Chapter 38 #2
Byron gestures for me to follow him to another section of wall, where the paintings show fae and dragons working in tandem—hunting, building, even what appears to be healing. He points to each image in turn, then taps his temple and his heart.
“A mental connection,” I interpret. “And... emotional.”
He nods. It must grant a deeper kind of control over dragons, the kind they give willingly, for those fae who have the aptitude to connect with them.
I turn back to look at the mural with the woman surrounded by dragons. There's something in her painted face that speaks of both power and burden, joy and sacrifice.
“It's beautiful,” I whisper. “But dangerous too.”
Byron moves in beside me, close enough that I catch the faint scent of leather and smoke.
His presence is solid, like an anchor in the shifting dark.
He rests his hand against the mural, fingers splayed over one of the painted bonds between fae and dragon.
When he looks at me, the question in his eyes is quiet but insistent: Would you risk it?
“You want to know if I'd be willing to try it,” I confirm. “To… really embrace this power, not just use it when I have to.”
He waits, patient, offering no pressure—just possibility.
I think of the risks: discovery, punishment, death.
But I also think of the prismatic wyrm today, the moment of connection when three chaotic minds found harmony through mine.
The ashblood in the pit, reaching out through darkness.
Of all the other dragons I’ve touched since coming here, their thoughts grazing mine with frustration, anger, or just curious intelligence.
“I don't know if I'm brave enough,” I admit. “Or strong enough. But I’d love to be. I’d love to feel what’s really in my blood. Everything that’s in it. What I really am.”
I’m not sure if my mother ever understood what she truly was. I didn’t. Still don’t, through the fragments of memory I have of her. It’s hard for me to even guess.
Byron's expression softens a touch. He points to the mural again, to a smaller figure standing beside the central woman—an apprentice, perhaps, or a child. Then he points to me and traces a rising arc in the air.
“You think I could grow into it,” I translate. “Learn, over time.”
He nods.
Of course, even if somehow learning was possible, time is just what we don’t have now.
Still, the suggestion hangs between us, genuine and unexpected.
In this place of ancient truth, with this quiet, strange man who speaks to dragons as I do, I feel a flicker of something dangerous—hope. Maybe one day.
“How did you learn about all this?” I ask, voicing the question that's been nagging. “Selen?”
He nods again.
“How long have you known her?”
Byron studies me for a long moment, his amber-tinged eyes thoughtful in the torchlight. Then he traces another word in the dust: ALWAYS.
Oh. I blink, taken aback. Meaning they’re somehow related? How?
Before I can ask, Byron straightens, brushing the dust from his palms, and gestures toward the path ahead.
Enough talk. He leads me through a narrow passage that opens into a third chamber, my questions still circling.
This one is smaller than the others, but with a closeness that makes the air feel heavier.
In the center sits a shallow stone basin, ancient and worn smooth.
I wonder if this was from the time of the mountain fae Selen had mentioned in passing, one race she’d hinted had learned to bond with dragons.
Byron kneels beside it, placing his torch in a crude holder embedded in the wall.
From inside his jacket, he produces a small leather pouch.
His movements are deliberate, almost reverent, as he opens it and shakes a fine, glittering powder into the basin—the color of crushed amber with flecks that catch the light.
“What is that?” I whisper.
He taps his temple, then points to a small dragon etched into the cave wall. He follows this with a brief mime of drinking. The meaning is clear: something to enhance connection.
My pulse picks up. “Is it… safe?”
He nods, then pauses to make a measured hand gesture, which suggests moderation, not excess.
From another pocket, he produces a small waterskin. He pours carefully, just enough to mix with the powder, creating a solution that shimmers subtly in the torchlight. He stirs it with two fingers, until the surface glimmers with tiny whirlpools.
When he's satisfied, he looks up. The question in his eyes is an offer, confident I’ll see the sense in it.
Though I could walk away, stay where it’s safe, instead, I find myself kneeling opposite him. “What will it do, exactly?”
He touches his temple, fingers spreading outward in a gesture of expansion.
Then he points to me, toward the drake waiting at the cave entrance, and draws a deliberate line between us in the air.
He dips his fingers into the mixture, then offers his hand.
The liquid clings, thick and almost luminous.
I hesitate as he turns my palm upward and draws a spiral with his fingertip, the warmth spreading through my skin like a pulse. Then the sensation is already spreading up my arm, an intense tingling that makes the hair rise.
“Wait—”
Byron reaches for my other hand, his fingers interlacing with mine. The mixture between our palms creates a strange, resonant vibration that travels up my arm and into my chest. His eyes lock with mine, steady and reassuring, as he places his free hand against the cave wall.
The stone feels alive beneath my touch when he guides my palm to join his. A faint heat pulses through the rock—not from fire, but from something deeper, more primal. Byron closes his eyes, his breathing slow and controlled, and I follow his lead, letting my eyelids drop.
The darkness behind my closed eyes shifts, brightens.
Colors bloom like ink in water: first amber, then emerald, then midnight blue.
I feel Byron's consciousness brush against mine, inviting rather than invasive, creating a bridge.
Through him, I sense the little drake at the cave entrance, its mind a constellation of curiosity and loyalty.
But there's more—beyond the cave walls, I feel dozens of dragon minds scattered across the mountain range, each a distinct flame of awareness.
“I can feel them all,” I whisper, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.
Byron's hand tightens around mine, guiding me deeper.
The sensation changes, no longer just perception.
The dragons' emotions flow through me—territorial pride, hunting excitement, maternal protectiveness—but instead of overwhelming me, they organize themselves like instruments in an orchestra, distinct yet harmonious.
My breath catches as I realize what he's showing me. Not just connection, but integration. The ability to maintain my own identity while embracing theirs.
Byron's thumb traces small circles against my wrist, encouraging me to push further.
I reach toward the nearest presence—the small drake that brought us here—and feel its immediate response, a surge of recognition that floods me with warmth.
But instead of surrendering to the connection, I remain anchored by Byron's touch, learning to balance between immersion and control.
Gradually, he releases my hand, allowing me to maintain the connection on my own. The transition is seamless, my awareness expanding rather than fracturing. I can feel the small drake's heartbeat as clearly as my own, its breathing synchronized with mine, yet I remain fully myself.
My awareness continues expanding, reaching beyond the cave to the mountains. Dragons—dozens of them, maybe hundreds—their minds like stars in a vast mental sky. Some bright and close, others distant and dim, but all suddenly accessible in ways I've never experienced.
“I can feel them for miles,” I whisper.
I open my eyes to see Byron nod, his gaze reflecting the torchlight’s glow. He points toward the drake, then to his own chest, then makes a gesture like he's pulling something toward himself.
“You want me to... call it closer?” I guess.
He nods again, encouraging.
I close my eyes, focusing on the drake's presence in my expanded awareness. I simply... invite. I visualize a door opening, a hand extended in welcome.
The drake's consciousness brightens immediately, like a lamp turned up. I feel its surprise, then curiosity, then a cautious approach. In my mind, I see it rise from where it rests, padding silently toward us through the cave.
When I open my eyes, the drake stands before us, its bronze-edged scales gleaming in the torchlight. It lowers its head, nostrils flaring as it scents the air between us. Its eyes—intelligent, assessing—fix on mine.
Hello, I think toward it, not expecting an actual response.
To my shock, something comes back. Not words exactly, but a distinct impression: New-friend-of-friend. Interesting-smell. Curious.
I gasp, looking at Byron. “Did you hear that? I mean, feel it?”
His smile widens as he nods, and I sense his satisfaction, his pride in what I've accomplished.
The drake moves closer, until its snout is inches from my face. Its breath is warm, smelling faintly of cinnamon and smoke. I remain perfectly still, letting it investigate me at its own pace.
May I? I project the thought, along with an image of my hand on its scales.
The drake considers, then dips its head in what can only be interpreted as permission. Slowly, keeping my movements steady, I reach out with my free hand and place it on the drake's forehead.
The contact completes a circuit. Suddenly, I'm not just sensing the drake's surface thoughts, I'm experiencing its memories.
Flashes of flight through storm-wracked skies.
The joy of diving through clouds. The comfort of a warm cave and a trusted companion.
Byron, younger but unmistakable, reaching out with fearless hands to a wounded creature.
These aren't just images, they come with emotions attached, rich and complex. I’ve experienced something like this before with other dragons, but I’ve never felt as in control of the situation as I do now.
Or as aware of how sophisticated a drake's consciousness is.
How nuanced, capable of deep feeling and complex thought.
“They're not just beasts,” I whisper, tears pricking at my eyes. “They never were.”
Byron's expression turns serious. He already released my hand, but the enhanced awareness remains. The drake stays put, its head resting against my palm.
Byron traces words in the dust at our feet:
THEY REMEMBER. THE OLD WAY. WE FORGOT.
“Are you bonded?” I ask.
He meets my eyes, then shakes his head once.
“Not yet? Too risky?”
He nods, then rises in one smooth motion, offering his hand. His grip is firm and sure as he pulls me to my feet. The drake edges back a pace, its gaze flicking between us, watchful.
“Well, thank you,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “For showing me this. For trusting me.”
A quick smile flashes across his face—there and gone again—before he touches his chest and gestures toward me. The meaning is clear: You’re welcome. And it matters that you know.
I guess he hopes it will help me in the tournament… or maybe this was all Selen’s idea. “Did Selen send you tonight?” I ask, testing the thought aloud.
His answer is a shake of the head, brief but certain. This wasn’t Selen. This was him.
He turns to gather his things, sliding the remaining powder back into its pouch with methodical care.
But as he works, something catches my eye—a medallion on a leather cord, half-hidden against his chest where his collar has fallen open.
The crescent moon stamped into the metal is identical to the one etched on Selen’s wrist.
“Is that—” I start, but he looks up, slipping the medallion out of sight in one fluid motion.
His expression doesn’t close entirely, but the shift is unmistakable: a layer pulled over whatever I’d glimpsed. He shakes his head—not now—then jerks his chin toward the cave entrance. Time to move.
I nod, understanding. We've already risked a lot tonight. Questions about symbols and apparent secret societies will have to wait for safer moments, I guess.
Before we leave, he kneels beside the basin, wiping away every trace of our presence. The drake watches him with still, unblinking patience as he collects the torch. We make our way back through the caverns, his pace steady, unhurried, certain of every step.
Outside, the night has deepened, stars wheeling overhead in their ancient patterns. The air feels different against my skin now. Charged, alive with possibilities I'd never considered before tonight.
Byron’s hand closes around my forearm, his grip firm and sure as he steadies me onto the drake when I swing up behind him. My arms fit around his torso, the solid line of his back warm against my front. The steady rise and fall of his breathing draws mine into the same rhythm.
The drake launches into the night, wings beating powerfully as we soar toward the sleeping Ironhold. My connection with the creature is still strong—a warm, steady presence in my mind, like a candle flame in a dark room.
I can sense its joy in flight, its trust in Byron, its growing acceptance of me. And beyond it, fainter but still discernible, the multitude of dragon minds within the Ironhold and the surrounding mountains. No longer a cacophony of alien thoughts, but a chorus I'm beginning to understand.
I hope this will make a difference to my survival in the tournament. Whatever it might entail.
As we near my window, a knot tightens in my chest. Tonight has given me something too big to keep locked inside the Ironhold’s walls: questions the empire doesn’t want asked, truths they’ve buried deep.
Byron eases the drake into a hover outside my window. Before I move, I catch his arm.
“Thank you,” I say again. It’s not enough, but it’s all I have. “I won’t forget this.”
His gaze holds mine, steady in the starlight. Maybe one day I’ll understand why he doesn’t speak. But it seems that’s not a conversation for tonight either.
I nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth. He helps me through the window with the same sure grip.
As I steady myself on the sill, I look back one last time and hope nobody will notice them.
The drake hovers with effortless control, its wingbeats a rhythm I can almost feel in my bones.
Byron sits easy in the saddle, torchlight gilding the edges of his hair, his eyes finding mine across the distance. He tips his head.
Then they're gone, melting into the darkness like a dream.