Chapter 23 Sylvie
The rest of the day was a total wash. Sylvie’s head wasn’t in the bakery; it was miles away at the farm with her dragon.
Julian, of course, was being an absolute menace.
“Should we keep a backup supply of extra-thick whipped cream on standby?” he asked, his voice dripping with that bright, insufferable cheer as he polished a display tray. “In case the big guy gets peckish again?”
She tried to freeze him out with a look, but it was hard to be intimidating when her face burned like a forest fire every time the memory flickered—the way Rhavor’s tongue had cleaned the cream off her skin.
She was so distracted she set the oven to near-volcanic temperatures and incinerated an entire tray of apple turnovers.
Bobby stared at the blackened husks of pastry as if she’d personally insulted his entire bloodline.
“That’s it,” he grumbled, steering her toward the door. “Time for you to go before you burn the whole street down.”
She didn’t even argue. She couldn’t wait to see Rhavor.
When she stepped inside the house, the silence hit her first.
Her dragon sat hunched at the kitchen table, massive shoulders bowed as if the roof were physically collapsing on him. He held a letter that looked as though it had been folded and unfolded a dozen times.
When he looked up, a faint, tired smile ghosted across his face..
Her heart skipped.
“What happened?” she asked gently.
His eyes storm-dark.
“Ronda’s lawyers,” he said flatly. “They’ll accept the dragon heritage clause.”
“That’s... good, isn’t it? A win?”
“Not exactly. They’ve doubled the deed price.” He tossed the letter aside like it was radioactive waste. “Recalculated for ‘current market value.’ They’re squeezing me, Sylvie.”
He rose, his movements heavy with a restless, coiled energy, and stalked to the window. He stared out at the land with a hunger that made her ache.
“She doesn’t even want the farm,” he growled, his fists clenching until the knuckles turned white. “She just wants to see me lose it.”
The rawness in his voice hit her harder than any legal threat.
“Vera got what we need,” Sylvie said, stepping closer. Her hand found his arm, warm beneath her palm.
His wings twitched.
“Not quite,” he rumbled. “They want the purest form. The Drakoryte gem. The one the seed transforms into. It’s an ancient technique, Sylvie. It requires precision. A skilled blacksmith. The actual instructions? They’ve been gone.”
She was a baker. She dealt with mille-feuille and profiteroles, not ancient dragon forging.
Then something clicked.
“The book,” she breathed.
She crossed the room in a blur, grabbing “101 Ways to Work the Flame” from the shelf.
She’d been so focused on the baking, but she’d seen those strange side notes—the ones she’d brushed off as gibberish.
He frowned, watching her flip through the pages. “Sylvie, that’s a cookbook.”
“Not only.” She slapped the book open to a marked page. “Look at the annotations in the margins. I ignored them because I’m human and I don’t breathe fire, but look—someone has scribbled references to heritage forging.”
She flicked through the pages. “Here.” She pointed to the drawing of a stone labeled Drakoryte.
He leaned over her shoulder.
“They’re fragmented,” he murmured, his breath hot against her neck. “But... it might be enough.”
“We have the map,” she insisted, turning to look at him.
His gaze shifted to her, the amber turning molten, glowing gold. He pulled her close, his hands heavy and sure on her waist.
“You...” His voice dropped into that rough, territorial edge. “You are extraordinary.”
She steadied herself against the hard planes of his chest, her pulse jumping. “I have a fire oven at the bakery that hits the right temperatures. And I know exactly which grumpy blacksmith can handle the smithing.”
***
By the time they reached Flour & Fire, dusk had settled over Honeybay.
Vera and Bobby were already waiting inside.
Bobby looked deeply suspicious. —clearly he was expecting a tray of croissants and not a piece of ancient dragon history.
Arla and Julian had tagged along too, claiming “moral support,” though Julian looked far too excited.
The oven was already roaring. Vera had pushed it to the absolute limit. When she saw the book in Sylvie’s hands, her green eyes went wide. “I hope you didn’t have to wrestle any beasts for that.”
“No,” Sylvie laughed, slightly breathless. “Only a very enthusiastic self-taught baker.” She smirked at Bobby.
Bobby huffed, lifting a pair of heavy-duty tongs. “I brought the tools. Still not sure what kind of cake needs a three-pound iron grip.”
Vera reached for a carved wooden box and lifted the lid. Sylvie expected something sparkling and breathtaking. Instead, it was a dull, matte-gray stone. Ordinary.
“A Drakoryte seed,” Bobby whispered, his voice full of rare, quiet reverence.
“It looks like... well, a rock,” Sylvie noted.
“It hasn’t met its fire yet,” Arla said seriously.
“The magic happens in the resistance,” Rhavor added, his gaze fixed on the seed with a mix of awe and unease. “They’re nearly extinct now.”
“Collectors would kill for this,” Arla added dryly.
“And we’re supposed to... bake it?” Sylvie asked, her brow furrowing.
“We burn it,” Vera corrected. “We don’t melt it. We don’t crack it. We burn it until the outer shell fractures and the core decides to show itself.”
Bobby stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with manic smithing energy. “And then I yank it out at the exact heartbeat, turning it into a pure Drakoryte gem.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Sylvie noted.
Rhavor looked at her then, his gaze grounding her for a fleeting, intense second. “If we pull this off, we save the farm. We save everything.”
Sylvie laid the book open on the counter. Vera traced the lines of the notes about the Drakoryte with a shaking finger. “Step one: Place the object into open flame. Let it rest until signs of distress appear.”
“Distress?” Julian echoed, looking amused. “Does it start crying?”
Bobby gripped the seed with the tongs and slid it into the roaring belly of the oven. The stone caught the heat instantly, the surface beginning to sizzle and hiss.
“Looks plenty distressed to me,” Julian muttered.
“The shell has to weaken,” Vera said sharply, her face lit by the orange glow. “Don’t let it break. Just crack.”
Bobby leaned in, sweat beading on his forehead as he applied calculated, terrifying pressure with the tongs. A fine, spiderweb fracture appeared across the gray surface.
“There,” Vera breathed. “Back in. Now. The heat will peel it.”
Rhavor stepped in front of Sylvie, a wall of muscle and wing, shielding her from the rising intensity. She watched over the curve of his shoulder as the outer layer began to curl and peel away like charred paper, revealing something pulsing underneath.
The room went deathly silent. Sylvie felt it then—a shift in the air. A heavy, hypnotic stillness. Both Rhavor and Vera were staring into the flames, their eyes glazed, their breathing synced.
“So beautiful,” Vera whispered, her voice sounding like she was miles away. “Grandfather would have kept it. Don’t you think, Rhavor? It’s perfect.”
Rhavor didn’t answer. He didn’t even blink. He was frozen, a statue of gold and shadow.
“Rhavor?” Sylvie touched his arm. Nothing. His muscles were corded like iron, his gaze locked on the fire.
Vera suddenly recoiled, a sharp, jagged gasp tearing from her throat. She grabbed the book, scanning the margins frantically. “Oh gods,” she whispered, horror washing the color from her face. “If a dragon watches the peeling for too long... the resonance... their heart can explode.”
“Explode?!” Sylvie screamed, her stomach dropping into her shoes.
Arla lunged, catching Rhavor just as his knees started to give, but his eyes were still glued to the glowing core in the oven.
“Get it out!” Julian shouted, his usual snark replaced by pure panic.
“It needs more time!” Bobby cried, sweat stinging his eyes. “The book says wait until the peeling is finished or it’ll—”
“We’re taking it out now!” Vera ordered, her voice a whip crack.
Bobby didn’t hesitate. He thrust the tongs into the furnace and yanked the stone free.
The second the seed hit the cooler air, a violent, ear-splitting crack shattered the silence of the bakery.
The Drakoryte seed didn’t just break—it dissolved.
It turned into a cloud of glittering, silver-gray ash that drifted to the floor like dying embers.
Rhavor blinked, the spell snapping instantly. His body sagged against Arla, his breathing ragged.
“What happened?” he rasped, his voice sounding like he’d been screaming for hours.
“It’s okay,” Sylvie whispered, rushing to his side. She pressed her hands against his back, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart through his shirt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
He looked down at the empty space on the cooling stone. “Where is it? Where’s the stone?”
“It didn’t work,” Vera said, her voice hollow and defeated. “The instructions... It doesn’t matter. We’ll find another way, Rhavor. I promise.”
But looking at the ash on the floor, Sylvie wasn’t so sure.