Chapter 44
Raven
I am watching Nova play with my younger brothers and sister in the gardens of my mother’s home.
The afternoon sun hangs low and golden, casting long shadows across manicured hedges and flowerbeds bursting with late-season blooms. The air smells of turned earth, crushed lavender, and the faint sulfuric undertone that clings to any place where dragons gather—smoke and heat and ancient power.
We sit side by side on a carved stone bench worn smooth by generations of use.
I have my wing curved around my mother’s back, the leather membrane stretched to block the crisp autumn wind that carries the first whispers of approaching winter.
She leans into the shelter I provide, and something warm blooms in my chest at the reversal—once she shielded me from everything.
Now I am strong enough to return the favor.
“Did we ever figure out who the two male representatives were for the southern and eastern isles?” I ask, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t carry to the little ones. “Queen Giselle was quite clear she would never send a male envoy here.”
The question has been gnawing at me for weeks, a splinter I can’t dig out.
“No. And we never found out who they really were.” Mom’s jaw tightens, the only outward sign of her unease.
Her eyes remain fixed on the children tumbling through the grass, but I see the calculation behind them—threat assessment, contingency planning, the endless vigilance of a dragoness who has survived too many betrayals to ever fully relax. “That is what is most concerning.”
Unknown males. False identities. Lies woven so skillfully that even my mother—who has ruled this continent for longer than most species live—couldn’t unravel them.
The implications coil in my stomach like cold snakes.
Nova breaks away from the game first, her obsidian, and orange scales gleaming in the fading light as she bounds toward us on unsteady legs.
My twin little brothers follow close behind, their smaller forms a matching set of onyx.
They reach the bench and curl up together at our feet, scales overlapping, tails intertwined, purrs rumbling in a sleepy chorus.
One by one, the other little ones abandon their play and join the pile.
My sisters nestle against my brothers, and Nova works her way into the center of the warm tangle of bodies, her calico scales standing out against the sea of greens and blacks surrounding her.
I watch them settle, watch their breathing slow and synchronize, and something fierce and protective swells behind my ribs.
Mine. All of them. Mine to protect.
The sounds of the estate drift to my ears—the distant clash of swords from the training yards, the rhythmic scrape of gardeners’ tools against soil, the low murmur of servants moving through their duties.
Normal sounds. Peaceful sounds. But I find myself listening for the things that don’t belong: the wrong note in the symphony, the predator’s footstep disguised among the prey.
“Before the start of your third year, we will go to the Eastern Isles and see Giselle.” Mom turns her face to the sky, and the sun catches on her silver horns, making them blaze like polished mirrors.
Her profile is regal, timeless, carved from the same stone as the mountains that border our territory.
“At least that way we will have some answers. Or possibly more questions.”
More questions. That seems to be all we get these days—questions breeding questions, uncertainty compounding until I can barely remember what solid ground feels like.
“How come I don’t have horns in my human form?
” The question slips out before I can stop it, a moment of levity to cut through the tension.
I gesture vaguely at my head, imagining the curved silver horns of my dragon form sprouting from my temples.
“I mean, my dragon’s horns in human form would cause quite a stir. ”
Mom looks at me, and for a moment neither of us moves.
Then we both start laughing—genuine laughter, the kind that bubbles up from somewhere deep and refuses to be contained. My wings shake with it, leather rustling against itself.
“Kissing your mates with those horns would be a challenge.” Mom gasps the words between peals of laughter, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.
I picture it—trying to embrace Corvus or Solaris or any of them with massive curved horns jutting forward from my skull, constantly having to angle my head to avoid impaling anyone I try to get close to.
The absurdity of it hits me fresh, and we dissolve into near-hysterical laughter, clutching each other on the bench while the hatchlings sleep on, oblivious.
“What has my girls laughing so much?”
The familiar rumble of my father’s voice cuts through our mirth.
Thauglor stands at the garden’s edge, his massive frame silhouetted against the golden light, watching over all the children sleeping in a ball the same way I used to sleep with my siblings when I was small.
His presence fills the space the way it always does—vast and ancient and reassuring, a mountain made flesh.
“The thought of me having my dragon’s horns in human form.” I manage to keep my voice flat, deadpan, though my lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “How much trouble they would cause with the way they curve forward.”
It takes my dad several moments before it all clicks into place. I watch the realization dawn, watched his brow furrow and then arch sharply upward.
“Yeah, no. We would not be safe with horns in human form.” He tilts his head to the side, his ancient sapphire eyes moving between Mom and me with growing suspicion. “You two are up to something. I can feel it in my scales.”
He’s not wrong. He’s never wrong about these things.
“Plotting next year, Dad.” I rise from the bench and cross to him, and when I wrap my arms around his waist, I feel like a little girl all over again.
His massive arms close around me, warm and solid and safe, smelling of wood-smoke and old leather and the particular spice that is uniquely him.
“Mom and I are going to go see Queen Giselle before the start of the school year.”
He hugs me tightly, his chest vibrating with a low, rumbling purr I feel in my bones. I purr back without thinking, the sound rising from my throat instinctively, and we stand there for a long moment, father, and daughter, communicating in the ancient language of our kind.
Mom laughs at the two of us, the sound bright and warm in the cooling air.
“Thauglor, are you going to be okay with the two of us going on a mission together?” She tilts her head, watching him with eyes that see everything. “You’ll be here managing the nest and playing grandfather while we’re off facing potential enemies.”
“I have to be.” Dad kisses the crown of my head, his lips warm against my hair, then releases me to move toward Mom.
He settles beside her on the bench, pulling her against his side the way I pulled her against my wing earlier.
“It’s not like males are allowed on the island unless they are bonded or the rare omega male. ”
His tone is light, but I catch the tension beneath it—the protective instinct warring with the knowledge that he cannot follow where we’re going.
“I came to check on the kids and see if they needed anything.” His gaze sweeps over the sleeping pile of hatchlings, and I see something soften in his ancient face.
“It amazes me that our granddaughter is so large compared to the other hatchlings. She dwarfs your brothers, and they’re older than she is. ”
“Nova’s size shocked me too.” I move to stand near the sleeping children, watching their peaceful faces, the gentle rise, and fall of their breathing. “Is it because of me being a wyrm and Solaris is a great wyrm? Mom was a wyrm when I was born, but I don’t think I was Nova’s size.”
I try thinking back to my clutch, to the memories of my earliest days that exist more as impressions than clear images.
“The difference is bloodline.” Dad says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like he’s explaining why the sky is blue.
“Your mom’s father was barely a wyrm dragon when she was born.
You are born of two great wyrm fathers and a wyrm mother.
So when you and Solaris had Nova, her father was a great wyrm and her mother a wyrm with a strong great wyrm bloodline. ”
Power compounding on power. Strength breeding strength. No wonder our enemies want us eliminated—each generation of our line grows more formidable than the last.
Nova stirs in her sleep, her small body wiggling free from the pile of her aunts and uncles.
She blinks awake, her eyes—the same sapphire blue as mine, as my father’s—focusing on Thauglor with immediate recognition.
A chirp escapes her throat, and then she’s pulling herself across the grass toward him, her movements still uncoordinated but determined.
She reaches his legs and rubs her face against his calf, purring up a storm that I can hear from several feet away. The sound vibrates through the air, pure contentment, pure love.
I pull out a blanket from beside the bench—I’ve learned to always have one ready—and Nova takes the cue.
She shifts in a shimmer of scales and light, her hatchling form folding inward until a small girl crouches on the grass, dark hair tumbling around her shoulders, large obsidian, and orange wings fluttering at her back.
I wrap the soft wool around her naked body, and my father bends to scoop her up in one fluid motion.
She spreads her little wings immediately, stretching them toward his shoulders, trying to do what I do when I hold her.
With me, her wings can almost reach around my shoulders, a miniature embrace within an embrace.
With Dad, the bone at the leading edge of each wing barely makes contact with his massive frame.
But she tries anyway, her face scrunched with concentration.
I watch tears gather in my father’s eyes—the terror of the continent, the ancient wyrm who has burned armies and toppled kingdoms, undone by a toddler’s attempt at a hug.
He closes his own wings around her, creating a cocoon of dark membrane and warmth, and she sighs against his chest, perfectly content.
Mom bumps her shoulder against mine, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “You know you’ve lost her, right?”
“It’s okay.” I lean into my mother’s side, watching the scene before us.
My father, who once made the world tremble, swaying gently with my daughter in his arms, humming something tuneless and soft.
“There’s no one else outside of my nest that she would be safer with.
Well, maybe my other two dads. While I’m gone, she’ll be guarded by ancient terrors who would burn continents for her. ”
I hug my mother, feeling the warmth of her body, the steady rhythm of her heart. “He’s such a girl dad, it’s not even funny.”
Mom laughs softly, but her arms tighten around me, and I feel the shift in her mood before she speaks.
“But in all seriousness, Raven...” Her voice drops, pitched for my ears alone.
“We don’t know what we’re flying into. We don’t know if Giselle is working with Magnus or not, and that’s the problem. ”
The words land like stones in still water, sending ripples through the warm moment.
She’s right. Giselle could be an ally. She could be neutral. Or she could be part of the conspiracy that wants my bloodline erased from existence, and we’d be flying directly into her territory, into her power, surrounded by her forces with no backup and no escape.
“We bring Xero and Iris with us.” I keep my voice steady, letting the plan unfold.
Mom needs to know what Xero can do—the edge we’ll be carrying that no one else knows about.
“Xero can move two people a short distance—about a hundred feet. So we can vanish if needed, put some distance between us and any threat before they can react.”
“She can do that?” Mom’s eyebrows shoot up, surprise breaking through her careful composure.
“Yeah,” I allow myself a small smile. “We’ve been working on it slowly, finding out the maximum size of something she can move.
Her main priority is Nova, always. Nova, she can transport from my nest to here in a blink—especially fast if Nova is in her human form.
She’s lighter that way. The more weight, the shorter the distance. ”
I watch Mom’s eyes move from me to my father still holding Nova, then back again. I can see her calculating, recalculating, adjusting the odds in her head.
“Where’s Xero now?”
No sooner does Mom ask than the shadows beside the bench ripple and solidify. Xero appears on the stone seat, her black fur absorbing the golden light, her blood-red feline eyes fixed on my father holding my daughter.
“Xero is always here. Watching the Nova, always.” Her voice purrs directly into our minds, bypassing ears entirely—a sensation like warm velvet brushing against my thoughts. Those crimson eyes never waver from Nova’s small form. “The Nova is safe. Xero makes sure.”
A shadow that moves when my daughter moves. A guardian who never sleeps, never wavers, never looks away.
Mom studies Xero for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Tomorrow we plot the path to the Eastern Isles that we want to take. We’ll do some practice runs and work on maneuvers to harness both of our weapons to work best together.”
Her tone has shifted, the mother receding, the general emerging. This is Mina the Conqueror speaking now, the dragoness who united a continent through fire and will.
“We’ll need backup plans for our backup plans,” she continues, her gaze sweeping from Xero to the sleeping hatchlings to my father and Nova. “And we tell no one outside this immediate circle the true nature of our mission. Not until we know more.”
I nod, feeling the weight of it settle onto my shoulders. The laughter of moments ago feels distant now, belonging to a simpler version of reality that may never have existed.
Here goes everything.