TWELVE #3
And yet, even with the heat of summer still thick in the world below, up here, the air is cooler, sharper.
A crispness bites at my skin, slipping past the high collar of my riding leathers.
I’m grateful for them. The supple, reinforced material protecting me from both the chill and the burn of high-altitude winds.
Calryx levels out, her wings cutting through the currents with practiced ease.
Her voice breaks the silence.
“The wards have stood for centuries, maintained by dragon magics. They are not simply barriers, nor are they walls built of human hands. They are woven into the fabric of this realm itself. And they are weakening.”
I already knew this—Valen had taught me as much in our lessons. The wards were not just ancient; they were tied to something greater. They pulsed with the rhythm of the world itself, a force unseen but always felt.
But hearing it from a dragon . . . feels different.
“What happens,” I ask quietly, “if they fail completely?”
Calryx’s silence stretches a beat too long before she finally answers.
“If the wards fall, it is not just your kingdom at risk. It is dragonkind itself.”
A shiver prickles down my spine.
I tighten my grip on the saddle straps. “What exactly do the eggs have to do with the wards?”
Calryx rumbles, a sound of thought rather than immediate response.
“Dragons do not know what it means to be without our young. Not like this.”
A flick of her tail sends us banking into a relaxed turn.
“For three decades, the eggs have remained dormant. Never before has so much time passed without a hatching.”
I already knew that much. Valen had mentioned it, a quiet concern buried beneath everything else we had studied. But hearing it from her—feeling the significance of it through the bond—is something else entirely.
My stomach tightens. “Why?”
“We do not know.”
There is an edge of something (frustration? uncertainty?) beneath her otherwise steady tone.
“Some believe the eggs are waiting. But for what, we cannot say.”
Eggs do not wait. Life does not pause. It either thrives, or it fades.
“What do the Guardians say?”
Another rumble comes through the bond, edged this time. I know she is not frustrated with me.
“They share only what they can. What they are able to do.”
“And what is that?”
“The eggs cannot hatch while there is this imbalance.”
My pulse spikes. “Then the wards will fail and all creatures will perish—dragons included. Why won’t they share more? It could make the difference we need.”
I feel Calryx gather herself before answering.
“The dragon way is woven into the world,” she says at last. “Older than your kingdoms. Older than your wars.”
Her wings shift, guiding us into a gradual descent.
“A species that has endured as long as we have does not change quickly. Not even when danger rises. The Guardians do what they believe preserves balance. Not only for dragonkind . . . but for all who live within the realm.”
“But you don’t believe they are revealing all they know,” I press.
“I do not.”
“And you don’t like it.” I lean forward slightly. “Don’t deny it, Calryx. I can feel it.”
A pause.
“I would never lie to you,” she says. “Nor withhold what I have the choice to give.”
The words settle.
“Yes,” she adds quietly. “I wish they would speak more freely.”
I chew on my lip, my mind racing. If the eggs are bound to the magics of the realm, then their stillness means something has shifted in the balance itself.
But what? And why now?
I look toward the horizon, my heart pounding a little faster.
“Then what needs to be restored?” I ask. “To wake them?”
“You are asking the right questions, Amara,” Calryx replies. “But I believe we must find the answers ourselves.”
I nod once, more to myself than to her.
Calryx shifts beneath me, her wings adjusting against the current.
“Maybe if we go to the ones who do know.”
I go still.
I already know.
“Mythren Valley,” I say. “The Guardians.”
The name alone makes my heart pound.
Unbonded dragons. Ancient. Untethered. Protectors. Keepers of knowledge no rider has ever claimed.
Calryx’s voice hardens, not harsh but absolute. “They will not give you answers lightly.”
I lift my chin, the decision already made.
“Then I will earn them.”
A low hum of approval rolls through her.
“That is a good answer.”
We fly in silence for a while.
The wind bites at my cheeks, sharp and cold at this height, despite the sun burning bright above. The sky stretches endless and unbroken, a vast canvas of blue.
Calryx’s scales catch the light, reflecting hints of blue, green, and pink flickering across her sleek form. She is breathtaking up here. A creature of legend. Of raw power.
And yet, even she does not have all the answers.
Breathing in deep, I feel the crisp air move down my nasal passages. Thoughts turn and twist in my mind.
The hatchlings and the wards have always been tied together. The birth of new dragons strengthens the old magics, renewing what was woven into this realm long before humans built their kingdoms.
Every hatching cycle has been part of that balance.
Until now.
Three decades.
Three decades since the last egg hatched. Three decades of silence. The eggs remain, unbroken, untouched.
Why?
At first, I thought it was a sign of something missing. That whatever force awakens them had simply not yet come. But the longer I sit with it, the more that explanation unravels.
This isn’t a pause. It’s an absence.
Magics move in cycles, always shifting, always flowing. But something has interrupted that flow. It isn’t just waiting to be set right. Something is holding it back.
Valen spoke of this in his lessons. The prophecies say the return of the Spiritborn marks a shift in magics—a restoration of balance.
But what if it isn’t being restored? What if it was never allowed to continue?
The thought hits me all at once, sharp as the wind rushing past us.
A deeper understanding taking root—not just a vague sense of wrongness, but a certainty that something deliberate has caused this.
This is a wound.
A chill runs down my spine, deeper than the cold air biting at my skin. I tighten my grip on the saddle straps, my gaze drifting toward the horizon.
The silence between us stretches, thick with everything I’m trying to piece together.
We fly for nearly an hour, soaring high above the world, where nothing feels heavy and the sky stretches endlessly in all directions.
Then I feel it—the subtle shift in her flight, the banking of her wings as she turns us back toward the capital.
A sigh presses against my ribs.
I know what’s next.
“Don’t you have a ball to attend?” Her voice slides through my mind, dry and edged with faint humor. “Another human ritual. Pomp and pride.”
I huff a laugh. “That’s exactly how I feel.”
She rumbles, amused. “Then why go?”
I exhale, watching the horizon stretch before us. “Because humans do care about these things. And if I want to survive among them, I have to play along.”
Calryx hums, considering.
“A shame. The sky does not demand such things.”