Chapter 37 Starlight
Starlight
Look at this,” Mariel says, sliding a thick, leatherbound book toward me across the table.
I lean closer, tracing my gaze over a sketch of a three-headed dragon crowned in flame. Beneath it, a line of looping script catches my eye: Drathmar, God of Flame and King of Dragons.
“King of dragons?” I repeat, doing a double-take to make sure I read that right.
“Yes. And look closer.” She slides a magnifying glass toward me. Even the glass is ornate, with gold trim and an engraved handle. Why is everything in this palace so unnecessarily lavish?
I hold it over the place she indicates, just above the dragon’s heart. There, etched into a small breastplate, is a faint design. “Is that a…?”
“A crest. Yes!” she interrupts, excitement sparking in her voice as she pulls another book from the pile and lays it open in front of me. “It matches this.”
Her finger taps what looks like a royal family tree, though it’s unlike any I’ve ever seen. No men, only women—mothers and daughters branching upward like vines. And in the bottom corner, the same crest gleams in faded ink: black vines curling around a single white rose on a field of deep navy.
I could swear I’ve seen that symbol before.
“Wait a minute…” I push back from the table and dig through my satchel until I find The Song of Dragon Souls. I flip through its fragile pages until I reach the section where several have been torn out. What remains is a border of navy ink and curling black vines—the same design.
My heart skips.
“It’s the same!” Vivian exclaims, stepping up beside me, shoulder to shoulder.
“Whoever tore those pages out was clearly trying to hide something,” Mariel murmurs, eyes narrowing.
“Whatever the story behind this crest is,” I say, “it’s tied to the dragons. And, most likely, the curse.”
They nod in silent agreement.
We’ve spent the last two weeks practically living in this library, and finally—finally—we’re getting somewhere.
Hours pass in a blur of candlelight and ink stains.
Vivian and I comb through the shelves, searching for any other trace of the crest, while Mariel, the only one among us familiar with Eldren, translates the page beside the image of the Dragon King.
By the time the sun sinks behind the mountains, our eyes burn with exhaustion. We ignore the dinner bell until Marb appears with a tray of bread, fruit, and steaming tea.
“How’s it going?” I ask as Mariel drains the last of her teacup.
“So far, all I’ve managed to translate is that Drathmar ruled the dragons around the time the curse began,” she says, rubbing her temple.
“There was some kind of war. And something about two eras, marked B.P. and A.P. I don’t know what the P stands for yet, but I’ll figure it out. It’ll just take time.”
I study her face. She can’t hide the fatigue beneath her determination. Vivian yawns loudly beside us.
“We should rest and pick up again in the morning,” Mariel suggests.
“I agree,” Vivian adds with another yawn.
“You two go. I’m not tired yet,” I lie. In a few hours, I’ll have to meet Drako, anyway. Trying to sleep until then will do me no good, so I may as well keep searching for answers to the endless list of questions I’ve amassed over the past two weeks.
“Don’t stay up too late,” Mariel warns, collecting the empty tray.
“I won’t,” I promise, another lie.
I haven’t told them about my deal with the dragon, partly because I know they’d try to stop me, but mostly because they might actually try to come with me. And Drako would take kindly to anyone intruding on our nights.
“Goodnight,” they say in unison before disappearing through the doorway.
“Goodnight,” I call after them, then turn back to the pages spread before me, silvered by the rising moonlight.
The chime of the clock startles me awake. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The scent of parchment and lavender ink lingers in the air; the steady tick of a grandfather clock echoes like a heartbeat through the stacks.
Then it hits me. The library. Midnight.
I gasp and scramble to my feet. I shove Mariel’s book and all my notes into my satchel, sling it over my shoulder, and sprint for the door.
I feel like the girl from the story I read the other day, fleeing the party at midnight, running from her prince, only I’m running toward a monster.
No. Not a monster, not really. Just another misunderstood creature.
I bolt barefoot through the halls, moonlight slicing through narrow windows, cool stone stinging my feet. I fly down staircases and winding corridors toward the stables, where Brimstone waits.
No time for a saddle. I leap onto his back, grip his mane, and shout, “Go!”
The wind tears at my hair as we race down the mountain path, the mist thinning with every stride until we finally reach the field.
A massive obsidian shadow sits in the clearing, eyes glowing like molten gold.
“You’re late,” Drako says, the tip of his tail twitching with impatience.
I slide from Brimstone’s back, breathless. “I’m sorry. I fell asleep,” I say, pulling our book from my satchel.
He huffs, smoke curling from his nostrils. “We won’t need a story tonight,” he says. “Come. I want to show you something.”
“But—” I start to protest, then fall silent as he lowers his enormous body to the ground. His wings fold in, his spine dipping low in a wordless invitation.
He wants me to climb on.
I freeze. “No,” I whisper.
The memory of that first flight floods back—wind and fire drowning out my screams. My legs lock.
“You can,” he says, his voice soft and steady.
“No, I can’t. I have no idea how to hold on,” I admit, my voice trembling.
His golden eyes soften, and he exhales slowly. His breath wraps around me like living warmth, chasing away the bite of the midnight air. “I will not let you fall, little flame.”
I hesitate, then step closer. The moonlight glints over his scales like liquid glass. I run a hand along his scaled shoulder.
“You’re not planning to drop me at a new castle with another cursed king, are you?” I mutter, masking my nerves under a thick layer of dry humor.
He chuffs, a sound halfway between laughter and a sigh. “Not tonight.”
I take a breath and climb on. The moment I settle between the rise of his wings, we lift off, and the world falls away.
The wind roars past us, fierce and cleansing.
The castle below shrinks to a mere speck of stone and light in a sea of mist. My fingers curl into the ridges of his spine—this time not from fear but exhilaration.
We soar higher, cutting through the clouds, above the shroud of the curse.
And there, above it all, hang the stars. Not dulled by enchantment, not hidden behind haze, but blazing like diamonds scattered across black velvet, brilliant and untamed.
A laugh escapes me. “Oh, stars…”
“Yes,” Drako rumbles. “They are.”
We land on a ridge near the mountain’s crown. At the summit, the world feels still—sacred, even. The air is thin and sharp, the silence teeming with life.
“This place,” Drako says reverently, “is hallowed ground. Every star above us is said to be a soul who lived brightly enough to earn a place among the heavens.”
“And the ones who didn’t?” I ask softly.
“They fade,” he murmurs. “Ash in the wind. Forgotten.” His voice deepens, shuddering through my chest. “My soul, if I still have one, is too stained to rise.”
“You’re not alone, then. I’m pretty sure mine’s stained, too,” I whisper.
“One stains their soul by killing another,” he says, craning his head with interest. “Who have you killed, Fire?”
“Oh. Well, no one.” Not yet, at least. “But I almost did.”
“Yes,” he rumbles. “I heard you fought ferociously… like a dragon.” There’s a certain pride in his tone, a flicker of affection beneath the gravel.
“If it weren’t for Keiren’s interference—”
“Oh, so it’s Keiren now, is it? How familiar.”
My cheeks flush.
The dragon snorts. “Your heart is racing, little flame. Your body temperature is rising. And you smell like the female horses when they—”
“Please don’t finish that sentence,” I groan, mortified.
“Ugh. You humans,” he mutters, but there’s no venom in it.
I exhale sharply, grateful for the change in his tone. But something still churns in me. Guilt. Confusion. And, under it all, longing.
“Do you regret it?” I ask quietly, needing to hear it from him.
“Regret doesn’t begin to cover it,” he says. “I have scorched this world, little flame. And still the fire burns, the desire to do it again.”
“So, you regret the curse?” I say, “I figured you wanted us to fail, for it to be unbreakable.”
“If I wanted you to fail, I wouldn’t have brought you here.”
Drako turns toward a ledge overlooking the mountains, where dawn is just beginning to bleed over the horizon.
Light strikes the stone, and a mosaic of crystals embedded in the cliff shimmer to life, catching the first rays of morning and throwing them back tenfold. It’s like standing in the heart of the stars themselves—heaven above, heaven below.
In the mirrored light, I can make out a faint shape etched into the rock: a girl kneeling beneath a pair of outstretched wings.
“One is missing,” Drako says, pointing with a massive talon.
There, near the center, is a hollow socket. Perfectly cut for one of the crystals. Empty.
“It was stolen,” he says. “Lost in the keep, long ago. I want to return it. But I cannot enter that place. Not as I am.”
“You want me to find it.”
“I want you to restore it,” he corrects me. “To finish something I began long before you were born.”
I look at the hollow star, at the shimmer that dances between us, pondering the quiet ache in his voice. “I’ll help you… if you’ll help me translate this.”
I pull the leather tome from my bag and open it to the page with the sketch of the Dragon King. For a moment, he goes still. Too still. His pupils narrow to slits.
“I will not translate that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t need to.” His gaze drifts from the image to the horizon. “Drathmar was my father.”