?”

“Every. Single. Time.” Was the reply to his cohort.

 “No whispers during the rescue!” Romari’s ears flicked, “This is a delicate seduction, I mean liberation!”

“Alright pal- “Roran growled, stepping forward. “You’ve got about three seconds to let go of my friend before I break your teeth like stale biscuits. Pretty sure this one’s sniffin’ his own tail.”

“Ah, the bodyguard. Fierce. Loyal.” Romari turned, with a mocking sigh, “And woefully outmatched. We’re a touch busy here, o black and white-furred wall of meat. Perhaps you go polish your shield or something while the grown-ups talk.”

Romari’s ears perked, eyes shining as if lit from within by some divine muse only he could hear. With a sharp gesture to his gang, he raised one arm skyward, the other pressed against his chest in a swoon of passion so practiced it might’ve been choreographed.

From behind him came the unmistakable twang of a poorly tuned lute. A kobold shook a tambourine like he’d been handed a pot lid and told to believe in himself. The minotaur backup singer hummed a deep, tuneless drone. They were, without question, a musical disaster. Romari did not seem to notice—or perhaps, he simply didn’t care. He began to sing.

“No chains, just charms, my captive dove,” he crooned, voice rich as dark wine and twice as indulgent. “No claws, no flames, just tender love…”

He stepped in slowly, circling around Axton like a dancer on a private stage, scarf fluttering at his throat, breeches creaking with dramatic weight. Axton stood rooted, too stunned to move as the wolf poured his theatrics over him like rose-scented syrup.

“Why waste your youth with scaled despair,” Romari gestured dismissively toward the horizon, presumably at Nelneras’ absence. “When you could braid your soul with mine?”

The kobold attempted harmony. It did not succeed.

Was this real? Axton blinked. Was this actually happening?

“Forget the beast, the golden glare…” Romari dropped to one knee, as if proposing, as if offering, cradling Axton’s hand with theatrical reverence. He breathed, gazing up at Axton with absurd intensity, “I’ll be your feast, your thornless vine.”

The final note dragged long from his throat, as if he expected the forest itself to applaud. The kobold raised his arms in triumph. The tambourine shook once more, wildly off-beat. The minotaur let out a bass “Woo!” for punctuation.

And in the silence that followed, the world tilted slightly.

Axton stared down at Romari, whose grin was wide, hopeful, and utterly unearned. Around them, even the birds seemed to fall quiet. His heart thundered in his chest. The wolf’s smile might have dazzled a merchant’s daughter or a lonely bard, but to Axton it was a snare of velvet and teeth. Every word he’d sung had been a performance. A cage painted gold. A story where Axton was the prize, never the person.

His fingers curled in Romari’s grasp, “Let go of me.” he hissed, voice low and tight.

Romari did not. Instead, he cupped Axton’s hand like it was the crown jewel of the forest.

Roran stepped forward, broad shoulders squared, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. “I said back off.” His voice didn’t rise, but it struck like a blade drawn slowly and surely.

Across the clearing, the bandits tensed. Crossbows cocked with a series of clicks. The dragon-stunner cannon hissed like a serpent, its runes glowing with primed magic.

Romari rolled his eyes with theatrical disdain. “Tsk. So uncivilized. No sense of romance.”

And then a shadow rolled in, not quick, but deliberate. Wide. Commanding. Leaves trembled. The moss curled against the trees as though seeking shelter. A voice followed, low and velvet-edged, the kind of voice that only spoke so softly because it never had to raise itself to be obeyed.

“You leave for ten minutes…” Nelneras stepped into the clearing, wings half-flared in languid elegance. His scales shimmered like smelted gold. “And you’ve already summoned a parade of peacocks with crossbows.”

Axton sagged with relief. His knees almost gave out, though he’d swear it was the tension leaving his legs, not the dragon's voice doing things to his insides again.

One of the kobolds yelped. A wolven juggling the cannon nearly dropped it, arms flailing. A humans crossbow hit the ground with a clatter.

“Well,” Romani sighed, releasing Axton’s hand with the mournful grace of a parting lover, “look what the wind coughed up.” He adjusted his scarf and raised his voice, posture high and grand. “We are fully equipped, scaled sir! Energy crossbows! Anti-dragon cannons! A kobold with romantic combat experience!” He gestured broadly at his confused crew. “We are more than prepared to repel you with violence!” Then, with a gallant smile, “So if you don’t mind, beast, shoo. Can’t you see I’m a bit busy here?”

“Busy?” His tail flicked behind him, dislodging a few leaves from a nearby branch. “Yes. I suppose that's one word for it.”

Axton didn’t wait. He didn’t think—he reacted. His palm thrust forward, a jolt of magic surged from his fingertips, uncontrolled, raw, and trembling with coiled nerves and buried anger.

The crack of lightning shattered the air, sharp, blinding, immediate. The scent of scorched fur followed a heartbeat later.

Romari yelped, high, strangled, utterly undignified, as sparks danced across his chest and raced through his oh-so-carefully tailored belt.

“You little bastard!” he barked. His paw snapped down, yanking a slender dueling dagger from his hip. His eyes blazed as he lunged at Axton, blade aimed squarely for the ribs.

But he never reached Axton.

Roran barreled forward, a wall of fur, armor, and righteous fury. His shoulder hit the wolf’s gut with a WHUMP that cracked the silence, lifting Romari clean off his feet. The bandit captain slammed into a tree and crumpled like a kicked pillow, coughing into a swirl of leaves and bruised ego.

“Try flirting now, you greasy pinecone.” Roran muttered, hefting his warhammer.

That was the match. Crossbows snapped up. “FIRE!” someone shrieked, and the clearing went to hell.

Bolts of red energy tore through the air, scattering trees and sizzling through moss. Axton dove behind a fallen log just as two bolts scorched the earth at his heels. Another screamed toward Roran. Without thinking, Axton threw out his hand toward him, the words of power bursting from his lips.

A dome of shimmering force snapped into place, wide enough for both of them. The bolt deflected with a hiss, harmlessly ricocheting off the translucent shield like lightning on glass.

Across the clearing, Nelneras moved. Not with haste. Not with panic. He strolled, a golden titan late for tea.

One of the bandits tried to shout, “STUN THE WYR—!”

A flick of Nelneras’ paw. The cannon he held burst into blue mist. Another cannon was wrenched skyward by a gust of summoned wind and slammed into a tree. A third unraveled in midair, its pieces clattering like bones across the stones. A bolt struck Nelneras’ side—and bounced, ricocheting into a kobold’s foot.

“If this is your finest trap, I suggest you reconsider banditry and try interpretive dance instead” Nelneras muttered.

The bandits were now screaming. “He’s not even trying!”

“Romari, do something!”

“I’m gonna die in a scarf!”

Nelneras’ eyes narrowed, not with malice, but with interest. He watched them scatter, fumble, exhaust themselves. Then he smiled. “I believe I’ve just had an idea.” he murmured, and the air changed.

Glyphs spun beneath his paws. Magic pulsed outward, soft and heavy like thunder in the bones. His voice deepened into chant, low, ancient, mountain sung.

And the stone answered.

The earth heaved. Granite erupted in a spiraling wave around the bandits. Pillars arced like rising jaws. Roots of rock curled through the grass and seized limbs. Crossbows dropped like toys from startled hands. In the space of ten heartbeats, the Wild Howl Bandits were trapped, encased in a graceful web of stone. Not crushed. Contained. Like insects in an ornamental jar.

All but one. The last bandit, a twitchy human with a half-loaded crossbow and no backup, stood alone, eyes flicking from the dragon to the mage to the paladin. His knees knocked together like chimes in a storm.

Nelneras stepped aside with an almost courtly gesture, as though unveiling a painting at a gala. “Lesson Two,” he intoned, flicking a bit of moss from his scales. “Magical engagement under pressure. Practical application of instinctive defense and counterattack.”

Axton peeked over his shield, blinking in disbelief, still crouched low behind the log as if the wood might spare him from madness. “Now?” he hissed, voice cracking. “You’re giving me a lesson now?”

 “Is there a better time?” Nelneras arched a brow.

“There’s a man with a crossbow!”

“This one seems manageable. Armed, yes, but terrified. A perfect subject for controlled improvisation.”

The human bandit sputtered. “Are you kidding?!”

“Go on,” Nelneras murmured, now seated like a lounging sphinx, his tail sweeping idly through the grass. “He’s armed. He’s frightened. He possesses just enough courage to be a danger and just enough foolishness to try.”

His smile was serene, almost pitying, like a tutor watching a child reach for fire.
“To you, brave bandit, I say, make your move.” Claim your freedom with blood and brilliance. I promise, we shall all be very impressed.”

The bandit’s eye twitched. “This is insulting.”

“Oh, dreadfully,” Nelneras replied, tone velvet smooth. “But that does not mean it isn’t educational.”

From within the rock cage, Romari’s voice roared, ““You insufferable, gold-lacquered tyrant! I had a whole monologue prepared!”

“Then I suggest you begin again, this time in rhyme, to spare us the boredom.”

His mouth parted in quiet horror as he looked between the trembling bandit and the dragon. A breath hitched in his throat, caught between a protest and a prayer.

“You’re actually encouraging him to attack me?”

“I am,” came the reply, low and composed, like the toll of a temple bell in twilight. “You’ve studied theory, my dear apprentice. You’ve shaped your spells in the warmth of safety, under sheltering wings. Now show me how you summon power when fear rakes at your throat.”

Axton stared, jaw tight. “You think that—” he pointed at the bandit “is going to bring out my best magic?”

“No,” Nelneras said, a prehensile whisker curling in contemplation. “I think he might rattle the bars you’ve placed around your own spellwork… and let the truth of it slip free”

“I’d rather not die to prove a point.” Axton muttered, his voice brittle with the strain of rising nerves.

“Good,” Nelneras said, a glint of approval slipping beneath the turquoise calm of his gaze. “Then don’t.”

The bandit stepped forward, “Must we truly go through with this? You’ve won—I’m not even being paid anymore…”

“You are,” Nelneras corrected smoothly, “being remembered. A rare currency. Spend it wisely.”

From the side, Roran’s voice broke in, thick with longing and offense. “You’re giving him the dramatic showdown? I didn’t even get a proper fight!”

The dragon didn’t even turn his head. One paw extended, talon flicking lazily through the air. Stone shifted. Three forms tumbled out of the prison, still dazed, half-burned, one clutching a bent spoon as if it were a holy relic.

“There,” Nelneras said, waving with a paw. “Your toys, Sir Blackclaw. Do remember, if they break, I shall be most displeased.”

Roran’s ears perked. His tail gave a happy sweep. “These ones are mine?” he asked, already hefting his hammer with both hands.

Nelneras gave a slow blink. “Consider them… an outlet.”

The wolven’s grin spread like sunrise. “You got it. I’ll keep them breathing. Mostly.”

He started toward the bandits with that towering, cheerful menace only he could pull off, like a boulder rolling downhill that meant no personal offense but was absolutely still going to flatten you.

“Oh!” he called back over his shoulder. “I’m gonna try that new move! The… Moon Twister—no, wait, Star Tumble? Sky Crunch? …Bah, I’ll name it after I land it.”

As Roran advanced, Nelneras turned his head, just slightly. His eyes caught the light like molten turquoise. “You,” he said softly. “No words. No gestures. Not this time.”
He tilted his head, almost indulgent. “Call it forth like a dragon would. From your breath. From your bones. Let the magic answer you.”

The bandit opposite Axton lunged with a cry that split the trees, sword raised and trembling, fury wielded like a torch to burn away fear.

Axton flinched, heart hammering in his throat, hands rising before thought could catch them. Words spilled from his lips too fast, too sharp, and the magic obeyed without waiting.

The man froze in place mid-stride, locked in an invisible grip, muscles clenched as though seized by iron chains.

A slow exhale followed from the dragon. Not anger. Not cruelty. Just the quiet weight of disappointment, like a master craftsman watching a student fumble for twine when the chisel lay waiting. “You clung to the path you know,” Nelneras murmured. “Not the one I lit for you.” With a flick of his claw, the spell unraveled. The bandit crumpled like wet canvas, landing hard in the dirt with a thud and a breathless grunt.

Another slab slid aside with a hiss of shifting stone, and a second figure staggered free from the prison’s grasp. Broader, taller, it was the Gnoll this time, his fur matted and bristling, yellow eyes wild. A curved blade hung from his clawed grip, the edge nicked but wicked all the same. His lips peeled back in a confused snarl.

“Wh-what is this?” the Gnoll barked, voice caught between a growl and a whimper. “A test? You expect me to fight him?”

Nelneras tilted his head slightly, his prehensile whiskers curling forward like slow script drawn in the air. “Correct.”

The gnoll’s eye twitched. “Why?”

“To serve a purpose,” the dragon said mildly. “You are the whetstone. He is the blade. Few receive the honor.”

“I’d rather be a whetstone elsewhere!”

“And yet,” Nelneras murmured, smiling with all the grace of an old statue learning amusement, “here you are. Make it count.”

Axton shifted his stance, his heart thudding louder with each beat. “Nelneras, I—”

“No words,” came the soft interruption, gentle, but firm as hammered steel. “No syllables of power. No gestures. No crutches. If you would command the Weave as dragons do, you must learn to feel the shape of it… not wrap it in ceremony like a child dressing a doll.”

“But—”

“You’ve clung to scaffolds all your life,” Nelneras continued, eyes narrowing. “Now step forward without them.”

The gnoll lunged with a roar.

Steel flashed. Axton ducked, barely avoiding a cut that would’ve split his shoulder. He stumbled on the forest loam but caught his footing. Magic rose inside him, frantic, shapeless, but every spell unraveled before it left his hands. No words. No gestures. Just… me.

“Feel it!” Nelneras called, his voice coiling through the trees. “Not with the mind. Not with fear. Sink below those. What moves in you, beneath thought?”

Another swing. Claws scraped against the magical blue shield that was his Arcane ward, Axton could feel its power hum to life to protect him, but he also knew if he didn’t do something fast it would fail, and he be done for. He must act!

And that he did.

Not fear. Not fury. Something older. Something buried beneath pages and practices and polite incantations. A pulse. A thrum. The shape of magic unspoken, moving through him like breath through lungs that had never been taught how to breathe.

His hands flared with light.

Lightning burst outward with a sudden, crackling roar, wild, untamed, and no longer shackled to syllables or signs. It surged from Axton’s outstretched hand like a storm finally given permission to exist, striking the Gnoll in a cascade of blinding light and thunder. The brute was flung backward, limbs twitching, his blade lost to the underbrush, his cry swallowed in smoke and ruin.

Axton stood trembling. Magic still danced faintly across his fingers, bright, primal, living. It had answered him. Not because he summoned it with practiced form or polished phrase, but because he needed it. And for once, that had been enough.

His breath came in short, ragged bursts. Beneath velvet robes, his heart pounded, not with panic, but with the dizzying, fragile thrum of something sacred. He had done that. No script. No gestures. Just his will, and the Weave had bowed.

A laugh caught in his throat, chased by the sting of a sob. For a moment, he forgot the trees, the bandits, the dragon. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t refined. But it was his. And it had worked.

Nelneras exhaled, long and quiet. “There it is,” he said, “A spell born of soul, not script. You’ve taken your first true step.”

With the flick of a single claw, stone shifted again. Another panel of rock groaned aside, and out stumbled Romari.

His mane was tousled, one sleeve hung in tatters, soot darkened half his face like warpaint applied by accident. Still, the bandit struck a pose, adjusting his scarf with dramatic offense. “Finally,” Romari huffed. “I do hope you’re ready to beg, because I…wait. You’re not actually letting me go, are you?”

 “Goodness, no.” Nelneras gave a patient sigh, “I simply thought my apprentice deserved a slightly more theatrical opponent.”

Romari blinked, scandalized. “You’re using me as the encore?!”

That dragon’s smile was all fang and gilded confidence. “Think of it as… a spotlight you didn’t earn.”

Axton stepped forward, the breeze tugging gently at his robes. His shoulders were square now, stance steady. Sparks still shimmered along his fingertips, but they no longer trembled. They waited.

“Alright then,” he murmured, eyes narrowing, voice low but resolute. “Let’s see what else I can do.”