Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The edge of the Night Kingdom’s capital, perched atop a cliff overlooking the ocean. Twilight glimmers against the water. The fire crackles. A frog somewhere makes eye contact with Winter.

Six dragons sat in a loose circle around the campfire, their scales lit in flickering orange and gold. It was supposed to be a quiet night. No declarations of war. No enchanted baked goods. No spontaneous operatic fanfiction performances from the court choir. Just... this. A rare, unguarded moment.

“Can we just admit this is weird?” Qibli finally said, picking something charred out of his teeth. “Like, emotionally weird. And also physically weird. I’m ninety percent sure that log is cursed.”

“It’s not cursed,” Moonwatcher sighed, already nudging it a few tail-lengths farther away from the fire. “Just lightly enchanted. For warmth. I think.”

“Mine’s screaming,” Winter deadpanned.

Kinkajou giggled and offered him a toasted fruit skewer. “That means it likes you!”

At the far end of the fire, lounging with the kind of regal melancholy only ex-tyrants could pull off, Darkstalker stared out toward the sea. His wings were tucked, his expression unreadable, the firelight dancing in the ancient gold of his eyes.

Turtle sat beside him, close but not touching, looking mildly concerned and deeply resigned. “Okay. What now. What now.”

Darkstalker stood slowly. Dramatically. Ridiculously. The sea breeze tousled his frill like a stage cue.

“Listen to my story,” he said solemnly.

Pause.

“…This may be my last chance.”

Turtle groaned, flopping onto his back with an audible thud.

“I swear, if this is another metaphysical monologue about fate and love and shirtless redemption arcs, I’m—”

“—shhh,” Kinkajou whispered, eyes sparkling. “Let him cook.”

Qibli leaned in. “Literally or narratively?”

“Both,” Darkstalker said, already stepping onto the nearest boulder like it was a podium. “Volume Two begins now.”

Somewhere between the third morning tea and the second false fire alarm—triggered by Peril attempting to bake cookies shaped like Clay’s face—Turtle realized that things had changed.

Not in the dramatic, apocalyptic way he’d come to expect from his life. No sudden magical catastrophes. No newly unearthed curses. No surprise wedding proposals via enchanted skywriting (though Darkstalker had tried that once—Turtle still had the singed scroll fragments).

Just change. Quiet. Subtle. Creeping in like a warm tide.

Qibli and Winter had finally figured out how to admit their feelings, and now could often be found “accidentally” holding claws in public. Moon was happy for her two boyfriends and only occasionally had to separate them when they argued over who loved her more. (It was Qibli. Qibli loved her more, and he made spreadsheets to prove it.)

Peril had achieved what experts once thought impossible: peace in simply existing. She now purrs when Clay uses her as a portable hot pot & grill, and sometimes offers unsolicited grilling advice to palace chefs, who have learned not to flinch when she leans too close to the soufflé.

And Kinkajou—somehow, mysteriously, alarmingly—had found a gun.

Nobody was entirely sure where she found it. Nobody was entirely sure how it worked in a world of claws and magic. But there it was, glittery and very pink and occasionally humming. Turtle suspected it was animus-touched. He didn’t want to know whose.

The castle still stood.

The enchanted scrolls that once haunted his dreams were now neatly shelved and filed, complete with numbered volumes, forewords, and unnecessarily heartfelt dedications.

(“To my favorite sea cucumber, who finally said yes.”)

Darkstalker—Emperor of Pyrrhia, Reformed Tyrant, Fanfiction Enthusiast, Devoted Boyfriend™, and somehow now Official Minister of Agriculture—had taken up gardening.

Well. Technically, he’d taken up enchantment-based soil enhancement, botanical memory sharing, and animus-assisted cross-pollination of exotic magical herbs. But still. Gardening.

He wore a little enchanted sunhat that moved to block the sunlight when he tilted his head. Sometimes it winked at passersby.

It had been… weeks? A month? Longer? Time passed strangely in the palace when you weren’t constantly dodging enchanted romantic traps or dealing with a court-mandated dragonet choir singing explicit excerpts from Chapter 19 of Tears of the Tides: An Aquatic Affair.

Turtle had an office now. An actual office. Not a prison cell repurposed with velvet curtains and emotionally manipulative calligraphy. An office with a desk. Two chairs. Scroll racks. Only minimal lingering enchantments. Minimal.

Darkstalker didn’t hover quite as much.

At least not physically.

Emotionally? Spiritually? Metaphysically?

Well.

There were still gifts.

A dreamless sleep pearl. A carved SeaWing charm shaped like a tiny scroll with his name etched on it. A blanket that hummed in his favorite key when wrapped around him. (He discovered this mid-nap. The harmony gave him feelings he wasn’t emotionally prepared to unpack.)

And there was still affection. That quiet, unnerving, too-knowing sort of affection that Darkstalker had perfected like an ancient spell. He wasn’t overwhelming anymore. Just… present. Listening. Waiting. Watching Turtle in a way that felt less like possession and more like promise.

They had a routine now. Turtle wrote. Darkstalker edited. They bickered. (Sometimes in that order. Sometimes not.) There were long walks through the palace gardens—where the flowers whispered encouragement. There were awkward dinners where Darkstalker insisted on “trying to cook like a normal dragon” and nearly incinerated the soup.

It was domestic. Bizarrely, terrifyingly domestic.

And somewhere deep down, under all the scales and nerves and residual trauma, Turtle felt… okay.

Not great. Not confident.

But okay.

It was a start.

That morning, Turtle entered the sun-drenched lounge to find Darkstalker lounging on the chaise with an ink-smudged scroll titled The SeaWing’s Vow — Volume One of their official co-authored biography. He looked up with that insufferable smug tenderness of a dragon who knew how lucky he was, and also thought he could get away with it.

“I’ve been thinking,” Darkstalker said, stretching in a way that was far too aesthetically choreographed. “Maybe Volume Two should have more combat scenes. For authenticity.”

Turtle threw a pillow at him.

It landed with a soft pomf, and Darkstalker grinned like a dragon who had just won something priceless.

Which, of course, he had.

Chapter Text

RainWing daycare duty. Again.

Turtle wasn’t sure what diplomatic offense he’d committed this time, but Queen Glory had assigned him (read: volunteered him, with the same tone she used when sentencing criminals) to the RainWing wingery. Again. Something about building bridges and shared cultural understanding, but Turtle had stopped listening somewhere between “it went so well last time” and “this time you’ll have help.”

Help.

Of course, by “help,” she meant Darkstalker.

“I’ve never been so insulted and flattered at the same time,” Turtle muttered, dragging his scroll satchel up the vine-covered walkway to the wingery’s sun-dappled courtyard. “I’m being punished. With backup.”

Darkstalker trotted beside him, unreasonably chipper for someone who once put an entire continent under magical surveillance. “This is a great idea, Turtle. You should be proud. Responsible enough to be trusted with Pyrrhia’s future! Plus,” he added, his grin growing with every smug syllable, “I’ve heard the dragonets adore me. There’s a life-sized plushie of me somewhere in there. I must see it. It’s only right I sign it.”

Turtle gave him a look. “You're not vain at all.”

“I was literally worshipped once. I think I’m being remarkably humble these days.”

Before Turtle could say anything else, a very tiny RainWing zipped by, trailing glittery leaves and shouting something about banana-papaya mash. Another one immediately leapt from a treetop and latched onto Turtle’s leg like a clingy vine with teeth.

Darkstalker beamed, watching Turtle freeze. “They know good dragons when they see them.”

Turtle made a strangled noise as a second dragonet piled onto him.

“Darkstalker,” Turtle hissed, “this is serious. I’m here to supervise and—”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Darkstalker leaned in, eyes glittering. “I’ll supervise.”

That was the moment Turtle knew today would end in either complete disaster or a diplomatic incident involving banana mush, enchanted scrolls, and probably someone’s tail catching fire.

To be fair, it started off fine. As fine as dozens of high-energy RainWing dragonets armed with paints, fruit, and zero attention spans could be.

Darkstalker even behaved. Mostly. He let them climb all over him, conjured miniature illusions of fruit fights (which was not helpful), and yes, posed dramatically with his plush effigy for several poorly-drawn “autographed portraits.” But then he got that look. The one Turtle had learned to dread. The one that meant: I’ve had a thought.

“You know,” Darkstalker mused aloud, stretched across a hammock while six dragonets braided his tail in neon leaves, “some sea creatures are amazing. Seahorses, for example. Males carry the eggs.”

Turtle side-eyed him. “Please don’t turn this into a metaphor.”

Darkstalker ignored him. “Clearsight once saw a future where she and I had six dragonets together,” he said casually, watching the RainWing dragonets destroy yet another hammock. “Tragic, really. But what’s stopping me now? Nothing’s impossible with a little animus magic and just the right amount of eye-ridge wiggling seduction.”

Turtle threw a plushie at him.

The dragonets cheered.

Darkstalker caught it with a smug purr. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m seething.”

“You’re cute when you seethe.”

Turtle launched him through the vine-covered wall.

To be fair, it wasn’t on purpose.

…Okay. It was a little on purpose.

The dragonet minders stared in stunned silence as Darkstalker’s large and exceedingly smug body slumped upside-down in a fruit tree, wings tangled in vines, plushie still in claw.

“Apologies,” Turtle said, flustered. “My… partner had a moment.”

“They definitely mated,” one of the older dragonets whispered to another.

Turtle died a little on the inside.

Darkstalker peeled himself off the tree, brushed a mango off his horns, and shouted, “Still my favourite sea cucumber!”

Turtle did not respond. Turtle was focusing very hard on not setting himself on fire with secondhand embarrassment.

Later, in the quiet warmth of their shared quarters (a still-technically-enforced arrangement, though neither had brought it up again), Turtle was attempting to scrub fruit paste out of his scales while Darkstalker reclined nearby, tail draped over the cushions like he owned the place. He didn’t. Technically.

“You didn’t deny it,” Darkstalker said softly.

“Deny what.”

“Being my partner.”

Turtle dropped the sponge.

There was a silence that stretched too long and too awkward. It would have hung forever if not for the sound of a dragonet outside screaming about someone stealing the “autograph fruit.”

Turtle sighed.

Darkstalker sighed louder.

Somewhere outside, a plush Darkstalker was being used in a reenactment of The Great Banana Uprising.

Domesticity, Turtle thought. Diplomacy. Dragonets. This was his life now.

And, somehow?

He didn’t hate it.

Somewhere deep in the ruined outskirts of the NightWing territory...

“Who the actual moons gave Kinkajou a gun?” Qibli’s voice cracked mid-sprint as a shot rang out, sharp and metallic, echoing through the collapsed obsidian halls.

Another BANG. A small explosion of shredded parchment. Somewhere, a stuffed scroll-rack spontaneously combusted.

Winter dove behind a crumbling pillar. “That’s not magic. That’s metal. That’s combustion-based projectile warfare!” He sounded offended, like the gun had personally insulted his academic transcript.

Qibli ducked as another bullet ricocheted off a crystal formation. “She found ammunition. How did she find ammunition?!”

“Don’t yell at me, you’re the one who said she should diversify her hobbies!”

They peeked over the edge of a scorched ledge.

There stood Kinkajou, eyes wide, grip firm, firing a shockingly well-preserved and functionally intact human revolver. Not enchanted. Not animus-crafted. Just... a gun. Complete with a tactical holster slung over her shoulder, several spent brass casings littering the ground, and a big grin like she was playing the world's worst carnival game.

“STOP RIGHT THERE, CRIMINAL SCUM!” she shouted, aiming dramatically at a statue of Queen Battlewinner. She fired. BLAM. The head exploded into rubble.

“I don’t think she’s aiming at anything,” Winter muttered, flattening himself to the floor as another shot rang out. “She’s just doing this for narrative catharsis.”

“She has PTSD, Winter!” Qibli snapped. “Let her cope how she needs to!”

“I’m not sure guns are therapeutic!”

“I’m not sure anything is anymore!”

“WHOEVER LEFT THIS UNSUPERVISED TECHNOLOGY IN A DUSTY NIGHTWING VAULT OWES US ALL AN APOLOGY!” Kinkajou screamed, cranking the hammer back with terrifying competence. “THIS IS FOR DRAGONET RIGHTS!”

A fourth shot rang out.

Somewhere, a distant dragon shrieked: “MY LUNCH!”

Chapter Text

[The orb activates with a low, magical hum—like someone exhaling through old glass. Its glow flickers to life from its perch in the corner of the shared suite.]

Visual clarity: 78%.
Stability: Wavering.
Time marker: Unlabeled.

[The first few seconds stutter—two frames of empty room, then six of the bed half-made, then one of the ceiling. A thin vertical distortion line runs across the upper edge, as if memory itself can’t quite focus.]

[Sound: rustling sheets. A groggy sigh.]

Turtle shuffles into frame from the left. His scales are ruffled and pale in the early light, eyes crusted with sleep, limbs moving like seaweed caught in a slow current. A blanket drags behind him like the last remaining dignity of someone who clearly hasn’t signed up for any of this.

Across the room, Darkstalker is already awake—obnoxiously so. He’s perched at the table, surrounded by scrolls, ink, and what appears to be a steaming cup of tea. It bubbles faintly. A soft glow pulses from it once. Possibly enchanted. Possibly cursed. Possibly just strongly caffeinated.

[The orb catches Darkstalker’s face in a brief moment of perfect focus—his expression distant but calm, like someone watching the sunrise over a battlefield.]

TURTLE (mumbling): "You know, the orb’s still recording, right?"

[The audio fuzzes out momentarily, then snaps back in.]

DARKSTALKER: "It’s for posterity. Also, your face in the mornings is deeply archival."

TURTLE (groans): “Stop using ‘archival’ like it means ‘blackmail material.’”

[Sound: a scroll flutters. The orb catches a two-second visual glitch—Darkstalker’s paw appears twice, superimposed over itself, quill in one version and cup in the other.]

Darkstalker floats a second mug toward Turtle with unnecessary flourish. The orb captures the motion as if slowed by magic: the mug glows, wobbles midair, then lands perfectly in front of him.

DARKSTALKER: “Drink. You’ll feel like less of a cryptid.”

[Audio: sip. Long pause.]

TURTLE (reluctantly): “…Okay that’s pretty good.”

[Silence.]

[The orb pulses faintly. Turtle flops into the nearest chair with a resigned sigh and his mug. The fire in the corner crackles out of sync with the footage for a beat, like memory buffering.]

For a moment, nothing happens. The room settles. The lighting goes soft and uneven—sun filtering through vines, orb light refracting oddly off a cracked lens.

DARKSTALKER (softly): “I didn’t hex it today, by the way.”

TURTLE (squinting): “What?”

DARKSTALKER: “The orb. I didn’t curse it. Not even a little enchantment. It’s just… recording. Naturally.”

[Turtle blinks once. The orb picks up his slow, careful movement—like someone rewinding an instinct.]

TURTLE: “…That’s very mature of you.”

DARKSTALKER: “Don’t patronize me.”

[A flicker. Visual static runs vertically across the screen. Turtle leans his head on the table, mug still clutched like a lifeline. Darkstalker, unseen by him, watches him for three full seconds longer than necessary.]

[Visual: kitchen area. It is, generously, a disaster. Scrolls scatter across counters like windblown parchment birds. Fruit peels curl in suspicious spirals on the floor. A half-assembled piece of alchemical glassware steams faintly next to a jar labeled “experimental mango.” The orb shudders. This may be dread.]

DARKSTALKER (off-frame at first): “No anchovies in the pantry again. The palace chefs have no taste.”

He steps into frame. His wings are slightly askew, his scroll smudged with berry ink. The orb glitches—three overlapping versions of Darkstalker appear in the same second: one pacing, one looking smug, and one dramatically sniffing a spice jar.

TURTLE (from under the table, possibly seeking sanctuary): “It’s not a punishment. It’s a dietary preference.”

DARKSTALKER: “Dietary oppression, Turtle.”

TURTLE (dryly): “Right. Clearly your lack of oily fish is a diplomatic crisis.”

DARKSTALKER: “Clearsight once saw a future where I started a culinary revolution. Anchovy justice.”

[The orb catches Turtle’s face in high clarity—eyes slowly closing as though in deep, spiritual protest.]

TURTLE: “Please don’t use that phrase again.”

Darkstalker, unbothered, conjures a scroll with an unnecessary swirl of golden ink. The title flares into existence: “Manifesto for a Fishier Future.” He presents it with the same flourish one might reserve for peace treaties or cursed wedding vows.

TURTLE (burying his face in his claws): “This is the worst domestic arrangement I’ve ever agreed to.”

[Audio fuzzes. Then stabilizes.]

DARKSTALKER (smug): “You adore it. I do the cooking. You do the panicking. It’s balance.”

[The orb glitches again. A rewind loop replays Darkstalker’s “You adore it” twice, voice overlapping itself like a whisper inside a tunnel.]

[Sound: water boils over. Something hisses. Possibly offended.]

Turtle stands and begins collecting peelings with the air of someone cleaning up a prophecy gone wrong. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t correct him.

[The orb zooms in slightly on his expression. Just for a moment. There’s something raw and quiet beneath the exasperation—something that looks suspiciously like fondness.]

But then he hurls a banana at Darkstalker’s horn.

Direct hit.

TURTLE: “Balance.”

Darkstalker, unflinching, peels it off with exaggerated dignity. He bites the banana. In triumph.

[The orb freeze frames on Darkstalker's crooked smile, wavering like the ocean, then dims.]

[Visual: Turtle’s study. Low shelves. Ink-stained desk. Scrolls arranged in slightly chaotic neatness, like a mind trying very hard to be ordered. The orb’s clarity improves the quieter the scene becomes. Light from a lantern flickers softly, casting gentle shadows.]

Darkstalker is in frame—perched at the edge of the desk, wings tucked closer than usual. He isn’t smirking. He isn’t looming. His expression is unreadable, which for Darkstalker, is somehow more unsettling than anything else.

DARKSTALKER: “You keep all your old scrolls.”

Turtle is off-frame at first. Then he steps into view, hesitant, like he’s aware of being watched—by Darkstalker or the orb, it’s unclear.

TURTLE: “Some of them.”

DARKSTALKER: “Even the ones you hated writing?”

[The orb flickers briefly—a subtle static ripple, like a breath held.]

TURTLE (after a pause): “…Even those.”

Darkstalker leans forward. A talon traces the curled edge of a parchment.

[The title is not legible from this angle.]

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t mock. Just… reads the title like it’s an old photograph.

DARKSTALKER: “I… sometimes think about rewriting things. My life, I mean. Like it’s a story I messed up halfway through.”

[The orb glitches, just slightly—ghostly afterimages trail his silhouette for a half-second. Like he’s fractured across time, or remembering every version of himself at once.]

TURTLE (quiet): “It doesn’t have to be perfect now, either. Just… honest.”

[There is no music. No magical pulse. Just a hush.]

Darkstalker huffs a soft laugh—more breath than sound.

DARKSTALKER: “You know, for a terrified, hesitant, hopelessly oversharing sea cucumber, you give surprisingly good advice.”

TURTLE: “…Thanks?”

[The orb catches their eyes meeting. Not dramatic. Not sweeping. Just a moment where both of them—cursed, broken, rewritten, remembered—are simply present.]

Darkstalker reaches out as if to unroll the scroll—but stops halfway. Doesn’t touch it. Just lets his claw hover above the paper like he’s afraid it’ll burn him.

[The orb blinks. The light stutters.]

[Visual: The shared chamber, softly lit by a crackling fire. Shadows dance over worn stone walls and scattered cushions. The orb’s view is tilted—crooked, as if it was hastily placed without care for composition or framing.]

Two dragons occupy one bed, yet no boundaries are spoken—only implied in the warmth and occasional gentle sighs.

Turtle lies curled at one end, scales faintly shimmering in the firelight, nose buried deep in a thick, dusty book. His tail twitches ever so slightly—nervous, or maybe restless.

Darkstalker floats a scroll above them both, the quill scratching softly on parchment. His eyes occasionally flick to Turtle, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

[Sound: A gentle magical hum pulses from the orb. Outside, a frog croaks somewhere nearby. Off in the distance, the unmistakable shriek of a dragonet yelling about juice theft carries faintly.]

DARKSTALKER: “Did you ever think it’d be like this?”

TURTLE (without looking up, voice muffled by the book): “What, living in sin with a two-thousand-year-old reformed tyrant while trying not to trip over enchanted fruit?”

DARKSTALKER (grinning): “You make it sound so romantic.”

TURTLE: “I thought I’d be boring forever.”

[Beat. The orb’s glow brightens, as if it’s leaning in a little.]

DARKSTALKER (soft, almost hesitant): “You’re not. Not to me.”

Turtle’s book lowers slightly. His eyes meet Darkstalker’s in the firelight—unspoken understanding flickering between them.

[The orb’s light pulses gently, then dims.]

[Visual: Nothing but darkness. The room is plunged in shadow, the fire long since faded to embers.]

[Sound: Quiet breathing fills the silence—two sets, steady and slow, like soft waves brushing a shore.]

[The orb shifts slightly in its magical cradle. No one speaks. But their tails, loosely intertwined beneath the blankets, remain in frame.]

[Recording ends with a soft trailing hum.]

Chapter Text

The coast of the Sand Kingdom wasn’t known for its beauty. The sand was too sharp, the sun too aggressive, and the ocean too salty—like it had opinions. But the tides were gentle here, and that made it the perfect spot for the newly-reformed Orphan Outreach Initiative™: part charity, part PR stunt, and mostly a creative way to guilt dragons into community service.

Today’s activity? Orbball.

A dozen dragonets from various tribes (and at least one very enthusiastic scavenger wearing a bucket) darted across the shoreline, kicking up spray and shouting in seven dialects. The ball—a hand-stitched leather thing that may have once been a cactus—bounced wildly between them. Qibli stood midfield, yelling rules that no one was listening to.

And then, the ocean shimmered.

The waves parted like stage curtains. Light bent theatrically. And from the sea—somehow from beneath it—rose a dragon.

Tall. Muscular. Absolutely glistening.

Darkstalker emerged with the solemnity of a cursed prince returning from exile. His wings were half-spread for no reason. His frill caught the wind like a campaign banner. Slung across his back was a ridiculous sword—long and curved, with a glimmering crystalline-blue blade that shimmered like running water frozen mid-ripple. It looked stupidly expensive and not remotely aerodynamic.

He looked around slowly, as if waking from a dream.

Qibli squinted. “Is that—?”

“Oh no,” Moonwatcher muttered from under a shady palm, already regretting everything.

“Hey!” Qibli shouted, shielding his eyes. “We’re mid-game! You can’t just—”

But Darkstalker ignored him completely, eyes sweeping past the orphans like so many irrelevant NPCs. He paused only when he saw Moonwatcher sipping cactus juice and radiating quiet gothic disapproval beneath her sunshade. He nodded, as if she were an optional cutscene. And then—

His gaze landed on Turtle.

Turtle, freckled and flustered, stood at the refreshment table, halfway through fumbling a refill on the water jug. It slipped. He caught it. Barely.

Darkstalker staggered slightly, as though someone had enchanted his knees with yearning.

“Who... who is that?” he breathed, every syllable dripping with prophecy and infatuation.

Qibli groaned. “Oh stars. Here we go again.”

Moon covered her face. “Not this again.”

Darkstalker straightened with tragic resolve, eyes locked on Turtle like he’d just discovered the concept of devotion. “That SeaWing,” he declared, “has the aura of a thousand unwritten scrolls. The depth of a forgotten trench. The tail fins of—”

“He’s literally been living with you for three months,” Qibli snapped.

But Darkstalker wasn’t listening. He staggered forward another step and dropped to one knee—partially from awe, partially because his sword was wildly unbalanced and he still hadn’t figured out how to sheath it properly.

“I see now,” he whispered. “I see him. The heart of my story. The soul of this world. The ocean I was always meant to drown in.”

Moon groaned. “You’ve drowned before. That was the problem.”

She paused, then added, more thoughtfully, “Wait—can you even drown? You’re immortal. Would that mean you just... drown forever? Like, infinitely? That’s horrifying.”

Qibli winced. “Okay, thanks for that mental image.”

At the refreshment table, Turtle—still unaware he was being perceived like a divine vision—accidentally poured the rest of the jug over himself. His coconut slipped, bounced off the cooler, and landed back in his claws like a slow-motion prophecy.

Darkstalker stumbled forward once more, waves kissing his heels. “Turtle...”

Turtle looked up, drenched and baffled. “Why are you wet and narrating?”

“My soul is wet,” Darkstalker declared, eyes gleaming. “With fate.”

Qibli caught the ball as an orphan tried to headbutt him in the ribs. “You’ve actually lost it,” he muttered.

And then—from somewhere behind the dunes, a voice rang out:

“KINKAJOU, PUT THE GUN DOWN!”

The stars had just begun to prick through the hazy pink of dusk when Turtle finally wrangled Darkstalker out of the surf and into the shaded cove beneath the cliffs. The tide lapped at the shore behind them, dragging frothy foam back into the sea like it couldn’t wait to forget everything it had witnessed that day.

Darkstalker sprawled across a sun-warmed towel like he’d just completed a divine pilgrimage rather than derailed a children’s beach sport. His frill drooped theatrically. His sword—the ridiculous, shimmering, not-even-practical thing—lay nearby, half-buried in the sand and humming faintly with restrained violence.

Turtle sighed, setting down the cloth and the little tin of aloe-sap paste. “You’ve got abrasions along your shoulder and left leg. How? You were in the water for five minutes.”

“I was summoned by destiny,” Darkstalker said, lips twitching upward. “And coral is sharp.”

Turtle dabbed carefully at the raw patches of scale. “You’re not supposed to be summoning anything.”

“Yet I summoned an audience. And possibly several lifelong fans.” He wiggled his frill, trying to look proud despite the sand still clinging to his horns.

Turtle gave him a flat look, then reached past him to tug the sword a few tail-lengths away and wrap it carefully in a cut proof cloth. “You are never bringing this thing to a beach again.”

“Are you stashing away my artifact?”

“I’m stashing away the magical death hazard before it tries to sing again.”

Darkstalker sighed, shifting slightly under Turtle’s touch. “You sound just like Fathom. ‘Don’t do this, don’t do that. Don’t enchant innocent dragonesses into handing you their jewelry willingly.’ Gods, you SeaWings. So cautious. So lawful good.”

“I’m not lawful good,” Turtle muttered, concentrating very hard on applying aloe to a particularly stubborn scrape. “I’m barely lawful present.”

“You’re so much like him sometimes,” Darkstalker murmured, quieter now, gaze softening. “But gentler. Less repressed. No knives in the back. At least… not literal ones.”

Turtle didn’t respond at first. He just kept working—cleaning, wrapping, muttering under his breath about idiot immortal boyfriends and sand irritation and budget approval forms for enchanted sports equipment. But his claws slowed slightly when Darkstalker tilted his head—just enough for their snouts to brush, breath mingling.

Turtle froze.

Darkstalker didn’t move, just watched him with that too-honest, too-vulnerable expression Turtle had never quite figured out how to respond to.

“You’re blushing again,” Darkstalker whispered, smugness barely contained.

Turtle made a strangled sound somewhere between a yelp and a groan, and promptly bapped him on the nose.

Darkstalker grinned like he’d won a game no one else had been playing. “Was it the sword? Be honest.”

“You read too many of those Pantalan pulp-action serials,” Turtle said, ears burning, tail twitching. “This is what happens when you think every dramatic entrance deserves a monologue and a weaponized metaphor.”

“Would it help if I said I was inspired by volume twelve of Moonfang and the Scarlet Widow?”

“No,” Turtle hissed. “You’re banned from Moonfang. He dual-wields crossbows and seduces widows. You can’t be trusted with that much influence.”

They stared at each other for a long, humming moment.

And then, from somewhere out in the dunes—distant, muffled, slightly panicked:

“WHY DOES SHE HAVE A SECOND GUN—”

Turtle groaned and buried his face in his claws.

Darkstalker just laughed, leaning back against the rock wall, utterly content.

Kinkajou was never apprehended.

Chapter Text

The gym wasn’t supposed to be this dramatic.

Located in a refurbished SkyWing arena, now equipped with enchanted safety charms and motivational posters (“Sweat is just guilt leaving the body”), the space hummed with energy—and a faint smell of molten metal. Peril had taken over the training schedule after exactly one argument with six fitness coaches and the total disintegration of a rowing machine.

“I’m not saying you’re squishy,” she clarified, hovering above Turtle with a dumbbell in each talon, “just that your flanks jiggle like they have hopes and dreams.”

“I’m soft for defense,” Turtle wheezed.

“Tone your trauma,” she replied cheerfully. “Now get up.”

He was on his hind legs, barbell balanced across his shoulders, wings splayed out like a baby SeaWing learning to fly. His expression was one of physical and emotional constipation—like someone desperately trying not to cough in a quiet classroom during final exams.

Peril bobbed her head to the beat in her enchanted earpieces (fireproof, of course), totally oblivious. She did a little hip shimmy. She might’ve been mouthing “Welcome to the Firelight Zone”.

Turtle made a helpless noise. “Peril. Peril—”

She turned, just in time to see him pitch sideways. In her haste to help, she accidentally melted the barbell.

And also the rack.

And part of the floor.

“Oops,” she said brightly, like she’d stepped on a daisy.

Darkstalker, lounging like a retired villain-turned-slightly-possessive boyfriend, being informed that Turtle has “taken up lifting.”

He was there in ten minutes.

Now he was standing behind Turtle at the newly conjured squat rack, radiating encouragement and mild chaos.

Turtle was mid-rep, sweating through his frills. “This... this isn’t helping...”

“You’ve got this, brother,” Darkstalker said, clapping him on the back.

Turtle staggered forward, nearly impaling himself on the bar.

Darkstalker casually picked up the entire squat rack and hurled it off to the side. It clanged. Loudly. Somewhere, a dragon screamed.

“Don’t worry about form,” Darkstalker said, already unrolling a scroll. “Worry about motivation.”

He held it up like a grim prophecy. Turtle’s eyes scanned the words.

hey kinkajou i like you lots haha
ew
i was only enchanted that one time. am i that ugly u think u have a chance?

Turtle froze. He blinked. Slowly.

His pupils shrank to pinpoints. His chest rose. His frills flared.

He lifted the barbell clean off the ground and began pumping it like a dragon possessed.

“THAT’S IT!” Darkstalker howled triumphantly. “Use the rejection!”

Turtle didn’t respond. He was too busy entering what some scholars would later refer to as his "revenge arc."

Somewhere far away, Kinkajou twitched.

And went back to gnawing the bars of her timeout box.

Cut to the diplomats’ room.

“We believe the artifact in question is pink,” said one diplomat wearily, “rotating cylinder, actual metal bullets—”

“And she has two of them now?” said another, horrified.

“Confirmed.”

“And where are they currently?”

“On her person. Somewhere. Possibly in her mouth.”

The diplomat slowly folded his scroll in half and whispered, “We’re all going to die.”

Cut back to the gym. Peril’s still jamming. Turtle’s lifting like his dignity depends on it.

Darkstalker’s holding another scroll.

“Hey,” he said, eyes glinting. “Wanna see what Qibli said about his own tail length in sixth grade?”

“DARKSTALKER PLEASE.”

Later that evening.

The gym was quiet now, lit by the soft flicker of magical sconces and the distant hissing of steam from whatever enchantment was still trying to repair the melted flooring.

Turtle lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, one wing draped dramatically over his face. He was still mildly trembling, somewhere between spiritual awakening and full-body cramp.

Darkstalker lounged nearby, tossing a barbell between his claws like it was a pencil. “I’m proud of you,” he said with genuine warmth.

Turtle groaned. “If I die, tell everyone I looked... toned.”

“You looked sweaty.”

“I’ll take it.”

A sudden explosion of upbeat music cut through the quiet—something between motivational pop and slow-burn villain theme. A magical orb lit up in the corner of the gym, recording.

Peril stepped into frame.

“HELLOOOO SCALY SWEATLINGS AND FLAME-FIT FANATICS,” she shouted, instantly waking three sleeping guards.

Darkstalker sat up. “Oh no.”

Turtle tried to roll out of frame. Failed.

“Welcome to the first official episode of Peril’s Pecs & Persecution!” Peril beamed at the camera, muscles flexed, molten energy radiating off her scales. “Where we torch fat, tone your treason, and bench-press your self-worth into OBLIVION.”

“Peril, no,” Turtle mumbled.

“Today’s focus is: FLANK FIRE. That’s right. We’re going to sculpt those emotional support love handles into battle-hardened guilt obliques. First, let’s meet my assistants!”

She dragged Turtle upright by one wing.

He made a sound like a balloon deflating.

“And this is my guest co-host slash certified ancient nightmare wizard-slash-boyfriend of my bestie, give it up for DARKSTALKER THE DESTROYER!”

Darkstalker waved politely. “It’s a working title.”

“LET’S DO THIS!”

The orb cut out just as Peril drop-kicked a medicine ball into the horizon.

The screen flickered. A new title sequence began.

“Peril’s Pecs & Persecution”
New episodes every scorchday
Brought to you by: Queen Glory’s Unofficial Pardon Network™ — "We don't approve of this. But we do monitor it."

Back at [REDCATED].
Kinkajou in her timeout box, holding up a homemade sign.

“FREE ME. I HAVE TIPS FOR GLUTE DAY.”

A second sign underneath it reads:

“AND ALSO STILL HAVE A GUN.”

Chapter Text

Rough draft. Not for publication. Not even for Darkstalker to read. Maybe not even for me to reread. Just… writing to understand.

[Drabble: 2:34 AM]
Darkstalker woke up gasping again.
Third time this week.

At first I thought it was the nightmares. You know, the usual ones. Carnage. Screaming. Dad-shaped shadows.
But tonight was different.

He said:
“White… Whiteout. No. Don’t.”
Then:
“I hate you. Dad.”
And softer, like something cracking open inside him:
“I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t remember, in the morning. I’m not sure I should tell him.

[Observation: Week 4, post-Fitness Peril Incident]
He’s been working out. A lot.

I mean, I guess it makes sense. Everyone saw what happened. I nearly died under a barbell. He didn’t take it well. But now? Every time I pass the garden courtyard, he’s doing push-ups with a book on his back.
No, like a scroll volume. “History of Pyrrhia: Annotated and Rewritten by Me.” Probably enchanted for extra weight.

I caught myself staring yesterday. Not in a weird way. Just… his shoulders are very broad. For stability.

He was humming something. Some weird old Pantalan pop remix:

“I’m on them antidepressants, we feelin’ good today

Watch me make an entrance, yeah, I’m the shit today…” 

It got stuck in my head.

[Note to Self]
His smiles don’t always reach his eyes.
Not in the way they used to.
Or maybe they never did and I just know better now.

He’s too polite. To me. To the staff. Even to Qibli, and Qibli called his last empire a “wet funeral with delusions of grandeur.”

I think… I think this is a new kind of mask. Not magic. Just manners.
“Look how good I am now,” the smile says. “Please let me stay.”

[Fragment: Scribbled in Margin]
He lets me pet his snout when he’s sad.
Not when anyone else is around.
But I can feel him lean into it, just a little.
Like if I stopped, he’d fall apart again.

[Excerpt from the Working Autobiography: “Darkstalker & Turtle: Two Extremely Reasonable Dragons”]

"When I rebuilt my empire, I wanted order, vision, and terrifying marble fountains. But then I met Turtle. And suddenly, all I wanted was a world where I could nap in the sun and no one screamed when I woke up."

I didn’t write that. He did.
I told him it was too dramatic. He told me I was too modest.
Then he tried to kiss me mid-editing session and I spilled ink on his horns.

[Field Report: Community Impact Survey]
Surprisingly few villages have been cursed in the last four months.
Even fewer enchanted to worship him.
I think our friends are helping. A lot. Glory’s delegation checks in every moon. Moonwatcher gives him therapy (sort of). Qibli makes snide comments he pretends not to hear. Even Winter sends gifts. He got Darkstalker a small wood carving of a scavenger.

Darkstalker cried. Over the scavenger.

[Mini-log: Magical Security Incident #29]
I got hurt.
Quite badly.

Technically, it was an accident. Some kind of spell resonance during the arena renovations. Darkstalker crashed through three doors to get to me. I’ve never seen him like that—furious, but trembling. Terrified.

I had to talk him down.
He wanted to enchant me on the spot: eternal shielding, invulnerability, limb regrowth, the works.
I begged him not to.

Eventually, he backed off. Sent the entire medical staff running to me instead.
His claws were shaking. He wouldn't look me in the eyes until I touched his snout and whispered,
"I'm okay. Please just let me heal."

He nodded.
Then he left the room and punched a tree so hard the bark turned into ash.

[Artifact Inventory Addendum]
A bound bundle showed up under my writing desk. No note. No explanation. Just a thick collection of scrap-paper love letters, tied up with gold twine. Every page is different—some are old RainWing papyrus, others are ripped-off poster backs or palace memos. All in his handwriting.

Some are long. Some are just single lines:

“You looked at me today like I was worth the sunlight.”
“Please don’t ever die. Or if you must, let me go first.”
“It’s your tail, actually. It twitches when you're thinking. I’m obsessed.”

I’ve hidden it behind the fake wall panel I enchanted back in Book Nook 3.
I’m not sure if I’m more embarrassed that I’m keeping it… or that I want more.

[Diplomatic Note: Glory’s Egg Situation]
Glory asked me about her egg.
It’s missing again.

The case was open. The magical ward was tripped.
All that was left was a scorch mark… and four extremely small claw prints.

I’ve filed the incident report.

[Private Thought. Not for inclusion.]
Sometimes I wonder if this is what “happily ever after” actually looks like.

It’s not perfect. There are still cursed leftovers in the fridge. There are secret scrolls and buried trauma and unspoken names. But also...

There’s his tail brushing mine when he thinks I’m asleep.

There’s the way he looks at me now—not like I’m his conscience, or his project, but like I’m his choice.

There’s the way he said, the other night, so quietly I thought I imagined it:

“I think I like who I am now. Because of you.”

And the way my heart broke and healed at the same time.

[Last Note: 3:12 AM]
He’s asleep again. Breathing steady.
No dreams, tonight.

I’m going to stay awake a little longer.
Just in case.

Chapter Text

"This fatass toad is eating all of the cat food."

Moonwatcher says it like she’s reporting a murder. Because she might be.

There is, indeed, an unnaturally large toad in the middle of the courtyard. It is in the food bowl. Inside it. Not just snacking. Dwelling. It has begun rotating. Slowly. Like a stone in a stream, burrowing deeper into the dry fish kibble through sheer centrifugal force.

No one knows where the toad came from.

No one knows who brought cat food. They don’t have a cat.

The toad refuses to leave.

Cue jazz. Cue noir saxophone. Cue an unnecessarily moody spotlight from no discernible source.

Darkstalker has taken up smoking.

He’s standing beneath the balcony outside the High Pavilion, shadow-drenched, marble underpaw, the sea wind teasing the edges of his two-piece suit like it owes him money. The collar is sharp. The tie is loose. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to suggest danger, not effort. One claw loops his jacket lazily over his shoulder, the other holds a cigarette—enchanted not to combust stray ashtrays, thanks to Peril melting three of them and a guard who got too close.

He exhales sideways. There’s no one around. He’s doing it for the drama.

The smoke curls in slow spirals. Like plot threads left unresolved.

“Ara, ara,” he mutters, low and sultry, as if someone might be listening.

Moonwatcher passes by, arms full of scrolls, and doesn’t break stride.

“What the hell are you doing.”

“I’m a vibe,” he says, deadpan.

“You’re a health hazard.”

Darkstalker doesn’t respond right away. He slowly pulls the glasses down his snout, so his eyes just peek out over the edge. There is absolutely no need for this. He does it anyway.

A moment later, Anemone walks up, tossing her braid over her shoulder, chewing bubblegum that definitely shouldn’t exist in Pyrrhia.

“Gods. You’re so extra,” she mutters.

Darkstalker turns toward her. Slowly. The wind ruffles his shirt. The smoke curls again, this time more dramatically than before. Possibly scripted.

Anemone squints at him, unimpressed. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

beat.

He drops the cigarette. Stomps it with one elegant talon.

“Bitch. I’m him.”

A long silence. Anemone makes an exaggerated gagging noise and walks away.

Darkstalker turns to the empty air, glasses still low on his snout.

“That was so cool,” he whispers to himself.

Turtle, watching from the far terrace, just sighs and mutters: “He doesn’t even inhale.”

The table creaks under the weight of two things: a patchwork canopy of mismatched tarps straining above them, and the unbearable tension of dragons pretending they’re having fun.

Qibli, Winter, and Moon sit in a triangle of loathing and denial.

The cards are bent. The rules are unclear. The game, allegedly, is Uno. But there are also Magic: the Gathering lands in the mix. And a suspiciously gilded tarot card no one will claim.

Winter is doing math in his head, lips silently moving, talons tapping on the respective cards. Moon is halfway into a psychic fugue state, emotionally detaching to avoid the urge to scream. Qibli looks like he knows exactly what he’s doing—and more importantly, exactly what everyone else is doing—and is about to cause irreparable emotional damage using a blue enchantment and a draw-four.

He lays down a perfect straight flush.

“Boom.”

Winter doesn’t even blink. “You’re counting cards again. But why.”

Qibli leans back with the smugness of a prince who just cheated death and taxes in the same day. “It’s called strategy, IceCube.”

Winter’s eyes narrow. “This is Uno.”

“Is it?” Qibli grins. “Because I just attacked you with my Birds of Paradise. Take emotional damage, please.”

A groan. Common happenstance.

Moon rubs her temples. “Whose turn is it?”

There is a long pause.

“It’s been your turn for twenty minutes,” Winter says to Qibli. 

“Are you going to cast something,” Moon says, “or are you just passing again.”

A moment of uneccessarily dextrous card flicking and shuffling later.

Qibli hums to himself. “Hmm… land, go.”

Moon groans. Winter actually bares his teeth.

There’s a loud crash in the distance. Possibly Peril vaporizing another treadmill. No one looks up.

The table shifts slightly under them. It has known war. It has known lies. It has known what Qibli did last game and still trembles from the memory.

Moon sighs again. “I miss Kinkajou.”

“She shot me in the leg,” Winter deadpans.

“She was fun.”

Deathbringer is sprinting across the plaza.

“STOP—STOP THAT—GLORY, SHE BIT A GUARD.”

Behind him, a small purple-and-black dragonet with glittering scales and murderous intent is flapping awkwardly toward the palace. A stolen scroll clenched in her teeth.

Tsunami leans against a post, sipping coconut juice from a skull (We think it's fake.). She watches Deathbringer with the bored fondness of someone who’s seen worse.

She nudges Turtle, who’s reading a half-charred scroll in the shade.

“You think you’ll ever have kids?”

“Emotionally or accidentally?”

“Either.”

long pause

“Does Darkstalker count?”

Tsunami nearly chokes.

The fatass toad is now in the secondary cat food bowl. No one filled it. It is also spinning. Slightly faster.

There is no third bowl.

God help them if it finds one.

Chapter Text

“Peril. It’s Pride Month.”

Sunny delivers this line like she’s just said something incredibly obvious, like “the sky is blue” or “you’re currently on fire again.” Which, to be fair, she is.

Peril blinks. “What does that even mean?”

“You know. Celebration of queerness. Being yourself. Living your truth!”

“...Do you want me to burn things with gay fire?”

Sunny beams. “Exactly!”

“Wait, really?”

Sunny is already gone.

“Sunny?” Peril looks around. “Sunny! Are you serious? Are you—by the moons, she’s skipping.” She watches Sunny bounce down the hallway of the diplomatic compound, rainbow flower crown firmly in place, sparkling stickers already mysteriously applied to multiple walls. “How is she so happy. Why is she always so happy.”

Peril sets a bench on fire in confusion. Then, because she thinks it might help, she sets it on fire again.

She stomps over to where Qibli and Moon are lounging beneath a pride banner that reads "We're Not Straight, But We Are Still in This Empire." (Darkstalker wrote it.)

“Hey,” Peril growls. “Am I—am I gay?”

Qibli glances up. “Could be.”

Moon shrugs. “Statistically probable.”

“I think I’m a girl.”

Qibli nods. “Yup.”

Moon raises her claws for a thumbs-up. “Welcome to the club.”

Peril squints. “But I’ve always been a girl.”

“Sounds like you cracked it, Peril,” Qibli says cheerfully, sipping from a coconut with a paper straw and an umbrella.

Moon adds, “You can still set things on fire if it helps.”

It does help.

A nearby pride flag spontaneously combusts. Everyone claps.

The toad has tripled in size.

It lives in the cat food bowl, which is now considered its kingdom.

It has a wife (a smaller toad). It has children (tiny aggressive tadpoles). It spins in the food as a sign of dominance.

Glory has given up trying to reclaim the food bowl. “They’ve declared sovereignty,” she mutters to Deathbringer. “We’re just tourists now.”

The dragonet—hers and Deathbringer’s, allegedly—is chasing one of the tadpoles with a half-broken feather wand, shrieking like a gremlin in a blender.

Kinkajou walks past with both revolvers. One of them is bedazzled now.

“Nice frog,” she says.

“It’s not a frog,” Glory snaps.

Deathbringer nods solemnly. “It’s a god now.”

Clay is sitting peacefully beside the decorative pond, watching turtles bob their heads in and out of the water like tiny aquatic loaves.

Starflight, meanwhile, is pacing like a nervous scrollworm with footnotes to make.

“I just think—it’s important—that you understand—”

Clay blinks. “Understand what?”

“That—Peril—Peril might not be exactly who you thought she was!”

“Yeah, she’s Peril,” Clay says. “My Peril. Fire, wings, hugs that almost kill me. Classic Peril.”

“No, I mean—she’s trans.”

Clay smiles warmly. “Okay. So what do I do?”

Starflight stares at him.

“I mean, do I… do I just love her more?”

Starflight looks at the sky like it has answers. It does not.

“That’s not—it’s not a math equation!”

Clay frowns. “I think it is. Loving someone just means trying a little harder when it matters.”

Starflight, visibly short-circuiting, makes a sound like a stressed librarian. “I—you—just—just don’t be weird about it!”

Clay pats his shoulder. “I’m never weird about love.”

He says this while feeding a turtle a marshmallow.

Starflight gives up.

It’s night when Peril finally finds herself standing on the balcony of her apartment in the upper spire. The sky is streaked with magical aurora—Darkstalker made the stars go rainbow-colored, and no one asked him to. (But it’s kind of pretty. Ugh.)

She’s holding her scroll device. It’s got her first vlog queued up.

“Peril’s Pecs & Persecution: Bonus Pride Edition.”

She doesn’t post it yet.

Clay appears beside her, soft and warm and exactly as steady as she remembers.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

“You’re you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I love you.”

She bites her lip. “That easy?”

Clay shrugs. “That true.”

She rests her head against his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch when her scales warm the air.

Down below, the toad spins.

A flag waves.

Kinkajou fires a warning shot into the moon. For lesbian reasons.

And Peril, finally, hits post.

The camera pans over the quiet, pride-flag-draped pond garden. Crickets chirp. The turtles have settled into sleep, small, content lumps on mossy rocks. A few pride stickers float by in the water, glittering faintly under the moonlight.

And in the middle of it all—

Starflight is still talking.

“—and really, it’s just that societal norms around gender presentation were shaped post-Scorching by dominant tribal paradigms that failed to account for intrinsic identity variance. So Peril asserting her gender, even without a formal ritual, is valid on multiple historic and metaphysical levels, especially if you consider pre-Abyssal NightWing scholarship—”

He’s pacing again, scroll still open, gesturing to the night like it’s a lecture hall full of scholars and not, in fact, no one at all.

Clay is long gone.

Possibly for hours.

Starflight doesn’t notice.

“—which brings me back to my fourth point about postmodern enchantment theory and the transmutation of metaphorical identity into literal animus expression, which I believe—”

“Stars.”

Fatespeaker appears from the shadows with all the calm chaos of someone who has done this before. Many times.

She walks right up and bumps her snout against his.

“You’re doing it again.”

Starflight blinks. “Doing what?”

“Monologuing into the void.”

He looks around. “...Clay?”

Fatespeaker sighs with immense fondness. “Clay left after the ‘sociological post-Scorching’ bit.”

“That was only twenty minutes in!”

“You’ve been talking for an hour and a half.”

She loops a wing around him, steering him gently toward the corridor. He resists for exactly one second before sighing and giving in.

“You didn’t even ask if I wanted to hear about enchantment theory,” she teases.

He perks up. “Do you?”

“Not even a little bit.”

He smiles. “Okay. I’ll start from the beginning, then.”

Fatespeaker groans. “By the moons.”

They disappear down the hallway. His voice fades into the night:

“—so the first thing you need to understand about the scrollworms of the Eastern Reach is—”

Chapter Text

[The orb activates with its usual hum—less like machinery and more like breath held too long. The glow blooms in a slow pulse, casting a soft, uneven light over the shared suite.]

Visual Clarity: 81%.
Stability: Intermittent flicker in lower quadrant.
Time Marker: Unlabeled, approximate mid-morning.

[Visual: The view is close this time, too close—focused tight on a cluttered desk. Quills, scrolls, and a half-drunk cup of something herbal take up most of the space. Turtle is seated just outside the frame, only his forearms visible as he works.]

[Light: filtered sunbeam, interrupted occasionally by swaying vines. Ink glints. Steam rises.]

[Sound: gentle scratching. A pause. More scratching. The orb is recording its own recordings.]

Turtle (muttering, barely audible): “…third moon of the cycle, incident occurred near the eastern wing… witnesses include—gods, why do you use six adjectives per sentence—”

[A faint thud. Footsteps: slow, unhurried. The drag of claws over tile.]

[Visual: From the right, Darkstalker enters frame in passing—only a slice of him. One folded wing. The edge of his shoulder. The curve of his hip. He does not speak.]

He sets something down beside Turtle: a neatly folded snack wrapped in waxed parchment. Beside it, a fresh cup of whatever’s steeping—a darker blend thi time, still faintly glowing around the rim.]

[The orb catches his claw linger. A slow, careful squeeze to Turtle’s shoulder. Not possessive. Not performative. Just… grounded. Like anchoring someone mid-thought.]

[Visual: Turtle pauses, his quill stills. His shoulders rise slightly under the touch.]

Then Darkstalker hesitates.
He stands there longer than he needs to—still just out of frame, close enough the edge of his shadow casts over the desk.

He looks—just for a second—as though he might lean closer.
Say something.
Do something.
But he doesn’t.

He exhales through his nose. The sound is almost a sigh. Almost.

And then he slips out of frame.

[Audio: the faint sound of the door hinge catching. Not quite closed.]

[Silence. A breath.]

Turtle (softly, like he doesn’t mean to be heard): “…you used five that time.”

[He reaches for the cup. The orb holds the shot a beat longer than necessary.]

[Recording continues.]

[Visual Distortion: Horizontal flicker. A jump cut. The setting is different—cooler lighting, filtered through old glass. The orb wasn’t supposed to be on. No one is looking at it.]

[Visual: The room is round, stone-walled, lined with gently glowing memory tapestries. The light is indirect—early afternoon sun diffused through hanging greenery and old-glass panes.]

Darkstalker sits opposite Moonwatcher, both of them half-lit by slanted sun. His posture is loose, too loose—he’s doing that thing where he pretends he’s relaxed, but the tension’s coiled in his tail.

[Visual: His claws are steepled in front of him. His wings are tucked too tight. The tip of one claw taps his forearm every four seconds.]

Darkstalker (lightly): “Look, it wasn’t all bad. My childhood had some redeeming features. Um… the scrolls were nice.”

Moon (flat): “You hexed half of them.”

Darkstalker (with a sideways shrug): “Yes, but artistically.”

[He smiles. It’s wrong around the edges. Not a smirk. Not quite a lie. Just—mismatched with his eyes.]

[Audio cuts out for four seconds. The orb hiccups. Visual glitches—two frames skip ahead.]

[Moon is now seated closer. Her claw rests on his wrist. The ambient sound of birds outside fades back in slowly, like memory trying to catch up.]

Darkstalker (much quieter):
“I didn’t mean to cry. I didn’t used to cry. I used to turn things to stone, or… rip someone’s memory out. This is less efficient.”

[The feed wavers. Static bleeds upward across the lens. Moon’s voice is inaudible now—she is only mouthing something soft. Something gentle.]

[Visual: She places a claw to his snout. His head bows slightly, as if gravity itself has grown heavier. His eyes close.]

[His shoulders rise with a shaky breath. He doesn’t speak again.]

[No one looks toward the orb.]

[The timestamp fuzzes, then reorients. 00:26:49.]

[Recording continues.]

[Visual: The palace gym. The orb struggles with vertical calibration. The footage is tilted slightly to the left—like the orb was nudged and never corrected.]

Ambient light flickers across enchanted training mats and polished stone flooring. One window is cracked open. The sound of distant gulls filters in.

[Visual: The camera centers, shakily, on Darkstalker. He’s lying on his back across a reinforced bench, muscles flexed, forearms tense.]

He is bench pressing Turtle.

Turtle is curled awkwardly across Darkstalker’s forearms, midair like a very startled sea cucumber. His limbs flail in slow, appalled bursts.

Turtle (squeaking):
“THIS IS NOT REGULATED EXERCISE—!”

Darkstalker (grinning, smug):
“Your screams build muscle tone.”

[Audio: A high-pitched eep as Darkstalker dips and lifts again.]

[Visual Cut: A new angle—wider, slower. Darkstalker is doing push-ups now. Turtle lies sprawled across his back, fully limp in protest. His head rests on one wing, tail dragging.]

Turtle (muffled):
“You’re gonna drop me.”

Darkstalker (cheerfully, through gritted teeth):
“Don’t flatter yourself.”

[Audio: a huff, a wheeze, then Turtle muttering, “I will sue,” under his breath.]

[Visual: Cut again. Lower shot—Turtle is gripping Darkstalker’s hind legs while he does increasingly dramatic sit-ups. His scales glisten with effort. His breathing’s fast. So is Turtle’s, though his face is mostly out of frame.]

They’re laughing. Quietly. Breathing hard between it. Turtle steadies him with a paw each time he rises.

[Audio: Cloth rustles. A long exhale.]

[The camera catches Turtle standing very close.]

He’s holding a damp towel now, claws careful as he presses it along the edge of Darkstalker’s jawline. A soft, drying sweep. He brushes across a temple, down one cheek.

[Visual: Their eyes meet.]

[The orb hums quietly, like it’s holding its breath.]

Neither of them speaks.

Darkstalker’s paw rises slightly, like he might reach for Turtle’s elbow, his face—something—

—but he doesn’t. Not yet.

The towel passes over his muzzle once more, steady, slow. Turtle’s claws linger a moment too long on his scales.

Then Turtle turns. Darkstalker exhales.

[The orb refocuses, stuttering slightly.]

[Recording continues.]

[Visual: The palace’s upper courtyard, late afternoon. The orb is perched on a high wooden shelf, its view slightly obstructed by flowering vines. The lens keeps adjusting—zooming too far in, then out again—like it doesn’t know where to settle.]

[Ambient sound: birdsong. Distant waves. An occasional breeze sweeping through sun-warmed stone.]

[Audio: muffled laughter.]

Everyone’s there.

Kinkajou, Moon, Qibli, Winter, Peril, Darkstalker, and Turtle—all gathered around a lopsided wooden table, weathered by time and magic. The orb’s distance makes their faces indistinct, but the outlines are familiar. Comfortable.

The table is covered in mismatched cards. Some enchanted. Some clearly stolen from different games. There is also, for some reason, a mango. No one is eating it. Peril might be guarding it.

Qibli gestures with far too much flair.
[Audio: “You wish that was a full set, you fraud—”]
Winter swats him with his tail. Kinkajou shrieks in delight.

Moon is seated between them, trying very hard to sip her tea without laughing. It’s not working.

Peril holds up a pawful of cards, grinning like she’s definitely winning. No one else appears to understand how. At one point, she eats a card.

[Audio: Turtle quietly: “Was that… was that one of mine?”]
Peril: “It tasted enchanted.”
Qibli (dry): “That’s because it wasn’t yours.”

Darkstalker is lounging near the edge, one wing half-draped around Turtle in a way that doesn’t look deliberate until it clearly is. His claws rest idly near Turtle’s, never quite touching. His laughter is low and unguarded.

Turtle says very little.

But he’s smiling. That small, private smile. The one he saves for when he forgets to be afraid.

[Visual: The orb zooms slightly. Focuses on Turtle’s face for half a second longer than necessary.]

No one says anything that matters.

No one is at war.

No curses, no strategy. Just dragons in a courtyard too warm for ghosts.

[Visual: The orb flickers. The feed hitches as if in disbelief.]

[But it holds.]

[Recording continues.]

[Visual: Return to the desk. Return to the quiet. Return to the same chair, same lighting, same soft scratches of Turtle writing.]

The orb is closer this time. Either it has floated forward by enchantment, or someone nudged it earlier without realizing. The frame is tight, almost reverent. Turtle’s face is half-lit by afternoon sun filtering through a vine-covered window. His quill moves with measured purpose, each stroke a ritual.

[Sound: faint scratching. The clink of a teacup. The distant murmur of courtyard birdsong.]

Turtle mumbles something to himself about sentence structure. Something about "adjective inflation."

He doesn’t notice when Darkstalker enters.

There’s no flair this time. No enchantments humming beneath his claws. Just a quiet presence.

[Visual: A familiar motion. A cup set down—gently. A folded snack, placed to the side. A broad claw, curling over Turtle’s shoulder.]

The orb captures the moment from over Turtle’s right side. Darkstalker’s shadow falls into the frame.

But this time, Turtle stops.

He blinks. He lifts his own claw, slow and deliberate, and places it atop Darkstalker’s.

Their claws don’t entwine. Not yet. But they rest there—stacked, still, steady.

Turtle turns his head. Not all the way. Just enough.

[Only part of his face is in frame—just the tip of his snout. Just his eyes.]

They meet. And they lean in.

[Audio: a quiet, almost imperceptible exhale. A soft rustle of scales. The briefest shift of weight.]

The orb does not catch the kiss in full.

It catches the sound—soft, warm, real.

It catches Turtle’s smile, faint and dazed, like someone coming up for air after forgetting they were underwater.

It catches Darkstalker’s silhouette, still beside him. Still there.

Turtle turns back to his scroll.

The claw does not move.

[The orb lingers. Just long enough.]

Unscheduled Recording

[The orb clicks on with no ceremony. No humming, no light flare. Just a soft mechanical breath, as if it woke mid-dream.]

Visual Clarity: 65%.
Stability: Stable. Low ambient distortion.
Time Marker: Unknown. Late.

[The angle is low—floor level, facing the bed from beneath a tangle of chair legs and discarded scrolls.]

The lighting is warm and muted. A fire glows somewhere off-screen. One vine sways gently in the breeze from an open window.

Turtle is asleep.

He’s curled on his side, tucked deep into the heap of pillows and blankets that form the nest-like sprawl of the bed. In his forepaws, cradled as gently as one might hold a dream, is a small, blue, vaguely shark-shaped plush.

A Blåhaj.

Behind him, curled around his form with unconscious precision, is Darkstalker.

His wings rise and fall in time with Turtle’s breath. One claw is hooked lazily over the edge of the blanket. His snout rests in the crook of Turtle’s neck—content, close, as if drawn there without thinking.

Their tails tangle. The Blåhaj’s fin pokes up between them like a neutral witness.

The blanket is a mess.

[The room is quiet.]

[The orb does not move. It does not interrupt. It only watches.]

And somewhere in the dim, an old enchantment stutters, then steadies—just long enough to hold this moment still.

Chapter Text

Darkstalker stood in the middle of the windswept ridge and wondered, not for the first time, if he should have stayed dead.

The sea glittered like nothing was wrong. Waves lapped the sand with smug indifference. A breeze teased at the edge of his cloak—he wore one now, apparently, because “imperial silhouette continuity” was a thing. Somewhere in the distance, a heron was being eaten by a crocodile. Nature was taking sides.

A large, claw-painted sign loomed beside him. It read:

“WELCOME TO THE NEUTRAL FREE TRADE BUFFER ZONE (TEMPORARY, PROBABLY)”
Sovereign by decree. Subject to change. Do not feed the economists.

Three languages. Two dialects. One increasingly unstable idea of what “governing” meant.

His crown sat crooked on his head, tugged there by one of the attendants when he’d tried to leave it behind. Now it glinted in the sun like a bad punchline. He hadn’t worn a crown in over two millennia and it still didn’t fit.

Before him, two queens squared off with all the composure of wet cats in royal regalia.

“It’s not my fault the ocean keeps moving,” Queen Coral snapped, bristling with the full confidence of someone who had never lost an argument with anyone but her own offspring. “Tide cycles have shifted! The coast is clearly six winglengths inland from where it was five years ago. Which makes the shellbanks SeaWing territory.”

“Mud,” Queen Moorhen said flatly. “It’s mud, Coral. You can’t annex mud.”

Moorhen looked like she had just walked through a bureaucratic swamp, found a clipboard, and chosen violence.

Darkstalker raised one claw, the universal gesture of I’m going to say something that sounds official, please don’t stab each other yet.

“Technically,” he began, keeping his voice smooth, regal, just a touch amused, “you are both fiefdoms under my benevolent, continent-spanning regime—”

“Say benevolent one more time,” Moorhen growled.

He paused. Not out of fear—he hadn’t feared anyone in centuries—but because Turtle was looking at him from the sidelines.

A very specific look.

The please don’t look. The we rehearsed this look. The if you magic this problem into a talking seagull again, I’m leaving look.

Darkstalker cleared his throat, resisting the urge to enchant the entire coastline into something less… squishy.

“I understand that the tidal shifts have muddled long-standing boundaries,” he said diplomatically, as if the last thirty minutes hadn’t involved Coral threatening to flood an inland village. “And that both sides have historical claims, oral tradition, and several thousand scrolls of evidence—none of which agree.”

Moorhen spit out her root. “Exactly. It’s a mess. Let’s just split it down the middle, call it a day, and go home.”

“I’d rather declare war,” Coral huffed.

“You always rather declare war,” Moorhen snapped. “You declared war on a SandWing last year for naming a seahorse after you.”

“It was a bad seahorse!”

Darkstalker closed his eyes. This was the job. This was being emperor. Not rewriting fate, not weaving prophecies, not even rebuilding civilization from ruins. No. It was this: managing egos in a swamp.

He opened one eye. Turtle was beside him now, silent but present, like a moral compass that only buzzed when he was getting too close to divine intervention.

“I could just…” Darkstalker murmured under his breath, “shift the riverbed six feet and make the problem disappear.”

“You promised,” Turtle said quietly. “No magic. No enchantments. No spontaneous land transformation spells, no memory wipes, and definitely no voice-of-god speeches in iambic pentameter.”

“That was one time.”

“It was Tuesday.”

Darkstalker exhaled through his nose.

His wings twitched. Power hummed through his blood like a second heartbeat. It would be so easy. One whisper, one claw gesture, and the coastline would align itself with whatever outcome he declared. He could make Coral forget the claim. Make Moorhen agree to it. Make both of them forget the land existed.

Instead, he turned to the queens, folded his wings with the precise elegance of a scholar-king, and said:

“By the authority of the imperial crown—which I assure you I did not want—I declare this contested land a Free Trade Sovereign Buffer Zone.”

Coral blinked. “A what.”

“A neutral territory,” he said, louder now. “Neither MudWing nor SeaWing. A shared zone under the Emperor’s jurisdiction. Trade is permitted. Military action is not. Fishing rights will alternate monthly. Eel export laws will be harmonized under the shared provisional statute.”

“You’re making this up,” Coral said.

“It’s in the decree,” Turtle said, already pulling the scroll from his bag. It was stamped, signed, and gently smudged with ink where Darkstalker had tried to doodle a sea turtle in the margins.

Moorhen scowled. “You can’t just invent law.”

“I can, actually,” Darkstalker said, smiling just enough to make it unfair. “That’s the job.”

The queens bickered. Generals muttered. Someone sneezed into a map.

But for now, the war was postponed, and the world did not fall apart.

Darkstalker turned away, his shoulders relaxing a fraction.

Turtle didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

But as they walked back toward the imperial carriage (a dragon-sized wagon with too many flags), Darkstalker leaned in close and whispered, “You’re really not going to let me enchant the fish quotas?”

“Not unless you want to wake up next to a mudslide,” Turtle said.

“…Fair.”

The imperial carriage rattled below them like an elaborate joke with too much budget.

It was enormous. Gold inlaid. Velvet-lined. Flying by way of six large SkyWings enchanted with excellent posture and even better union contracts. It trailed flags bearing the imperial crest (a stylized eye surrounded by increasingly meaningless laurels), and left behind a faint scent of juniper and civic obligation.

Darkstalker perched on the seat inside, scowling at the clouds.

“This is absurd,” he muttered. “We’re dragons. We fly. We have wings, Turtle. Wings.”

Turtle sat beside him, unusually unbothered, nibbling dried kelp out of a diplomatic snack pouch. “The SkyWings need work. It's part of the job stimulus package. You signed it.”

“I was tricked into signing it,” Darkstalker snapped. “It was tucked between the prison reform act and that scroll you doodled little fish all over.”

“You mean the prison reform act you wrote and the fish that were very accurate.”

“I’m an animus. You’re an animus. We could enchant a pebble to teleport us anywhere in the world! Why are we in a flying box!”

Turtle gently patted his shoulder. “Because you promised not to use magic for convenience unless it was ethically neutral, sustainably sourced, and didn’t mess with geopolitical metaphors. Remember?”

“No, I remember saying I would try.”

“You’re trying very hard right now,” Turtle said.

Darkstalker growled. Not dangerously—more like a palace cat who’d just been told the fish was late. “I de-escalated a border dispute using words. I didn’t enchant anyone. I didn’t alter a single memory. I didn’t cast a single plague. I want that on record.”

Turtle blinked, then reached up and gently, sincerely scratched behind one of his horns.

“Good boy,” he said.

Darkstalker froze.

Turtle did it again, slower this time. “Very good boy. Didn’t even smite anyone.”

“…You’re patronizing me,” Darkstalker said stiffly.

Turtle leaned closer, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Yup.”

Another kiss to the snout. “Still proud of you, though.”

Another, softer, beneath the eye ridge.

Darkstalker melted like old ice under sunlight.

He slumped sideways with a sigh that sounded like mountains giving up. His wings drooped. His crown slid off and clinked down the carriage floor. He did not care.

“You know I could’ve turned the entire coastline into a migratory sandbank,” he mumbled, eyes half-lidded now.

“I know,” Turtle said, laying a wing over him. “And you didn’t. That’s growth.”

“I hate growth.”

“No you don’t. You’re just grumpy that the kelp puffs ran out.”

“…You knew I liked those.”

“I brought extras. You can have them after we land. If you’re good.”

Darkstalker grumbled. But he stayed where he was, head resting against Turtle’s shoulder, claws twitching faintly like he was rewriting laws in his sleep.

The sky wheeled on above them. The empire did not crumble. No one exploded. And the emperor, for the moment, was a good boy.

Chapter Text

The Ice Kingdom
Subtitled: “We Gave Up the Caste System, Not the Side-Eye”
by Winter of the IceWings
(for Prince Consort Turtle, apparently)

You’d think the loss of an empire would soften a tribe. Those years of blood-stained tradition, generations of measuring self-worth by arbitrary numbers, and the complete collapse of a royal bloodline would humble a kingdom into kindness.

You’d be wrong.

The Ice Kingdom remains as frozen as ever. The skies are grey, the wind is sharp enough to draw blood, and everyone still stares at you like your very presence is offensive. Which, I’ll grant, is at least consistent.

Yes, we’ve technically abolished the caste system. No more rankings, no more children with high scores and higher expectations collapsing under them. I suppose that’s progress. And yes, IceWings can now marry RainWings without the palace holding a discreet funeral behind their backs. Revolutionary. Truly.

But don’t let that fool you into thinking the cold has thawed.

They don’t speak Darkstalker’s name here. Even when they do, it comes out gritted between the teeth like a curse. The noble class pretends he doesn’t exist. The common dragons pretend not to care. The truth is that everyone cares — they’re just too well-trained in etiquette to show it. (For now.)

Queen Glacier is “retired.” That’s the official word. What that means is she’s holed up somewhere near the border with a pack of snow leopards and an editorial column under the name Coldtruth88 , where she complains weekly about Agate Mountain, NightWings, and how fruit doesn’t belong in food. I didn’t say hello. She wouldn’t have offered tea.

Her daughter, Duchess Snowfall, rules in her place. I use the word “rules” loosely. She governs by willpower and thinly veiled threats, assisted by an entourage of advisors who whisper like they're dodging dragonflame cacti. Her secretary has fainted twice since I arrived. Once while holding a teacup. The shards are still embedded in the icy floor of the main audience hall.

But she’s effective, I’ll give her that. IceWing dragonets can choose their education paths now. The cities have reopened. Trade is up. There are fewer disappearances. And the public libraries now have fiction shelves, which should tell you how far we’ve come.

(Yes, I checked. Yes, I took a scroll. No, I won’t tell you what it was. Mind your own business, Turtle.)

They even export ice cream now. Not just snow-packed luxuries hoarded in IceWing palaces, but real, actual ice cream—shipped across Pyrrhia in magically insulated crates, courtesy of a very secretive NightWing engineering team that definitely isn’t Moon’s side project. (Except one crate was signed “Love, M.” with a doodle of a smiling mango. So.)

It’s catching on. The SandWings deep-fried it. The MudWings added syrup. One RainWing tried to inhale it straight from the crate and went into a brain freeze coma. The medical report was… memorable.

Editor’s Note: No, it wasn’t Kinkajou. Might’ve been Jambu, but Queen Glory didn’t throw a fit—either because it wasn’t him or because she simply doesn’t care. There’s also a theory that it was Deathbringer painted in jungle tones on a dare. Either way, they’re fine now, just pacing around muttering “my head’s itchy” like it’s a personal crisis.

But if you're asking whether it feels different here…

No. It doesn't.

It's still the same bone-deep cold that claws into your lungs when you wake up. The same halls that echo in the wrong way, where the silence remembers things you'd rather forget. The same palace, white and sharp and too empty.

I did see Hailstorm again. He’s well. Happy, even. He’s training young soldiers now, mentoring. He asked if I’d thought about returning for a longer stay. I told him I had other obligations.

I didn’t say: it’s too cold here without them.

(Meaning Qibli and Moon. Who I definitely do not miss. And who definitely did not sneak banana chips and desert-chili sauce into my travel satchel. That was sabotage, not affection. Shut up, Turtle.)

Agate Mountain is loud. Cramped. Full of arguing voices and overlapping schedules and overly affectionate NightWings. I should hate it.

I don’t.

The Ice Palace is where I was born. Agate is where I started breathing.

I’ll finish this report and go. The duchess wants a full review of the southern border’s reconstruction, and I promised to inspect the new fur-processing methods in Deepfrost.

But after that, I’m coming home.

You don’t have to tell the others. Especially not Qibli. He’ll gloat.

Moon will just smile like she knew all along.

Which—knowing her—is worse.

—Winter

The Sand Kingdom
Subtitled: “I Paid Ten Scales for a Banana and I’d Do It Again.”
Report compiled by Qibli (officially). With margin interference by Moonwatcher (unofficially). Scented faintly with cinnamon, dust, and denial.

Look, I’m used to the heat. It’s in my blood. I grew up in sandstorms, learned subtraction by trading stolen figs, and mastered diplomacy by not getting stabbed before breakfast. But after Agate Mountain, after Turtle’s quiet gravity and Winter’s volcanic silences—you come back here and it hits different.

The air smells like home. Home-home. Not the palace, not the polished stone of statecraft or Moon’s little meditation chamber that smells like star-anise and clean parchment. This home smells like hot copper, fried peppers, and too many memories you didn’t ask to remember. It gets into your scales. Or maybe that’s just nostalgia. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.

Possibility hasn’t changed much, except it’s larger and louder and someone built a throne dais in the middle of a bazaar. Queen Thorn still carries five knives and a grudge against poor sentence structure. She still calls me “boy,” even though I outrank her on the technical flowchart. (Don’t worry. I never bring it up. I value my kneecaps.)

She’s not a duchess, I keep telling people. I keep telling myself. She's the Queen. The real one. She's just letting Turtle run the whole emperor thing because—well. Because he's Turtle. You try saying no to someone who apologizes after winning an argument.

[Moon’s margin note: He once apologized to a cactus after walking into it.]

Honestly, I think Thorn’s enjoying it. The “duchess” thing. She wears it like a borrowed shawl—fashionable, but not forever. The Outclaws are thriving, which is terrifying. They’ve institutionalized. There’s a recruitment pamphlet now. With bullet points.

They even arrested Darkstalker last week. Tried to, anyway. He congratulated them. Signed their wanted poster.

[Moon’s note: “He also wrote, ‘Try harder next time, love DS.’”]

I’ve seen SandWing dragonets reading in the shade now. Whole libraries. Literacy, in my kingdom. It’s weird and wonderful and makes me want to cry or laugh or possibly both. Sunny’s running one of them near the coast when she’s not busy with JMA. She’s still got that bewildered “I accidentally became royalty” vibe, but with a little more spine now. Maybe it’s the climate. Maybe it’s the scrolls.

Moon, of course, is quietly losing her mind every time someone calls her “holy lady of the stars.” I think one of the fruit vendors offered her a scorpion as a blessing. She didn’t take it well.

[Moon’s scrawled note in the corner: “HE TRIED TO PUT IT IN MY MOUTH, QIBLI.”]

Still. She likes it here. More than she’ll admit. She keeps drifting off in the heat, and I catch her smiling when she doesn’t know I’m watching. It suits her, the sun. She was born under shadows, but I think she glows better like this.

Me? I’m pretending I’m not counting the days. Because I miss him.

Winter.

That miserable, majestic lump of snow and steel. He probably hasn’t smiled since crossing the border. He probably hasn’t taken off his armor since then either. I keep wondering if he’s cold—or worse, comfortable.

[Moon’s note: He’s cold. And grumpy. You can feel it through the letters.]

We sit on the rooftops sometimes, her and I. Passing fruit back and forth, watching the caravans disappear over the dunes. And I think about how he’d hate this heat. And how I hate that he’s not here to hate it with us.

The Sand Kingdom is dazzling. Complicated. Wild. It’s in my bones.

But home is a stone palace wrapped in fog and the weight of three dragons curled too close together on a couch that was never meant to fit all of us.

We’ll be back there soon.

And I swear, if he’s started a civil war, I’m dragging him back by the tail.

[Moon’s final margin note: “We’ll drag him together.”]

Yours sincerely,
—Qibli & Moon

Agate Mountain Palace
(Journal of Prince Consort Turtle, unofficial, unedited, and definitely not for publication (unless I die tragically and someone wants to tell the story properly).

I know I’m supposed to file these reports.

Technically, they’re diplomatic dispatches. "Status updates from the Kingdoms under imperial suzerainty" or some equally dreadful phrasing that Qibli once suggested with a straight face and Moon tried to write into law until I distracted them with pie. (Don’t ask what kind.)

But I read them. All of them. Carefully. Twice, usually. Then I tuck them into the correct pigeonhole in the records office, smile at the archivist like I didn’t just dog-ear one corner, and quietly consider copying the whole set for my eventual memoirs.

Not the public one. The other one. The one I might write if anyone ever wants to know what it felt like to rule something by accident, and love three dragons so much it warps the shape of your life.

The palace is quieter than it should be.

Darkstalker fills a room all by himself. Sometimes that’s a metaphor. Sometimes it’s because he’s knocked out a wall again. He says it's for “aesthetic airflow.” Tsunami says it's for dramatic entrances. I say nothing, usually, because there’s no winning with either of them.

It’s not that I don’t like the quiet. I do. I like the soft hush of scrolls being turned, the clicking of RainWing claws through sun gardens, the occasional shriek from the kitchens when Peril walks in unannounced. It’s a peaceful kind of chaos. Contained. Familiar.

But it’s… thinner, now.

Moon’s laughter used to echo down the central hall before she even entered it. Qibli would mutter under his breath while pacing out trade balances and punchline setups in the same breath. And Winter—he never said much, but his silence had a weight to it. A kind of gravity. It made the room feel anchored.

Now I have all this space, and the ceilings feel higher than they used to.

Kinkajou’s still here. Peril too. They’re wonderful in the way that only two dragons with no sense of fear can be. We’ve had tea, and mild arson, and an attempted intervention about how many pastries I’m eating in their absence. (Uncalled for, by the way. I need calories. Emotional support calories.)

But I miss them.

I miss the way Moon always paused before saying my name, like she wanted to say it right. I miss Qibli knocking things off my desk “accidentally” just to start arguments he always won. I miss Winter’s eye-rolls and the way he sits like he’s personally offended by chairs.

I miss being in the middle of it all. Not the throne. Not the title. Just… them.

This palace is made of stone and enchantment and diplomatic leverage, but they’re what made it feel like home.

So I read their letters. Carefully. Twice. Then once more before I sleep, folded under my pillow like a secret.

I hope they’re all safe. I hope they’re hurrying back.

And I hope—if there’s a scroll of my life someday—it includes this part too:
The part where I ruled a continent and still counted down the days until my family came home.

Private Note (Unwritten, Unspoken)
Darkstalker. Emperor. Shadow of a thousand lifetimes. Currently lying upside-down on the palace roof like a cat in emotional denial.

He didn’t read Turtle’s mind.

Didn’t need to. That particular thought—quiet, wistful, dangerously sincere—was practically lobbed at him like a scroll to the face. If you’re going to say something that loud in your own head, next time maybe don’t do it while sitting in my favourite reading chair, sweetheart.

“I hope—if there’s a scroll of my life someday…”

Darkstalker sighs, tracing one talon across a groove in the stone. He could unmake it. The whole roof, really. Raise a tower of emerald and fire in its place. Build a monument to power or genius or any of the other things that used to mean more to him than… this.

But he doesn’t.

Because he can feel the quiet in the palace too.

But Turtle? Turtle’s feeling it.

Separation anxiety. From a SeaWing. Who used to hide behind scrolls to avoid eye contact.

Darkstalker tilts his head, smirking at the moonlight. Who could’ve guessed.

He’d say something, maybe. Offer comfort. Tease him for turning into a clingy royal consort. But Turtle’s asleep now, curled into his oversized nest like a soft-scaled dream. Darkstalker could never disturb that. Not even for a joke.

Instead, he leaves a spell by the windowsill. Just a whisper of warmth, the faint scent of jasmine—something that smells like them. All of them. Just enough to take the edge off the cold.

“They’ll be back soon,” he murmurs, mostly to the stars. “Probably right before Kinkajou gets summoned to the Rainforest Kingdom.”

He rolls onto his back again, staring up at the sky.

“Someone’s going to have to supervise her. At least I locked up the guns.”

A pause.

“…She’s probably made more.”

Another pause.

“…Note to self. Lock the blueprints, too.”

Chapter Text

I don’t sleep.

Not always. Not all the way.

Some nights stretch sideways. Rest becomes optional. The ceiling becomes a canvas, etched in silver vines and shadow lattice.

If I blink slowly enough, they move.

I pretend they don’t.

Turtle’s asleep diagonally again. One leg over the pillow mountain. Scroll stuck to his face.
He’s snoring, softly—he’ll deny it later.
An elbow’s wedged into my ribs. A talon rests on my side.

Even in his dreams, he’s holding on.

I count the cracks in the ceiling.
Try not to count the cracks in myself.
You’re the Emperor now.
You’re loved. Healing. Better.

Alone at two in the morning, wondering if shadows have patterns. Or intentions.

Eventually, I slid his elbow off my stomach and stepped out of bed.
I’ve practiced the exit enough times: silent steps, door whispering open, cool stone under my claws.

The garden smells like moss and dusk and the sweet decay of fallen blossoms.
Trees sway overhead, lit only by the moon.
The carp are asleep. I sit at the edge of the pool anyway, staring down at a face I’m supposed to be proud of.

It wavers.
Like even the water doesn’t believe in me tonight.

I rub at the underside of my jaw.
I wish it would ache when I was tired—or sting, or burn. Some kind of signal.
But it’s all just numb.

Too much magic.
Too long.
Now everything’s quiet in the wrong places.

I tilt my claw to the sky.
Rotate it. Let the moonlight sketch its edges, trace the curve of bone and scale like it’s trying to remember me. I watch the shadows fill the spaces between my digits, hollow them out until they look unfamiliar, like claws I borrowed from someone else. The way the light catches—not directly, but bounced, filtered through the cold gloss of the walls, the half-drawn curtain, the gleam of something forgotten and polished once, long ago—reminds me of gallery glass, or old star maps, or the way Whiteout used to describe reflection as a kind of conversation between brightness and grief. I wonder how you’d paint it—if you could. Not just the angles, the anatomy, but the feeling of it, the quiet ache beneath your scales, the weight in your joints that isn’t from the day but from years and years of days stacked on top of each other, like they’re afraid to collapse. I wonder if you’d need real paint, or something softer, or something more stubborn—ink mixed with rainwater, maybe, or the kind of pigments you grind from minerals no one names anymore because they’ve all been buried in history, because what’s the point of naming something if no one remembers it but me? I wonder how you’d layer it—the light, the silence, the indecision—not just in colour but in intent. How you’d capture not the image but the moment inside it. The hesitation. The not-quite. The pause before the breath. I wonder if Whiteout would have tried. I think she would have. I think she would’ve loved this—loved the way nothing here knows what it’s supposed to be: not night, not peace, not entirely awake, not entirely asleep. A claw lifted toward a moon that can’t answer—

It doesn’t unlock anything.
No secrets. No peace. Just another motion in the dark.

I remember Whiteout’s claws, ink-stained. Always painting.
Always lost in something bigger than language.
She said the sky looked like spilled silver.
The kind of silver that stains your dreams.

She’d love it here.

Art class at Jade Mountain’s doing well, I hear.
Sunny says the students are bartering for paints now—
trading old scrolls and poems and pressed flowers.
Free trade for creativity.

I should write to her more.
To Sunny.
To—
Whiteout.

By the moons, I hope she had a good life.
Wherever she ended up.
I hope it was soft.

And Foeslayer—Mother’s here.
She never tells me everything.
Maybe she can’t. Maybe it hurts too much.
But I can see it in her eyes sometimes,
when the hallway goes quiet and I say my sister’s name.

Foeslayer still smiles.
Still makes jokes.
But there’s weight behind her laughter.

The kind of weight you carry when no one else remembers
the sound of your daughter’s paintbrush
tapping against the lip of a jar.

It’s late.
Too late for memories.

But they come anyway.

There’s a painting in my mind.
Whiteout painted it—me, her, Foeslayer, and Arctic.
Family. That word again.
I don’t know if I ever earned it.

Arctic was furious the moment I hatched.
I remember it like heatstroke.
His disgust. His disappointment.

But he loved her.
He wasn’t completely a monster.
Was he?

…No.
He was a father.
He made mistakes. Like fathers do. Like sons do. Like anyone does, if you give them enough time and too many expectations and not enough kindness. Was his soul truly, fully rotten, or was it just… cracked in the wrong places? Brittle under pressure. Moulded into sharpness by tradition, by duty, by a crown he never wanted and a mate he didn’t know how to love right. Maybe he was lost. Maybe he didn’t know any other way to survive. Maybe it was easier to break something than to admit it scared him—to admit I scared him, because I wasn’t soft or small or silent like a prince should be. Because I knew things too early, looked too hard, spoke like someone who already understood power. Maybe I lost the chance for paternal love the moment I opened my eyes—too silver, too knowing, too much. Maybe he saw himself in me and hated that. Or maybe he saw nothing at all and hated that even more. Maybe he resented the part of me that came from her, from Foeslayer, from love he couldn’t control. And maybe—stars help me—maybe I spent too long trying to deserve something he was never capable of giving. Maybe the hunger stayed anyway. That sharp, hollow ache under the breastbone. That hunger for a voice that never came, a claw on my shoulder that never landed, a moment—just one—where he looked at me and saw a son instead of a threat. But I didn’t get that. I got silence. Distance. Orders. Cold approval that felt more like defeat than pride. And I told myself it was enough. I told myself I didn’t need more. And maybe that lie held for a while. Maybe it still does, in some small, stubborn part of me that hasn’t finished grieving him. Because even now—gods, even now—I still want to believe he could’ve changed. That he wanted to. That if the years had been different, if I had been different, if the world had just paused long enough to let us try again—

He bled out at my feet.

There’s a story dragons like to tell about him.
A noble IceWing prince who gave up his throne for love.
Who crossed the continent to be with a dragon from the rival tribe.
A great romance. A tragic legend.

I never believed it.
Not really.

He didn’t come for love.
He came because he was angry.
Because he wanted to win.
Because losing control terrified him more than losing a crown.

He made rules to keep the fear out.
Walls of silence. Expectations carved from ice.
I grew up inside those walls.

My sister didn’t.
She refused. She was too bright for him.
Too much color, too much joy.

I think she broke something in him.
And I think he broke everything else in return.

I used to swear I’d never become him.
Never turn love into a ledger.
Never build cages out of rules.

But now I look at myself—
And I see another story being written.

And not all stories end well.

If they knew how tired I still am,
how scared,
how brittle—
Would they still believe in me?
Would I?

The pond stays quiet.
Moonlight stretches thin across the water, trembling like someone pressed pause on the world mid-thought.
No ripples.
No movement.
Just the hush of stone and sky, and the weight of a reflection I barely recognize.

I sit with my claws curled over the edge.
Don’t blink.
Don’t move.

Most nights, I lose time like this.

But tonight, I heard it.
A soft scrape.
Claws dragging. A hiccupped yawn.

Turtle.

He staggers into view like sleep poured him out sideways—one eye squinting, tail dragging, still half-wrapped in a blanket that trails behind him like a forgotten royal train.
He moves like the kind of dream you can’t decide was good or bad—just heavy, and too long.

“Hey,” he mumbles, voice cracking in the middle. “You’re doing the thing again.”

I don’t look up.

He comes anyway.
Drops beside me with a sigh. That sigh says: not again. But okay.

“The thing,” he says, nudging my shoulder. “Where you sit really still and try to look like a statue of Tragic Male Suffering.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You never are,” he says, softly. His frills are still sleep-flattened. He leans into me, warm and steady.

“It’s two in the morning.”

“I didn’t wake you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

We sit like that for a while.
The silence is… almost comfortable.
A little frayed, a little fragile.
But almost.

I flex my claws against the stone.
It’s cool beneath me. Real.
Anchoring, in a way I can’t explain.

“Most nights,” I say, “I think I should go back to bed. Just… crawl in, wrap myself around you, pretend the sun will never come up again.”

“You can,” he says, without hesitation.

“I know. But I don’t.”

He doesn’t reply.
Just shifts closer, pressing against my side. The warmth seeps in like light through old glass. His blanket slips, catches on a horn.

I breathe in.
Let the words out before they harden in my chest.

“You ever just want to… sleep forever?”

A pause.

Then, lightly:
“Sure,” he says. “Usually after parties. Or paperwork. Or when nobles call me Tincture .”

I huff. Not a laugh. But close.

He sobers.
“But you mean more than that.”

I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.

He exhales—slow, steady—and nudges my wing.
“Come back to bed.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Then I’ll stay here,” he says.
Like it’s obvious.
Like it’s easy.
Like it’s not everything.

“Until you can.”

I look at him.
Really look.

There’s moonlight braided through his scales. Sleep clings to the corners of his eyes. A fern’s stuck to his tail like he tripped over a plant and didn’t notice.

He’s so—
Stupidly there.
Every time.

I turn away. Watch the water again.
There’s a knot in my throat. Heavy. Stubborn. It doesn’t want to be named.

“Thank you,” I whisper, so soft it barely counts.

Turtle blinks. Bleary. Earnest.
“For what?”

I don’t answer.
He doesn’t push.

We sit there, the two of us, in the hush between heartbeats.
Moonlight. Water.
A pair of carp who are absolutely going to judge us in the morning.

And eventually—

When my eyes start to blur,
When the stone feels softer,
When the echoes fade to a hum—

Turtle shifts.
Drapes the blanket over both of us.
And stays.

I lost track of time again.

Tonight felt different.
Not in any way I could name—just heavier.
Like forgetting something important.
Or remembering it too late.

I turned my head slowly, breath too steady, like if I moved wrong it might spill over.

Turtle was already asleep again. Sprawled across the floor in a position that defied joint logic. Jaw open just enough to catch the moonlight on his teeth. One hind leg twitched—probably chasing a paperwork deadline. A scroll was crushed under his elbow, ink smudged.

One wing hung loose.
Soft. Unfolded.

It made something in me twist.

I tucked the blanket around him, gently nudged his wing back into place. He grunted in his sleep but didn’t wake.
Of course he didn’t.
Of course he trusted me.

Stupid, wonderful creature.

I hesitated, then slid down beside him, careful not to wake him. Pressed my snout to the crook behind his ear.

“You’re warm,” I whispered.

He stirred faintly. “M’cold-blooded,” he mumbled.

“You’re warm,” I said again. Not correcting. Just… confirming. A truth. A proof.

“Mhm.” He cracked one eye open, a soft smile crinkling his features.

And just like that, it was in my throat again—that hot, sharp pulse of affection. Like swallowing a coal.

Still half-asleep, he reached up and combed his claws through my mane of spikes. Slow. Soothing. Like I was something enormous and wounded that didn’t scare him anymore.

It worked.

I leaned into him. Snouts bumped. My breath stuttered trying to match his.

I swallowed. Hard.
No words for a while. Just the hush between us, soft as wind over stone.

Then—
“Wait,” Turtle blinked again, suspiciously awake. “Are you crying?”

“No,” I said, voice thick. “That’s just condensation.”

He grinned, sleepy. “Emotional humidity. Happens to the best of us.”

“You’re terrible.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

Beat.

“You want to kiss me, don’t you?”

I hesitated. Just long enough to make it worse.
“…Yes.”

And I kissed him.

It wasn’t neat.
It wasn’t scroll-worthy.
I leaned in too fast. He laughed into my mouth. One of his gills fluttered and startled me. I knocked over a pillow and lost all sense of spatial awareness.

It was clumsy.
And stupid.
And real.

It tasted like ink, late hours, and the fear of being known.

His claws slid behind my neck—gentle. Certain. Like he didn’t care how ruined I was.

When we broke apart, breathless and tangled in blankets, I whispered, “Want to try again?”

He didn’t answer.
Just pulled me in and kissed me slower. Steadier. Like he knew exactly what I needed.

We made it back to bed eventually.
Blankets a mess. Moonlight on stone. My heart somewhere under his claws.

Turtle fell asleep like it was nothing.
Like breathing.
Like trust.

And I—
I didn’t.

I shut my eyes. I counted breaths. I didn’t move.
The stillness pressed in. That too-awake exhaustion. The kind that loops. That digs in behind your eyes and whispers old things.

I listened to Turtle breathe.
I watched the shadows shift overhead.

And told myself:

You’re here.
You’re warm.
You’re loved.
You’re not alone.

And for now,
that had to be enough.

It wasn’t peace. Not entirely.
But it was close.

Eventually—
With my snout pressed to the curve of Turtle’s neck, and his scent of ink and salt in my nose, and my arm curled around his chest—
I started to breathe in time with him.

Slow.
Measured.
Less forced.

The tiredness didn’t vanish.
But it softened.
Let go, just enough.

Sleep came.
Not a fall—
a surrender.

And even as unconsciousness dragged me under, I knew I’d wake soon again. I always do.
My mind won’t let go that easily.

But I also knew what came next.

Turtle would already be up. Blanket around his shoulders. Frills a disaster. He’d hand me a mug of something hot with that soft, lopsided smile—the one he saved for early mornings and broken things that still worked.

And I’d hold the mug in both claws, quiet.
And think:

I can survive this.
I can do one more day.

Chapter Text

Agate Mountain Palace
(Journal of Prince Consort Turtle, unofficial, unedited, and definitely not for publication—unless I am tragically assassinated by affection, bureaucracy, or my own in-laws. Current working title: “Love in the Time of Imperial Micromanagement.”)

I woke up this morning to the smell of ink and judgement.

Foeslayer had let herself in again.

This is not unusual. She believes doors are a formality for people with less important sons. And I am—by some twist of fate or prophecy or sheer Darkstalker stubbornness—hers now.

She was already rearranging the cushions when I opened my eyes. Apparently I sleep “like someone expecting to be assassinated,” which is both unfair and unhelpfully accurate.

“I made you breakfast,” she said. “Then I threw it out because it was too cold. I made you another one. Then I threw that one out because it wasn’t nutritionally balanced. Then I set a fire in the hallway to get the kitchen’s attention, and now someone competent is making you breakfast.”

This is love, in the Foeslayer dialect.

She worries about me. I know that. She worries that I don’t eat enough, or sleep enough, or advocate for myself in cabinet meetings where half the SkyWing delegation looks at me like I’m a napkin someone set on the throne by accident.

She also worries that I let Darkstalker have too much influence, which is funny because he says the same thing about her. Loudly. Sometimes in her presence.

They are, for lack of a better word, extremely related.

He came in about twenty minutes later—glorious, moody, and offended by the breakfast tray like it had personally tried to undermine the monarchy.

“You let her sit on our bed again,” he said, like this was an international scandal.

“She brought mango slices,” I said, mouth full.

“You don’t need mango slices.”

“I need the vitamins,” I mumbled.

“You need boundaries.”

Foeslayer reappeared behind him with a scroll in her teeth and a blanket over one shoulder. “He needs a nap,” she said. “And a proper therapist. And someone to look at that bruise on his ribs he’s pretending not to have.”

“I fell off the couch,” I said, because technically, I did.

Darkstalker looked at me like I’d confessed to murder. “You. Don’t. Fall.”

“I slipped,” I said, which was true. “On a pastry. That Qibli sent.”

There was a long pause where neither of them knew who to yell at.

So I got another blanket out of it.

After that, Darkstalker tried to sit in the windowsill like he wasn’t brooding dramatically, and Foeslayer reorganized my scroll rack “for clarity,” which means I will never find anything again.

But I didn’t mind.

I know I’m lucky. Not every prince consort gets one immortal dragon and one fiercely loving warrior-mom squabbling over his fiber intake before noon. Or an empire to co-manage. Or a record of everything that matters, carefully folded into letters from the dragons he loves.

I miss the others. Fiercely. Quietly. All the time.

But today I was loved in loud, inconvenient ways. And maybe that counts for something too.

[Margin note, scribbled in different ink: “Counts for everything, actually.”]

[Second note, added later in a sharper, angular talon: “You forgot to eat the mango slices. I took them. You're welcome.”]

Dispatch arrived via courier at dawn. The scroll smelled like sunshine, fruit, and a strong emotional need to hug something. I knew who it was before I even opened it.
It’s amazing how a voice can leap off the page—even when it’s written in three colors of ink and covered in exclamation marks.

OFFICIAL ROYAL DISPATCH
From: Ambassador Kinkajou (!!!)
Filed Under: General Administrative Travel Report – Fief #3: Rain/NightWing Commonwealth
Approved by: Queen Glory (after five deep breaths and one emergency mango)

Dear Agate Mountain (!!!)
(hi Turtle hi Darkstalker hi Moon if you're back hi Qibli hi Clay hi anyone else reading this in a dramatic whisper)

HELLO. I am writing this by claw. An actual claw, not enchanted papyrus like last time, even though it melted kind of beautifully. (Sorry again about the archivist’s tail.)

This is a VERY OFFICIAL REPORT, so I tried not to decorate it. But there might be a glitter sticker on page three. For morale.

(There were three. One of them sparkled when he blinked.)

Location Update:
Rainforest Kingdom! Still green! Still soft! Still full of bugs that bite in lowercase letters (except that one that bit me in italics). The canopy is thicker than I remembered. The vines tried to eat my satchel. I let them. They were hungry and it was mostly fruit peels anyway.

(Margin note, written later in an angular, familiar hand: “I hope it wasn’t the travel ledger. I’m not redoing that math.”)

Arrival Status:
Safe and mostly undistracted! Only chased three butterflies. Only fell out of one tree. The welcome committee included:

• Five sloths

• Two parrots

• One frog named Greg (suspicious eyes, but I like him)

• A RainWing named Hugo who offered me a hat?? (I said yes)

Political Report:
Queen Glory still rules with what I would call terrifying grace. She says she’s “delegating” more, which in practice means letting other dragons suffer the agony of NightWing paperwork while she moisturizes. (Direct quote. I wrote it down. I think it belongs in history books.)

She appointed a new NightWing Duchess with AMAZING ears. Possibly echolocation. Possibly just very nosy. We are friends now. She doesn’t know that yet, but she will.

Trade meetings have begun! We are exporting:

• Medicinal leaves

• Sunset bark (new!)

• Moods

• Drama

• Delicious silence (bottled)

• Sunshine Fruit™ (patent pending)

Also, several types of tea that change colour when you lie. (Ask Moon first before drinking, please.)

Personal Notes:

Turtle, it’s too quiet here without your fussy teacup clinks and your little “mmm” noises when you think no one’s watching you do math.
Darkstalker, I keep turning around expecting to hear you judging someone. Or saving someone. Or saving someone by judging them.
Moon, I miss your sleepy face and your sleepy notes and your sleepy judgment of my berry-to-toast ratio.

(Turtle paused here, claw resting gently on the parchment. The ink had darkened with pressure—like she’d leaned into it. Or maybe like she hadn’t wanted to stop writing.)

I’m okay. I promise. Everyone here keeps looking at me like I might explode into confetti, but I haven’t. Not even once. That’s called restraint. (Peril would be proud. Or nervous.)

I’m being Responsible. I even used a chart.
Attached:

• Pie chart of RainWing moods (today: 73% Chill, 12% Gossip, 7% Slightly Venomous, 8% Mysteriously Absent)

• Doodle of Bartholomew the sloth in a crown

• Painting of Turtle made of berries and flower paste (I licked the left eye clean by accident, but you’re still cute)

(It was disturbingly good. The left eye was gone. The smile was not.)

Tell Qibli I forgive him for the lemonade argument. (Unless he starts it again.)
Tell Winter I found a flower that looks like him. Cold. White. Slightly offended by sunlight.

I’ll be back soon. I promise. With fruit. And news. And probably glitter on my scales, no matter how hard I try.

Love and Sparkles,
Kinkajou
(Ambassador of the Sparkliest Kind)
xoxo xoxo xoxo xoxo xoxo xoxo

[Appended Notes — Queen Glory, written in thorns and orchid ink:]

• Stop calling Duchess Nyssa “half bat.” She’s just nearsighted and has dramatic ears.

• Bartholomew is an elder statesman. You may not put a crown on him without council approval.

• Gossip is NOT a sanctioned export. Again.

• Please STOP eating diplomatic art.

• The Chill % was updated. Thank you.

• …Fine. Approved. Stamp it before she glues a sticker to the scroll seal again.
  —Glory

Turtle folded the scroll in half and pressed his snout to the parchment, just for a moment. It still smelled like guava.
He added it to the growing stack on his windowsill. Carefully. Like it mattered.
Because it did.

Agate Mountain Palace
(Journal of Prince Consort Turtle, unofficial, unedited, and slowly becoming more correspondence than dragon.)

I keep everything.

I say it’s for archival purposes, or for future historians, or for the inevitable moment when someone asks what a diplomatic envoy from the Rain/NightWing Commonwealth smells like. (Answer: mango. Possibly guava. Maybe sparkles.)

But the truth is: I keep them because I miss them.

I reread them. Out loud, sometimes. Just the funny parts. Just the parts that sound like them.

I had just finished folding Kinkajou’s scroll into thirds—carefully, along the lines of least glitter—and tucking it into the woven basket that now lives beside my cushions. The basket is getting full. I like it that way. Full things feel less lonely.

Outside, I heard Darkstalker’s steps: smooth, deliberate, the kind of regal rhythm he doesn’t even think about anymore. Probably already composing speeches in his head. Or arguments. Or poetry. Possibly all three.

Inside, I was still laughing.

Not loudly—just the kind of half-laugh that stays warm in your chest, the kind that makes you lean back and shake your head a little as if the parchment might be embarrassed by how much it sounds like her.

I glanced again at Kinkajou’s sketch—my snout, somehow both flattering and fruit-stained—and wiped my claw absently on the nearest blanket. Definitely juice.

“She still got my snout right,” I whispered.

(Let the record show that I smiled.)

There was a knock at the outer door. Sharp. Impatient.

Then: a dragging sound. Something large. Something deliberate. Something with definite scorch potential.

Darkstalker sighed.

I didn’t even have to look to know the expression he was making. That long-suffering monarch face. The one that says why must the world continue to need things from me when I am still halfway through my tea.

I heard him rise. His claws made barely a sound. Regal, remember. Always.

He opened the door.

The courier’s voice carried: “Delivery from the Sky Kingdom. One—uh—correspondence slab. Still warm.”

I sat up straighter. My heart did something ridiculous. Something anticipatory and worried and slightly scorched.

Still warm.

(It hissed, apparently. Of course it did. It’s Peril.)

Darkstalker, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He just raised an eyebrow, lifted the thing with a flick of magic, and drifted it across the room like it wasn’t threatening to combust the nearest bookshelf.

He deposited it gently on the cushions beside me. The heat radiated off it in soft, even pulses—like the breath of a sleeping dragon. There was soot along the edges. Maybe a little blood. Hopefully not hers.

“Try not to get soot on the linens,” he said mildly. Then, with an affectionate pat to the surface of the slab—like it was some overenthusiastic pet—he added, “And remind me: we need to get something for Peril. A charm. A ring. Something self-activating. Poor thing’s writing in fireproof agony.”

He bent, kissed the top of my head—casual, practiced, familiar—and murmured, “Have fun,” before strolling off to wrestle with his earrings in the mirror.

I didn’t answer.

I was already leaning forward. Already placing one claw—gently—against the warm edge of the tablet.

I always know who it’s from before I read it.

But I read it anyway. Carefully. Slowly. As if the heat might vanish if I moved too fast.

And maybe because, for a few minutes, I get to hear her again.

OFFICIAL ROYAL REPORT FROM THE SKY KINGDOM
Filed under: Correspondence Slab #7
Filed by: Ambassador Peril
Supervised by: No One Safe Enough to Try
Certified by: Probably Queen Ruby, Somewhere, Very Tired

Dear Agate Mountain (hi Turtle, hi Darkstalker, hi everyone else who might actually read this),

I’m on fire. Still on fire. Like, always. You might want to remember that before handing me delicate things. Or before asking me to sit still for more than five seconds. I hate this. No—wait. That’s not fair. I don’t hate the Sky Kingdom. The Sky Kingdom is loud and fast and smells like cooked air and… ego. Big ego. Like, everyone here thinks the wind is the coolest thing since fire.

But I hate being sent away.

I know, I know—this is a diplomatic mission. I’m supposed to be your fiery ambassador of peace. I have potential, blah blah, make friends, sign treaties, don’t set anything on fire (too much). But guess what, Turtle? I didn’t get a charm, or a scroll, or even a magic glove to make this easier. Nothing. No “Don’t roast the Duke” pin either. Nada.

Since arriving, I have incinerated five things. One of them was a harp. A really nice harp. Probably cursed, but still. Now it’s ash, and the musician cried.

Queen Ruby says I’m “adjusting.” I need structure, routine, a mentor, a therapist—who probably should come in fire-proof editions because the mental health group doors caught fire when I showed up.

Everyone here treats me like I’m made of knives. Maybe I am. Maybe that’s the problem.

It’s loud. Loud in the clouds, loud in my head. The palace is all wind and bells and altitude. Every time I try to sit still, I get that feeling—the one that starts in your shoulders and ends in your claws. The one that screams: Jump. Fly. Fight. Or scream.

But I haven’t screamed yet.

I miss you. I miss Agate. I miss Clay.

Did you know Agate Palace has fireproof cushions? Not here. Here I sit on rocks, which is probably fair. (Mostly kidding.)

I miss our room. The weird little balcony facing the mountain pass. Your dumb seaweed tea. I even miss your dumb face when you try to do math.

(That’s a lie. I never stopped missing your dumb face. It’s a good dumb face.)

I miss Darkstalker, too. Tell him I said that. Or don’t. Actually, do tell him, but also tell him I don’t fully trust him yet. Or maybe I do? I don’t know. My brain’s like a lightning bolt got drunk and tried to make soup.

Darkstalker snorted from the mirror.
“Tell her I said thanks,” he said.
“And that’s the most accurate description of her mind I’ve ever heard.”

Queen Ruby is doing her best to convince everyone the Sky Kingdom is “stable” and not a reckless vortex of chaos. Spoiler: it totally is.

Last week, we had cliff diplomacy. Imagine normal diplomacy, but with shouting, gusts of wind stealing paperwork, and a goat who showed up uninvited. No one knows why.

Oh, and a letter arrived with a muffin stapled to it. The muffin is gone now. So is the messenger.

It wasn’t me.
Probably.
Okay, maybe it was me.
…Fine, it was me. But the goat startled me!

I’m trying. I really am, even if I feel like burning the whole sky down just to find five seconds of stillness. I’m trying to be the dragon you all believe I can be.

But I miss being wanted—not feared or tolerated or “Her Infernal Officialness.” That’s what they call me behind my back. I burned the tapestry they hid behind, so maybe don’t tell Ruby.

Anyway, I’ll keep doing my job, keep carving these slabs until someone gives me that bracelet, scroll, or whatever magical thing to help.

And Turtle? I’m not mad at you. But when I get back, I will roast your tail. Maybe in a good way. Maybe not. Depends on if you bring snacks.

That’s it. I’m done. If this slab explodes on the way back, just tell everyone to suck it up. This is my seventh attempt at this.

Signed,
PERIL
(Ambassador. Allegedly.)
(Still on fire.)

[Addendum: A leaf of parchment, neater, glued on with dreams and an apologetic talon:]
This report was delivered under armed escort and is stored under “Volcanic Correspondence, High Priority.” Official response pending bracelet development.

—Excerpt from the Agate Mountain Royal Archives, Recording Orb #47-B, classified: personal reflections, undated.

[The orb activates with its usual hum—less like machinery and more like breath held too long. The glow pulses softly, casting a warm, uneven light across the shared suite.]

Visual Clarity: 87%.
Stability: Steady with occasional minor shimmer.
Time Marker: Approximate mid-morning, no official timestamp.

[Visual: The orb’s focus is gentle, drifting slowly to reveal two figures seated side by side near a softly glowing, heat-warped correspondence slab. Turtle leans forward, claws lightly brushing the scorched stone. Darkstalker rests beside him, chin propped on curled claws.]

[Light: filtered sunlight warms the room; faint flickers from the slab’s heat ripple across scales and shadows.]

[Sound: quiet breaths, faint crackle from the cooling slab, and the near-silent murmur of private conversation.]

Turtle (softly): “She misses us.”

Darkstalker (calm, low): “She always did.”

[They share a quiet pause, eyes tracing the slow dance of heat haze rising from the slab.]

Turtle (almost a whisper): “We really do need to get her a bracelet.”

Darkstalker (thoughtful nod, voice gentle): “And fireproof therapy.”

Turtle (with a small smile): “And snacks.”

[Darkstalker snorts quietly, leaning in to press a brief kiss to Turtle’s forehead.]

Darkstalker (teasing): “You’re the one with the good dumb face, remember?”

Turtle (smiling faintly, gaze still on the scorched words): “Yeah. I know.”

[The orb’s light dims slightly as the moment lingers, capturing warmth beyond mere heat.]

Chapter Text

Turtle sat hunched over his worktable in the morning hush of Agate Mountain, brow furrowed, claws precise, lips moving silently as he mouthed each word to himself again. The bracelet lay before him—simple, durable, and heat-resistant, its bronze edges dulled slightly from frequent handling.

It wasn’t glowing. It didn’t shimmer. There were no runes, no sigils, no carved spirals of light.

Just a sentence.

A single sentence he’d revised seventeen times and copied twice more by claw, scratched carefully into the memory of the metal with nothing but thought and soul and too many nightmares.

“I enchant this bracelet to let Peril of the SkyWings turn her firescales off and on at will, safely, with no harm to herself or others, unless she chooses otherwise, and only by her own choice, without loopholes, tricks, misfires, reversals, or consequences I did not intend.”

His claws hovered just above it, breath caught, heart doing that anxious skip it always did before he cast something real.

He exhaled.

And spoke the spell.

The bracelet didn’t move. No light. No sound. Just a subtle shift in the air, like something holding its breath.

Turtle watched it warily. Waited. Then—carefully—reached out and tapped it with one talon. Warm. Whole. Not cursed, as far as he could tell.

Still cautious, he slipped a strip of parchment beside it and began to annotate everything. What he’d said, what he hadn’t said, the phrasing he’d almost used and didn’t. He underlined the words her own choice twice, then scribbled a note to himself: No external triggers. Must verify with trial fire.

The bracelet itself had been Peril’s idea—well, more of a joke, tossed off one night after dinner as she hammered a discarded bit of bronze into shape. Her version of pottery, she’d said. Metal therapy. She’d tossed it onto his worktable and muttered, “Make it do something useful, genius.”

Now, maybe, it did.

Turtle sat back, flexing his cramped claws. No shimmer. No sparkle. Just a plain band of metal, resting heavy with hope.

He stared at it a while longer.

Then smiled, faint and tired and deeply fond. “Now we just have to convince her not to throw it into a volcano out of spite.”

He paused.

“…Or irony. Or boredom. Or misplaced dramatic timing.”

He sighed and reached for his notes again.

Down the corridor, voices filtered through the stone like birdsong caught on wind. Familiar ones—bright and quick. Moon was back, chattering to Qibli in the courtyard, her laugh echoing off polished quartz. Winter’s voice followed, sharp-edged but unmistakably relaxed in rhythm. Not soft, no—but unguarded in a way Turtle recognized.

Winter was happy. He just didn’t want anyone to say so.

Turtle stepped into the light, the bracelet tucked safely into a velvet pouch beneath one wing.

Moon spotted him first. “Turtle!” she called, nearly skipping across the stones.

“Welcome back,” he said, his smile widening as Qibli pulled him into a warm, slightly over-enthusiastic one-armed hug.

Winter nodded with grave dignity—though Turtle caught the telltale flicker of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like a secret trying not to be kept.

“We’re not even unpacked,” Winter said, “and Qibli’s already scheduling a ‘polycule productivity summit.’ In the bathhouse.”

“Multitasking,” Qibli chirped.

Moon giggled. “It’s good to be home.”

“It really is,” Turtle said, more quietly than he meant to. Like he was still adjusting to the word.

The reunion was brief. Turtle made his excuses with promises of lunch (he meant it) and slipped back toward the main hall. He needed to find Clay—check in, hug, ask about crops—and then, unfortunately, locate Tsunami. The last time he’d asked her to oversee a diplomatic trip she’d made a face like someone had suggested she deliver poetry to Queen Coral in interpretive dance.

Hopefully today, she was in a better mood. Or at least distracted.

Passing the throne room, he slowed.

Darkstalker sat at the top of the dais, chin on one claw, wearing the carefully schooled expression of a dragon spiritually detaching from his own body. A trio of NightWing petitioners stood below, making increasingly passionate arguments for the financial reinstatement of extended family members of “reformed vapor cultists.”

Turtle paused at the archway.

“I appreciate your thoroughness,” Darkstalker said, with the serene exasperation of a professor correcting a very dumb essay. “But as we’ve discussed, membership in a disbanded death cult does, unfortunately, limit one’s inheritance rights. Thank you for your courage.”

A rebuttal began. Darkstalker’s eye twitched.

Turtle wisely kept walking.

Clay was easier to find. Surviving the hug, less so.

“Turtle!” Clay bellowed, arms already around him in a rib-shattering squeeze. “Did you get it? Peril sent a message!”

“I heard,” Turtle wheezed, “yes—”

Clay sat on him. Briefly. It was an accident. Mostly. There was some confusion about the slab’s location, a bench, and Clay’s sheer enthusiasm.

Eventually, Turtle wriggled free, claws dusty, wings crooked, dignity dented.

“It’s in the archives,” he said, straightening his pouch. “Filed under Volcanic Correspondence, High Priority . Handle it gently. Or don’t. Just maybe don’t sit on it.”

Clay’s grin lit up the entire hallway. “She misses me!”

“I know,” Turtle muttered, brushing ash from his forearms. “She wrote it in fire.”

Tsunami was next. He found her on the sun-soaked roof of the western wing, sprawled belly-up like a sleepy sky-lizard, one wing flopped dramatically over her face.

“‘Nami,” Turtle said, nudging her side with a claw. “Very brave. Very fierce. Bestest fighter in Pyrrhia. Don’t tell Peril I said that.”

A groan issued from beneath the wing. “You’re buttering me up. You only do that when you want something. Or when I’ve done something heroic. Which, granted, is often.”

“True,” Turtle admitted. “But today I actually do want something. I need you to go home.”

“Already here, thanks,” Tsunami mumbled without moving. “This roof is warm, and the tiles don’t bite.”

“I meant our other home,” he said gently. “The Sea Kingdom. Coral’s court. A little diplomatic show of face. Maybe wave a trident. Remind everyone we still love them.”

Tsunami shifted just enough to peek one eye open. “Why don’t you go? You’ve got that whole mysterious heir-to-the-sea-throne aura going for you. Very dramatic. Lots of brooding potential. Queen Coral might even cry.”

“She might chain me to the floor of the throne room and start listing every perceived betrayal since the Scorching.”

“She definitely will,” Tsunami said, grinning. “And she’ll make you sit through a four-hour performance of The Tragedy of Gill .”

Turtle groaned. “I still wake up hearing those monologues.”

“You’re soft,” she said fondly.

“You’re lazy,” he shot back, equally fond.

“I’m sunbathing, ” Tsunami said, scandalized. “And anyway, you’re the diplomat. You’ve got your scrolls and little velvet pouches and that ‘I’m just a humble sea prince, please don’t stab me’ look. I’m the punch-first sister.”

Turtle looked at her for a long moment. The sunlight glinted off her scales—storm-blue and sharp, radiant as a tide-surged cliff. But there was weariness beneath her grin, tucked just under the edge of her bravado. She was trying. They all were.

He sat down beside her. “I know it’s a lot to ask. You’ve been running your tail off between continents and summits and those endless training drills for Agate’s guard. I wouldn’t blame you for saying no.”

Tsunami snorted. “Wow. Look at you. Making sense and everything.”

“I’m growing,” he said dryly.

“Gross,” she replied, nudging him back. “Fine. I’ll go. One week. Two if the food’s decent and Coral doesn’t stage another pageant.”

Turtle smiled, warm and grateful. “Thank you.”

“Just make sure this buys me time off during the next boring summit,” she said. “And maybe send Kinkajou instead next time. Her enthusiasm might cancel out Coral’s everything .”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He leaned down and hugged her, one wing curled briefly around her side. She didn’t squirm away.

“Be safe, okay?” he said quietly.

“I’m a SeaWing, Turtle. I was born in armor.”

As he turned to leave, her voice chased him across the roof tiles:

“Oh! Tell Darkstalker I expect nieces and nephews soon!”

Turtle nearly tripped. “Tsunami—! We’ve only kissed!”

“ Yet! ” she sang after him, laughter echoing down the sunlit corridor.

Turtle groaned into his claws. “Why do I talk to my family.”

Later that afternoon.

Lunch was quiet. Mostly.

The Agate dining hall basked in filtered mountain sunlight, dappling the long stone table with slow-moving gold. Somewhere in the rafters, a NightWing scroll-organizer flapped lazily in circles, muttering softly to itself about the Dewclaw Index.

Foeslayer had excused herself early, citing “urgent matters of state” that definitely had nothing to do with the RainWing ambassador whose scales shimmered in perfectly symmetrical gradients of emerald and coral. She’d left behind a suspiciously folded napkin that smelled vaguely of perfume and mango glaze.

Darkstalker watched her go, one brow lifting with surgical elegance.

Turtle didn’t look up from his plate. “Stay out of your mom’s love life.”

Darkstalker turned to him, affronted. “I wasn’t going to say anything!”

“You were going to say five things. You already started composing a limerick.”

“I reserve the right to make fun of her if she writes poetry about him,” Darkstalker muttered into his tea.

“You’re one scroll away from writing your own poetry,” Turtle said, leveling a pointed eyeridge in his direction.

Darkstalker placed a dramatic talon to his chest. “I am art.”

Turtle laughed, the sound warm and easy. “You know,” he said, spearing a grape, “I was just thinking… Do you remember how this all started?”

Darkstalker’s eyes gleamed. “Oh! You mean the throne room. My chaise longue. Your brooding. That scroll you accidentally set on fire.”

“And your dramatic sigh when I said no to the cloak idea.”

“It would’ve looked regal.”

“It would’ve looked ridiculous. ”

Darkstalker shrugged, unapologetic. “My vision was ahead of its time.”

Turtle rolled his eyes. “I still can’t believe you enslaved me with a scroll to write romantic fiction.”

“You were very emotionally repressed,” Darkstalker said, wagging a claw. “It was a public service.”

“You called it rebranding.”

“I stand by it. ‘Eternal Night’ was getting terrible reviews.”

They both laughed, the kind of soft, half-choked laughter that comes from memory and affection and the shared absurdity of survival. Turtle sipped his water. Darkstalker picked at a cube of cheese and flicked it at the wall when it disrespected him by crumbling.

There was a lull, long enough for Turtle to find the salad again. He poked at it like it had personally wronged him.

“You really think any of that helped?” he asked, quiet now. Not doubtful—just contemplative.

Darkstalker leaned across the table. Brushed a claw lightly along Turtle’s jaw. Then kissed his forehead, slow and unhurried, like punctuation at the end of a truth.

“I think you helped,” he said. “The rest was just theatrics.”

Turtle blinked, his breath catching just slightly. Then his shoulders relaxed, and a soft smile tugged at his snout. “You’re still proofreading the sequel.”

Right on cue, there was a loud crash from the hallway, followed by what sounded suspiciously like someone trying to deep-fry seaweed with a blowtorch.

Darkstalker didn’t move. “Foeslayer’s back.”

Turtle glanced toward the door. “She’s trying to recreate ancient NightWing cuisine again, isn’t she?”

“I heard her say ‘culinary time travel.’ We should hide the spices.”

“Too late,” Turtle sighed.

“ You’re the one who gave her a kitchen.”

“You enchanted the knives to sing when they’re lonely.”

“They deserve companionship!”

“I hate you,” Turtle said, fondly.

Darkstalker smirked and reached for another cube of cheese. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately,” Turtle said. And leaned into his shoulder anyway.

Later That Evening

The moon was rising over Agate Mountain, gilding the upper terraces in soft silver and green. Below, clouds curled through the jungle canopy like sleepwalking ghosts. Somewhere deeper in the palace, a bard was being chased from the banquet hall for trying to rhyme “kissed” with “fiscal responsibility.”

Turtle and Kinkajou lay sprawled across a picnic blanket made from faded sea-silk, its edges slightly scorched from a past attempt at “outdoor fondue night.” The grass beneath them smelled of hot stone and sweet sap. The little pouch of “leafstuff” sat open between them, faintly shimmering in the moonlight.

Kinkajou sighed happily, starfish-sprawled and grinning. “This is the good leaf,” she announced. “RainWing archive-certified. Cultivated in sun-drunk treetop terraces. Dried by song. Smuggled in through a hollowed-out pineapple.”

Turtle blinked slowly. “I can’t feel my talons.”

She giggled. “Perfect.”

For a while, they watched the clouds drift past the moon like lazy skywhales. One of the palace’s enchanted topiary dragons snored in the background, blowing out sleepy sparks that smelled faintly of cinnamon.

Then Kinkajou rolled onto her side, propped her chin on her talons, and said, “Soooo. What’s it like? Dating The Darkstalker. Emperor Tragiccape. Lord of the Lurking Gaze.”

Turtle exhaled through his nose, eyelids heavy. “Like sharing a cave with a very polite thunderstorm who thinks your coping mechanisms are charming.”

“ Oof. ”

“He makes me tea,” Turtle added. “But he also rewrote the Sea Kingdom maritime treaty to include a secret acrostic that spells out ‘I think about your tail when I can't sleep.’”

Kinkajou’s face contorted with delighted horror. “That’s romantic. In a ‘please stop possessing international legislation’ kind of way.”

“He read my old letters yesterday,” Turtle said, rubbing his snout. “To ‘study my emotional syntax.’ I caught him whispering my sentences back to a mango. In my voice.”

“Okay,” she said, “that's... kind of terrifying. But like, heart-eyes terrifying.”

“I’m not sure he knows the difference between affection and dramaturgy,” Turtle muttered, then groaned and flopped onto his back. “Sometimes I feel like I’m in one of his plays. He’s got a script. I’m ad-libbing.”

Kinkajou nudged his shoulder gently with her snout. “But you love him.”

He was quiet. The night stretched soft and cool around them, a thousand distant stars glittering like someone had poked holes in the sky.

Then Turtle nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

Kinkajou smiled, soft and open-eyed. “Then it’s just like anyone else. Except your boyfriend’s got apocalyptic trauma and a questionable relationship with punctuation.”

“He gave me a poem yesterday,” Turtle muttered. “Said I had ‘the kind of silence even the ocean listens to.’”

Kinkajou clasped her talons to her heart. “That’s horrifying. And a little beautiful. Like a haunted shipwreck.”

They both burst out laughing again. Behind them, one of the glowing fruit trees made a content little chirping noise and dropped a mango with suspicious intent.

Kinkajou leaned against him, her fronds warm from the sun. “You know,” she murmured after a while, “I missed this.”

“You missed me crying about magical eldritch husbands?”

“I missed you, ” she said, bumping her snout against his. “You always made it okay to be soft around you. Even when we were dragonets. Everyone else was busy being brave or loud or covered in thorns. You just… listened. You were good at it. You still are.”

Turtle blinked. His heart did a weird little tumble in his chest. Might’ve been the smoothie. Might’ve been her voice, low and steady like a lullaby with fangs.

He leaned his head against hers. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“I brought mango jerky and a cursed board game.”

He grinned. “It’s like you never left.”

They sat that way for a while. The air pulsed with bioluminescent light from the flowering cliff-vines above them. Kinkajou started weaving tiny jungle clovers into his headcrest, tongue poking out in concentration.

Eventually, Turtle asked—casual, but not that casual—“So. How are Glory and Deathbringer? Now that they’ve got a dragonet to raise instead of just snark and impulse control issues.”

Kinkajou snorted. “Oh, you want the gossip.”

Turtle raised an eyeridge.

“Well, Glory’s doing her best. She’s got a binder system. Colour-coded scrolls. She made the tutors sign confidentiality oaths after the dragonet bit one of them.”

“Which one?”

“Does it matter?” Kinkajou grinned. “They all deserve it.”

“And Deathbringer?”

Her grin went feral. “Oh, he’s thriving. He tried to teach her how to fall out of a tree without making a sound.”

“She’s like three months old .”

“Three and a half, thank you very much. Prime age for assassination drills, apparently. He calls it ‘Project Sneakbug.’ His goal is—and I quote—‘The ultimate shadow queen. Unseen, unstoppable, and slightly sarcastic.’”

Turtle buried his face in his claws. “Pyrrhia is doomed. ”

“He lets her bite him when he’s being annoying,” Kinkajou added fondly. “Which is often. Glory pretends to be exasperated, but I swear I saw her hide a smile when the kid pinned him with a net trap made out of moss.”

Turtle was laughing so hard his frills wobbled.

“She’s going to be unstoppable,” Kinkajou said proudly. “Or, like, terrifyingly emotionally well-adjusted. Possibly both.”

Turtle let his claws fall away from his face, the laughter finally fading into a long, slow exhale. “I’m glad they’re okay.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said, bumping him again.

“Define ‘okay.’”

“You’re not locked in a tower,” she said. “You’re not magically sedated. You’ve got smoothies. You’ve got backup. You’ve got a dramatist boyfriend who rewrote history just to make you blush.”

“…Touché.”

The moon crept higher. Somewhere behind them, the mango tree sighed again, this time with deep artistic yearning.

And Turtle, nestled under stars and soft leaves and Kinkajou’s breathy giggles, felt—at last—like the story was quiet enough to rest in.

Much, Much Later
The moons were high over Agate Mountain, silverlight draping the volcanic stone in soft ribbons. Somewhere in the palace, an enchanted harp played itself into a stupor. Somewhere else, a RainWing diplomat was snoring under a pile of mango-scented towels.

In the cavernous spa hall—half gym, half grotto, all gratuitous—Turtle was being gently, lovingly, professionally dismantled.

“ Stop squealing, ” Darkstalker said cheerfully, digging his claws into the tense muscles at the base of Turtle’s wings. “You sound like an old chair.”

“That’s because you’re folding me like one! ” Turtle gasped, half-laughing, half-dying.

There was a sound like a cork popping.

“Oh, good!” Darkstalker beamed. “That joint hasn’t moved since the royal tour of the Mud Kingdom.”

Turtle whined into the heated quartz slab beneath him. “This feels illegal. Is this illegal? Should I be signing something? Do I need a scroll?”

“You signed your soul over when you kissed me,” Darkstalker said, smugly adjusting Turtle’s hind leg with the air of a dragon tuning an instrument. “This is the perks package. Just relax.”

“You say that as if my spine isn’t currently learning choreography. ”

Darkstalker leaned down, his voice purring right against Turtle’s ear. “You love it.”

Turtle, boneless and vaguely glowing with post-pop bliss, made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a warble.

Darkstalker chuckled, warm and indulgent. “There it is. That’s the sound I’m after. Sweet, spineless satisfaction.”

“Please never say that again.”

“Sweet. Spineless. Satisfac—”

Turtle slapped him weakly with his tail.

Darkstalker caught it mid-swing and kissed the tip. “You’re welcome.”

They stayed there a while longer, Turtle slowly puddling into the quartz, Darkstalker sitting beside him with a towel draped like a royal sash and far too much self-satisfaction for someone who’d just made seven joints cry.

After a while, Turtle murmured, “You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

Darkstalker pressed his cheek to Turtle’s wing and sighed happily. “Not even a little.”

Turtle groaned into the towel. “Spiteful. Tyrannical. Romantic barnacle. ”

And then he lit up.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

SeaWing bioluminescence flared across his body in fast, furious pulses—sharp bands of light chasing down his snout, flickering across his neck, flashing along his ribs like stormlight breaking the tide. His tail went full signal flare, lighting up the spa like a phosphorescent warning buoy.

<You overgrown, ego-drenched spell-leech of a leviathan,> blinked his scales in razor-crisp Aquatic. <You kelp-fondling scroll-thief ! You moon-drunk myth with zero massage credentials!>

Darkstalker froze.

Then smiled.

Slowly. Stupidly. Completely unfairly.

Turtle cracked one eye open. “What?”

“You used the word for ‘affectionate barnacle,’” Darkstalker murmured.

“I did not, ” Turtle said, trying to throttle the light down.

“You did,” said Darkstalker, utterly delighted. “Twice, actually. Very emphatically.”

“You’ve been studying Aquatic?”

Darkstalker shrugged, smug as a cat with a treasure hoard. “I’m dating a SeaWing. I like to know when I’m being insulted by someone glowing like a love-struck lanternfish.”

Turtle groaned into his claws, the tips of his ears lighting up with embarrassment. He tried to curl away.

Darkstalker caught his tail.

Pressed a kiss to the tip.

“You’re impossible,” Turtle muttered.

“Fluent in four languages,” Darkstalker said, tracing a scale-light with his claw. “Well on my way to five.”

Turtle swore at him again—this time in polite Aquatic, which somehow felt worse.

“See?” Darkstalker murmured. “You’re beautiful when you curse.”

Turtle didn’t respond. But his scales flickered, something soft and unreadable. Something slow. Something safe.

Darkstalker kissed his wing.

And in the soft steam and moonlight, Turtle finally laughed—low and warm and honest—as his lights blinked the quiet truth he never quite said aloud.

<Love you too.>

Chapter Text

The bed was a war zone. One of the pillows had defected entirely and was lying under the desk like it was considering a career in diplomacy. The sheets had given up even trying to be useful and now draped half off the mattress in tangled heaps, as if sleep had been something we battled through instead of indulging in.

I hadn’t really slept.

Not in the proper, hours-missing, dreams-drifting sense of the word. Just drifted in and out, waking every time the cave shifted temperature or a breeze tickled the corner of the tapestry wrong. I could still smell the ink from last night on my claws. Paperwork, inkwork, ink all over my claws.

I’d meant to finish reviewing the grain tariffs for the western provinces. What I was doing instead was staring at the half-edited manuscript Darkstalker had left on top of the actual government documents, like a cat depositing a dead mouse on its owner’s scrolls.

There were new pages. I hadn’t noticed them before.

His handwriting was neat when he wanted it to be, all crisp lines and little flourishes that meant he was in a good mood when he’d written this part. A short essay titled “How to Rule Without Murder (Too Much)” made me snort. The tone swung wildly between playful satire and genuine political theory. But near the end of the section, in a margin, he’d scribbled:

And every time I think I’m about to tip over the edge, you’re the one who drags me back. You and your dumb seaweed soup.

I sat there for a while.

Then I flipped to the next page. It was worse. Sappier. There were metaphors about tides and moons and sea-glass hearts, and something he’d doodled that might’ve been me. With a big head. I resisted the urge to hide it under my wings.

I really did need to read Tsunami’s letter.

Before I could reach for it, I heard the click of talons in the hallway. I didn’t look up. I knew the rhythm too well by now. Confidence. Slower than usual, though. Cautious.

Darkstalker padded in like someone about to suggest something he knew he probably shouldn’t.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there in the doorway with his wings slightly tucked, which was never a good sign. He had that look like he’d either committed a small, artisanal crime or was about to propose a surprise banquet in my name again.

“Good morning,” I said, still not looking. “How many laws did you bend before breakfast?”

“No laws,” he said, and I could hear the grin in his voice. “Just... potentially some common sense.”

He stepped closer, then hesitated. I glanced over. He was carrying something under his wing.

Now, I’ve seen a lot of things hidden under those wings. Books. Scones. One time, a live squirrel. (We do not talk about the squirrel.)

But this time he fished out—

“Is that... an octopus?”

“A wooden one,” he said, all innocent. “His name is Blob.”

I blinked. Blob blinked back. Or tried to. It was hard to tell if the blinking was part of the enchantment or just a trick of the light.

“He doesn’t need food, water, or air,” Darkstalker said, a little too fast. “He likes to perch on heads. Also he’s extremely cuddly. Go on—feel.”

I stared. Then, slowly, I reached out a claw and gave Blob a tentative poke.

He wiggled.

I pulled my claw back. “Is this a Fathom thing?”

“Nope,” Darkstalker said way too quickly. “Totally original idea. Nothing to do with any long-dead animus dragons who were madly in love with their crushes. Nope. Completely fresh concept. Inspired by, um... you.”

Blob oozed closer and flopped softly against my shoulder.

“He’s enchanted to like you specifically,” Darkstalker admitted. “But I might’ve gone a little overboard with the affection settings. If you try to leave the room without him, he... protests.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Protests how?”

There was a very pregnant silence.

“Let’s just say,” Darkstalker said delicately, “it’s not technically screeching. It’s more like... emotionally expressive chirping.”

Blob purred.

Darkstalker pressed a quick nuzzle to the side of my snout, wings curling around me for a brief, warm hug before pulling away again with the kind of gentle efficiency that said he was already ten thoughts ahead.

“Be back soon,” he said, vague as ever, and trotted off with that particular bounce in his step that meant either spellcraft or snacks.

Probably both.

He’d been restless lately — not in a dangerous way, just the fidgety, brilliant kind of restlessness that made him renovate the library twice last week and accidentally charm the salt bowls into screaming when they were empty. I’d long since stopped asking for specifics. Eventually, he’d circle back, drop something sweet by my desk, and pretend he wasn’t checking to see if I was eating enough.

Blob chirped softly from my head, where he’d now curled one tentacle around one of my horns like a crown. His weight wasn’t much — mostly fluff and clever enchantment — but he radiated the vague, comforting sense of something that wanted to be loved.

Strange little gift.

I reached for Tsunami’s letter with a sigh that pressed up against my ribs like a folded fin. The scroll was crisp, clean, and already smelled faintly of salt — no doubt passed through at least three SeaWing couriers and one enchanted wax seal that glittered faintly with the royal crest.

It had taken some very careful phrasing to convince her to go in my place.

And even now, with the palace quiet and the sun just starting to melt through the morning mist, I still felt the pinprick of guilt.

If I were braver, if I were stronger, if I were more like her — I would’ve gone myself. Faced the currents. Faced my mother.

But instead, I’d smiled too gently, made my case too reasonably, and let her believe it was strategic for her to go instead. A better match for the tone. A more assertive voice for diplomacy.

She’d seen right through it, of course. But she'd gone anyway. Because she loved me. And because she knew I couldn’t quite say out loud why the thought of returning home — even as a prince — made my lungs knot.

I unfurled the letter carefully.

The Sea Kingdom
Subtitled: “It’s Not a Coup If You Warn Them First.”

Turtle,

Our kingdom is wet.

Yes, yes, I know , but it’s wetter than I remember. The kelp is clingier, the palace guards are shorter, and the court etiquette has somehow expanded since we left — which is impressive, considering they were already holding diplomatic fans with ten different meanings depending on how aggressively you flick them.

Queen Coral is thrilled to have me back.
At least she was, until the fifth time I reminded her I’m not staying.

She keeps calling this an "extended visit" and introduced me at court as her “once again returned heir,” which was fun. I managed not to throw anything, but I did leave some claw marks in her pearl-inlaid podium. Diplomacy.

Anemone is well. Auklet is chaotic. (You’d be proud. She tried to replace my crown with a crab. On purpose.) Our thirty-one brothers are still somehow alive, annoyingly well-fed, and loud.

Fin is the only one who seems to remember you’re a dragon with feelings. He pulled me aside to ask if you’re doing okay — and then spent twenty minutes very awkwardly trying to phrase “Does he still live with Darkstalker?” like it wasn’t a social crime. I told him yes. Also that you’re Emperor Consort now. He almost dropped his coral goblet.

Cerulean wants revenge for the lobster prank. He’s planning something. I don’t know what, but he keeps giggling in seaweed clusters. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Octopus claims he’s forgiven you for the kelp incident, but I saw him muttering about enchanting racing currents in the garden pools again. You’re not technically banned from swimming races anymore, but the general rule is “No cheating,” which apparently now includes “No Turtle.” Sorry.

Coral keeps asking me why you aren’t here. I told her the truth: because I asked you to let me go instead. Because I’m better at court presence. Because I don’t freeze up when someone calls me “Princess” like it’s a spear to the chest.

Also, because I love you.
And I figured if you’re going to be stuck running Pyrrhia’s most complicated empire with a former war criminal and a magic octopus, you shouldn’t have to see Mother at the same time.

(Yes, I know about Blob. Darkstalker might have asked for my opinion beforeclaw.)

There’s a parcel attached. It’s from Anemone. She said it was enchanted to “help with your self-esteem.” I don’t know what that means. It pulsed once. I’m sure it’s fine. Probably.

Write back. I want proof you’re still eating. Also, if you don’t tell Winter, Qibli, and Moon I said hi, I will tell Mother about your hiding place in the kelp pantry. Yes, I know about that. I know everything now.

— Tsunami

P.S. Auklet wants to visit. She said, and I quote, “I want to see the big scary wizard and his soup friend.” Your words are spreading.

I smiled. A real one, not the tired kind.

Tsunami always knew how to make diplomacy feel like storytelling.

Blob nuzzled my horn.

Maybe I’d finish the grain tariffs after lunch. Or maybe I’d write her back. Maybe I'd just sit here a little longer, with the morning warming slowly into something gentler than guilt.

The sun was making enemies.

It had turned my desk into a frying pan and the window ledge into a war crime. I’d abandoned both in favor of one of the terraced cliffside pools — part of the Royal Garden Initiative (Darkstalker’s name, not mine) meant to add “natural tranquility” to the palace complex. Most days it looked like a half-baked landscaping project with too many ferns and not enough restraint. But today, as I floated belly-up in the cool freshwater, it felt like genius.

Blob drifted on the surface beside me like a jellyfish on vacation. He had a tiny sunhat. Don’t ask.

I’d just let my eyes close when someone cleared their throat with polite, squelchy emphasis.

“I don’t suppose you’re Prince Turtle,” said a voice with all the dry irony of someone who definitely knew I was Prince Turtle.

I opened one eye.

She was broad-shouldered, caked in dust, and had the kind of sensible posture that said she’d organized at least three rescue efforts this week. A MudWing — orange-brown scales with gold flecking around her jaw and a faint scent of warm clay and peaches. I recognized her from a few palace events, though we’d never spoken directly.

“Pheasant, right?” I asked, pulling myself upright with a splash.

She nodded. “One of Clay’s sisters. Not the baker. Not the troublemaker. I’m the responsible one.”

“Of course you are.”

She grinned. “Clay sent me.”

“Does this mean he’s finally found the royal stationary I sent him?”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “He thought the box was a fruit crate. We used it to store lemons.”

“Perfect.”

She walked over, took one look at the stone bench nearby, shrugged, and sat in the water beside me fully armored. MudWings had a different relationship with decorum. And with heat.

“Clay figured you’d want an update,” Pheasant said, reaching into a wax-sealed pouch. “But since he doesn’t believe in letters unless they involve cinnamon or frosting, he gave me this instead.”

She pulled out a tiny carved sculpture — a MudWing and SeaWing side by side, sitting under a sunshade made of bark. Tucked in with it was a folded paper fan, obviously borrowed from the Sea Kingdom. The side read: “It’s too hot. Clay says hi.”

I blinked. “This is... honestly kind of perfect.”

Pheasant shrugged. “That’s Clay for you. He said I should ‘give you the dispatch, but, like, verbally. With feeling.’ So.”

She cleared her throat, straightened up, and delivered her best impression of Clay:

The Mud Kingdom
Subtitled: “More Food, Less Fighting, Everybody's Napping.”

“Hi, Turtle. It’s hot. I don’t know how you’re doing up there on that tall rock, but if you haven’t turned into soup yet, congratulations.

“The Mud Kingdom is doing great. Better than great. They finally let me add sweet potato to the traditional crab pot and nobody tried to kill me, so I think that’s what real progress feels like.

“We’ve still got a queen, technically. She does ceremonial things, like wave at trade barges and other queenly things, but most of the actual ruling is done by this rotating council of village heads and cooks. Yes, cooks. Food diplomacy works.

“There’s a new festival every week. Last Thursday was ‘Puddle Day.’ I don’t know why. We sat in puddles. It was incredible.

“No one is interested in a caste system. Or a scoring system. Or any system that doesn’t involve sunbathing and large communal breakfasts. They still don't like scrolls much. If you write something down, someone will either eat it or put it under a wobbly chair.

“Oh! And the IceWing ice cream finally made it here. We deep-fried it in banana leaves and covered it in caramelized sugar. It exploded. But in a good way.

“Everyone’s happy. Which is weird. But a good weird. We’re even exporting mud bricks now — the kind that makes you think they’re enchanted with magic cooling runes — and I think I might’ve accidentally started a housing revolution. If I did, tell Qibli. He likes that kind of thing.

“Okay, that’s all. Eat something. Drink water. Don’t let Darkstalker forget that naps are mandatory in summer.

“I miss you. I made you a sculpture. It’s under this fan. Please don’t enchant it into something that can talk, it’s shy.”

—Clay (via Pheasant)

Pheasant rolled her shoulders. “That’s the gist.”

I took the sculpture carefully, tracing the little bark canopy with one claw. It really did look like me. Or maybe it looked like Clay’s idea of me — peaceful, shaded, content.

Blob curled around my horns again and burbled gently.

“I should write him back,” I murmured.

“Sure,” Pheasant said. “Or bake something. He prefers cookies.”

Later, the evening brought with it a cool breeze.

The heat that had clung to everything all day finally slipped off the stone walls and drifted down the mountainside like a sigh. Somewhere in the palace, the night wardens were changing shifts, their voices low and easy. The garden pools were quiet now, rippling under the moonlight. Even Blob had fallen asleep in the corner, curled up in a tea cup someone had left on its side.

I padded into our rooms with damp scales and a towel draped over one shoulder, too tired to finish the sentence I’d been muttering about diplomatic schedules and banana-leaf fried ice cream.

The desk, predictably, was no longer how I left it.

A stack of scrolls had appeared — or rather, reappeared — in a neat little pile. The autobiography draft sat squarely on top, spine bent just slightly from being opened and re-closed. A few notes fluttered loose around it like feathers from a particularly enthusiastic idea.

I sighed and flopped into the desk cushion, resting my chin on the wood.

Of course he hadn’t forgotten.
Darkstalker never forgot things that mattered to him.

A note pinned near the top was labeled in his handwriting:

“Insert after chapter twelve, or whenever I stop sounding insufferable for more than a paragraph.”

I snorted.

Another scroll had edits scrawled between my paragraphs, where he’d scribbled phrases like:
“You downplay too much. Let them see your strength.”
and
“This bit made me cry. I’ll deny it.”

But one note — tucked near the bottom, half-folded and clearly written later, in quieter ink — made my heart seize.

“I used to think the best thing I could ever have was a crown, a kingdom, obedience, certainty. But lately, I find myself thinking the best thing I ever did was sit down beside you instead.”

“Power is fine. But you—”
“You’re better.”

I stared at it.

The breath caught behind my teeth and wouldn’t let go.

With one claw, I reached out and traced the lines. The ink had dried days ago. But it felt fresh. Like it still meant something. Like he’d written it for me to find just now, when the night was soft and the world was quiet enough for truth.

He had teased me about dragonets months ago.
Qibli hadn’t stopped calling us “the terrifyingly competent co-dads of Pyrrhia.”
Moon smiled too knowingly when Auklet asked if she could come live with us “when she was big enough to start a republic.”
And Winter — well. Winter had already bought the plush cave set and left it “accidentally” in the guest room.

Maybe…

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to talk about it.

Not a decision. Not a destiny. Just a conversation.
Just a thought. A future. A place to land.

I folded the scroll carefully, tucking it into the spine of the autobiography draft, and looked out the window toward the stars beginning to bloom above the mountain.

My claws had drifted back to the paper without thinking. Just a scrap piece near the inkpot — something I’d meant to use for outlining a trade correction or maybe the next chapter header.

Instead, I’d been tapping it, trailing the quill absently, dotting the corners with shapes and loops as the wind rustled softly at the window. I didn’t even notice what I’d drawn until the ink dried.

Two dragons — one larger, one smaller — their wings flared wide, overlapping slightly where they stood side by side.

They looked happy. As happy as inkblots could be, anyway.

And between them: two tiny shapes, barely more than hatchling outlines. One had its wings lifted like it was mid-squeal. The other was tumbling over backwards in joy.

I stared at it, heat blooming behind my eyes, as if my body had realized something before my mind had caught up.

I pressed one claw gently to the edge of the page. Not to smudge it. Just to feel it.

Maybe…

The crown wasn’t the point. The empire wasn’t either.
Maybe it never had been.

Chapter Text

The care package smelled like home. Sea salt. Raw fish. The faint, slightly charred scent of enchanted coral packaging trying not to set itself on fire.

It was tied with blue-green ribbon and sealed with one of Anemone’s wax sigils — a stylized eye that blinked once when I picked it up. Off to a good start.

Tsunami’s scroll had been rolled neatly on top, diplomatic and dry and just this side of dangerous. But tucked underneath, wrapped in seashell-woven fabric and bad intentions, was the real menace.

A small silver earring, perfectly sized for my ear. Shiny. Subtle. Suspicious.

And, of course, a note:

To: Turtle, Favorite Brother / Future Fashion Icon / Person Most Likely to Panic at a Compliment
From: Anemone, Enchanter Supreme / Sibling of the Year / Absolutely Not Guilty of Anything

Turtle,

You’re going to wear it.
No arguments. No excuses. No “Oh but what if it clashes with my emotional repression” nonsense.

This earring is stylish, socially acceptable in at least five kingdoms, and slightly enchanted. (Don’t worry, it’s subtle. You won’t start levitating or anything.) It’s just a teeny, tiny confidence boost. To help you remember that you’re a dragon, not a damp blanket in royal robes.

You are sweet, thoughtful, and emotionally intelligent — and you should not have to be carried through conversations like a fainting duchess. I’ve seen you talk to diplomats. It’s like watching a sea cucumber learn to dance.

This earring?
It fixes that.

Also: if you try to take it off or “accidentally” lose it, I will tell Darkstalker what you named that seaweed plushie. Yes, I know about it. Yes, I know the name. Yes, I will be dramatic.

Put it on.
Stand up straight.
Be the devastatingly polite consort we both know you can be.

With love and chaos,
Anemone

P.S. The plushie name thing? You told me in your sleep on that sandbar vacation. You snored. Then whispered it. Twice.
P.P.S. Auklet says hi. She made a painting of you and Blob fighting pirates. You’re winning. Blob has a sword. I’ll mail it next week.

Blob made a soft, approving chirp from atop my head, where he’d firmly re-established himself after my fifth attempt to leave him on a cushion. I gave up. He always made it back. Like a homing hat with emotional needs.

I picked up the earring and squinted at it in the light. The pearl was shaped like a spiral — small, elegant, and absolutely a trap.

But I sighed, turned toward the mirror, and clipped it on.

The effect wasn’t immediate.

But when a passing steward complimented my new frillstyle (which I didn’t have), I said “thanks” without choking.

When I passed Qibli in the hall, I winked at him. Winked.
He dropped his scroll.

By lunchtime, I’d made two mildly flirtatious jokes and gotten three startled compliments in return. One of them came from a courier. The other came from Winter. The third came from Darkstalker, who stared at me like he was trying to reverse-engineer whatever enchantment had done this.

“Did you… smirk?” he asked, blinking like I’d rewritten gravity.

“I might’ve,” I said casually, sipping my kelp tea. “Would you prefer a wink instead?”

Darkstalker stared. Blob chirped. Qibli, somewhere down the corridor, screamed.

And Anemone?
She was probably sipping mango juice in the Sea Palace, cackling like the little gremlin she is.

Confidence enchantment.

Maybe it wasn’t just working.

Maybe it was dangerous.

[Three days later.]

Darkstalker had survived a thousand years sealed beneath stone.
He had cracked kingdoms like eggshells, rewritten fate with a flick of his claws, and built entire civilizations from the ash of his own ego.

He had not, however, prepared for this .

“Hey,” said Turtle, voice low and warm like the tide rolling in at dusk. “Do you ever get tired of being the most powerful dragon in the world?”

Darkstalker blinked. His brain, normally a storm of strategy and spellwork, ground to a halt.

“What?” he asked, brilliantly.

Turtle smiled slowly. “Just wondering,” he said, wings flaring slightly for maximum silhouette. “Because I’m starting to think the most dangerous thing in Pyrrhia is your smile. And I don’t remember giving you permission to look at me like that.”

Darkstalker forgot how to breathe.

Turtle— his Turtle—was leaning against a boulder like he was posing for a royal mint portrait. Shoulders relaxed. Tail flicking. Confidence oozing off him like dew in moonlight. His voice had dropped into that husky, velvet cadence usually reserved for poetry readings and high treason.

And he was circling.

Like a predator.

“I—uh—” Darkstalker stammered, wings flicking open in alarm. “What are you doing?”

Turtle’s head tilted. “Flirting.”

“You don’t flirt.”

“I do now,” Turtle said, slowly dragging the tip of his tail along Darkstalker’s flank. “You seem worth it.”

“I am not flustered,” Darkstalker announced to the universe at large.

Turtle raised a brow. “You absolutely are.”

“I don’t get flustered! I’m ancient and wise and— are you purring right now? ”

“Maybe.”

“ Stop it. ”

“ Make me. ”

Darkstalker spun on his heel and marched off before his dignity could catch fire. “I’m putting an enchantment on your mouth.”

Turtle called after him: “If you enchant my voice, you’ll have to read my scrolls to hear my thoughts instead. All of them. Even the steamy ones.”

Darkstalker tripped.

He did not recover.

There was a small thump as he hit the flagstones with the grace of a stunned goose. Blob, clinging to Turtle’s horns like a triumphant barnacle, let out a delighted chirp.

Turtle ambled after him with the smug slowness of a dragon who knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how illegal it was in three kingdoms. He leaned down, peering at Darkstalker with an expression just this side of criminal mischief.

“You okay down there, Emperor?” he said, voice syrup-slick.

Darkstalker groaned into the tiles. “What is happening to you?”

“Growth. Confidence. Anemone.”

“Anemone enchanted the earring , didn’t she?”

Turtle shrugged. “Define enchanted.”

“ I’m going to enchant your entire personality back to default. ”

Turtle chuckled and offered a claw. “Too late. You like me like this.”

Darkstalker hesitated. Then, like a drake accepting defeat in stages, he took the claw and allowed himself to be pulled up.

Their eyes met. Turtle grinned — not bashful, not apologetic — and for once, Darkstalker didn’t look away.

“I do like you like this,” Darkstalker muttered, already regretting his honesty. “But I also want to put you in a jar until the smugness wears off.”

“You’ll have to catch me first.”

“Oh, I will.”

Blob chirped again.

So did Turtle.

[Later that evening.]

The door creaked open.

Turtle padded into their room like nothing had happened — like he hadn’t just body-checked the Emperor of the Night into a spiral of emotional bewilderment and romantic vertigo . Like he hadn’t personally shattered centuries of well-maintained psychological armor with a single wink and a weaponized tail flick.

He hummed as he walked in. Hummed.
Like a smug little kettle of doom.

Darkstalker was already pacing.

His scrolls were untouched. His tea had gone cold. He had started pacing an hour ago and hadn’t stopped since, muttering equations and counterspells and prayers to whatever dark power had allowed this version of Turtle to manifest without warning.

He turned the moment Turtle entered, eyes wild.

“Okay,” he snapped, wings flaring. “ What was that? ”

Turtle blinked innocently. “What was what?”

“That… that performance! The aura! The rizz! The absolute audacity! Where did it come from?!”

Turtle shrugged, utterly at peace with himself, and coiled his tail around a cushion like a smug little sea snake. “Maybe I finally realized I’ve been dating the most powerful dragon in the world. And that makes me kind of incredible by association.”

Darkstalker stared at him. Not at him, really — into him. Like he was trying to scry the soul beneath the scales and determine what cursed artifact had been inserted in his absence.

“…You’ve leveled up, ” he whispered, horrified.

Turtle grinned. “Better keep up, love. Wouldn’t want you falling behind.”

Darkstalker made a strangled noise and collapsed backward into the cushions, wings splayed like a drama queen fainting on cue. Blob slid off his horns and latched onto Turtle’s shoulder instead, clearly choosing the winning side.

“This is harassment,” Darkstalker groaned into the silk throw pillows.

“This,” Turtle said, flopping down beside him, “is growth.”

Darkstalker peeked up with one eye. “I liked you better when you blushed every time I looked at you.”

“You still do,” Turtle murmured, leaning in until his voice was a breeze against Darkstalker’s ear. “But now I can make you blush.”

There was a beat. A long, silent beat where all of Darkstalker’s processing power was clearly rerouted to reboot his circulatory system.

And to his eternal horror —

He did.

A faint red bloomed across Darkstalker’s face like an enchantment gone rogue. His wings twitched. His tail flopped once, traitorously.

“You’re enchanted,” he said, weakly. “That’s the only explanation.”

Turtle kissed the edge of his jaw, deliberately. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s blame Anemone. Makes you feel safer.”

“I’m never safe again,” Darkstalker whispered.

Blob patted his head.

“Are you collaborating with it now?” Darkstalker demanded. “Have I lost my household to a sea prince and a wooden octopus?!”

“You never had it,” Turtle replied, stretching luxuriously. “We just let you think you were in charge.”

Darkstalker lay there in stunned silence, face buried in a pillow, his dignity scattered in tiny shattered fragments around the room.

Eventually, he groaned into the fabric:
“Fine. Whatever. But if this ends with you in a royal calendar, I’m joining a monastery.”

Turtle snuggled in close. “Too late. I already posed with Blob for the summer edition.”

Darkstalker screamed softly.

And Blob?
Blob struck a pose.

[Next Day. Mid-afternoon. Diplomatic meeting adjourned. The sun is shining. Turtle is glowing.]

Moon was trying to focus on Qibli’s political recap.
Keyword: trying.

“And so the IceWing envoy clarified that—Moon? Moon, are you listening?”

Her gaze drifted over his shoulder. Past scrolls. Past the flustered envoy still trying to recover from Turtle’s casual “thank you, darling” earlier. Past reason.

To him .

Turtle.
Standing under a flowering tree, framed in gold sunlight like a SeaWing painting come to life.

He was smiling at a RainWing emissary — not his usual nervous, please-don’t-make-eye-contact smile. No. This smile was slow. Languid. Laced with charm so thick Moon briefly wondered if she was hallucinating or simply having a stroke.

He leaned in just close enough to make the RainWing giggle .

Moon blinked. “Am I hallucinating?”

Qibli turned. Froze. “What in the name of scorching sunbeams—”

“Is he flirting?” she whispered.

“I thought he panicked when someone complimented his wings.”

“I thought he blacked out that one time someone touched his elbow.”

The RainWing tucked a hibiscus behind Turtle’s ear. He accepted it with a smirk and said something devastatingly suave involving mango wine and moonlight.

Qibli clutched Moon’s shoulder. “I’ve lost control of my reality.”

Moon opened her mouth to reply—
And then saw Darkstalker .

[Darkstalker, nearby.]

“I am not jealous,” he muttered under his breath. “I am a literal god. I do not get jealous.”

He was extremely jealous.

Not of the RainWing. Obviously. He could turn that RainWing into a loaf of bread if he wanted .

No, he was jealous of the rizz .

This smooth-talking, flower-wearing, unreasonably sparkly version of Turtle was walking around like a living romance novel. It was unfair . Anemone hadn’t even enchanted the earring that hard! She should have added a failsafe!

Darkstalker’s tail lashed. “I AM the mysterious, sexy one.”

“Not today,” Kinkajou said brightly as she passed, wearing sunglasses shaped like citrus slices. “Turtle’s giving ‘Rogue Prince of Summer’ and you’re giving ‘cursed painting in a haunted hallway.’”

Darkstalker snarled.

Turtle sauntered over, flower still behind one ear, posture criminally relaxed .
“Hey, handsome,” he said. “Did you miss me?”

Darkstalker made a sound so undignified it defied the known laws of sorcery. “WHAT—NO—what is that on your head?!”

“A gift.” Turtle blinked innocently, blinking up from under the flower. “Brings out my eyes, don’t you think?”

“You don’t even have a flower aesthetic,” Darkstalker hissed. “ I am the mysterious sexy one!”

Turtle’s grin was predatory in the most polite way possible. “Then step it up, pretty boy.”

Darkstalker grabbed him by the shoulders like he was trying to physically shake the chaos out. “WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY NERD?!”

Moon walked past, muttering, “I feel like I’ve wandered into someone’s slow-burn fanfiction.”

[That night. Their den.]

The bedroom still smelled faintly of lavender oil and burnt air.
Darkstalker had teleported out a full minute ago. The scorch mark on the carpet remained, ominous and steaming gently. A nearby vase trembled.

Turtle sat calmly on a cushion, sipping his tea.

“You embarrassed me in front of Qibli, ” Darkstalker’s voice echoed from the walls — faint, distant, probably shouted from some remote peak halfway across the continent.

“Worth it,” Turtle murmured, utterly unrepentant.

With a soft hum, he set his teacup down and looked over at the newly hung picture frame on the wall. The ink drawing — two large dragons, wings outstretched, flanking two smaller figures between them — had dried in warm brown swirls, the lines barely more than blots and curls. But it radiated joy. He’d framed it in dark wood with golden corners, enchanted to resist time and smug grins.

He smiled at it now, content.

A pop of air announced Darkstalker’s return. He appeared mid-pace, still fuming, tail twitching with residual indignation and emotional combustion.

“Do you know how hard it is to maintain an aura of ancient menace when someone calls you ‘sweetheart’ in public?!”

Turtle tilted his head. “Would you prefer ‘death blossom’?”

Darkstalker blinked at him, offended. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

Turtle took another sip. “I’m taking it very seriously,” he said, and stood.

He walked toward Darkstalker with the unhurried grace of a dragon who had just set the most powerful being on the continent into a public spiral and lived to tell the tale. He stopped just short of contact, letting the silence hum with tension.

Darkstalker scowled. “You’re lucky you’re adorable.”

Turtle leaned in. His voice dipped into that dangerous, honeyed register again. “Or maybe…” he whispered, “I’ll just keep calling you what you are. ”

Darkstalker squinted. “And what’s that?”

Turtle brushed his snout against Darkstalker’s, slow and sure.

“ Mine. ”

Darkstalker made a strangled noise — something between a squeak and a roar — and immediately vanished in a puff of starry magic.

The scorch mark he left behind was bigger this time. So was the dent in the ceiling.

Moments later, Moon walked past the doorway, stopped, and peered in.

“Did Darkstalker just flee? ”

Turtle, completely composed, took another sip of tea. “He’s fine. He’ll be back when he stops screaming into the void.”

[An hour later. Balcony. Darkstalker, recovered (barely).]

He sat on the edge of the marble railing, breathing deeply. The moon was too smug tonight. The stars were too judgmental. Somewhere below, Blob was sleeping in Turtle’s discarded tea cup like a noble.

Turtle emerged behind him, calm as ever.

“You good?” he asked.

“No,” Darkstalker said. “You’re emotionally waterboarding me.”

Turtle smiled, joining him. “Oh, is that what this is?”

“You flirted with me in front of diplomats. You winked at a courier. You wore a flower. ”

Turtle leaned his head on Darkstalker’s shoulder, eyes soft. “I wore it for you. ”

Darkstalker froze.

Turtle didn’t look up. “You spend so much time convincing everyone you’re terrifying,” he murmured. “I just wanted you to see what it’s like when you’re the one being chased.”

Darkstalker didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. Not for a long, quiet moment.

“I don’t do vulnerability,” he said at last.

“I know,” Turtle whispered. “That’s why I’m doing it for both of us.”

[Back inside. Later.]

Darkstalker stared at the framed ink sketch on the wall.
At the two dragons, their wings open like shelter.
At the two smaller figures between them.

He didn’t say anything.

Turtle brushed past behind him, tail flicking his side like punctuation. “Nice frame, right?”

Darkstalker reached up, slowly, and touched the edge of the wood.

He smiled.

Then frowned.

Then turned. “You are never calling me ‘pretty boy’ in front of Kinkajou again.”

Turtle paused. “What about ‘mysterious menace with excellent cheekbones’?”

Darkstalker opened his mouth.

Closed it.

And walked away before his brain betrayed him again.

Later that night. Lights low. Moonlight pooling across the floor.
The framed ink drawing glinted faintly where it hung above their nest.

They lay curled together in a tangle of wings and limbs, quiet in the hush between breaths. Turtle was warm against his side, heartbeat steady as the tide. Blob was stretched across both their tails like a smug, living scarf, humming faintly in his sleep.

Darkstalker exhaled. Finally calm.

“You’re very annoying,” he murmured.

“I know,” Turtle replied, soft and content. “But you love me anyway.”

There was a pause. Just the rustle of breath and scale.

Then:
Turtle tapped a slow rhythm against Darkstalker’s forearm. Thoughtful. Teasing.

“…Do you ever think about what they’d be like?”

Darkstalker blinked. “Who?”

Turtle looked up at him with that maddening, sweet little smile. “Dragonets.”

Darkstalker’s brain did a full reboot.
Everything inside him blue-screened.

Turtle continued, absolutely unbothered . “Ours, I mean. I bet one of them would have your ridiculous eye ridges. The other would probably cry if their tea was the wrong temperature.”

“I—You— WHAT —”

“I just think we’d be good at it,” Turtle said gently. “Being parents. If you ever wanted to.”

Darkstalker made a noise so high-pitched it woke a bird two floors down .

And then—

Visions.

Endless, explosive visions.
He was holding a tiny NightWing-SeaWing hybrid who immediately bit his nose.
He was teaching a dragonet how to levitate fruit while Turtle cheered them on from the kitchen.
A small child with seafoam scales and glittering black eyes was painting his claws.
Someone called him “Dad.”
Someone else called him “Scary Dad.”
One of them tried to enchant the moon.
Another wrote a poem about inappropriate Sea & Nightwing courtship rituals.
Turtle was laughing.
There were hugs. Burnt cookies. Duelling birthdays.
Tears. Kisses. Pillow forts the size of kingdoms.

A thousand futures unfolded in rapid-fire succession like a scroll unravelling through time.

The moonlight glittered on the frame across the room.

Turtle smiled, smug and soft and knowing.

Blob purred louder.

Darkstalker, mighty and terrible and once cursed by fate,
curled around them both with wide eyes and a heart full of static .

He had seen a thousand timelines.
He had rewritten destiny itself.

But none of them— none of them —had prepared him for Turtle whispering,
“Sleep on it, sweetheart.”

And kissing his cheek.

As he short-circuited
into silence.

Again.

Chapter Text

Foeslayer had claimed the balcony hours ago. It wasn’t technically hers , but possession was nine-tenths of the dramatic entrance, and she had arrived with tea, intent, and a folding chair she may or may not have stolen from the NightWing library.

The lemon tea was lukewarm. The gossip? Piping.

She peered over the railing, eyes narrowed in delight. Down in the sun-drenched courtyard below, Turtle was leaning on a garden wall, smiling at Darkstalker with the kind of casual, easy confidence that came from either enchantment or moral corruption. Possibly both.

Darkstalker, to his credit, looked like someone had replaced his internal organs with sparklers.

Foeslayer sipped her tea. “Oh,” she said aloud, pleased. “He’s doing the smolder again. That’s the third time this week.”

Blob—situated comfortably across her shoulders like a small sentient shawl—made a low, pleased chirp. His beady wooden eyes were fixed on the drama with laser focus. He had opinions. Foeslayer respected that in a decorative pet.

Below, Turtle said something with a smile in his voice and a tilt of his head. Darkstalker stammered. And blushed. Visibly.

Foeslayer beamed.

“I knew it,” she muttered. “That’s my boy. Getting flustered by someone with nice shoulders and better comedic timing.”

Darkstalker, Emperor of Night, Slayer of Futures, Master of Shadows, was now visibly attempting not to preen.

Turtle winked.

Darkstalker turned bright enough to light a lantern.

“Ohhh,” Foeslayer said, deeply satisfied. “Yes. Yes, good. Give him no peace.”

She watched, smug and sparkling, as Darkstalker finally turned and fled the scene, wings flared in desperate retreat.

Turtle simply turned back to the flowers, utterly unbothered.

Foeslayer set her teacup down. It wobbled slightly from the force of her decision.

“Right,” she said. “I’m officially rooting for granddragonets.”

She pulled a pamphlet from under her wing. “So You Think You’re Ready For Children: A Gentle Introduction to Chaotic Domesticity.” It was illustrated with crayon and possibly plagiarized from a RainWing parenting scroll. She had four more copies tucked away in her satchel.

It was time.

Turtle was writing.

Or at least, he was trying to write, which was a delicate ritual involving five open scrolls, a half-finished cup of seaweed tea, and Blob draped across his head like a soggy crown jewel. He was scribbling something about magical infrastructure and dignitary etiquette when a gust of breeze carried the unmistakable scent of lemon balm and agenda.

Foeslayer swept into the room like a dragon who’d taken three wrong turns and one right one: the one that led directly to Turtle’s sense of peace.

“Afternoon, darling,” she said sweetly, flopping into a lounge cushion with the grace of a falling boulder. “Busy writing diplomatic niceties, or just love poems with legal subtext?”

Turtle didn’t look up. “Technically, this is an outline for reworking cross-kingdom visitation protocols.”

“That’s a lot of words for ‘yearning in paragraph form.’”
She sipped her tea, which had definitely been someone else’s before she claimed it. Blob chirped in agreement.

Turtle finally glanced up, adjusting the silver earring that winked faintly in the light. His face betrayed nothing. His soul, however, was panicking in lowercase italics.

“Can I help you?” he asked, calm as a tidepool.

“No,” Foeslayer said, beaming. “But I can help you. ”

Turtle blinked.

“You’ve been doing wonderfully , by the way,” she said, nudging a scroll aside and replacing it with a suspiciously glittery pamphlet. “I haven’t seen my son short-circuit like that since he tried to explain algebra to a cactus.”

“I thought that was Qibli,” Turtle muttered.

“Exactly. You’re exceeding expectations. ”

He tried not to smile. It sort of leaked out anyway.

“I mean,” Foeslayer went on, curling her tail, “between the smirking and the tea compliments and the strategically tilted head angles, you’ve got him rattled. Proud of you, sweetheart. Keep it up. Next time, maybe call him ‘handsome menace.’ Really get the blood pressure going.”

Turtle did smile at that. “I think you’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“I haven’t had this much fun since Queen Glory decked a NightWing bodyguard mid-proposal,” Foeslayer said fondly. “I cried. It was beautiful.”

Turtle leaned back, sipping his tea. Cool. Unshaken. Blob adjusted his position like a tiny head accessory of encouragement.

Foeslayer grew quiet for a moment, studying him in a way that made Turtle’s earring warm—not with magic, but the weight of real affection.

“You know,” she said, softer, “I used to have an earring like that. Arctic enchanted it to keep me warm. It was always a little too cold up north. Said it was so I’d never be uncomfortable.”
She sighed. “I threw it away. We were fighting. I thought—he’d understand. But sometimes you don’t realize which things mattered most until they’re halfway down a river.”

Turtle looked down. His claws tapped the desk once. Twice.

“I don’t want to make those mistakes again,” she said. “I see how you look at him. And I see how he looks at you. Not even Clearsight ever made him look that stupid.”

“Stupid?” Turtle asked, amused.

“Head-over-wings, mind-wiped, enchanted by love stupid,” Foeslayer said, smiling. “I mean it in the best way.”

Turtle adjusted his scrolls again, covering the corner where he’d accidentally doodled two dragons holding tiny hatchlings. “He makes me feel… like I’m more than I thought I was.”

“That’s because you are,” Foeslayer said simply. “You’re clever and good and maddeningly kind. And just squishy enough to emotionally destabilize him.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly.

“And when you marry him,” she added, finishing her tea, “I’m officiating.”

Turtle choked. “That’s very presumptive—”

“—so start practicing your vows. Blob can be the ring bearer.”

She stood, tail flicking with satisfaction, and paused only once on her way out the door.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, without turning around, “if he’s lucky, you’ll make him yours.”

Then she vanished.

Turtle sat for a long moment in stunned silence.

Blob purred.

The scroll beneath his claws was still blank—but his heart wasn’t.

Qibli was minding his own business.

Which, for Qibli, meant sitting in the garden courtyard with exactly three fake scrolls open and zero actual interest in any of them. He wasn’t here to study trade law. He was here to observe Turtle’s continued campaign of weaponized charisma , and possibly rate his flirting out of ten.

“Sea Prince just got a diplomat to call him ‘Your Moist Majesty,’” he muttered to himself, scribbling in the margins. “Deducting one point for the pun, but adding two for delivery.”

Across the sunlit courtyard, Turtle leaned over a RainWing emissary’s shoulder to point at a scroll, saying something that made her giggle and slap his shoulder in mock scandal. Darkstalker, watching from a shaded archway, looked like he was on the brink of launching into the stratosphere.

“Gods,” Qibli whispered. “He’s got the rizz of a thousand-year-old hurricane.”

And that was when he felt it.

The presence.

A shadow passed over him. A chill crept up his tail. Slowly, Qibli looked up from his notes.

Foeslayer.

She was sipping something from a flower-shaped mug. She was smiling. She was definitely up to something.

“Oh no,” Qibli said instinctively.

She beamed at him, all teeth and generational chaos. “Qibli, darling.”

He folded his scroll. “Hello. Why are you looming like that?”

“I’m not looming. I’m basking in the glory of a young romance taking bloom,” she said, then dropped onto the cushion beside him like an ambush. “Yours, specifically.”

Qibli stared. “Mine is not blooming! I—I haven’t even planted a seed! I don’t have seeds! I’m seedless!”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“I am not in love,” he declared, far too loudly.

Foeslayer raised an eyebrow. “Oh sweetheart. You think I haven’t seen that look before? You’re halfway to writing bad poetry in the margins of your reports. ‘Moonwatcher’ with little hearts dotting the i’s.”

Qibli tried to hide the page he had just doodled a stylized version of Moonwatcher’s name on. “That’s slander.”

“I was young once too, you know,” Foeslayer said, nudging his elbow. “And in love. With a cold, repressed, emotionally distant prince with enough trauma to fill an encyclopedia.”

“...That actually explains so much,” Qibli muttered.

She sipped her tea. “I see it in you. That dramatic spark. That yearning. That inability to make normal conversation with someone who has good cheekbones.”

“I make normal conversation all the time!”

“Oh really? What did you say to Winter this morning?”

Qibli blanched. “...‘You have nice horn symmetry.’”

Foeslayer patted his shoulder like she was blessing a doomed voyage. “You’re next.”

“Next for what?” he asked, wary.

“Romantic chaos. Possibly a prophecy. Probably candles and yelling.”

“That’s the most terrifying string of words I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“You’ll be fine,” she said with suspicious cheer. “Or you’ll die in an emotional explosion and haunt the gardens. Either way, Moon will probably record it for posterity.”

She stood and leaned down, voice lowering conspiratorially. “Just promise me something.”

Qibli blinked. “What?”

“If you ever propose, make it dramatic. A sword fight. A declaration from a rooftop. Possibly an enchanted ice sculpture.”

“I’m not going to—!”

“Good luck, sand boy,” she said, and patted his head.

And then she was gone, leaving behind the scent of lemon tea and existential dread.

The Agate Palace hallway was echoing with the sounds of disaster.

Moonwatcher stood at the top of the stairs with an orb in claw and a look of delighted doom on her face. “It’s happening,” she whispered. “It’s finally happening.”

Down below, Qibli had just slid up to Winter with a soft, rakish grin and the audacity .

“Hi,” he said, low and warm. “You look particularly stabby today. I like it.”

Winter stiffened. His pupils dilated. A flurry of internal emotions—fear, longing, terror, hope—battled it out behind his eyes.

“What are you doing ?” he hissed.

“Courting,” Qibli replied.

Winter punched him.

Qibli landed flat on his back with a dazed smile and a bleeding lip.

“So you are interested,” he wheezed.

Moon gave a delighted gasp and turned on the recording orb. “Start from the top. I need this in three angles.”

The royal garden was unusually quiet. A dangerous kind of quiet.

Qibli adjusted his scarf for the fifth time and cleared his throat. “So, as per IceWing protocol,” he said solemnly, “I have brought three offerings.”

Winter narrowed his eyes. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m honouring tradition,” Qibli replied with a grin, “in my own wildly charismatic way.”

Moon sat nearby under a flowering tree, already munching on a snack. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she whispered to no one. Blob purred beside her in agreement.

Qibli produced the first offering: a perfectly symmetrical snowflake, preserved in a sealed frostglass sphere. “For your love of perfection,” he intoned.

Winter blinked. “…That’s actually—”

The second offering was revealed: a scroll of precisely calculated IceWing bloodline math, showing how their union would statistically improve intertribal genetics. It had charts. It had footnotes.

Winter’s mouth opened. Then closed.

“And lastly,” Qibli said, sweeping into an exaggerated bow, “my undying affection and a coupon for one (1) hot chocolate.”

“That one’s fake,” Winter muttered.

“Not emotionally,” Qibli said, placing it dramatically at his feet.

Winter stared at him, visibly battling the urge to be offended, flattered, and violently flustered all at once. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You haven’t said no,” Qibli pointed out, smug.

Moon choked on her snack. “Oh my stars. It’s working.”

And that was when it happened.

Out of the corner of her eye, Moon spotted it.

Sitting on the sundial.

Perfectly still.

Perfectly horrifying.

The spinning toad.

“…It’s back,” she whispered.

Qibli turned his head slowly. “No.”

“It blinked,” Moon breathed.

Qibli squinted. “It winked. That’s worse.”

Winter followed their gaze. Locked eyes with the toad.

His pupils contracted into pinpoints. “I’m going to destroy it.”

“Wait—” Qibli began.

Too late.

Winter launched into the air like a bat out of prophecy and landed in front of the toad in a three-point stance: hind legs and tail planted like a tripod, foreclaws raised like a boxer in the first round of a morally questionable tournament.

Moon’s orb activated on instinct. “This is prophecy content,” she whispered, recording.

Qibli stood, horrified and intrigued. “He’s going bipedal. This is haunting. This is beautiful.”

Winter jabbed once. Twice. The toad didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“Coward,” he hissed, circling. “Show me your true form.”

Qibli shaded his eyes. “Why is he actually good at this? Did he train for this? Is there a gym where IceWings spar with hallucinated harbingers of doom?”

Moon was snickering. “He’s fighting the manifestation of narrative tension.”

Winter lunged. He punched the toad square in its round, unmoving face.

Nothing.

Silence.

Then the toad slowly… slowly … began to spin.

Winter backed off immediately. “Nope. No. I’ve seen this before. That’s summoning behavior.”

“Prophecy boss music incoming,” Qibli muttered.

The toad rotated precisely twice, then stopped.

A flower bloomed at its feet.

Winter was breathing heavily. His claws were still up. “I will not be intimidated by an amphibian.”

Moon dabbed her eyes, giggling. “I’m putting this in my next vision report. The future will remember your bravery.”

Qibli approached Winter cautiously. “Hey. Um. So is this… still the courtship ritual? Or have we moved to seasonal sacrifice?”

Winter didn’t answer. He just reached out, snatched the frostglass snowflake sphere from Qibli’s claws… and gently pressed it to his own chest.

Then he marched off in a huff.

Qibli stood frozen, cheeks burning, heart racing.

Moon gasped. “You’re in. That’s IceWing for ‘I’m flattered but emotionally unstable about it.’”

“I know,” Qibli said faintly, watching Winter’s retreating tail like it held the answers to the universe.

Behind them, the toad blinked.

And Qibli, without thinking, flipped it off.

The Agate Mountain night market had changed over the past year—growing bigger, brighter, messier. Somewhere between a proper Pyrrhian bazaar and a NightWing fever dream, it spilled out in spirals of silk tents and glittering lanterns, punctuated by laughing voices and drifting spices.

Turtle stepped into the light-streaked square with a determined look and one nervous swallow. Blob was latched firmly to his head like a squishy crown.

Darkstalker, beside him, paused mid-stride.

The glow of fireglass and charm-lights reflected in his eyes. His wings curled tighter at his sides. Not withdrawn—just surprised. Softened.

“…What is this?” he asked slowly.

Turtle nudged his side. “A date.”

Darkstalker blinked. “You… took me on a date ?”

“I take you on many things,” Turtle said. “Trauma recovery. Shared existential crises. That diplomatic summit where I got stung by a jellyfish and you threatened to hex an entire reef.”

Darkstalker’s mouth twitched.

“But tonight,” Turtle went on, “we’re doing something fun. No empires. No scrolls. No heavy conversations unless you want to be emotionally devastated by candied figs.”

Darkstalker tilted his head. “You planned this.”

“Of course I did,” Turtle said, a little proud now. “You do so much. You deserve to feel like you’re part of the world again. Like you’re home.”

Darkstalker looked at him then—really looked—and something in his expression cracked like melting glass. “You remembered what I told you,” he murmured. “About the old markets. The ones in the Night Kingdom.”

“I remember everything,” Turtle said, and it was almost shy.

They moved through the market like they weren’t famous, like they weren’t terrifying and powerful and stitched into the edges of history. A RainWing vendor offered glowfruit juice with a wink. A small SkyWing tried to haggle for an enchanted yoyo and shrieked when it floated away. Strings of humming lanterns swayed overhead like stars that hadn’t made up their minds.

Turtle bought kelp puffs from a grumpy SeaWing with a knowing nod.

Darkstalker stared. “You found them.”

“I bribed someone’s cousin,” Turtle admitted. “May have implied you’d hex their dreams if they didn’t deliver.”

“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said,” Darkstalker deadpanned.

They sat beneath a plum-blossom awning strung with softly glowing pearl lights, the air warm and laced with roasted cinnamon and distant music. Turtle passed over the kelp puffs. One by one. Like offerings.

Darkstalker took a bite, chewed, closed his eyes.

“…I still love you,” he said solemnly, “but I will marry whoever made these.”

Turtle snorted. “I’ll draw up the prenup.”

They shared the food. Shared the warmth. And slowly, so slowly, something in Darkstalker unwound. His shoulders dropped. His tail curled comfortably around Turtle’s. The sharp edges of his posture dulled into something fluid, something at ease.

“You look happy.” Turtle said, quietly. 

Darkstalker opened his mouth, then closed it again.

The lanterns above flickered soft gold. Music played—stringed and lilting.

“Dance with me,” Turtle said, before he could think too hard.

Darkstalker’s eyes widened. “Here?”

“No one’s watching,” Turtle lied.

Blob burbled from his crown like it knew .

And somehow, against all odds, Darkstalker stood. Let Turtle pull him forward. They didn’t quite dance. They swayed —wings brushing, claws skimming the cobblestones. The sort of movement shared in dreams. Or old stories. Or lives never lived.

Darkstalker leaned in.

“You enchant me,” he whispered, voice almost breaking.

Turtle rested his snout against his. “Good. You deserve it.”

Their foreheads touched. And for a moment—for a heartbeat—there were no wars, no crowns, no scrolls or spells or shattered histories.

Just two dragons, under a sea of paper stars.

The market had faded behind them in a glow of laughter and lantern-light.

Now, tucked into the quiet back corner of a bar carved into the cliffside, the world felt small in the best way. Cozy. Amber-lit. There was music somewhere in the background—soft and slurred, the kind that got warm in your chest before the drinks did.

Darkstalker was relaxed. Actually relaxed. Lopsided in his seat, one wing slung lazily over the backrest, smirking like the night had dialed down the centuries in his bones.

Turtle pressed against his side, sipping something fizzy and blue and too sweet. Blob hung off his horns like decorative seaweed, absolutely unbothered.

“You’re staring,” Darkstalker said, teasing.

“You’re glowing,” Turtle murmured back.

“Oh, now you’re flirting.”

“I’ve been flirting all evening. Try to keep up.”

Darkstalker chuckled and nudged him with a claw. “You’re soft.”

“For buoyancy,” Turtle said primly.

“Mm. Convenient.”

Turtle leaned closer, set his drink down. One claw—gentle, reverent—traced along Darkstalker’s jaw, over the curve of a horn, down the line of his throat. He let his talons linger. Let himself feel . The rise and fall of breath. The warmth of old magic beneath skin. The presence of someone terrifying and brilliant and his.

Darkstalker’s own claws found his back, light and slow. Their faces were close now. Close enough to see the gold rings in Turtle’s eyes. Close enough that the air between them felt sacred.

“You’re not going to kiss me in a bar, are you?” Darkstalker whispered, smiling crookedly.

Turtle smiled back. “I’m going to kiss you because it’s a bar.”

And he did—slowly. Thoroughly. Like the world was only the size of a table for two and the hum of distant dragons.

Like he had nowhere else to be but here, with him .

And Darkstalker melted into it, into him, into this—into everything he hadn’t realized he’d been missing since the last time he felt like home.

Chapter Text

The wind rolled in from the sea, soft and salt-heavy, warm enough to curl around his wings like an embrace. The sun shimmered low across the water, turning the horizon to gold. Somewhere, gulls cried overhead. Somewhere closer, laughter rang out—clear and small and new.

Darkstalker lay on a smooth stretch of black rock, half in the sun, half in the shade, his tail curling lazily over the edge where spray met stone.

Below, in the shallows, Turtle was laughing.

“Kick with your tail! Not your face!” he called.

Two small dragonets paddled furiously in response—one doing exactly the opposite.

Asterias flailed into a splash so dramatic it nearly flipped Lumine upside down. She shrieked, indignantly, then retaliated by smacking him in the face with her tail. The bioluminescence along their bodies lit up in frantic pulses—brilliant blue and starlight white, a cascade of tiny glimmers in motion.

Turtle dove between them with practiced ease, guiding with his wings, correcting with his snout, encouraging with a smile that Darkstalker swore could split the tide.

Gods, he was beautiful.

Darkstalker shifted his weight and rested his chin on his claws, watching.

Lumine had his eyes. Asterias had his nose. Both had Turtle’s grin.

Both had inherited the galaxy.

The undersides of their wings shimmered like deep space—star-streaked and inconstant, each moment shifting as they moved. Their scales pulsed in soft ripples down their spines and tails, glowing brighter when they were excited, blinking slower when they rested. Silver teardrop-shaped marks sat in the corners of their eyes like little heralds of something sacred.

They were perfect.

And they were his.

The rock beneath him was warm. His chest didn’t hurt. The voices of his friends drifted down from a nearby cliff—Moon, debating something animatedly with Qibli; Winter perched beside them with that strangely fond scowl. Someone—probably Foeslayer—had left a half-eaten pastry on the edge of his sunning rock, clearly forgotten mid-anecdote.

Darkstalker closed his eyes.

For a long moment, he just listened. The waves. The dragonets. Turtle’s soft corrections. The pulse of light. The rhythm of it all.

The sea kissed the shore in slow pulses. Foam crackled at the edges. Dragonets chirped. And just as Darkstalker let himself drift deeper into the quiet…

SPLASH.

A sharp, cold wave of seawater hit him square in the face.

He sputtered, blinking salt from his eyes, only to see Turtle, grinning up at him from the shallows with unrepentant glee.

“You looked too peaceful,” Turtle said, tail flicking. “Had to fix that.”

Darkstalker sat up slowly, soaked and affronted. Water dripped from his horns. His spiky mane clung to his neck. His eyes narrowed with theatrical menace. “You dare assault your Emperor?”

Turtle shrugged, all innocence. “Didn’t see an Emperor. Just some grumpy old NightWing who needed cooling off.”

“Oh, you’re getting it now,” Darkstalker growled, rising with a dangerous glint in his eye.

From the water, Asterias and Lumine gasped. Then squealed.

“Run!” Lumine chirped, diving under.

“Dad’s coming!” Asterias shouted, tripping over his own tail in his hurry to flee.

Darkstalker leapt into the water with a dramatic splash , teeth bared, letting out a low, rumbling snarl that vibrated through the waves. “You can’t escape the Sea Monster King!”

The dragonets shrieked in unison. Asterias darted toward a rock. Lumine tried to dive but flopped sideways instead, giggling wildly.

Darkstalker gave chase.

He lunged after them in the shallows with exaggerated slowness, letting his wings drag dramatically beneath the surface. “I smell fear and seawing,” he intoned, voice deepened with playful menace. “I hunger for hatchling toes!”

Lumine screamed in delight as he caught her. “Nooooo!”

Darkstalker scooped her up and nibbled her side with the tiniest of toothy play-bites. She giggled until she hiccupped light. Asterias tried to rescue her, only to get swept up in one massive wing.

“You’ll never escape now!” Darkstalker declared, spinning them both around while they cackled.

Turtle swam up behind him, slipping under his wing, and kissed the base of his jaw. “Monster King, huh?”

“Fear me,” Darkstalker murmured, soaked and grinning.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re wet.”

“And you love me.”

Darkstalker pressed his snout against Turtle’s, smiling like the tide could never take this from him. “I really, really do.”

The four of them tangled in a heap of limbs, tails, and laughter, bobbing in the shallows like a drifting constellation.

Darkstalker’s laughter echoed through the cove, low and bright.

Asterias wriggled from his grip with a triumphant chirp, darting through the water. Lumine followed, shimmering like a bioluminescent comet.

Turtle pressed against his side. “You’re good with them,” he murmured.

Darkstalker smirked. “They’re mine. Of course I am.”

“You don’t have to be good at parenting just because you’re good at domination and world conquest.”

“That’s a lie.”

Turtle snorted.

The sun glinted off the water. The air buzzed with warmth.

And then…

The sentence doesn’t finish.

Words falter.

He blinked.

The sea was gone.

The stars were out.

And they were in bed.

Darkstalker sat up sharply.

Turtle stirred beside him with a low hum, one wing still wrapped around his waist. Asterias was curled against his chest, small snores whistling through his nose. Lumine had flopped across his tail, drooling faintly on one of the pillows.

Everything was… soft.

Too soft.

The transition had been seamless. Wrongly seamless.

No bath, no drying off, no dusk. Just this .

He looked to the window. Moonlight.

To the floor. Blob was nestled between discarded scrolls.

To the ceiling. Nothing. Stillness.

He pressed a claw to his temple.

Did I fall asleep?

No. He remembered being awake. Laughter. The water on his scales. The smell of salt and moonflower blossoms. The scrape of rock beneath his claws.

His heart beat slower now. Too even.

The world wasn’t moving.

Not the flicker of candlelight.

Not the usual creak of the wooden beam above the bed that always shifted in the wind.

Not even his reflection in the basin of water beside the nightstand.

Still.

He turned his head slowly.

Turtle breathed softly beside him.

Perfect.

Peaceful.

Asterias murmured something in his sleep. Lumine twitched once.

Darkstalker looked down at his own wrist.

The bracelet.

Clearsight’s.

A small crack had formed in the stonework, silver threadwork spidering down like lightning trapped in crystal.

Crk.

The sound was distant, like thunder rolling underwater.

Darkstalker exhaled.

“...What is this.”

And something inside him—

some deep, ancient, spell-slicked place—

He blinked.

And again.

The room was gone.

He stood alone.

Stone beneath his claws. The brittle edge of Agate Mountain.
No warmth. No laughter. No scent of seawater or spiced tea or kelp puffs.

No Turtle.
No children.
No palace.

Just wind, bitter and hollow.

The horizon was wrong . There was no Jade Mountain Academy, not even distant specks. The valley below was a smear of shadow and ash.

His scales felt brittle.

His heartbeat—too slow.

Where…

Where was he?
Where were they?

And how—
How did they ever even—
Dragonets?

He opened his mouth to call—

—but his voice stuck. A thread of sound unraveling before it reached the air.

Then—

clawsteps.

Not loud.
Soft. Familiar.
Careful.

Turtle.

Turtle, but not.

He looked… older. Tired. His smile, when it came, was brittle glass stretched too thin. There was a satchel under his wing.

Darkstalker knew that satchel.

His satchel. The scroll.

No.
No, that’s not—
That’s not right. That scroll was locked away. That scroll was—

He reached inward for his magic and found—

nothing.

Gone.
Drawn.
Sealed.

Trapped in parchment, again.

He stumbled forward. “Turtle, what—where are the kids—what’s happening—?”

But when he opened his mouth, the words that spilled out weren’t his own.

He wondered why he stole it if he did not use it.

He clapped a claw to his mouth.

What.

What?

He hadn’t said that.
He had not said that.

Turtle’s eyes filled with something ancient and heavy.

And he said:

Agate Mountain will not be the tallest mountain much longer, there will be an earthquake and the whole side of the mountain will fall.

No.

That wasn’t—
That wasn’t right either.

“Turtle,” he tried again, “what’s happening, please, where are—”

He accused him of using that as a metaphor—the most powerful dragon falling, and another to take his place.

He jerked backward.
No. No. That wasn’t what he meant to say.

“I never—”
He blinked.
The words were spilling out again.

He insisted they were so close to their happy future. All his enemies were dead.

But his face—
He could feel it.
Neutral. Empty. Like his skin didn’t understand what his voice was doing.

He tried to snarl.
Nothing.

Turtle’s expression was soft. Devastated.
Resolute.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached forward.

Darkstalker tried to step back, but his legs didn’t move.

The bracelet.
Clearsight’s.

Turtle slipped it off his own wrist.
And onto his.

No—

“Don’t,” Darkstalker breathed, voice small now, slipping between the cracks. “Please. Just tell me where—”

Turtle leaned in.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Darkness licked the corners of his vision like flame.

He had no time to protest. His eyes closed, and all he saw was rock swallowing the sky.

There was another sound.

A distant rumble.
The faint, splintering crack of crystal under pressure.

Then:

SNAP.

The bracelet shattered.

Darkstalker woke up screaming.

Or—he tried to.

What left his throat wasn’t a scream.
It wasn’t even a word.
Just a raw, gurgling wheeze, like his lungs were full of gravel and memory.

He tried to clutch at his chest.
Tried to curl into himself.
But there was only stone—stone pressing against his ribs, his face, his sides.

Rock.

Rock above.

Rock below.

Rock crushing in from every side.

It was dark.

So dark.
Worse than the Sea Kingdom trenches. Worse than any nightmare.

And it was silent.

No Turtle.

No children.

No wind, no ocean, no stars.

Just the muted, miserable sound of air
— distant —
whistling down through cracks somewhere far, far above.

“No…” he rasped, a sound like broken glass on slate. “No no no no—”

He tried to lift a limb.
It felt wrong. Heavy. Alien.

His claws trembled.
His scales—sunken, clinging to bone, brittle as if carved from dried clay.

Too big.

He felt… too big.

Like something unfinished. Or resurrected.

“No, no, please—”

He scrabbled. Rock tore at his talons. Dust choked his throat. His eyes stung, but tears didn’t come. There was nothing left in him to cry with.

His breath hitched. Again. Again.
Too fast.

Too shallow.

He was hyperventilating, but no air was reaching him. Just pressure. Just heat. Just pain.

He opened his mouth to scream—

“Turtle.”

No answer.

“Lumine—Asterias—please—”

No answer.

“Please—someone—”

Only the whistle of wind. Like the mountain mocking him.

He tried to reach out with his mind.

For any thoughts.

For anyone.

For Turtle.

For future sight.

For…

A flicker.

A dragonet.

Scales like polished obsidian dusted with green-blue aurora light.
Eyes like forest dusk, ringed with silver teardrops.
Moonwatcher.
Moon.
She would free him.
She would be his friend.
She—

NO.

No. That wasn’t real.

That was then.

That was before.

Before the palace.
Before the kelp puffs.
Before Turtle.

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO—

His mind fractured at the edges.

The dream was gone.
The lie was gone.
All that remained was this:

Stone.
Silence.
And centuries.

He woke again.

Gasping.

Panting.

Shaking.

Claws clutching at the blankets, tail tangled in the nest. His breath came in ragged bursts. His body was wracked with shivers, his eyes wide and frantic, pupils blown like he was still buried, still trapped—

And then—

A snore.

A very undignified snore.

He turned.

Turtle was beside him, drooped halfway off his side of the bed, face smashed into a pillow. One wing twitching gently with each exhale. His mouth slightly agape, doing the honk-shoo routine like it was a sacred rite of sleep.

As Darkstalker stirred, Turtle blinked awake just enough to roll over, nuzzle the blanket once, and begin snoring again—this time softer.

A delicate, utterly absurd little mimimi.

Darkstalker stared.

He felt his heartbeat thudding like a war drum, his body still electrified with leftover panic. Still reeling. Still floating between timelines.

But Turtle was here. Breathing. Warm. Loudly unconscious.

A beat passed. Another.

Darkstalker slumped back into the nest, flinging a wing over his eyes.

Darkstalker didn’t sleep again.

Not yet.

He lay still in the nest beside Turtle’s snoring form, trying not to let his claws shake. His breath came softer now, but it still dragged against the inside of his chest like it had thorns. His ribs ached. His throat was tight. His wings curled in like he could collapse into himself and disappear.

He pressed one palm to the bedding beneath him. Cold silk, crinkled where it had been twisted in sleep. Real. Tangible.

Five things.
He focused.

The blanket under his claws. The soft indentations of Turtle’s scales , warm where their flanks touched. The faint rustling of leaves beyond the window . The stars —real stars, moving stars—outside.
And Blob, snoozing at the foot of the bed, making a gentle, almost sympathetic whirring noise in his sleep.

Four breaths.
Inhale. Exhale. Again. Again. Again.
He counted them. Measured them. Matched them to the sound of Turtle’s snore.

Three names.
Turtle.
Asterias.
Lumine.

Their names tasted like hope. Like salt and sun and something that couldn’t be carved away by stone.

Two truths.
He was in their bed.
He was not in the mountain.

One dragon.
Turtle shifted again, one sleepy paw finding his chest, draping over him. Still half-asleep. Still here. Still real.

Darkstalker turned his face into the pillow, finally exhaling the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

He was here. He was safe.

The past didn’t own him anymore.
But it still tried to find him in his dreams.

Asterias.
Lumine.

Darkstalker mouthed the names to himself, barely audible.

He hadn’t named them in the dream. Not aloud. Not consciously. But somehow… he knew. He remembered the way Asterias had laughed when Turtle tossed him into the waves. He remembered Lumine’s little paws on his snout, the weight of her curled under his wing during their nap. The light in their scales. The stars in their wings.

The way his heart had opened like a tide pool in the sun.

What was that?

A dream.
A memory.
A lie.
A prophecy.

He didn’t know. And it scared him more than the dark.

Darkstalker blinked up at the ceiling, the shadows stretching across the curve of the domed stone, and felt something heavy and beautiful twist in his chest. He was not a stranger to loss, nor to grief, but missing something that had never existed—

That was new.

He missed them.
Gods. He missed them.

Their laughter. Their stubbornness. The way they looked at Turtle like he’d pulled the moon down just for them. The way they looked at him.

And for the first time in centuries, he wanted the future to come faster.

He shifted under Turtle’s sleeping arm and whispered, barely above the hush of the breeze:

“Are you real?”

Turtle snorted. “Hngff… mimimi…”

Darkstalker smiled, tears caught at the edges of his eyes.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “You’re real.”

Chapter Text

It started off as a joke. As many of their best mistakes did.

“Just for a day,” Turtle had offered, holding the scroll with both claws like it was nothing. “I mean, if you’re not too attached to being the large, looming presence in the relationship.”

Darkstalker had laughed. “I am the large, looming presence.”

Were.

Now, Turtle had to duck through the doorways. He had to move carefully, claws splayed out for balance, his wings pressed close so as not to catch the edge of every hanging curtain or decorative beam. And Darkstalker… was suddenly normal-sized.

Reasonable.

Petite, even.

It was, frankly, disorienting.

For Darkstalker.

For Turtle, it was oddly comforting. He didn’t feel small anymore. Not in the shrinking way. Not in the overlooked way.

And for Darkstalker?

Well, it was doing things to him.

He stood at the edge of their shared den, staring up at his suddenly-massive partner, who was trying to push aside a tapestry without ripping it in half. Turtle’s usually soft frame had filled out with the scale of myth—a gentle, curving monument of sea-green and soft teal, thick limbs and broader wings and a tail that could probably knock down trees with one good sweep.

“Oh,” Darkstalker breathed.

Turtle looked down. “What?”

“You’re…” He trailed off, pupils dilating. “Wow.”

“‘Wow?’” Turtle echoed. “That’s it?”

“I mean —how do I say this without sounding deranged—You’re—You’re huge. ”

Turtle turned around, wings shifting as he stood at his full height. His horns just barely grazed the ceiling beam. “I told you I was gonna try it. Figured you could use a break from having to bend in half to kiss me.”

“Bend in half,” Darkstalker muttered faintly. “You picked me up the last time we kissed.”

“And it was extremely charming,” Turtle said smugly. “You looked like a flustered noble in a romance scroll.”

“I was flustered. You manhandled me. It was—Wait, that’s not the point.” Darkstalker’s tail twitched. His voice pitched slightly higher. “This is… fine. I am fine.”

Blob, now the size of a small boat, rumbled past the doorway like a sentient plush siege tower and flopped down across Turtle’s forelegs, squishing happily.

Darkstalker’s eye twitched.

Turtle, seeing it, only smiled wider. “So? Should we cuddle?”

“No,” Darkstalker said immediately.

“Yes,” Turtle said, already lowering himself onto a wide pile of cushions.

“I am not climbing you like some sort of lap pet.”

Turtle opened one wing invitingly. “Scared you’ll like it?”

Darkstalker stared. Then, very slowly, like gravity had just gotten stronger under his paws, walked forward and nestled himself into the curve of Turtle’s chest and wing.

It was—

Warm.

Vast.

Soft, but powerful. He could hear Turtle’s heartbeat from here, slow and steady like waves lapping at the shore. Every breath of the SeaWing's ribcage shifted Darkstalker gently, like he was nothing more than a thought caught in a current.

He let out a slow, shaky breath.

Turtle murmured, amused but fond, “So?”

“I have,” Darkstalker said, voice muffled against his mate’s chest, “some questions about myself I need to think about.”

“Mm?”

“This is fine.”

“You said that already.”

“It’s really fine.”

Turtle shifted his claws to run them slowly down Darkstalker’s back. “You always make me feel like I’m something grand,” he said, soft now, almost shy. “Like I’m rare. Worth more than I thought I was. I just… wanted to return the favor. Let you be the one someone holds. Just for once.”

Darkstalker, silent, buried his face deeper into the crook of Turtle’s chest.

“I get it now,” he whispered eventually. “This. You. All of it.”

“Hm?”

Darkstalker looked up, slow and flushed and entirely uncomposed. “You’re so big.”

Turtle chuckled, low and musical. “It’s for buoyancy.”

Darkstalker groaned and buried his face again. “Unfair.”

“You love it.”

“Maybe.”

Blob chirped approvingly and wrapped a gigantic noodle-arm around them both.

Turtle pulled Darkstalker tighter under his wing.

The moon had risen high above Agate Mountain, pale and quiet through the lattice of the balcony windows. Their den was dimly lit now, all lanterns guttered to warm embers. Somewhere in the distance, the soft hum of the wind curled through carved stone corridors.

Blob, content from his brief conquest of affection, chirped one last time and scuttled off toward the halls like a mobile tidepool. He vanished with the soft sound of a curtain being peeled aside and a distant crash.

Neither of them looked up.

Darkstalker, still nestled under the protective arc of Turtle’s wing, had gone still. Not asleep—no, not even close. His claws were lifted slightly, hovering just above the rise and fall of Turtle’s chest. The way it moved with each breath was almost hypnotic: steady, deep, and assured. He watched the faint glow of bioluminescence along Turtle’s collarbone flicker with each exhale, painting his scales with soft sea-glass blue.

He reached out at last, claws trailing slowly down Turtle’s chest—pausing where the scales curved in slightly, then out again across the ribs. Every detail felt monumental. And familiar. But new.

“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly.

Turtle shifted slightly, surprised. “You’ve seen me every day.”

“Not like this.”

Darkstalker tilted his head, eyes narrowing not in suspicion, but in reverence. The angle of Turtle’s jaw, the sweep of his frill, the thicker, seaworthy build of his torso now scaled up—he looked like something out of a mural. A myth given form. Something dragons might once have called to from ships, begging safe passage.

And now he was here. Warm. Breathing. Holding him like a treasure.

“I used to think it was my size that made me powerful,” Darkstalker said, voice low. “That being bigger—older—meant being stronger. Scarier. More worthy of fear or awe.”

He tapped lightly along Turtle’s sternum.

“But you make me feel safe.”

Turtle’s brow furrowed, affectionate confusion flickering behind his eyes. “You’ve always been safe.”

“Not like this.”

There was silence for a moment. Just the rhythm of their breathing, the occasional faraway sound of Blob absolutely not causing problems somewhere in the palace.

“I could get used to this,” Darkstalker admitted, a bit hoarse. “You being… above me.”

Turtle’s eyes glinted. “Oh?”

Darkstalker flicked his tail. “ Emotionally. Get your mind out of the trench.”

Turtle grinned, teeth flashing faintly in the moonlight. “Can’t help it. You’re flustered.”

Darkstalker muttered something unkind in Ancient NightWing.

Still, his claws continued their path—up to Turtle’s throat, tracing the scales there, then brushing the side of his snout with a tenderness that made Turtle freeze for a beat.

“You don’t have to go back to your regular size right away,” Darkstalker said, barely above a whisper. “Just for tonight… let me keep you like this.”

Turtle leaned in, their foreheads pressing together, their wings folding around one another in soft, crested arcs.

“Then I’m yours,” he said. “Exactly as you want me.”

“No,” Darkstalker murmured. “Exactly as you are.”

Elsewhere in the palace—

A hush had fallen over the eastern courtyard. Not the reverent kind, nor the diplomatic sort that preceded high tea and high treason.

No.
This was the hush of impending doom .

A solitary guard stood frozen near the ornamental koi pond, one scroll mid-delivery, as a shadow loomed over the hedge maze.

“…Is that the Sea Prince’s pet?” whispered a diplomat, peering around a pillar.

“It was ,” muttered another. “Now it’s... a unit.”

Blob—now supersized to match Turtle’s enchanted height—had found his way into the moonlit gardens like a living tidal wave of squish and enthusiasm. His eyes glowed faintly. His jelly-like frills wobbled with purpose.

He had claimed a decorative statue as his battleground throne. The statue did not survive.

SPLOOOORP.

Blob threw himself dramatically into the koi pond, sending ornamental fish flying like confetti. He emerged moments later with a lily pad on his head and the unshakeable expression of one who has declared war on landscaping.

“Fetch the—” one guard started.

Blob roared. (Which sounded suspiciously like a delighted warble.)

Everyone scattered.

He rampaged softly through the rose trellises. He squished decisively across the ambassadorial welcome mats. He conquered a topiary shaped like a majestic SkyWing and ate it . Slowly. With purpose.

From a balcony overhead, Foeslayer watched with a mango drink in her claws and a towel across her shoulders.

“…He’s growing up so fast,” she whispered, misty-eyed.

Below, Blob belly-flopped into a ceremonial wishing fountain and launched six decorative stones into orbit.

Truly, the night belonged to him.

Inside, the world was quiet.

The kind of quiet that pressed against the scales like a blanket. That made every breath, every sigh, feel like a hush from the stars themselves.

Darkstalker lay curled against Turtle’s chest — or rather, atop it. The shift in size had rearranged their usual nest configuration dramatically, and now Turtle made for a very effective mattress. A deep-emerald one, with a heartbeat he could feel in his teeth. One wing had draped itself across Darkstalker’s back like instinct. Protective. Warm.

He had never felt so safe.

Not even when he had been the biggest dragon in the room.

Darkstalker exhaled against the base of his neck, letting the moment settle, letting his claws trace idle patterns in the pale green of Turtle’s chest. Each scale he touched shimmered faintly in the low firelight, casting reflections like moonlight rippling over a calm ocean. The sound of Turtle’s breathing was rhythmic, grounding — a lullaby with no melody but warmth.

“…You’re really leaning into this, huh?” Turtle murmured, amused, one brow quirking upward.

Darkstalker hummed noncommittally, rubbing his cheek against the curve of Turtle’s shoulder. “You’re very comfortable. Large. Solid. Buoyant.”

“I told you the buoyancy thing was real,” Turtle said smugly.

Darkstalker shifted slightly, dragging a single claw in slow, lazy loops around one of the larger scales. “It’s… odd. I thought I liked being tall. Being big made me feel like I could do things. Control things. Take up space.”

“And now?”

He hesitated.

Then, softer: “Now I just like being held.”

Turtle’s eyes softened. He didn’t speak — he just curled his wing a little tighter, bringing Darkstalker closer, nestling his snout against his frill line. His tail thumped once against the cushions. A silent me too.

They stayed like that for a while. Nothing but breath and scales and the crackle of the distant hearth.

Then—

“…Did you mean it?”

Turtle blinked. “Mean what?”

“The other night,” Darkstalker said, voice muffled. “When you… you said you thought we’d be good parents.”

There it was. Out in the open air now, sharp and fragile. A sentence that trembled slightly at the edges.

Turtle blinked again. His tail twitched. “You remember that?”

“I do,” Darkstalker said. “I’ve thought about it. A lot more than I want to admit. Especially after…”

He trailed off, but they both knew. The dream. The nightmare. The not-real dragonets with real names and real laughs.

Turtle nodded slowly. “Me too.”

Darkstalker lifted his head, looking at him — really looking. “Do you still want that? Even after all that?”

Turtle hesitated. Not because he didn’t know the answer, but because the answer felt so large in his chest he had to make space for it.

“…I think,” he said slowly, “I want to want it. I mean—I do . I just didn’t know if it was allowed , you know? I’m still learning how to want things and not talk myself out of them.”

Darkstalker smiled faintly. “That’s new. You wanting something.”

“Yeah,” Turtle said, eyes meeting his. “You kind of ruined my emotionally avoidant streak.”

They laughed, soft and low. Their bodies curled tighter into one another.

Darkstalker’s claw found the curve of Turtle’s jaw and tilted his face up. “I keep thinking about their eyes. Our children. In the dream. They had your glow, you know. That luminous SeaWing sparkle. Like they’d swallowed starlight.”

“They had your teeth,” Turtle added. “You said one of them tried to bite me when I said bath time.”

“That tracks,” Darkstalker muttered.

Turtle nuzzled the side of his face. “I want that future. Or something close to it. Maybe not now. Maybe not for a while. But… if we got there? I wouldn’t be scared.”

Darkstalker stilled.

Then nodded.

“…Me neither.”

Another beat. Then, sly:

“I am keeping my name out of any parent-teacher meetings though.”

“Coward,” Turtle teased.

“I’ve started wars for less,” Darkstalker said, draping himself fully over Turtle again.

They breathed in sync, the weight of the question dissipating, replaced by something gentler, steadier. The shared image of a future they hadn’t planned for, but maybe — just maybe — could reach. Together.

Outside, Blob sneezed and accidentally demolished a marble fountain.

Inside, wrapped in blankets and ridiculousness and love, the disaster husbands drifted closer, claws and wings twined, hearts doing that terrible, wonderful thing they always did in each other’s presence:

Hope.

[Wizard’s Orb Addendum | Manual Activation Detected]
The orb rattles once before the recording begins—jostled by an enthusiastic limb rather than activated with care. It catches only the tail-end of a startled laugh, the screen swinging briefly skyward to catch a high ceiling and then a glimpse of a NightWing snout as Moon steadies it with a claw. Her claws adjust the lens. She's clearly trying to stay out of it. Fails entirely.

Visual Clarity: 62%.
Stability: Chaotic good.
Time Marker: Post-lunch, verging on trouble.

[Visual: A sun-drenched courtyard somewhere in the Sand Kingdom. The orb captures sandstone arches, faded rugs underfoot, and a cluster of street merchants paused mid-conversation. At the center is Qibli, animated, halfway into a clawshake that turns into a half-hug-slash-shoulder-bump. His accent is different. Sharper. Sand-slick.]

[Sound: Too much to process. Laughter, background calls, the clatter of pots, pans, and talons. Qibli is the loudest.]

Qibli: “Broooo! You lookin’ well, yeah? I thought you were dead or, like, respectable. You’re tellin’ me you survived that dumb raid back in—what, third cycle?!”

Unknown SandWing: (grinning) “Respectable? Nah, never caught me slippin’. But you, Qibs, what’s this? Jewelry? Tail ring?? You look like you work at a library.”

Qibli: “Diplomatic mission, bruv. Temporary. Man can’t wear a lil’ regalia for the Queen’s sake?”
(He gestures broadly to indicate "look how far I’ve come." Then immediately undercuts it.)
“Still got the same moves though. Don’t let the scrolls fool you. I’m patterned up. Mind like a trapdoor, tail like a whip. Don’t test me.”

[Moon can be heard muffling a snort off-screen.]

[Qibli continues, preening. He’s having the time of his life.]

Qibli: “Anyway, yeah—Moon over there? That’s my girl. That’s right. Mind-reader, seer, celestial phenomenon. Catches me when I lie, still lets me. Mad in love. Whole situation’s poetic.”
(He flicks his tail, then leans in conspiratorially.)
“And wait till you hear about the IceWing prince I bagged. Coldest catch in Pyrrhia. I own winter now.”

[The SandWing howls with laughter. They slap claws.]

Unknown SandWing: “Bro, you’re poly and diplomatic now? What happened to you?”

Qibli: “I evolved, innit. I’ve got a NightWing with stars on her wings, a walking ice sculpture with murder in his eyes, and a Seawing emperor who made me learn etiquette. I’m living a multinational lifestyle now.”
(Pauses.)
“Still got your back though. You need anything, you call. Just not during treaty hours.”

[The orb flickers. Moon’s claw comes over the lens, but not before catching Qibli grinning like he’s six again and back in the Den, where every friend was family and every favor a gamble.]

Moon (muttering): “He’s never coming back the same.”

[Recording ends.]

[Wizard’s Orb Addendum: Recording Resumes Automatically]
The orb clicks faintly, unnoticed. A soft pulse restarts. The frame is tilted now, nestled somewhere forgotten on a low ledge or rug. The world is quieter. The crowd has thinned. Someone has poured water nearby. Steam rises again.

Visual Clarity: 74%. Soft focus.
Stability: Gentle tilt.
Time Marker: Unspecified afternoon lull.

[Visual: Qibli again, but changed. No streetwise grin. No clawshakes. He’s seated now in the shade of a pale awning, legs folded, tail coiled loosely around Moon’s. His voice is lower. His claws tug absently at the hem of his own sash—trying not to fidget, but still very much fidgeting.]

Qibli (quietly): “You saw that, didn’t you?”
(A pause. Then a soft, sheepish smile.)
“Bit much. I get... loud. It’s like muscle memory, being home. I slip into the old skin without even meaning to. Just—one smell of that market dust and suddenly I’m six again, stealing skewers and running my mouth.”

[A movement. Moon’s wing, just visible, drapes slightly closer to his.]

Qibli: “You make me soft, you know that? Proper soft. I don’t mind it, but they’d laugh me out of the Den if they saw me like this. Not that it matters.”
(He leans sideways into her with practiced affection.)
“I’d pick you a thousand times over a reputation I don’t even want anymore.”
(Then, muttering into her shoulder:)
“Still got it though, didn’t I? That clawshake? That line about Winter?”

[Moon lets out a sound that is mostly exasperation but not entirely unsmitten.]

Moon: “You were unbearable.”

Qibli (smiling against her scales): “That’s what you like about me.”

[The orb, sensing the emotional temperature has stabilized, dims quietly of its own accord.]

[Recording ends.]

[Post-Orb Margin Note — manually appended, the handwriting upright and extremely legible]

Winter (annotated):
Found this recording in the orb archives.
Did not appreciate discovering my name invoked as some sort of prize Qibli “bagged.”
Have since located the SandWing in question, whacked him once (lightly) upside the head, and am currently dragging him somewhere private to remind him how princes ought to conduct themselves.

He is grinning like an idiot.
Send help. Or don’t.

—Winter, Crown Prince of the Ice Kingdom

[Addendum scribbled sideways in someone else’s scroll-ink, likely with a stolen quill]

Qibli (annotated):
I love it here.

Stylised doodles: (sweating, flustered face) (snowflake) (heart pierced by an arrow)

Chapter Text

[Recording Active – Memory Orb No. 742 | Calibration: Chaotic Good]
Stabilization : 58% | Ambient Resonance: Uncooperative
Time Marker: “Kinkajou’s Excellent Agate Palace Adventure!!”

[Visual: The orb activates with a soft mechanical whir that sounds more like a held breath than technology. Light blooms in a slow, pulse-like glow, illuminating the ceiling in buttery streaks of gold and pink. The camera is sideways. Very sideways.]

[Audio: Fabric rustles. Wingbeats. A muffled giggle.]

[Visual: A blurry pink blur fills the lens, followed by a suspiciously close-up shot of a nostril. The orb jolts as its wearer—confirmed Kinkajou—careens down a hallway like a comet with opinions. A lantern sconce is clipped mid-turn and swings dramatically in her wake.]

KINKAJOU (whispered, breathless, giddy):
“Okay okay okay—it’s working. It’s actually working. Oh my moons, this is the best idea I’ve had since I convinced Queen Glory to let me do the RainWing festival finale with real fireworks and not just the illusion ones—”
(pause for breath)
“—which was also the reason Coconut no longer has a hut of his own, but that’s not important right now!”

[Audio: A whoosh of wind. Distant crashing. Someone yelled “HEY!” far behind. Kinkajou laughs like she didn’t just break a land-speed record.]

[Visual: The orb swings past an open window—jungle mist curling along the forested cliffs beyond, ocean gleaming in the distance, and a confused SkyWing gardener watching her go like she’s a rogue jaguar. Which, fair.]

KINKAJOU:
“Okay, here’s the sitch! Super official status update from Kinkajou the… hmmm… Duchess of Mail? No no—Parcel Princess?”
(thinks)
“Emissary of Sticky Notes and Insubordination. Yesss. That’s going on the business cards. Foil printed. Maybe scented.”

[Visual: She banks a hard left and nearly collides with a MudWing pushing a mail cart. The screen blurs violently as she spins in apology.]

KINKAJOU (blazing sincerity):
“Sorry sorry! I am definitely helping and not just filming for the future historical record slash my fan archive!!”
(beat)
“Also your scarf is really cute!! You’re doing great!!”

[Audio: The MudWing mutters something about hazard pay. The orb catches the muffled sound of a fruit crate being punted somewhere offscreen.]

[Visual: Kinkajou clambers up onto a crate. The view bobs and sways until it levels. Ahead, the lower western hall stretches into view: crates of scrolls, baskets of overripe dates, two SkyWings in union vests mid-argument, and at the end of the hall—a truly magnificent statue of Foeslayer. She has clearly been adorned with a novelty top hat. It suits her.]

KINKAJOU (deadpan):
“If anyone tells Darkstalker I filmed this… I will replace all his jewelry polish with mashed bananas. That is not a threat. That’s a promise.”
(cheerfully, into the orb)
“Hi, Turtle! Love you! Don’t watch this until I edit it, okay?”

[Audio: A crash echoes down the hall like an invitation to chaos. Someone yells “WHO MOVED THE ORB STORAGE SHELF?!” and sounds incredibly betrayed.]

[Visual: Kinkajou spins toward the sound like a dragon possessed.]

KINKAJOU (delighted, triumphant):
“New mission! New objective! TO THE CHAOS!
(sotto voice)
“I mean… to the diplomatic response zone! Yeah. That. Woo!”

[The orb shudders as she launches herself forward—tail flying, wings open. The frame smears into streaks of color and speed.]

[END RECORDING SEGMENT – Auto-pause triggered by light collision. Orb integrity: 94% (fine, probably). Mood: Sparkling.]



[RECORDING RESUMES – Orb Integrity: Hanging On Like Qibli’s Dignity]
Visual Clarity : 66% | Stability: “Why Did We Give This Orb Legs”
Time Marker: Late morning. Or possibly the fifth Tuesday of Emotional Turmoil. No one’s slept. Everything’s fine.

[Visual: The orb opens mid-sprint. Floor tiles fly by in dizzying succession. Light slices through windows in sharp geometric beams. A startled servant ducks for cover behind a curtain. Somewhere, a vase crashes.]

[Audio: Breathless humming. The kind you hear before something explodes.]

KINKAJOU (sing-song, far too chipper):
“Gooooood morning, Agate Palace! The sun is shining! The torches are—oh moons, someone definitely forgot the torches—”
( gasp)
“Mission! Torch patrol! I’m writing that down. Mentally. With glitter.”

[She skids to a halt. The orb jostles and steadies. They are facing a half-closed door. Faint voices inside. Indistinct. Murmured. Suspiciously flirty.]

KINKAJOU (lowering her voice):
“Okay okay okay. Quiet paws. Stealth mode. I gotta check on our favorite SandWing disaster. He’s probably journaling about Moon again. Or building another miniature model of her wingspan out of candied ginger. Totally normal. Not weird.”

[She nudges the door open.]

[Visual: It swings wide just as the orb adjusts focus—revealing the exact opposite of “normal.” Qibli is very obviously in Winter’s lap. They are kissing. Or possibly arguing through their teeth. There is definite grappling. Claws. Breathless growling. Qibli makes a noise that’s either “ow” or “don’t stop.”]

KINKAJOU (scandalized whisper):
“OH. MY. MOONS.
IS HE—ARE THEY—
WINTER’S FINALLY DOING FACE VIOLENCE!!
I KNEW IT!!”

[Audio: Two simultaneous shrieks. A very undignified crash.]

[Visual: Qibli tumbles backward off the chair. Winter jerks upright like someone detonated a proximity dragonflame cactus beneath his tail. His entire face is pink. His horns are pink. He looks like a mortified glacier.]

WINTER (bellowing):
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!!”

KINKAJOU (zooming in unhelpfully):
“I LIVE HERE!!
Qibli, is your snout bleeding or is that lip gloss?! WAIT—are you wearing lip gloss?
Is this what diplomacy looks like now???”

QIBLI (from the floor, muffled by shame and upholstery):
“Kinkajou. Orb off. Turn it off.
TURN. IT. OFF.”

KINKAJOU (with malicious glee):
“Orb, enhance.”

[Visual: The orb obliges. It fisheyes. Winter’s furious face now dominates the screen like a very offended moon.]

WINTER (sputtering):
“I swear on the ENTIRE IceWing royal line, if you show this to anyone—”

KINKAJOU (giggling uncontrollably):
“Too late!! It’s for history!! It’s for science!! It’s for my personal HAPPINESS!!”

[Audio: Scuffling. There’s a lunge. Possibly two. One of them shouts something about “betrayal” and “a throw blanket is not a weapon.”]

[Visual: The orb spins wildly as Kinkajou makes her escape, cackling. Final frame before the cut is Qibli tangled in aforementioned blanket, shrieking “I TRUSTED YOU!!”]

[JUMP CUT – The orb is now upside down. The hallway is empty. A fruit basket rolls slowly past like post-battle debris.]

KINKAJOU (off-screen, panting, deeply thrilled):
“Okay!! Cool!! Not emotionally traumatized at all!! Just saw my bestest friends tongue-fighting like it’s a SandWing mating ritual! Whee!!”

[Visual: She swerves into a much calmer hallway, lined with bookcases and zero open-mouthed aggression.]

KINKAJOU (softly, as if approaching a sacred site):
“Okay. Now we center ourselves. Now we go find Moon. Moon is calm. Moon is wise. Moon will fix my emotional scars with her gentle voice and aggressively healthy boundaries—”

[She pauses outside a reading nook. The orb leans in. Music. Warm sunlight spills through lattice windows. A mug is settled peacefully beside a NightWing curled in a sunbeam like a prophecy made flesh.]

KINKAJOU (whispering reverently):
“There she is. The ethereal one. The mysterious seer.
Moon Moon.
The anti-Qibli.”

[Pause.]

KINKAJOU (still whispering):
“She has no idea I just watched her two boyfriends chew each other’s faces like overripe mangoes.”

[Moon sighs. Lifts her mug. Doesn’t look up.]

MOON (placidly):
“I know exactly what you saw.”

KINKAJOU (GASP):
“You mind read me!!”

MOON (turning a page):
“You’re louder than your thoughts. Also I left the orb on. Again.”

KINKAJOU:
“So… you’re saying I can make a highlight reel?”

MOON (sipping tea):
“Just remember. I know where you sleep.”

[The orb freezes on Moon’s sweet smile. A very sweet smile. The kind of smile you carve into warning stones.]

[END SEGMENT – Transitioning to unrelated frog footage, for reasons. Possibly censorship.]



[RECORDING CONTINUES – Orb Calibration Stable, For Once]
Visual Clarity : 72% | Stability: Suspiciously Smooth (She’s Crouching Again)
Time Marker: Mid-Afternoon (Lighting: Cozy Menace. Magic Hum: Disapproving.)

[Visual: The frame opens on a partially cracked door. Heavy stone. Soft golden light spills out like the start of a dream. Somewhere inside, a kettle whistles. Elsewhere, something magical fizzles with the quiet tension of a held breath and a bad idea.]

KINKAJOU (whispering, like a tiny yellow and pink gremlin):
“Okay okay okay. Entering extremely forbidden territory. Beyond this door lies one (1) reformed immortal war criminal and one (1) emotionally competent SeaWing with culinary ambitions. Proceeding with caution. And squeaky claws.”

[She nudges the door open just a little more. The orb adjusts focus, lens catching the corner of a sitting room that looks suspiciously like a cozy crime scene made of pillows, books, and ambiance. There’s a low glow to everything. Tea set. Shelves. Something vaguely enchanted floating politely near the ceiling.]

[Visual: Turtle sits cross-legged on the rug, brow furrowed, stirring something thick and green in a ceramic bowl. Across from him, Darkstalker lounges with all the self-restraint of someone who definitely enchanted a senator’s chair to collapse mid-speech earlier and is now in his “wounded poetry” era.]

KINKAJOU (soft gasp, delighted):
“Ohhh my moons. They’re nesting.”

[Sound: Her foreclaw hits the doorframe. It makes a quiet but damning thud.]

DARKSTALKER (without looking up):
“Kinkajou. If you value your limbs, do not narrate. ”

[Visual: He turns toward the orb. The camera immediately zooms into his face. It is Too Much Face. Perfect symmetry. Dubious benevolence. Eyes like dusk swallowing stars.]

KINKAJOU (grinning):
“Hi!! I’m doing a documentary! About friendship! And romance! And possibly snacks. It's historical. You’re gonna be famous.”

TURTLE (calmly, not looking up):
“Is it at least skimmable?”

DARKSTALKER:
“She caught Winter and Qibli earlier. There’s no going back.”

[Visual: Kinkajou tiptoes/claws(?) into the room. The orb dips to follow her line of sight—down to the bowl in Turtle’s claws, where green frosting is being piped onto what appears to be... seaweed? Unclear. It glistens ominously.]

KINKAJOU (reverent whisper):
“Is that... seaweed cake?”

TURTLE (brightly, still focused):
“Seaweed and lemon blossom! I’m inventing new diplomatic snacks.”
(beat)
“And no, you can’t put this on the orb. If Glory sees it, she’ll make me cater the next summit. I only just got out of it last time.”

[Visual: Darkstalker casually leans in to steal a piece. Turtle smacks his claw with a wooden spoon. It makes a heroic thwack. ]

TURTLE (deadpan):
“You enchanted the last batch to explode if someone said "sorry" near it.”

DARKSTALKER (offended, unrepentant):
“It was thematic. ”

KINKAJOU (dreamily):
“This is the healthiest relationship I’ve ever seen.”

[Audio: Darkstalker chuckles low in his throat. The room dims slightly, like his amusement flickered the lighting charm.]

DARKSTALKER:
“That says more about you than it does about us, sparkleclaws.”

[Visual: The orb catches a long, quiet look exchanged between the two dragons. Turtle doesn’t smile. He just raises an eyebrow. Darkstalker softens. You could write an entire novel in the way their eyes meet and end it with “and they lived.”]

KINKAJOU (whispering, quieter this time):
“Okay but like… actually. You guys are cute. Like, “broke zero kingdoms this week” cute.”

TURTLE (soft smile):
“It’s nice. You know. Being boring together.”

DARKSTALKER (mock scandalized):
“ Boring? ”

TURTLE:
“Emotionally boring.
Magically you’re a walking natural disaster and I adore you.”

[A pause. A beat of breath and magic and domestic warmth.]

KINKAJOU (sniffling):
“I’m gonna cry.”

[Visual: Darkstalker leans in. Turtle smears a stripe of green frosting across his snout. The expression he makes is both deeply offended and exactly what he deserved. Turtle’s smirk is devastating.]

KINKAJOU (whisper-hissing):
“Okay. I’m leaving before they start making out over cursed baked goods. That’s a sacred act and I do not need it burned into my retinas.”
(pause)
“…Unless it’s for the blooper reel.”

[Visual: She backs out. The orb tilts just in time to catch Darkstalker flinging a spoon at the door. It hits the frame with a delicate clink. ]

[Audio: Turtle giggling. Quiet. Real.]

[END SEGMENT – Auto-transitioning to footage of Kinkajou dive-bombing off a balcony and yelling “orb, record SICK AERIALS” as she goes.]



[RECORDING RESUMES – The orb chirps back to life like a sleepy librarian waking up mid-thesis.]
Visual Clarity : 78% | Stability: “Shockingly Steady” (Thanks to SkyWing express.)
Time Marker : Between Tea and Trouble. Golden Hour Mischief Imminent.

[Visual: Jade Mountain Academy appears in the distance, bathed in late sunlight. Warm stone. Familiar peaks. A sense of home, if home also occasionally tried to collapse on you.]

[Sound: Wind. Wingbeats. The thump of an excited RainWing hopping off a fast-moving cart.]

KINKAJOU (bright, windblown, absolutely vibing):
“BACK where it all began!! Friendship! Enlightenment! Mild prophecy-induced trauma!! Let’s go see how everyone’s healing in totally different, questionably healthy ways!!”

[Visual: She bounds into the main courtyard like she owns the place. Students scatter. One younger dragon stares like he’s seen a ghost. Or a celebrity. Possibly both.]

KINKAJOU:
“That’s right, baby! I used to RUN these halls!!”
Okay. Walked. Briskly. Occasionally walked into aggressive SeaWing princesses with too much sass and mommy issues. But WITH SPIRIT.”

[Cut: Interior – Library. Dim. Peaceful. Spooky. Like someone taught a forest to read.]

[Visual: Scrolls. Books. Lanterns glowing like quiet stars. Dangerously high stacks of paper. One chalkboard says, in suspiciously stern handwriting: “NO SPELLS, NO SNACKS, NO FLIRTING.”]

KINKAJOU (stage whisper):
“Behold. The grand sage of Jade Mountain. The all-seeing owl. The eternal librarian. The one… the only… STARFLIGHT.”

[Visual: Starflight is mid-annotation, surrounded by scrolls and quills.]

STARFLIGHT (dryly, not looking up from his scrolls):
"Rule #9: No strapping recording orbs to your head and narrating people’s lives like a prophecy podcast."

A beat. The faintest mechanical whir comes from the orb. Fatespeaker, seated beside him with her wing casually draped over his, leans in to murmur something.

KINKAJOU (grinning):
"Aww, you did miss me."

STARFLIGHT (still dry, adjusting his bandage):
"I missed quiet. And my scrolls not bursting into flames."

FATESPEAKER (stage whisper):
"That means he loves you."

STARFLIGHT (sighing):
"And I loved shelf stability."

FATESPEAKER (gasping suddenly, wings flaring for maximum drama):
"Wait! I’m getting a vision!"

STARFLIGHT (not looking up):
"You're getting a dramatic idea."

FATESPEAKER (eyes wide, voice hushed):
"No, really. I see… a mysterious force… approaching. Hot, dangerous… probably setting something on fire—"

STARFLIGHT (monotone):
"Is it Peril?"

FATESPEAKER (cheerfully):
"It’s always Peril."

[Enter: Peril. The door creaks.]

[Visual: The temperature rises. Metaphorically.]

[Peril steps in like a sunrise with anxiety. She’s wearing her enchanted bracelet—runes faint, currently active. Her posture is half-defensive, half-proud.]

KINKAJOU (delighted gasp) :
“OH MY MOONS HI PERIL!! YOU’RE NOT ON FIRE!!!
You’re like, so not on fire right now!!”

PERIL (deadpan) :
“Thanks. I practiced.”
(beat)
“Turned it on again before I got here. You know. Because of the whole ‘don’t accidentally flambé anyone unless they really deserve it, but probably not even then, because Clay wouldn’t like that, and also libraries have flammable things’... situation.”

STARFLIGHT (softly) :
“Sincerely appreciated.”

PERIL (already halfway across the room) :
“I mean I could’ve left it off for dramatic effect. Like boom! Flames! Surprise! But that’d be a terrible idea. Not that I haven’t done terrible ideas before, I just—wait, sorry, did you want these?”

[Visual: She drops a stack of slightly singed scrolls on the desk with a satisfying thud. One is lightly smoking.]

PERIL (muttering as she arranges them) :
“They’re on scroll preservation. Mostly. And guilt. One of them’s just a picture scroll because my brain was going all buzzy yesterday and I needed something with less words and more angry seals.”

FATESPEAKER (grinning) :
“I love angry seals.”

PERIL (shrugging, a little proud) :
“Right? They're so small and mad and they yell like I used to.”

STARFLIGHT (adjusting a half-charred scroll) :
“Rule #11: No marine mammal metaphors in academic citations.”

PERIL (completely serious) :
“Too late. I put one in the margins.”

PERIL (awkwardly, avoiding eye contact):
“Didn’t read all of them.
One I just stared at until I wanted to punch a wall.
So… that kind of counts?”

STARFLIGHT (surprisingly gentle):
“That counts.”

[Visual: Kinkajou sloooowly pans the orb between them like a nature documentary.]

KINKAJOU (soft, hushed awe) :
“There is so much unresolved emotional tension in this room.
I can taste it.
It tastes like burnt bookmarks and repressed feelings.”

PERIL (whipping around like she’s been personally accused) :
“What are you doing?! Why are you—what—why are you narrating my emotional arc?!”

KINKAJOU (innocently) :
“Filming a documentary about how Clay’s terrifying girlfriend is secretly soft as bread pudding.”

PERIL (utterly scandalized) :
“I am not soft. I still think about throwing Scarlet into a volcano twice a week.”

KINKAJOU (gently, smugly) :
“But with love in your heart.”

PERIL (spluttering) :
“It’s not love —it’s righteous vengeance. There’s a difference. A big difference. One is, like, warm and squishy and involves feelings, and the other is me standing dramatically on a volcano ledge with wind blowing in my face and a speech about justice, okay?!”

[Visual: She crosses her arms. A single spark pops off her scale. Kinkajou beams.]

KINKAJOU (grinning) :
“Mmhm. Squishiest vengeance I’ve ever seen.”

PERIL (defensive mutter) :
“I will literally set your snout on fire.”

STARFLIGHT (not looking up) :
“Rule #27: No threats of arson in the archives.”

PERIL (under her breath, backing away) :
“Whatever. Still not soft. You’re soft. Your face is soft.”

[CUT: Kitchen.]

[Visual: Absolute chaos. Steam clouds the air. There are flour pawprints on the counters. A suspiciously empty baking pan rests beside a visibly used whisk. Someone is sobbing quietly in the background, possibly from joy, possibly because of the spice level.]

KINKAJOU (shouting joyfully) :
“MY BREAD-BROTHER!! THE DUMPLING KING!! THE LEGEND HIMSELF!!”

[Visual: CLAY looks up. His face is dusted in flour. He's wearing an apron that says ‘HOT STUFF’ in glittering, lovingly embroidered letters. There’s dough on his nose and the kind of incandescent smile that could power a city.]

CLAY (beaming) :
“Kinkajou! I was just thinking about you!”

KINKAJOU (fanning herself) :
“That’s because I’m magical and radiant and you love me. What’re you making??”

CLAY (with the pride of a chef unveiling a culinary masterpiece) :
“MudWing family dumplings! Trying a new twist—fruit filling!”
(beat)
“Turtle gave me the idea.”

[Peril enters. She sniffs once, like a predator catching the scent of weakness. Her snout twitches. Her eyes narrow. She’s wearing her enchanted bracelet, which faintly glows—active and stable. The room spikes about three degrees warmer.]

PERIL (suspiciously) :
“Do I smell… pears?”

CLAY (cheerful as ever) :
“Yeah! Wanna—?”

PERIL (cutting him off with the ferocity of a dragon who has clearly been personally wronged by fruit) :
“ NO. ”

[Beat. The steam hisses slightly. Kinkajou makes a sound like a squeaky kettle trying not to laugh.]

CLAY (utterly unfazed) :
“Okay! But I’m making extra lava-cakes later just for you.”

PERIL (deadpan, barely audible) :
“…Okay.”

[Visual: She tries not to look too soft about it. She fails. She stands next to the counter stiffly like a guard post that’s been handed a cupcake.]

KINKAJOU (emotional gasp, dramatically wiping a non-existent tear) :
“I SWEAR IF ANYONE HURTS THIS FAMILY I’M GOING TO BLOW UP THE SUN.”

PERIL (without looking up, distracted by a blob of frosting on Clay’s horn) :
“I mean I could help with that. Volcano experience. I’ve been lava-adjacent. I’m basically qualified.”

KINKAJOU (glowing with joy) :
“See?? This is what I mean. Look at her. She’s thriving . This is her peak form.”

PERIL (blinking, startled) :
“I am not peaking! I am emotionally average and internally on fire and you cannot prove otherwise!”

KINKAJOU (softly) :
“You’re learning how to be happy, Peril. That’s scarier than any volcano.”

[Visual: The orb spins around slowly, capturing the scene like a painting—Starflight sitting off to one side with a scroll in his lap, ears perked at the conversation. Peril leaning awkwardly but with quiet purpose against the counter. Clay humming as he folds dough with massive, loving claws. Kinkajou bouncing slightly on her heels, full of sugar and chaotic love.]

KINKAJOU (narrating softly, as if for the end of her episode) :
“They’re weird. And crispy. And full of feelings they refuse to name.”
(she wipes her eye, dramatically)
“And I love them more than I love fruit pastries.
Which is a lot. ”

[Visual: CLAY holds up a dumpling, reverently. Like an offering to the moons. Steam curls off it gently. It glows slightly. It smells like everything good in the world.]

CLAY (smiling) :
“Want one?”

KINKAJOU (grinning) :
“Does a RainWing sunbathe?! YES.”

[PERIL takes one too, muttering under her breath the entire time about how it’s not because she cares, she just didn’t have breakfast, and pears are still evil, but Clay made it and that’s the only reason she’s not setting the basket on fire.]

[Visual: Somewhere in the corner, the empty baking pan mysteriously vanishes.]

[END SEGMENT – Auto-transitioning to footage of Kinkajou dropping dumpling dough into the batter and yelling “EXPERIMENTAL FLAVOR PROFILE!” while Clay screams offscreen.]



[RECORDING CONTINUES – Ambient Orb Stability Optimal]
Visual Clarity : 85% | Stability: Smooth. Careful. Like breath held respectfully.
Time Marker : Golden Hour (Physically & Emotionally)

[Visual: The orb blooms to life in a flush of amber light. We open on a sun-drenched greenhouse terrace: stone archways wrapped in ivy, glass aglow with soft light, trailing vines rustling overhead. Butterflies flicker like petals caught in slow wind.]


[Center frame: Tamarin. She stands tall among the flowerbeds, luminous in shadow and sunlight. Her wings are folded with elegance, frill lifted by the breeze. She’s tending to a hanging orchid—claws deft, movements assured. Her eyes are closed, but she sees everything.]

KINKAJOU (whispering like she’s wandered into something sacred):
“There she is. The coolest dragon at Jade Mountain.
Performer. Healer. Plant whisperer.
Possibly the reason half the palace gets enough sleep.”
(beat, softer)
“My friend. Tamarin.”

[Sound: A soft laugh from the garden. Tamarin’s wings flick in greeting, but she doesn’t turn.]

TAMARIN:
“You’re narrating again.”

KINKAJOU:
“I’m filming a serious historical documentary. For posterity.
For glory. For justice.
...And for the blooper reel.”

TAMARIN (gently teasing):
“Did history ask for seventeen hours of Qibli falling off things?”

KINKAJOU:
“It was eighteen. And it was art. ”

[Visual: Kinkajou moves closer, slow for once. No spinning, no bouncing. Just careful, soft steps over the tile. She settles beside a planter, tail curling in. The orb lens flares as it adjusts to the golden light glancing off her scales.]

KINKAJOU (quieter now):
“You doing okay?”

TAMARIN:
“Always, in the garden.
The plants don’t ask questions. They don’t care what I look like, or what I can’t see.
They just... grow.
They listen.”

[Long silence. The kind that means something. The kind full of leaves and wind and quiet.]

KINKAJOU (softly):
“I listen too.”

[Visual: Tamarin turns, just slightly. Not enough to break the moment. Just enough to let Kinkajou in. The light halos her frill. She doesn’t smile, not exactly—but her face is warm like the greenhouse sun.]

TAMARIN:
“I know you do.”

[Sound: The hum of dragonet laughter through glass. The hush of wings and petals.]

KINKAJOU (gently excited):
“I brought you something!”

[Visual: Her claws rustle through a pouch off-screen. Something thuds gently. The orb tilts to catch a spiky little bulb wrapped in cloth.]

KINKAJOU:
“It’s a... uh... not-exploding cactus? Maybe? Qibli said it was “educational.”
I don’t trust him.”

TAMARIN (smiling now, real):
“Put it next to the peppermint. If it combusts, we’ll call it a science experiment.”

[Visual: Kinkajou reaches out and places the cactus carefully beside a row of humming green leaves. The orb lingers on the way her claws hesitate—then pull back slow.]

KINKAJOU (after a pause):
“ ...Do you ever think about how everyone’s paired off?”

TAMARIN (thoughtfully, with a small shrug):
“Sometimes.
But I’m not waiting for someone.
I’m just... growing.
At my own pace.”
(beat)
“Like the peppermint.
Only slightly less violent.”

[Visual: Kinkajou scoots closer. Just enough for their wings to nearly touch. The orb catches the shimmer in her expression—a quiet, hopeful flicker under all the usual sparkle, from the reflection in the glass.]

KINKAJOU:
“I don’t think I’m waiting either.
But... if something’s already growing...
Maybe I want to see what it turns into.”

[Sound: Nothing. The greenhouse stills. Time folds politely around the moment like petals.]

TAMARIN (soft, almost smiling):
“You sound extra sparkly today.”

KINKAJOU (grinning, because it’s easier than crying):
“That’s not a compliment. That’s a medical condition.”

[They both laugh. The orb trembles slightly with it.]

[Visual: The frame zooms gently to their claws—resting side by side in the sun-warmed stone. Not touching. Yet.]

[END SEGMENT – The orb hums contentedly as the sun finishes setting behind them. Light fades to gold. Then lavender.]



[FINAL SEGMENT – ORB RECORDING ACTIVE]
Visual Clarity : 63% | Stability: Steady. Soft. Like held breath.
Time Marker : Dusk. Emotional classification: Lingering Light.

[Visual: A quiet upper corridor of the Agate Palace. The orb opens on a reflection—Kinkajou, standing before a polished obsidian wall panel. The glow of nearby lanterns shimmers across her scales in rose and amber tones. Flour smudges one cheek. Her eyes are tired. Still bright. Still her.]

KINKAJOU (quietly):
“Okay. That’s probably enough for one day.”

[She lifts one claw, unties the cloth knot holding the orb to her horns. The orb shifts, weightless for a moment. The view tilts upward.]

[Visual: Her full face now, centered and clear. She’s smiling. Not her party grin. The other one—the smile that belongs to nobody but her. Wistful. Real.]

KINKAJOU:
“This was fun.
Silly.
Important.
Loud.”
(beat)
“Kind of like me, huh?”

[She laughs softly—more breath than sound—and taps the orb once with the pad of her claw, like she’s saying thank you without saying it.]

KINKAJOU:
“But I’m gonna be late for Moon.
And she gets that look when I’m late—you know the one.
The “I saw it coming but I’m still judging you” look?
Classic Moonwatcher. Ten out of ten disapproval, with a bonus forehead wrinkle.”

[She trails off for a second. Her gaze shifts sideways, as though memory has opened a window behind her.]

KINKAJOU (softer):
“We’re working on stuff.
Me and her.
Memory stuff.
Breathing stuff.”
(quiet pause)
“Dark caves.
Smoke.
The smell of wet stone and blood and someone laughing and I couldn’t see the sky—”

[She cuts herself off. Breath pulls in, fast and shallow. Then steadies.]

KINKAJOU (gentle again):
“...Anyway.”

[Her smile returns, smaller now. Not fake. Just… edited. Like something mended carefully, with love and thread that doesn’t quite match.]

KINKAJOU:
“We’re learning how not to be stuck there.
In the dark parts.
I get weird about small rooms sometimes. Fires. Flickering torches.
The rainforest helps.
Friends help.”

[She looks down for a moment. Then lifts the orb slightly, letting it catch the gold-dusted stonework, the gentle shift of flamelight.]

KINKAJOU (quieter still):
“Maybe this helped too.
Even if most of it’s just Qibli making kissy noises and Turtle trying to frost his evil husband with a spoon.”

[Visual: She places the orb carefully on a nearby side table—velvet-draped, tucked beneath a mosaic of constellations.]

[The orb now sits at a low angle, angled upward—watching her in profile as palace torchlight paints her scales in molten rose-gold. Her wings shift slightly with the motion of breath.]

KINKAJOU (smiling like she’s sharing a secret):
“Be good, little orb.
Don’t let anyone delete the blooper reel.
Especially not me.”

[She turns. Walks slowly out of frame. Her tail flicks once as she disappears down the hall. It’s not a goodbye. It’s a promise of return.]

[Sound: Fading footsteps. The soft hush of fabric brushing stone.]

[Far off: Voices. Familiar ones. Laughter. Moon’s, maybe. A door opening. The start of something safe.]

[Visual: The orb sits motionless now. Watching. Recording. Waiting. The hallway glows with quiet light. Nothing more happens. But somehow, everything is still unfolding.]

[END SEGMENT – FILE STORED UNDER: KINKAJOU MEMORY ARCHIVE / AGATE PALACE DAYS / “I THINK I’M GROWING”]

Chapter Text

It started, as most poor decisions did, with Darkstalker muttering something about a “misfiled charm bracelet.” Two hours later, Turtle had concluded this was less a search and more a particularly nostalgic episode of magical hoarding.

The vaults beneath Agate Mountain were part of the original animus enchantments, summoned into being in one sweeping, furious spell the moment Darkstalker emerged from centuries of stone. They weren’t old — not technically. The carved stone was pristine, the layout unnaturally neat in structure and unnavigable in purpose.

But the contents? That was another story.

They’d filled quickly. This was where Darkstalker stashed anything potentially useful, mildly sentimental, or dubiously cursed. Shelves of scrolls salvaged from ruined libraries. Boxes of jewelry pulled from ash-stained NightWing ruins. Personal effects that looked like they’d been spirited out of time itself — not through magic, but through sheer stubborn will.

The vault had no natural lighting, and Darkstalker never bothered enchanting any. Bioluminescent algae skimmed the walls in thin, inconsistent patches — most of the illumination came from the faint glow of Turtle’s scales and the occasional flicker of residual enchantment. The air was heavy and still. Damp, somehow. And dust drifted despite the place being less than two years old, which Turtle was almost certain shouldn’t be possible.

Turtle lay sprawled near the doorway, half-curled in an approximation of moral support. Definitely not loafing. Not quite helping. Not quite not helping. He watched Darkstalker dig through piles and drawers like a scavenger with a personal vendetta against the neat and orderly. The larger dragon’s tail swished with mounting irritation every time a scroll disintegrated in his claws or a drawer yielded nothing but cracked inkstones and broken seals.

“This isn’t a vault,” Turtle muttered. “It’s a curated disaster.”

“It’s an archive,” Darkstalker snapped. From somewhere behind a shelf. “A necessary repository of magically significant artifacts.”

“It smells like wet parchment and bad decisions.”

A scroll thudded to the floor. “It’s very organised in my head.”

Turtle’s gaze drifted across the room. Shelves bent under the weight of objects that probably hadn’t seen daylight in a thousand years. A ceremonial spear that looked like it had been bent in half on purpose. A headdress made of feathers and volcanic glass. A cracked obsidian comb. A ring too small for Darkstalker’s claws now.

“A thousand lifetimes ago,” Turtle murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Turtle said, with a faint smile.

Darkstalker surfaced briefly from a trunk like a dragon attempting to swim in sentimental debris. His horns were dusted grey, and his expression was one part determined, two parts offended by memory.

“I’m starting to think this bracelet doesn’t exist,” Turtle offered.

“It exists,” Darkstalker grumbled. “I enchanted it myself. Twice. Once to ward off poisons. Once to make Clearsight’s scales shimmer. It’s here somewhere.”

Turtle tilted his head, voice light. “What if she got rid of it?”

Darkstalker paused, just long enough for the silence to feel like a door closing. Then:

“She wouldn’t,” he said. “It was pretty.”

“I can be pretty. If it helps.”

That earned a flick of Darkstalker’s tail.

Turtle hummed. “I like your newer spells better anyway. Like the one that makes tea hover without spilling.”

“Vastly underappreciated spellwork,” Darkstalker muttered.

Turtle smiled and let his chin rest on a slab of conjured basalt. Somewhere behind them, Blob squelched past like a sentient pudding with criminal intent, trailing damp prints and the faint sound of suction.

It was quiet down here. Peaceful. The kind of peace that only comes after everything else has already burned down around you and you're still here. Still trying.

Then, silence.

The kind that wasn’t peaceful. The kind that held its breath.

Darkstalker’s voice returned — softer this time. Threaded with something fragile.

“Oh,” he murmured. “Hello, you.”

He emerged from the shadow of a collapsed bookshelf, something small and strange cupped between his claws.

Turtle lifted his head.

It was a narrow, hourglass-shaped charm, carved from obsidian and bone, its center filled with shifting, shimmering sand. Not one color, but two: black and white, distinct and unmixed. The grains moved as though stirred by thought alone.

“You enchanted it?” Turtle asked — gently, already knowing the answer.

“Of course I did,” Darkstalker said. His eyes were distant now, turned inward. “Fathom and I argued about animus magic. He was obsessed with the idea that it… degraded something in us. Our souls. So I made this. To prove a point.”

Turtle blinked. “You made your friend a soul reader?”

“More or less. Black sand for good. White sand for bad. It’s weighted slightly toward guilt.” He paused, then chuckled. “Very NightWing of me.”

“And he believed it?”

“He wanted to,” Darkstalker said. “Everyone wants proof they’re still good.”

Turtle hesitated. “Does it work?”

Darkstalker gave it a casual toss and caught it mid-air. “Here. Try it. Unless you’re hiding something.”

“I hide everything,” Turtle said, catching it with a claw. “You know that.”

He held it gingerly. It was heavier than it looked. Cold. The sand within was already shifting again, like it was responding to his pulse.

Darkstalker turned away again, already distracted. “Try pointing it. No, the rune side toward your chest. Like that—”

The hourglass tilted in his claws.

And the sand poured.

At first, Turtle thought it wasn’t working. But the black sand began to gather immediately — slow, thick, steady — almost all of it. A few specks of white swirled lazily at the edges, like distant doubts.

He huffed softly. “Well. Guess I’m decent.”

“You’re exasperatingly decent,” Darkstalker agreed. “If you weren’t, I’d worry about your taste in partners.”

With a half-smile, Turtle rotated the glass once more, watching the black fill the bottom again.

Darkstalker was back to rummaging now, muttering about misplaced orbs and “utterly disorganized magical filing systems” like he wasn’t the only one responsible for every box in the vault. His tail flicked lazily behind him, half-curled, movements fluid and unbothered. The glow from Turtle’s bioluminescent scales danced against the stone walls, refracted in the glass edges of unmarked jars and the dull sheen of scrap metal.

Turtle didn’t move at first. Just lay there on his side, holding the hourglass loosely in his claws. The cool weight of it pressed into his palm, sand grains stilling like breath in a throat.

He looked at the glass.

Then at Darkstalker.

He didn’t mean anything by it. Not really. No suspicion, no unease, no doubt burning under his scales. Just… curiosity. The idle kind, the kind that creeps in when your partner’s muttering about trinkets from a thousand years ago and you’ve been lying in the same spot for too long. The kind of curiosity that comes with knowing someone too well — their tempers, their flaws, their jokes, their silences — and still choosing to stay.

It wasn’t meant to be a test.

It wasn’t meant to be anything.

Turtle shifted a little, elbow digging into the stone. The air was dry. His own bioluminescence cast dim green pools on the walls and over the scattered piles of hoarded history. Blob was somewhere deep in the stacks now, quietly squelching mischief. And Darkstalker… Darkstalker was humming, tunelessly, distractedly, as if he'd forgotten Turtle was even there.

The hourglass tilted, almost on its own.

Just a small movement. A flick of the wrist. Rune-side forward. Pointed not like a weapon — just aligned. Just aligned.

The sand stirred.

Then surged.

Turtle stilled.

White. Not speckled or hesitant. Not neutral or unreadable. White sand, falling fast. Flooding the bottom chamber like a tide unleashed. Not violently. Not thunderous.

Just… complete.

Only a few flecks of black drifted down after it. Quiet. Reluctant. Like they didn’t belong there. Like they were fighting the pull and losing anyway.

Turtle’s breath caught in his throat. Sharp. Small. Involuntary.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

The hourglass clicked faintly as the last white grain settled.

Across the room, Darkstalker stopped moving.

No pause. No hesitation. He just… stopped. One claw still buried in a half-open crate. His head slowly turned, the angle of it just slightly too perfect. Too still.

He looked at Turtle.

Then at the charm in Turtle’s claws.

And his eyes widened — not dramatically, not in fear or pain or horror. Just enough to show he recognized it. Not the object. The moment.

The way everything, for just a heartbeat, collapsed in on itself.

A silence like pressure. Like falling. Like the sound between lightning and thunder.

Darkstalker stared at the hourglass.

And Turtle, suddenly too hot under his scales, too aware of his breath, wanted to say something. Anything. A joke. A deflection. Something safe.

But his mouth was dry. His tongue refused to move.

And Darkstalker saw.

He saw it all.

Turtle felt like his life flashed before his eyes.
Not the dramatic kind, not the near-death montage dragons talk about in hushed tones after battle. No—this was worse.
This was everything they’d built, spiraling through his head all at once like he’d thrown it in the ocean and watched it sink.

Darkstalker’s laugh when Turtle teased him in the gardens.
The ridiculous way he insisted on carrying every scroll in his own claws because “they’re just lighter when I do it.”
His quiet sighs when he fell asleep pressed against Turtle’s chest.
That one kiss outside the Night Market, warm lantern light on his scales.
The way he grumbled at Blob, or read aloud without realizing, or smiled when Turtle did nothing but exist beside him.
The way he let himself be soft.

And now—now he wasn’t.
Because the face Darkstalker wore wasn’t angry.
It wasn’t hurt.
It wasn’t anything.

It was the mask.
The one he put on when the world became too loud, too sharp, too cruel to risk vulnerability.

Blank. Carved from something older than emotion.

Turtle didn’t need magic to know he’d just made a mistake so profound it made his stomach turn.

No beating around it.
He fucked up.

He didn’t mean to, he never meant to—but the hourglass in his claws told another story, and Darkstalker’s eyes looked right through him.

And meanwhile—

Darkstalker wasn’t in the room anymore.

Not really.

Turtle was suddenly, blurrily, horribly Fathom-shaped .

The stance. The silence. The look.

That same look Fathom had worn when he stepped back, one paw behind the other, just a fraction.
That same look when he whispered, “You’re dangerous, Stalker.”
That same ache. That same betrayal.
That same judgment, dressed in concern.

Darkstalker saw the vault again—but it wasn’t this one. It was the NightWing library, where the light was too cold and the walls too quiet. It was the memory of Clearsight walking away. Of his father saying nothing. Of Fathom flinching when he raised his voice. Of snow, and ruin, and silence.

His claws tightened around the air. His breathing slowed. Controlled. Suppressed.

He wasn’t just hurt.
He wasn’t even angry.

He was back in the place where everything he loved turned to dust.

The soul reader.
The dreams.
The prophecy.
His scroll.

It was all spiraling, the soft golden thread that held him here unwinding with every grain of white sand. Because maybe it was true. Maybe it was always true. Maybe the moment someone looked closely, they’d see the same thing:

A monster.

A beautiful one.
A clever one.
A beloved one, sometimes.

But still—a monster.

Destined to be feared.
Never forgiven.
Never free.

And across the vault, Turtle felt all of it.
The way the temperature shifted. The way the air froze.
Not with magic, but with absence.
The absence of trust.
Of safety.

Of him.

And he didn’t know how to fix it.

Not yet.

But he knew—he knew —this was where everything could fall apart.

The moment Darkstalker stopped to breathe, he knew.
Knew what this was.
Knew what it meant.
Knew, with a sharp, awful clarity, that his ego had always been the death of him.

Of course the sand was white.
Of course it was.

He was born a monster.

His father was right.

And he hated that he remembered. Hated that of all things to survive two thousand years of life, the words that clung to him like old blood were from the moment he hatched.

"Sorry, sister. This is my mother. My moons. My world."

He could still see her, trapped in her shell.
He could have helped.
He could have shared.

But he hadn’t.
He hadn’t wanted to.

He had been greedy before he’d even stood on his own talons.

And now—

He’d done it again.

Not with magic. Not with force. Not with spells that rewrote the world.
But with that same root flaw:
Me. Mine. My world.

Even now, standing beneath the palace he built with his own claws—filled with allies, surrounded by dragons who trusted him—he was alone.

No Clearsight.
No Fathom.
And now—

Maybe no Turtle.

All that power. All those futures. A mind that could fracture the sky if he wanted.
And here he stood.

Reduced to silence by a pile of sand and a dragon who’d loved him despite it.

Maybe he was just… idiotic.

Born with gifts no dragon should hold.
No moral compass. No boundaries. No one to stop him.
Only knowledge.
Only the relentless, blinding truth that he could —
That he would —
And so, he did.

And what did it make him?

A narcissist? A monster? A cautionary tale?

He thought about the dreams. The illusions. The children he missed like lost limbs—who had never even existed.

He thought about Foeslayer. He thought about Whiteout.

He thought about Turtle.

Oh.

Turtle.

There was a grief to that thought. Not fear. Not anger.

Grief.

Because Turtle was not Clearsight.
Turtle was not Fathom.
Turtle didn’t see him as a dragon to be fixed or feared.
Turtle simply… stayed.

Even now. Still here.

Darkstalker glanced at him, quiet and motionless across the room, the hourglass still trembling faintly between his claws.

Turtle looked stricken.
Not afraid.
Not angry.

Gutted.

And Darkstalker—
Darkstalker couldn’t bear that expression.

He didn’t want to shout. He didn’t want to lie. He didn’t want to snap the way he had when he was younger and emptier and convinced that dominance was the only currency that mattered.

He just… wanted to be good.
Not as a performance. Not to be seen as good.
Just to be worthy of standing beside the dragon who’d once kissed his muzzle in the moonlight and told him he was more than his past.

And yet.
Here they were.
The soul reader didn’t lie.

So what now?

Take space?
Cool off?
Fly until his wings hurt just to avoid the heat in his chest?
Say nothing and wait for Turtle to speak?

But even that felt wrong.

Because he didn’t want distance.

He wanted—no, needed —Turtle.
Still.
Greedily.
Desperately.
Ashamedly.

Because Darkstalker, in all his centuries of knowing, still didn’t know how to be worthy of love he hadn’t forced.

He drew a slow, shaking breath.

“…I don’t want to lose you,” he said.

Quiet. Not a plea. Not a performance.

Just a dragon at the end of the world, again. Hoping someone might stay this time.

And the silence that followed stretched too long.
Too brittle.
Too sharp.

Turtle didn’t speak.
Didn’t step forward.
Didn’t move.

He just stood there, holding that soul reader like it had rewritten everything they were.

Darkstalker watched his partner’s mouth open… then close.
Open again.
Close again.

No words.

And that was enough.
That was too much.

Darkstalker flinched like he’d been struck. His eyes clenched shut—tight, tight—because he knew. In Turtle’s claws, he would feel the same.

He didn’t wait to hear it.

Didn’t wait to see the expression.

Didn’t dare reach for his magic, or risk listening to the future, terrified of what either might tell him.

So he ran.

Past Turtle, past the hourglass, past the warmth of the vault and out into the cold silence of stone corridors. His pace was fast, then faster—talons hammering against polished floors. Panic was eating him from the inside. His heart thundered. His breath caught. His wings dragged once, then flared.

By the time he reached the outer courtyard, he didn’t slow—he launched. A leap, a pulse of magic-enhanced flight, and he was airborne. Higher than any SkyWing, faster than a thought, cutting through clouds and wind alike with a desperation too heavy to name.

He didn’t know how far he flew.

Only that he landed hard, like falling back into himself. A hop. A stumble. A gallop that refused to slow.

The entrance to Jade Mountain Academy was up ahead, and he barely registered the startled students leaping aside, the confused gasps from faculty as he barrelled down smooth new tunnels and upgraded halls.

So much had changed since he’d last been here.

Lighting now glowed gentle amber along the walls. The floors were softer, sanded smooth and quiet underfoot. Tapestries hung here and there—student art, banners from the tribes, little memories woven into fabric. There were doors now. Real doors. Some with signs, some painted by claw, some humming faintly with gentle animus wards of protection or silence.

He didn’t know where he was going.

Not at first.

Until his claws slowed, unthinking, just outside a warm yellow door painted with lazy suns and a small gold pawprint in the corner.

Sunny.

His many-times-great-niece. Whiteout’s many-times-great-granddaughter. A dragon with warmth like summer and a stubbornness to match. One of the only dragons in the world who could look at him without flinching.

Darkstalker stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, wings trembling from the flight, claws curled against the stone.

He didn’t knock.

He just… breathed.

One, two, three ragged breaths.

His eyes burned. Not from the wind.

From everything else.

He raised a claw to knock.

Stopped.

Pressed his forehead to the door instead, like a dragonet trying to will the world into making sense again.

Please be here, he thought. Please open the door.

He didn’t know what he would say.

Didn’t know if he could say anything.

But the weight in his chest was too heavy for silence. And he couldn’t bear carrying it alone.

Not anymore.

The door creaked.

Not all the way. Just a sliver. Just enough for soft light to spill onto the stone floor and catch the tip of Darkstalker’s snout.

“...Darkstalker?”

Her voice was gentler than memory. Sleep-rough and sun-warm. She’d probably been dozing, or reading something curled in a blanket.

He didn’t lift his head.

Didn’t move.

Sunny’s golden snout peeked through the doorway, blinking at the sight of him slouched there like a fallen monument. “What—are you—did something happen?”

Silence.

Then, hoarsely: “Can I come in?”

She opened the door the rest of the way.

The room behind her was a small, book-laden chaos. Blankets everywhere. Scrolls stacked in waves on carved driftwood shelves. A half-melted candle. A bowl of something fruity and suspicious on the desk.

But it was warm.

And it smelled like mangoes and safety.

Darkstalker stepped inside slowly. No dramatics. No grandeur. Like he was afraid if he moved too fast, he might shatter.

Sunny shut the door behind him and didn’t speak right away. She just walked across the room, grabbed a cushion, and tossed it to the floor with a practiced flick of her tail. He took it without asking, curling onto it like someone who hadn’t sat still all day.

Only then did she settle beside him, not touching, but close.

“...Want to talk?” she asked softly.

“I don’t know,” he rasped.

“Want mango slices instead?”

A laugh snorted out of him before he could stop it. It was half-strangled, half-sob.

Sunny tilted her head, smiling gently. “That’s more like it.”

He closed his eyes and dropped his head into his claws. “I messed up.”

“Okay,” she said. No judgment. Just acknowledgment.

“I… I didn’t mean to, but I—” He swallowed. “There’s this hourglass. An old enchantment I made. It reads morality. Intention. It’s not perfect, but… it’s not wrong, either.”

She was still.

“I pointed it at Turtle,” he said. “It was fine. He’s always fine. He’s made of decency and self-deprecation and saltwater.”

Another laugh, thinner this time.

“I wasn’t going to. But he… he pointed it at me. And it turned white. Just white. Like I’m… evil. Entirely. And I just—” He stopped, swallowed again. His voice cracked. “I just looked at him. And he looked back. And I saw it in his eyes.”

Sunny finally moved then. Just a little. She leaned her side gently against his, grounding him with her warmth.

“I tried so hard,” he whispered. “I gave up everything. The power. The compulsion. The temptation to change the world. I did all of that because I wanted to be good. For him.”

“And you still are,” Sunny said. “Trying is… more than most.”

“I saw his face,” Darkstalker repeated. “I saw the doubt. And I ran.”

Sunny was quiet. Then: “Have you considered maybe he’s scared, too?”

He blinked. “Of me?”

“No. Of hurting you.”

That hit like a stone to the gut.

He looked down. Claws trembling faintly. “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t,” Sunny said softly. “Not right away. But maybe… you just go back. And tell the truth. All of it. No magic. No charm. Just… you.”

He let out a breath like it had been trapped for centuries.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “Of messing up. Of becoming who I was.”

“You’re not who you were.”

He looked over at her. “How can you be sure?”

“Because the old you wouldn’t be sitting here,” she said. “He wouldn’t be terrified of hurting someone. He wouldn’t be asking how to be better.”

Another pause.

Then Sunny reached over and pulled the bowl of mango slices off her desk. She held one up in her claws.

“Also, that version of you hated mangoes.”

Darkstalker gave a shaky laugh.

And took the slice.

The mango slice was warm from her claws.

He took it gingerly, like it might shatter if he held it too hard. The sweetness coated his tongue, and for a moment, he let the quiet stretch out between them. It wasn't awkward. It felt… deliberate. Like a silence with its own weight.

Sunny leaned her chin into her talons and watched him with soft, gold-limned eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this,” she said, not unkindly.

“Wounded?” Darkstalker offered dryly.

“No.” She wrinkled her snout, thoughtful. “Real.”

He snorted. “Don’t let the mangoes fool you. I’m as dramatic as ever.”

“But you’re sitting in my blanket cave,” Sunny said, “eating fruit, and telling the truth.”

A long exhale. Not quite laughter. Not quite sorrow.

“…I didn’t mean to end up here,” he admitted. “It’s strange. I used to walk through the Night Kingdom and see only paths leading to the throne. I’d look at a mountain and see a monument waiting to be carved. But tonight… I flew blind. And I landed here.”

“Well,” she said gently, “I’m glad you did.”

Darkstalker turned the mango slice between his claws. “I haven’t been back to Jade Mountain since the treaty summit.”

“That was a tense week,” Sunny said, with the diplomatic understatement of a dragon who once refereed a screaming match between Tsunami and Queen Glory while Winter threw snowballs at both of them.

His gaze drifted around her small cave. “You’ve made this place warmer than I remember. Cozier.”

“That’s because I believe scrolls should be cuddled,” Sunny said. “And students should feel like this is home, not just stone and echo.”

Something flickered behind his eyes at that. An echo of different stone halls. Different students.

Different echoes.

“She would have loved this,” he murmured.

Sunny glanced over. “Whiteout?”

He nodded, slow. The memory was already half forming in his voice.

“She used to paint thoughts. Not on scrolls — not even on paper. Just… anywhere. Sometimes I’d walk into a room and find a streak of lavender across the floor. Or tiny indigo dots along the edges of her talons. She didn’t think in words, not the way we do. More like… music in colors. Whole symphonies of feeling.”

He stared down at the fruit slice. Didn’t eat it.

“She never kept secrets,” he said quietly. “Because to her, they didn’t exist. She’d say something like, ‘The stars are humming today,’ and you’d think it was nonsense — and then two days later, we’d be hit with a storm. Or she’d smile at Thoughtful and say, ‘We’re going to be happy, forever,’ like she’d already read the whole story and was just waiting for the rest of us to catch up.”

Sunny listened in silence. Something in her expression shifted — gentleness, yes, but something heavier, too. A kind of awe.

“She was the only dragon who could ever surprise me,” Darkstalker continued. “Even Clearsight — I knew what she’d say before she said it, most of the time. But Whiteout… she was a mirror made of water. You couldn’t predict her. You could only admire the ripples.”

He looked up at Sunny, and there was a softness in his eyes he hadn’t let anyone see since waking up from stone. No one, besides Turtle. “She was the one thing in my life I never wanted to change.”

Sunny’s voice came small. “What happened to her?”

“She lived,” Darkstalker said simply. “After I fell. Thoughtful came for her through the crowd like a storm breaking across still water. She went with him. They loved each other. She lived a long life. A happy one.”

The words ached in his throat. But he smiled, faintly.

“I think she would’ve liked you,” he added. “You’re small, yellow, oddly insistent, and deeply full of light.”

Sunny laughed. “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Darkstalker stretched his wings a little, slowly. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t have to,” Sunny said. “You’re trying. That’s… huge, for someone who used to rewrite destiny on a whim.”

He let his shoulders sink again. Not in defeat — in quiet.

The mango slice, finally, disappeared between his teeth.

Then he said, “You know what’s ironic?”

“What?”

“I was terrified of reading Turtle’s mind, of seeing something I couldn’t bear. And now… all I want is to know what he’s thinking.”

Sunny reached over and nudged his shoulder gently with hers.

“Maybe it’s time you asked.”

Darkstalker startled when something pinged off his snout.

A pebble.

A very determined pebble, which promptly reared back, bonked him again, and rolled smugly to the floor.

Sunny blinked with a knowing smile. “Friend of yours?”

Darkstalker frowned and followed her gaze toward the entrance.

There, panting slightly in the doorway, wings askew, eyes wide with a terrible mix of nerves and determination—

Turtle.

Darkstalker’s breath left him like a punch to the chest.

Turtle looked like he’d run the whole length of the continent. His usually well-kept head frill was fluffed unevenly, bits of dust and travel grit clinging to his neck scales, and the steady bioluminescence along his flank was flickering with exhaustion. But his eyes — his eyes were fixed on Darkstalker like he was anchoring himself in a storm.

“I—” Turtle said, breathless, then paused. Looked at Sunny. “Hi. Sorry. Didn’t mean to— uh— pebble. It found you. Good. Okay.”

He was rambling. And vibrating slightly.

Sunny stood without a word, gave Darkstalker’s shoulder one more soft press, and slipped past Turtle with a kind smile. “Don’t burn my mangoes,” she said lightly, as she passed.

Silence.

Darkstalker stood.

So did Turtle.

Neither spoke.

Turtle’s claws flexed against the smooth stone floor. “I’m—really bad at talking. About—feelings. Things. Confrontations. All of that.” A pause. “You know that.”

Darkstalker didn’t answer. He didn’t move.

Turtle took one shaky step forward. “But I can’t just let you… leave. Not like that. Not when it’s me who—who looked at you like that. I saw your face and I… I saw how much it hurt you.”

Another step. He tripped slightly on his own claws and caught himself.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice cracking. “I didn’t think. That’s the whole problem. I was just holding it. The soul reader. I didn’t think it would still work. I didn’t think it would matter. I just—I got curious and—”

He stopped, choking a little on his own words.

Darkstalker’s expression hadn’t changed. His silence stretched like a blade between them.

Turtle closed his eyes, exhaled hard. “But I saw your face. When you turned. And I would give anything—anything—to take that moment back.”

A long breath.

“I don’t care about that stupid hourglass,” Turtle said, quieter now. “It could spit out purple sand and it wouldn’t change what I know. You are not some ancient horror story. You are not a monster. You are not a mistake.”

His voice shook. “You are the dragon who makes tea float. Who lets me steal half the bed. Who tries so hard not to be the version of yourself everyone else expects. And I—”

He stopped.

Then took one more step. Close enough to touch.

“I love you.”

That got a reaction.

Darkstalker flinched — not visibly, but Turtle saw it, like a ripple beneath the surface of still water.

Turtle raised his claws. “I didn’t say it to fix anything. Or to make you forgive me. Or even to make you stay. I said it because it’s true.”

He was trembling now. Breath hitching, unsure if he was sweating or crying or both.

And then —

Darkstalker exhaled. Slowly. Something uncoiled in his shoulders.

“You enchanted a pebble,” he said.

Turtle blinked. “What?”

“To find me,” Darkstalker clarified, gesturing toward the very smug pebble now lounging by the cave wall.

Turtle coughed a watery laugh. “Well. Yeah. I panicked.”

Darkstalker stepped closer.

He wasn’t smiling. But his eyes had softened.

“I wasn’t ready to hear any of that,” he said. “But I’m… glad I did.”

Turtle swallowed hard.

Darkstalker touched his snout lightly to Turtle’s.

A soft, familiar contact. Careful. Real.

“I don’t know if I’m fixed,” he said, quietly. “I don’t know if I ever will be.”

“I know,” Turtle whispered. “You don’t have to be.”

Darkstalker leaned his forehead into Turtle’s, just for a moment. Let the warmth settle between them. The quiet hum of breath and heartbeat.

Darkstalker let the silence stretch between them—just for a moment longer—so he could feel the way Turtle breathed. The subtle thrum of magic and warmth beneath his scales. The scent of sea salt, faintly spiced with kelp, ink, and something bright and golden and entirely, uniquely Turtle. A scent he’d once called familiar, some time ago now, without knowing how deeply it would settle into his bones.

He leaned in.

Nudged down along the bridge of Turtle’s snout. It was instinctual. Reassurance seeking reassurance. That invisible string between them tugging tighter now that the storm had passed.

He didn’t intend to kiss him.

He meant to nuzzle.

To stay tucked in the quiet of the moment just a little longer.

But his lips bumped into Turtle’s.

An awkward, misaligned-snouts-in-the-way kind of kiss. It made Turtle blink. Darkstalker blinked too.

Then their eyes met.

Darkstalker’s pupils were narrow and lidded, breath hitching, claws curled tight against Turtle’s shoulder like he was trying to ground himself.

And just like that, restraint shattered.

Their mouths crashed together again—sloppy, urgent, imperfect. All teeth and tongues and poorly angled snouts. Turtle half-stepped backward into the wall with a grunt. Darkstalker growled low in his throat and followed him, forearms braced against Turtle’s chest like a dragon barely holding himself back from completely unravelling.

Turtle kissed him back with a kind of relieved ferocity, like yes, yes, I thought I’d lost you and don’t go anywhere ever again . Their horns scraped once as they tilted wrong, corrected, bumped teeth again and didn’t care.

Darkstalker clung. Not gracefully. Not possessively. Desperately.

He kissed like a dragon who’d fallen off the edge of the world and found a single rock to cling to in a tidal wave. And that rock was named Turtle.

When they finally pulled apart, it was because breathing was a thing that apparently still mattered. Turtle was panting. His frill was fluffed out and his eyes slightly dazed.

Darkstalker stared at him.

Then exhaled, voice hoarse.

“I love you too.”

Turtle’s eyes widened.

“I do,” Darkstalker said. “More than I’ve ever loved anything. More than magic. More than legacy. More than myself.”

Turtle opened his mouth.

Darkstalker cut him off, not unkindly, with a quick flick of his claw and a wild, almost nervous smile. “And I was thinking—”

“Always dangerous,” Turtle rasped, dazed.

“Shut up,” Darkstalker said fondly. “I was thinking—maybe we should make this official.”

Turtle blinked. “Official?”

“You know. A ceremony. Words. The whole thing. I can enchant the bands myself. It’ll be tasteful. Or tasteless, if you’d prefer.”

Turtle still looked stunned.

Darkstalker tilted his head. “You’re a prince consort. I’m technically an emperor. Royals do this sort of thing, don’t they?”

“I—yes? I mean, they—sure. But—wait.” Turtle narrowed his eyes. “Are you proposing to me?”

Darkstalker stared at him flatly. “Did the kiss not clarify that?”

“You kissed me like you were about to eat me,” Turtle said.

“I was being romantic ,” Darkstalker said indignantly. “It’s called passion.”

Darkstalker snapped. “You’re the reason I’m still standing, and I’m proposing, yes, because I want to be yours forever. Officially. Publicly. Permanently.”

Turtle’s jaw worked uselessly.

Then he sagged slightly against the wall. “I think I might pass out.”

“Don’t,” Darkstalker said, tugging him close again and wrapping both wings around him like a canopy. “I’m very invested in this moment and I don’t want you unconscious for it.”

“I can’t believe you proposed to me after nearly running away.”

“I panicked,” Darkstalker muttered into his neck. “I wasn’t leaving leaving.”

“You sprinted .”

“You pebbled me.”

Turtle laughed, helpless and stunned and breathless all at once. “Okay. Okay. Yes.”

Darkstalker pulled back slightly, blinking. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Turtle said again, quieter this time. “Yes, I’ll marry you, you ridiculous, dramatic, magical, emotionally feral dragon.”

Darkstalker made a soft sound in his throat—something between a sigh and a strangled laugh—and tucked his snout against Turtle’s shoulder again.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered.

“I’ve been yours,” Turtle said, smiling softly.

“And I’m yours,” Darkstalker said. “Forever. Even when the sand says otherwise.”

Turtle pressed his forehead gently to Darkstalker’s.

“Especially then.”

They stood there for a moment longer, wrapped in wings and heavy breathing and something much more fragile than magic. It would have been the perfect place to stay forever—warm, entangled, slightly rumpled—if not for the faint noise behind them.

A shuffle.

A throat being pointedly cleared.

Very gently.

Followed by the unmistakable scrape of a mug being set down.

Darkstalker froze. Turtle’s frill twitched.

They turned in unison.

Sunny was standing across the room near her desk, holding a steaming cup of tea and wearing the incredibly patient expression of someone trying very hard to be respectful of emotional vulnerability and also wishing she could evaporate through the floor.

Her wings were neatly folded. Her gaze was politely averted.

She said, delicately, “I was just about to come back in. But then I heard… breathing. And then very loud kissing. And I thought, well, maybe if I wait, they’ll remember where they are.”

Darkstalker blinked.

Turtle looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

Sunny smiled, all teeth, and added, “This is a school, you know. A functional educational institution . With children .”

“Right,” Turtle croaked. “Yes. Of course.”

“We should—” Darkstalker’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “We should go.”

“Yes,” Sunny said with visible relief. “Yes, thank you. Please do. Take your… passion. Elsewhere.”

Darkstalker gave a hasty little bow. “Always a pleasure.”

“Uh-huh,” Sunny said, sipping her tea like a dignified hostage. “You two lovebirds try to keep your wings to yourselves until you get back to your actual palace.”

Turtle murmured an apology as they shuffled out backwards, bumping into each other at least twice, both of them trying very hard not to look like two enormous dragons who’d just gotten engaged in someone else's office like a couple of hormonal first-years.

Once they were outside and into the fresher tunnel air, Darkstalker muttered under his breath, “So. Wedding in the courtyard, then?”

Turtle groaned. “Let me recover first.”

Chapter Text

Turtle

I wake up with a sound that could be generously called a whimper and less generously called a squeaky hinge.

Everything’s warm. Too warm. And not the good kind — not his kind. The space beside me is empty, the sheets cooling fast. I reach out anyway, claws brushing against the spot where Darkstalker should be. There’s only leftover heat, barely lingering. No soft hum of breath. No broad chest to drape my wing over. No quiet muttering about scrolls or stars or the fundamental failure of throne room acoustics.

Just me. And a very, very ruined bed.

I inhale. My snout scrunches.

…Oh moons.

There’s no polite way to describe it. The whole chamber reeks of us — sea salt, ancient ink, old obsidian, kelp tea, something like ozone and citrus and over-boiled lust. It’s the scent of someone I’ve kissed too hard and held too tight and told I loved with my claws buried in his spiked frill. The scent of a thousand emotions left unsaid until they boiled over in the dark.

I bury my face in one of the pillows. I immediately regret it. It smells like his neck. I groan again, softly. Less squeaky hinge, more creaking ship about to sink.

We might have… gotten carried away . When we got back.

After Sunny’s office. After the mountainside. After I said I love you and he said it back like it cost him something and gave him everything all at once. After that kiss that didn’t end. After the part where he — with his whole chest, because of course he did — proposed .

I haven’t even had time to process all of that yet, let alone the part where I said yes. There’s a ring on my horn. It catches the light when I shift, a little band of obsidian, inlaid with pearl, and something enchanted enough to tickle my scales every time I start feeling doubt.

I lift my head and squint at the rest of the bed. It looks like a battlefield. Pillows everywhere. Sheets tangled like we fought a small war in them. Which we sort of did. Just without casualties. Unless you count dignity.

My thighs still ache. My jaw too, a little. And my heart.

That last one in a good way.

I roll over and stare at the high arching ceiling of our shared chamber. The morning light filters in soft and slow through the stained glass — not harsh, not blinding. The whole room smells like him and like me and like us, which is still a little surreal. When did I become the kind of dragon who had an us ?

The office door’s slightly ajar. I can hear faint rustling, maybe the scratching of claws on parchment. That’s where he must be — already up, probably surrounded by scrolls and enchantments and his many opinions on how bureaucratic infrastructure is the real villain of history.

I should get up.

I don’t.

Not yet.

Because I know the moment I stand, reality resumes. There’ll be decisions. Letters to send. Dragons to tell. Invitations to write.

My mother.

Oh moons .

I groan and pull a pillow over my face.

Queen Coral is going to lose her mind. And by "lose her mind" I mean she’s going to commission at least three operas, a tapestry, and possibly write a novel where she self-inserts as the mysterious mother of the groom who outsmarts everyone at court.

Which would be… honestly kind of charming. But still terrifying.

I rub the ring on my horn again with the side of my claw.

Fiancé.

Me. Turtle. Turtle the very average, very not-dramatic, very much-in-over-his-head SeaWing prince. Engaged. To Darkstalker .

It doesn’t feel real.

But it is .

I can still feel the ghost of his claws on my shoulders. His voice. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t just a choice, but the choice. Like the whole world could be rewritten, and he’d still pick me every time.

So yeah.

I’m getting up.

Eventually.

Just not before soaking in the warmth for a moment longer.

Because what happened after we got home?

Well.

Everything.

The flight back to the Agate Palace was short, but not short enough to ignore the look in Darkstalker’s eyes.

He kept glancing back at me midair, like I might vanish, or falter, or take it back. Like he needed to see me there. Present. Real. His maw was drawn in a thin, unreadable line, but his eyes—moons, his eyes were burning . Not with anger, not this time. With something deeper. More dangerous. More delicate.

Every glance made my heart leap into my throat like a startled fish. Every wingbeat felt heavier. I kept thinking, He’s really doing this. We’re really doing this. We.

When we landed in the courtyard, startled staff and guards scattered like startled seabirds. Darkstalker barely acknowledged them, barely acknowledged me —he moved like a dragon possessed, swift and straight-backed, slipping into the palace halls without hesitation. I scrambled after him, slightly less pudgy these days thanks to very reluctant workouts with Peril and the occasional spar with Darkstalker himself. Still not fast. Still not graceful. But I was following, and I wanted to.

I had a guess about what was happening. I mean—I knew . I’d read about it. I’d written about it. Rituals. Proposals. The sacred steps of union ceremonies across the continent. But nothing—absolutely nothing—could have prepared me for what it was like to live it .

I didn’t even register that we’d made it to our chambers until I stumbled over the threshold and Darkstalker was already halfway across the room. He was in the closet, pulling things down, muttering under his breath. Not angry. Just focused. Sharp.

His claws closed around something small and velveted. He opened it with a flick. Inside, nestled like a spell or a promise or both, was a ring—obsidian and pearl, threaded with silver. Magic laced into every seam. Not newly made. He’d had it. Prepared it. Planned this.

Darkstalker turned, striding forward, and I remember thinking: There’s no fanfare. No speech. Just intent. Just him.

He didn’t ask.

He just slid it onto my horn , a perfect fit, and gave a small, satisfied nod.

I stared at him.

He stared at me.

And then—

Then I launched at him with a noise I didn’t know I could make. Something guttural. Needy. Intimate. Like a growl soaked in saltwater.

His eyes widened—just a flicker—but I was already there, pressing him back, claw curling around his shoulder, mouth finding his with all the urgency of a dragon who just realized what he wanted most might actually want him back .

There were no words.

Just claws and wings and a long, shuddering breath that might have been a sob if we weren’t both too proud to name it.

The box hit the floor.

The door shut behind us.

Back to the present

My joints still ache.

Not in a bad way—not like I slept funny or sparred too hard with Peril yesterday. No, it’s the kind of ache that lingers in your hips and wings and spine when you’ve used your body very enthusiastically in ways that shouldn’t be spoken aloud before breakfast. Or maybe ever.

The kind of ache that reminds you, very specifically, that you did something bold .

I shift under the covers, groaning again, a little more conscious this time. The sheets are a mess. They smell like us. My pillow still has the dent of his horn.

I roll onto my back and exhale toward the ceiling.

Moons.

Who knew Darkstalker— Darkstalker —was willing, even eager , to give up control like that. Behind closed doors, in the dark, with no witnesses. No performance. Just him. Just me.

And who knew I’d be the one—

I cover my snout with a paw and groan. Louder this time. Not from pain.

Stars, Turtle, stop thinking about it. You’re just embarrassing yourself.

But I can still feel the moment. Still hear the hitch in his breath. Still remember the way he looked at me, like I was gravity and he was just so willing to fall.

I sit up too fast, dragging a pillow with me as I go. The ache sharpens, and I grimace through a grin.

Okay. Focus. The Empire—our Empire?—won’t wait. There are letters to read. Meetings to suffer through. Somewhere out there, Qibli is probably writing something sarcastic. Winter is probably pacing. Moon is probably worrying. Foeslayer is definitely meddling.

And my fiancé— fiancé —is out there. Probably plotting something grand and terrifying with a lovesick gleam in his eye.

I better get up and greet him.

Before he does something very romantic and wildly impractical without me.

With a final, dramatic sigh, I roll toward the edge of the bed, letting gravity do most of the work until my claws find cool stone. I half-slide, half-stumble onto all fours and crouch there for a second, blinking blearily at the floor.

Then I stretch—really stretch—forelegs long in front, spine arching, wings flicking open just a bit for balance. I must look ridiculous. Like a particularly oversized housecat who’s just remembered he has a kingdom to co-run.

I don’t care. It feels good. I yawn through it, jaw cracking.

Then I shake out my limbs, fluff my wings, and trot—yes, trot —off toward the chamber door. I’ve got a pretty good sense of where he is. Not because I enchanted myself to track him (tempting), but because I know him. He’s always where the light is brightest in the morning. Near the scrolls. Or the mirrors. Or the balcony where he can look majestic and intimidating and irritatingly beautiful at the same time.

And sure enough, there he is.

Darkstalker looks up when I enter. Just a flicker at first, then full attention. His eyes soften in that way that makes my ribs squeeze together a little. He’s already in conversation with someone—an attendant? a clerk? I don’t really care—but he dismisses them with a casual flick of one wing, gaze never leaving me.

When our eyes meet, he looks... almost sheepish. Which is not a look I see on him often. Not unless he’s been caught doing something sentimental. Or sinful. Or both.

There’s a crooked grin curling his snout as I stop in front of him.

“In a way,” he says, voice low and purring like honey over gravel, “I’m glad I have dark scales.”

I raise an eyebrow, already knowing I should brace myself.

“Otherwise,” he drawls, stepping closer, “the entire Palace would see the proof of our joining.”

My jaw drops open in a small, horrified croak. “Darkstalker!”

He just laughs—unapologetic, delighted, very pleased with himself.

Darkstalker takes another step, smooth and predatory, his grin never faltering. It's all smile now—real smile—the kind that reaches his eyes and turns them into something molten. Half-lidded. Lazy. Dangerous.

My brain, I think, has entirely shut down.

“Truly,” he says, voice like silk dragging across bare scales, “I had no idea you had it in you.”

I make a strangled noise...

…And blurt out before my brain catches up with my tongue. "Pretty sure you had it in you last night." 

Pointed. 

Darkstalker freezes.

His grin twitches. His eyes blink—once, very slowly—then widen just a fraction as the words sink in. I watch it happen in real time: the dignified, ancient, millennia-old visage of a former tyrant cracking like a dropped teacup.

Then he snorts . Actually snorts . The sound that comes out of him is so undignified I’m not entirely sure he’s breathing correctly.

“Oh,” he wheezes, “oh no .”

I can feel my entire face turning hot. “I didn’t mean—wait, no, I did mean, but not like—”

“Oh, you meant it,” he croons, tail curling with delight. “You said it pointed , Turtle. I’m so proud .”

He looks absurdly pleased. Like he’s just watched his hatchling take their first steps. Except instead of toddling across the floor, I’ve verbally backflipped into the shallow end of innuendo.

“I—can you not look at me like that,” I mumble, flailing for dignity. “Like I just did something remarkable. ”

“You did.” He’s circling again. He’s not even walking; he’s gliding like smugness personified. “You pounced , you growled, and now you’ve started the day with the boldest double entendre I’ve heard since Clearsight tried to name one of our secret getaways ‘Darkstalker’s Tunnel.’”

I splutter . “Please never say those words again.”

I managed to squeak, quite heroically, and then immediately regretted it as Darkstalker pressed a kiss just under my ear. Soft. Annoyingly soft. Like he knew exactly what he was doing and was delighted about it.

“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, victorious.

I did not throw myself out a window. I considered it. But the window was designed not to open more than a polite crack for ventilation, and anyway, I wasn’t sure I could survive the descent with dignity.

Instead, I shoved him—gently, because it was like trying to push a statue made of smug obsidian—and muttered something about getting ready.

Which, blessedly, worked.

Our shared bath chamber was warm, the sunrise spilling over the curved stone of the ceiling in little dappled puddles of gold. A carved basin gurgled quietly in the corner, fed by plumbing Darkstalker had reinstituted like a one-dragon revolution. Apparently, two thousand years of dragonkind had been enough time to forget basic hygiene infrastructure. Darkstalker had been scandalized.

“Showers, Turtle,” he’d muttered the first time he stomped around Jade Mountain Academy. “They’ve invented scroll projectors but forgotten how to bathe . What happened to society?”

Now we had a proper ensuite—stone pipes, hot water on demand, enchanted temperature stones, the works. A marvel of animus convenience, and one that, this morning, was suspiciously steaming and lavender-scented.

“You enchanted the soap again, didn’t you,” I said flatly, staring down at the glittery lump of smug perfume that was threatening to disintegrate into sparkles.

“I may have,” he said airily. “It’s calming.”

“You enchanted it to smell like me ,” I accused, catching the subtle trace of my own scent in the rising steam.

“And it is calming,” he said, entirely unrepentant.

I rolled my eyes and scrubbed down anyway, because we had breakfast to get to and I wasn’t showing up in front of my friends smelling like… whatever last night had been. At least I wouldn’t be alone—Darkstalker was humming off-key while drying his wings with a towel he had definitely stolen from the SkyWing palace, because it had gold thread in the hem.

By the time we emerged from the steam, presentable, polished, and only a little glowy with residual affection, I was starting to feel like maybe—just maybe—today would be quiet. Manageable. Normal .

That was, of course, before Darkstalker turned to me in the hallway, grinning like a god in love, and whispered:
“Oh, by the way, I have a surprise for you,” he says, and I do not like the way his voice lilts. Casual. Too casual.

I blink at him. “What kind of surprise?”

He leans in, slow and smug, like I’ve walked directly into his trap—which, fine, I have—and says, far too cheerfully, “You’ll have to wait until our ceremony.”

Our—

Oh.

Moons.

The ceremony .

Marriage.

Right. That’s still… happening. That’s… still real.

My stomach flips over like it’s trying to leave the conversation. “That’s, um. That’s still on?”

“Of course it’s still on,” he says, like I’ve asked whether the moons are planning to rise. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

He’s teasing, I know he is. His eyes go soft. Liquid starshine, half-lidded, unreadable in the way that makes my soul feel like it’s being quietly turned inside out.

“No,” I say quickly. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Good.” He bumps my wing lightly with his. “Because I haven’t either.”

I exhale, trying not to sound like a dying fish. “Is it… going to be a private thing?”

A pause. Too long.

“Private,” he echoes, with a thoughtful little hum. “No. Unless, of course, you’d really prefer it to be a quiet, low-attendance, unspectacular occasion…”

“Darkstalker—”

“It’s just—well, Turtle, this is historic.” He gestures broadly. “Not a queen and her king. Not a consort and his slightly more tolerable spouse. But two kings. Emperors, even. Male dragons, ruling together. Officially. Openly. For more than just an enchanted under-the-table puppet council. That’s worth celebrating, isn’t it?”

I open my mouth. Close it again. Somewhere behind my eyes, my brain emits the distinct crackle of short-circuiting.

Darkstalker presses his snout briefly to my temple. “Don’t worry. It won’t be a circus. Just a… respectable, tasteful show of legitimacy to the world.”

I squint at him.

His grin widens.

“Oh no,” I whisper.

“Oh yes,” he says, delighted.

And I realise, with dawning horror, that I might be marrying not just Darkstalker the dragon, but Darkstalker the event planner .

Moons help me.

Winter

The private dining chamber at Agate Mountain was too warm, too ornate, and too obviously designed by someone in love.

Everything shimmered. The walls were carved obsidian, veined with subtle enchantments that pulsed faintly in rhythm with the rising sun outside. Overhead, a skylight filtered sunlight into soft, dappled pools that danced across the long, curved table—set for seven, inlaid with silver, and entirely too polished. The air smelled faintly of sea salt, heated stone, and just-baked kelp puffs.

It was quiet. Too quiet for a room containing this many dragons with this much history.

This place wasn’t built for diplomacy. It was built for comfort, for indulgence. A place to linger . There were cushions instead of chairs. A little side alcove for tea. Even a low shelf of books, actual books, by the far wall, in case anyone got bored mid-meal and wanted to contemplate literature with their jam.

Darkstalker and Turtle had insisted on hosting breakfast here. Together. Which—fine. Turtle had once been gone for a week, off playing diplomat in the Sea Kingdom, and apparently that now qualified as a tragic, heart-wrenching separation. They made it a full fifteen minutes without touching. I was almost impressed.

But I should’ve known something was off the second I walked in and saw two sets of tableware placed just a bit too close together. Not quite touching—just... hovering. Like magnets toying with the idea of ruining my morning.

They wanted the breakfast to feel normal. Relaxed. Civil.

And it almost was.

Until I saw the ring.

I was seething. Quietly. Tastefully. With all the dignity of a dragon who’d been taught to smile through a duel and only cry over broken treaties.

Across the table sat Turtle—Turtle, with his flushed ears and his fluttery little laugh, still glowing like a firefly stuck in a lantern. And beside him lounged Darkstalker , sipping his tea with the calculated ease of someone who knew exactly what he’d done. Who knew everyone knew what he’d done. And who clearly, absolutely, did not care.

There was a ring.

On Turtle’s horn.

Shimmering. Like it thought it had a right to exist.

I narrowed my eyes at it. The way one might narrow their eyes at a suspicious footprint near the vault or a poorly organized library shelf. It offended me.

Next to me, Qibli nudged a scone toward my elbow.

I ignored it. I was not weak. I would not be bribed by pastry.

“Nothing?” Qibli whispered, voice low and gleeful. “Not even a dramatic gasp?”

“I don’t gasp, ” I hissed, just barely moving my snout. “I exhale with purpose. ”

Moon, across from us, was trying (foolishly, nobly) to get Peril to discuss the meaning of her dreams again.

“So if I’m setting fire to, like, a giant squid made of my dad’s disappointment,” Peril was saying, “you’re sure that’s not a sign I should talk to someone with a scroll and a couch?”

“I mean… not necessarily,” Moon hedged, valiantly.

“Great,” Peril said. “Because I already lit the last couch. Accidentally.”

Somewhere further down, Kinkajou was vibrating like a kettle. She knew . She was waiting for someone—anyone—to make a comment so she could legally explode.

But the worst part? The absolute worst part ?

Darkstalker leaned in. Said something low into Turtle’s ear. Brushed claws with him, like this was just normal. Like they did this every day.

Turtle squeaked. Actually squeaked. His tail flicked. He turned redder than a smoked shrimp.

I watched all of this with the intensity of a scholar discovering a grammar mistake on an ancient royal decree.

Then I counted to ten.

Then I counted to ten again —in Old IceWing, which is three times slower and five times more judgmental.

Then I took the scone.

Not because I was conceding. Not because Qibli had won.

But because this was a disapproval scone. And everyone at this table would know it.

I dabbed at my snout with a napkin. Delicately. Precisely. The kind of motion that says: I am composed, I am dignified, and I am absolutely going to set someone on fire with my tone of voice.

Then I set the napkin down, straightened my posture, and cleared my throat.

Not a little cough. No. This was a throat-clearing worthy of several generations of IceWing ancestry—a sound passed down from dragons who’d used it to preface the exile of siblings for poor penmanship and the unforgivable crime of asymmetrical icing on royal cake.

Turtle, mid-sip, froze like he’d been caught bathing in the fountain. Again.

Darkstalker turned his head slowly, gracefully. He smiled at me. A smile full of teeth and foresight and entirely too much smugness. That irritating look that said, Go on. Say your piece. I’ve already won in five different timelines and you’re charming when you’re mad.

“May I,” I began, with exquisite precision, “inquire as to when , exactly, the two of you were going to inform your trusted friends and political allies that you’ve entered into what appears to be a legally binding courtship with direct diplomatic consequences?”

Turtle’s pupils dilated. “Um—”

“Because—correct me if I’m wrong—there was no announcement. No scroll. No invitation to a formal ceremony. Not even a paperless orb ping.” I narrowed my eyes at Darkstalker. “And I happen to know you have an entire cabinet of ceremonial quills enchanted to do calligraphy in five dialects and gold leaf. So don’t tell me this was a logistics issue.”

Darkstalker leaned his jaw into one claw, as if I were the entertainment and not the reckoning. “We were going to tell you. Eventually. Maybe. After breakfast.”

“Breakfast,” I echoed.

Turtle gave a sheepish nod. “Things got… busy. There were feelings. And… moons. Lots of moons.”

Darkstalker added helpfully, “And at least one ring.”

“I noticed the ring,” I said, with a calm that could only be achieved by sheer internal screaming.

“Did you?” Darkstalker said, faux-sweet. “I wasn’t sure it was visible from all the way down there.”

“ Please don’t, ” Turtle muttered, face in his claws.

I looked between them. My claws twitched. My wings flared slightly, involuntarily. And then, after a long breath, I lowered my voice.

“Turtle,” I said quietly, “I am asking because I care deeply about you and your continued survival: are you certain you know what you’re doing?”

Turtle met my eyes. Then glanced at Darkstalker, whose expression—blasted, infuriating—had gone soft at the edges.

“No,” Turtle admitted. “But I want to try.”

I closed my eyes. Counted to four. Reopened them. Then exhaled like I was about to wade into a blizzard wearing ceremonial silk and bad decisions.

“Fine,” I said. “But if he breaks your heart, I will break his legs.”

Darkstalker tilted his head. “You could try.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I will reorganize your entire personal library by the emotional damage of each entry. Don’t tempt me.”

Darkstalker blinked. “That… actually sounds kind of useful.”

“ No, ” Turtle groaned. “No flirting via threats. New rule.”

“Too late,” Qibli called down the table. “I’m already crying. Is that allowed now, or…?”

Kinkajou beamed and flung a napkin at him. “I knew something sparkly was happening! I felt it in my tail!”

Peril looked up from where she was toasting her teacup like a marshmallow. “Wait—are we mad, or congratulating them?”

Moon just smiled beatifically and said, “Yes.”

Darkstalker, of course, took my disapproval as an invitation.

No sooner had I finished my death threat—which, I might add, was well-articulated and proportionate—than he decided to become the most insufferable creature alive.

He leaned into Turtle like gravity had chosen him personally. One wing curled behind the SeaWing’s back. A casual nuzzle slid under Turtle’s chin, slow and indulgent, as if this were some tragic romance being performed for a jury of poets.

Turtle made a small squeaking noise.

And Darkstalker? Oh, Darkstalker purred . Actually purred . It was low and rumbling, the kind of sound that would’ve been attractive if it weren’t coming from a known megalomaniac actively trying to mark his boyfriend in front of witnesses.

Then came the affectionate nip. A little love-bite to the frill, fast as lightning. Turtle twitched so hard he almost knocked over the teapot.

“I’m going to die,” Turtle whispered.

“You’re going to get used to it, ” Darkstalker corrected, entirely too pleased with himself. “Affection is a public service.”

“Do you need help,” I asked thinly, “understanding the difference between a ‘mate’ and a weighted blanket with horns ?”

“I am comforting,” Darkstalker said, offended.

“You’re straddling his dignity. ”

“Which he doesn’t need right now,” Darkstalker replied cheerfully, brushing Turtle’s ear with his snout. “He has me.”

I resisted the urge to fling myself backward out the nearest stained glass window.

Qibli had both claws pressed to his mouth like a scandalized auntie at a wedding. “Is this… happening? Am I witnessing courtship behavior in real time?”

Kinkajou squealed, slapped the table, and shouted, “YES! It’s like watching one of those ancient scroll dramas, but with more necking!”

“I think I liked it better when they were repressed,” I muttered.

Moon, unhelpfully, added, “This is actually progress, Winter.”

“Yes,” I said tightly. “And I’m sure watching Darkstalker try to fit his entire snout under Turtle’s chin is a deeply meaningful metaphor for emotional growth.”

“Is that what he’s doing?” Peril asked. “Because if Clay did that to me in public I would melt. Like, everything.”

“Good,” I snapped. “Exactly.”

Turtle, by now, had gone the color of seafoam and was trying very hard to melt through the chair.

Darkstalker curled around him like a smug scarf. “He likes it.”

“I’m not sure he knows if he likes it,” I said.

“I think he’s gone into affectionate shock,” Qibli stage-whispered. “Like a rabbit when you pet it too much.”

Kinkajou was fanning herself. “This is so romantic . It’s awful. I’m dying. Do it again.”

I dropped my face into both claws.

I hate it here.

Turtle

The palace halls shimmer faintly with reflected sun, caught in the inlaid obsidian and agate that gave the place its name. It’s grand, but not overwhelming—not anymore. Just familiar. Still surreal. The kind of surreal you get used to by sheer force of repetition.

We walk side by side. Or rather, I walk. Darkstalker sort of glides, like he’s floating through an opera written for no one else but him.

“I’m not letting this go,” I tell him, determined to sound firm and only succeeding in sounding like a guilty conscience on legs. “What’s the surprise?”

“Hm?” he says, vaguely, like he didn’t hear me or like I’m being unreasonable again by demanding things like answers .

“You said it had to do with the ceremony,” I pressed, flicking my tail. “You said I’d love and hate it. That’s not ominous at all. What is it?”

He blinks innocently at me. Which is already a sign that I should be running in the opposite direction. “Oh, that,” he says, casual, too casual. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve got time.”

“Darkstalker.”

“Turtle,” he says sweetly, leaning a little closer. “You’d never say yes if I told you.”

“Say yes to what ?”

He gasps theatrically. “So suspicious! And after I brought indoor plumbing back to Pyrrhia. I ask for so little.”

“You enchanted the plumbing to stop making gurgling noises in the middle of the night because it scared you .”

“And I shared it with everyone else. Generosity is my fatal flaw.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

He tilts his head, distracted. “Strange. Where are the guards?”

I glance around. The corridor is quiet. Too quiet. No staff sweeping the agate floors, no NightWings lurking by the pillars, no Seawings giving polite little nods. Just the two of us. Alone.

“…Huh,” I say.

Which is all I get out before he shoves me—gently, but firmly—into the nearest carved alcove.

I squawk.

He presses in after me, too close, far too close, curling his wings in to block the view from anyone who might pass.

“Darkstalker—!”

He noses into my jaw, warm breath puffing against my neck. “You’re very cute when you’re panicking.”

“I am panicking!”

“I know.”

He’s already licking a line behind my ear.

I make an involuntary noise that no royal consort should ever make in public.

“We have a meeting,” I hissed.

“Technically,” he murmurs, “we have several minutes.”

Then he proceeds to assault my maw like the world is not watching. Properly. Nuzzling under my chin afterwards with the languid smugness of a dragon who knows exactly how much power he has and plans to use all of it.

I sag against the wall. My brain is not here. My brain has clocked out and gone to sea.

“You’re not distracting me,” I manage to gasp. “You can’t just kiss your way out of every topic you don’t want to explain.”

He pulls back a fraction, enough to grin at me. “That’s a bold claim, considering how well it’s working.”

I hate it here.

I really, really hate it here.

So.

I suppose I should let my fiancé do whatever mysterious, terrifying thing he needs to do with the Captain of the Guard. He did say he’d be fine at the meeting by himself. And statistically speaking, most of his meetings only end in minor chaos.

Unless—“Unless you’d prefer I sit in on it?” I ask, trying to sound casual and not like I’m hunting for emotional damage.

Darkstalker glances back at me with a grin that’s far too entertained. “Only if you want to. You could sit in on the meeting. Or on me. No innuendo implied.”

I blink at him. Slowly. Wordlessly.

He cackles again.

“No,” I say, decisively. “No. I’ve got letters to write.”

“Oh? Important royal consort business?”

“Yes,” I say, already turning away. “Like informing the ruling monarchs of Pyrrhia that their world is about to change forever.”

“Such a dramatic way of saying ‘we’re getting married.’”

“We’re getting married ,” I repeat, as if saying it again will make it less unhinged. “Which means someone has to tell the Queens. Plural.”

“Plural,” he echoes dreamily.

“That includes Coral,” I remind him.

The dreaminess fades a bit. “Right. Your mother.”

“My mother,” I confirm, who may or may not see this as a hostile political maneuver and/or a personal attack. “Who is also now, by the nature of this arrangement, your mother-in-law.”

He hums. “I should enchant a gift.”

“Don’t,” I beg.

“Oh, come on,” he says, nudging me with his tail. “What’s the worst she could do?”

“Declare war.”

“She wouldn’t dare. She likes me.”

“She tolerates you,” I mutter, “the same way someone tolerates a hurricane they’re not currently standing in.”

“Hmm.” He kisses my temple. “Still marrying me, though.”

Yes. Moons help me. I really am.

We part ways with one final kiss.

Chaste, I stress, which earns me the most mournful groan known to dragonkind as he pulls away with obvious reluctance. He tries, of course—goes in for something far more dramatic, tongue and teeth and theatrical flourishes of tail—but I clamp a claw over his snout and give him the look . The one that says you can ravish me later but right now I need to prevent a continent-wide diplomatic incident .

He grumbles. I kiss the tip of his nose, which mollifies him somewhat, then nudge him in the direction of the barracks before he can drag me into another alcove or make a speech about how tragically cold-blooded I’ve become in my old age.

It’s a relief, honestly, to retreat back through the quieter halls. Most of the staff are still away or pointedly not looking at me as I pass. (Darkstalker must have warned them I’d be working. Or bribed them. Or threatened their ancestors. I didn’t ask.)

The door to our shared chambers welcomes me with silence. Thank the moons.

Inside: a desk, ink, scrolls, and the faint scent of lavender from whatever magic-infused candle Darkstalker insisted would “improve my mental clarity and make my soul less skittish.” It was a gift. I didn’t argue.

I sit. Stretch. Breathe.

Our office is—was—meant to be private. It started as a closet we cleared out and enchanted for security, after we decided we don’t need a room sized closet. Then came the furniture. Then the documents. Then the tapestries. Then the orb. And now, apparently, it’s the nerve centre of a future empire.

I pull out parchment. Dip the quill. Stare at it.

Dear Queen Coral .

Pause.

No. That sounds far too ominous.

Dearest Mother ?

She’d think I was dying.

Queen Coral,
I hope this message finds you well—

Too formal. Too boring. Too not at all addressing the giant news I need to break before it gets announced on a diplomatic stage with fireworks and screaming RainWings .

I scratch it out and start again.

I scratch out another line, grumble under my breath, and try again. This time I only get as far as:

Mother—

Before the door bursts open.

"Guess whooooo has coffee and gossip!" sings Kinkajou, radiating enough enthusiasm to power a siege engine. Behind her, the two guards posted outside blink in weary resignation. One of them actually salutes her.

She dumps a satchel onto the rug with the flair of a stage magician, sending scrolls, fruit, and a small pot of honey(?) tumbling out in chaotic harmony. “Also, I brought snacks. Royal Mail’s loading up now, so you better finish those letters before they unionise harder and take a scheduled midday nap. You know how they get.”

I blink at her. “They already have a midday nap schedule.”

“Exactly. Respect the hustle.” She beams. “Oh! And I may have told them to expect cake at the wedding.”

“You—what wedding cake?” I ask, horrified.

“You don’t have a cake?!" She gasps, scandalised. “Winter! They don’t have a cake!”

“I heard ,” comes a voice from just outside. Winter storms in like a particularly grumpy snowstorm given talons. He’s still muttering to himself, but there’s a notable absence of murder in his eyes. Progress . “No cake. No itinerary. No ceremonial procession. No ice sculpture of His Majesty the Tyrant in loving wedded bliss. It’s almost as if you two thought you could just elope .”

“Actually, that was the original plan,” I mumble.

He throws his talons in the air like I’ve insulted several generations of IceWing nobility. “Unbelievable.”

“And yet here you are,” I say with a weak smile.

He pauses. Then exhales. “Darkstalker said I could help plan it. Said it was important that you had someone you trusted involved.” His voice is stiff, formal. “He said it would make you happy.”

I look up.

Winter does not look at me.

Kinkajou bounces in place. “So! Wedding committee? Wedding council? Royal Matrimonial Subcommittee of Agate Mountain?”

I sink my face into my talons again. “I hate it here.”

Winter and Kinkajou answer in perfect unison:
“No you don’t.”

Kinkajou, sprawled across the rug like a lounging cat with too many joints, flopped over dramatically.

“Ughhhh can we talk about the actual problem now,” she whined. “Turtle is basically dragon-engaged, and he hasn’t picked any ceremonial headwear. Or colors! Do you want to go traditional SeaWing greens or lean into the NightWing aesthetic? I’m thinking a deep navy with silver accents—maybe a touch of iridescence to bring out your sparkle—”

“Kinkajou, please,” Winter snapped, shielding his eyes like she was the sun. “You’re flailing like a feral scavenger and I can see everything.”

“I am everything,” she said, preening.

“You are deeply unwell,” Winter muttered.

“Love you too, Icicle-Breath.”

Turtle chuckled, tension softening in his chest as he watched them bicker. He leaned back slightly in his chair, letting his claws drift along the edge of the scroll beside him. The gold ring glinted faintly on his horn. His tea had gone cold, but he didn’t mind.

“I appreciate you both,” he said suddenly. “Just so you know.”

Kinkajou beamed like he’d given her a crown. Winter looked like he’d bitten into something sour but not unpleasant.

“You’d better,” Winter said gruffly. “You’re going to need help. Royal etiquette is a field laden with dragon-flame cacti.”

“I am a royal,” Turtle pointed out.

“And yet,” Winter said, tone grave, “I’ve seen your claw writing.”

“That’s a low blow,” Turtle muttered.

Kinkajou threw a pillow at him. “It’s okay! We’ll fix it. You’ll be the prettiest imperial bride.”

“Groom,” Turtle corrected.

She winked. “We’ll see.

Chapter Text

In the high altitudes above Pyrrhia, where even dragons begin to squint against the glare of unfiltered sunlight, a new force commands the skies.

No longer merely a band of overworked messengers or ragtag thrill-seekers dodging mountain storms, His Majesty’s Royal Postal and Airborne Communications Corps —affectionately known among the public as the Comets —now streaks across the continent with the elegance of a calligrapher’s stroke and the intensity of a hurricane in formalwear.

Founded in the early months of Emperor Darkstalker’s reign—after a particularly unfortunate incident involving a lost scroll, two confused SeaWing ambassadors, and a dinner menu accidentally delivered to the SandWing throne room—the Comets were born out of necessity, diplomacy, and, according to Qibli, at least three too many cups of coffee.

Their uniforms are red, gold, and white. Their motto: Speed. Security. Style. Their union is fierce and well-organized, and their pension plan is second only to the Emperor’s own hoard. Every courier is trained not just in aerial navigation, night flight, and lightning-dodging maneuvers, but also in scroll etiquette, emergency flamingo-first-aid, and the appropriate diplomatic phrasing when delivering potentially inflammatory news to queens who can breathe frost, fire, or magical death spit.

Every morning at Agate Palace, they launch in formation from the eastern terrace—forty SkyWings with wings stretched to the rising sun, a symphony of wind and smoke and purpose. Assignments are chosen at random (a magically enchanted wheel called The Spinner of Fate , designed by Moon and enchanted by Turtle, who thought it would be fun). Couriers are then equipped with scroll pouches made of tanned and waxed leather, enchanted not to burn, tear, or be opened by anyone without proper clearance.

The air rings with noise and laughter, the flick of checklists, the occasional warning shout of “Incoming!” as a dragon takes off early in their excitement.

Today, one such courier—Skua, youngest graduate of the Glacier-Hyrax Postal Academy (SkyWing annex, disputed Tundra territory, recently defrosted)—is high on adrenaline and two guava-berry tonics. Her assignment: Sea Kingdom. Direct delivery. High priority. Imperial seal. The big one.

She doesn’t ask what it says. That’s against union policy.

But oh, she’s flying it fast.

So when the letter came, it did not arrive with grace.
It arrived with velocity.
Skua tore across the cloudless sky like a comet with a deadline, trailing wisps of vapor from her wing tips. Below her, the ocean stretched endless and brilliant, a mirror of the heavens—only less forgiving. Pale blue shot with gold.

She didn’t need a map. She didn’t need a break. She didn’t need to slow down. She had one job, and she was going to deliver this scroll if it burned her claws clean off.

After all—what kind of Comet lands a message when you can launch it?

Queen Coral

When the letter arrived, it did not descend with ceremony.
It did not glide. It did not flutter. It did not announce itself with a fanfare of trumpets or the polite knock of decorum.

It plummeted from the heavens like divine judgment on a four-hour deadline.

A blur of crimson shot across the upper atmosphere—Skua, Courier Third Class, messenger of the realm, darling of the Glacier-Hyrax Academy, and self-declared “fastest claw this side of the Scorpion Den.” She came streaking through the clouds at terminal enthusiasm, leaving behind a trail of vapor, smoke, and distant cries of “LOOK OUT BELOW!”

The sky was blistering and almost cloudless, pure sapphire stretching from horizon to horizon. Below, the Sea Kingdom glittered like a broken mirror—shards of turquoise and gold rippling with the tide, reflecting the courier’s descent in distorted, watery echoes.

Skua didn’t slow.

“Parcel for Her Royal Bioluminescent Majesty Queen Coral! ” she shouted as she dove, voice cracking with fervor and perhaps one too many guava-berry tonics. “ No signature required!”

Two SeaWing guards, stationed at the tide line and only half-paying attention, barely had time to glance upward before the package was airborne and already descending. With the confidence of a dragon who’d definitely passed her projectile certification on the second try, Skua hurled the sealed bundle with pinpoint, gravity-assisted precision.

THUNK.

The parcel struck one of the guards cleanly across the snout. He let out a gurgled yelp and flailed backward into the shallows, sending up a fan of startled seawater and wounded pride.

Before either of them could shout or swear, Skua was gone—already banking upward, wings pumping hard, trailing embers and duty. Somewhere above, her silhouette vanished into the sun.

“…Is that,” began the injured guard slowly, rubbing the developing bruise across his snout, “standard delivery protocol now?”

His partner, already retrieving the bobbing parcel with a resigned flick of his tail, did not look up. “No,” he said. “But I suspect it is… governmentally endorsed.”

The package was unmistakably surface-made: wax-sealed in deep green cloth, triple-wrapped, and possibly enchanted against ink smudges, water damage, magical tampering, and (if rumors were true) betrayal.

The guards exchanged a flicker of light-language across their scales—precise and efficient.
Royal. Urgent. From Above. Possibly enchanted. Definitely launched.

Possibly cursed.

The parcel made its progress with the solemn efficiency of a coronation relic—relayed claw-to-claw by a parade of increasingly anxious stewards. It passed through vault-like corridors carved from living coral, beneath pearl-inlaid arches and past neatly trimmed moss-draped alcoves where curious nobles paused mid-whisper.

Past the statue of Queen Lagoon (head recently reattached), down the great descending hall of coral columns, and into the aquatic cathedral that was the SeaWing throne room: a vast chamber where the walls curved like the inside of a shell and the ceiling shimmered with refracted light, as if the ocean itself were holding its breath.

To a surface-dweller’s eye, the royal court was a marvel of undersea splendor—sculpted elegance and weightless grandeur. To SeaWing eyes, which saw in greyscale hues of deep sea vision, it was an exercise in tasteful gloom. Pale marble like fog. Tapestries the grey of storm clouds. Only the flicker of a sentry’s bio-lights or the sharp glint of regal jewelry broke the monochrome of the Deep Sea Palace. 

Queen Coral was lounging across her throne like a bored kraken in repose, equal parts regal and restless. A quill was tucked behind one ear-fin. A blank scroll lay across her lap.

She was, in theory, composing poetry.
In reality, she was halfway through her fifth heroic portrait of Auklet—each one more deranged than the last. This particular sketch featured her youngest daughter rising from a whirlpool in full battle armor, brandishing a trident and riding what might have been a diplomatically inaccurate sea lion.

She was having what one might generously call a mother’s kind of good time: the kind laced with loneliness, artistic delusion, and the creeping suspicion that your children are thriving better without you.

Auklet had been the last to go. Coral had surrendered her with a dramatic flourish and a dozen backup scrolls of unsolicited advice, only realizing afterward that the nursery wing had gone disturbingly quiet. She missed her daughters like a missing limb. Or worse: like a missing audience.

(And deep down, in the place where poets lie to themselves, she knew that if she hadn’t let Auklet leave, the dragonet might have chewed through her leash and staged a highly effective escape.)

So when the courier arrived—tail stiff, eyes wide, bearing a sealed bundle like a bomb—Queen Coral snapped upright with the electric glee of a dragon who had just remembered she had influence.

She seized the parcel with the casual grace of a predator, broke the wax with her teeth, and unrolled the glistening parchment in a single, sweeping gesture.

The script was unmistakable.
The ink had run slightly (the recipe for water-proof ink was hard to replicate accurately), but the claws behind it were familiar:
Turtle.
Sweet, awkward, unassumingly elusive Turtle.
His clawwriting remained an affront to calligraphers and poets everywhere—
—but the letter was long. Formal. Surprisingly articulate.

Her eyes skimmed once. Then again, slower.
By the third paragraph, her tail was twitching.
By the sixth, her gills were fluttering.

And by the time she reached the closing salutation, Queen Coral made a sound—a high-pitched, bubbling, involuntary sound—half gasp, half shriek, wholly imperial. A cloud of startled fish burst from beneath the throne.

Every guard within fifty tail-lengths flinched.

It was not immediately clear whether Her Majesty had received news of glorious triumph or unspeakable scandal.
Possibly both.
Possibly alternating.

What was certain, however, was this:
Turtle had written.
And the Sea Kingdom would never hear the end of it.

The letter fluttered to the floor like a falling leaf, pale parchment twisting in the currents until it settled among the soft waving fronds of sea grass. An opportunistic eel slithered out from a nearby crevice and gave the corner an investigative nibble, then recoiled—whether from the ink, the ambition, or the faint but distinct magical hum clinging to the paper, it was hard to say.

Queen Coral did not notice.

She was rising, slowly, like a seaquake swelling in power before the wave broke. Her wings spread to their full span, casting shifting shadows across the pearl-inlaid tiles. Her tail curled with purpose. Her gills flared.

The entire court held its breath.

“Summon the palace scribes,” she relayed in rapid pulses of Aquatic, trembling at the edges with either overwhelming emotion or imminent mania. “And the historians. And the tailors. No—summon the royal entourage! The ceremonial recorders! The commemorative seashell carvers! Fetch the finest conches! We’re going to need an official wedding mollusk!”

A palace guard blinked back. “Your Majesty?”

She turned on him with terrifying joy, glowing with either the radiant pride of a fulfilled maternal prophecy—or the incandescent lunacy of a queen who had spent far too long without a decent scandal.

“My son,” Coral whisper-blinked, pacing reverently. “My son is getting married.”

A beat. Two. Then the throne room exploded into overlapping bursts of bioluminescence as attendants and guards alike attempted to process the news.

One guard cleared his throat, a pointless gesture underwater. “Um. Which one?”

It was a valid question. There were, technically speaking, so many of them. Dozens. Scores. A shoal of royal sons born across two decades, mostly useless, mostly interchangeable, mostly kept in the background of court functions or sent off to supervise seaweed harvests in far-flung reefs.

A few names flickered unhelpfully through the silence: Cerulean? No, he was in exile for trying to start a fashion cult. Octopus? Possibly still lost in the Mangroves. Fin? Statistically the least likely to seduce anyone, ever. 

Another guard, braver or more foolish than the first, tried again.

“Who... to?”

Coral’s laugh was less a sound and more a phenomenon. It burst from her throat in a storm of bubbles, upending a nearby scroll shelf and sending a school of ornamental fish fleeing into the rafters.

“WHO CARES?!” she half gurgled, half blinked in Aquatic, executing a spiraling backflip into the vaulted water column above her throne, sending her crown tumbling askew and her tail flaring behind her in a majestic trail of glittering scales. “ Someone has agreed to marry Turtle! ”

The name echoed off the coral pillars like a prophecy made of light.

Turtle. The quiet one. The overlooked one. The one she had mostly forgotten to plan political marriages for because, quite frankly, she'd assumed he would never ask. Or be asked. Or, in fact, do anything remotely marriageable. The same son she had once described, lovingly, as “emotionally beige.”

The guards shared a look of profound concern, but also, grudgingly, awe.

There was no stopping her now.

“Alert the deep orchestra! Bring out the kelp wine! Begin sketching designs for the commemorative tapestry—seven panels minimum! No! Nine! With full embroidery, and glow-thread!”

A disoriented scribe poked his head into the room. “Your Majesty, what exactly are we—”

“WEDDING. ROYAL. WEDDING. ” Coral bellowed, sweeping down from the ceiling like a royal hurricane, grabbing the confused dragon and spinning him into the center of the court. “We will mark this day in verse! In light! In obsidian and coral inlay! ”

Someone dared to ask, “Will there be a poetry reading?”

“There will be a seven-hundred-line epic ,” she announced, eyes gleaming, “about the moment a SkyWing courier dive-bombed my royal guards with a wedding announcement.”

Another voice, from somewhere in the back: “Should we tell Princess Auklet, Anemone, or Tsunami?”

Coral’s head snapped around. “ No. I’m telling them myself. In person. With trumpets. And fireworks. ”

And just like that, the entire throne room sprang into motion, propelled by the gravity of a Queen on a mission. Scribes scattered. Tailors collided. Somewhere in the chaos, a minor prince named Snail was swept into the current and carried out of the palace entirely.

The eel gave the letter one final disappointed lick and slithered off.

And Queen Coral—poet, sovereign, mother of thirty-six, seventeen of whom she still remembered—was already composing the opening stanza of her next great masterpiece.

It began, naturally, with fire.
And a scream.
And Turtle, at long last, being seen .

Queen Glory

The second delivery fared exactly as well as any mission launched toward the Rain/Night Kingdom ever could—meaning, it went sideways with whimsical flair and mild sedation.

Callis was seven, flameproof-satchel-certified, and freshly promoted from “airborne intern” to “solo dispatcher,” a title he wore like a gold-plated medal. His sail was slicked back for aerodynamics, his flight path impeccable, and his self-esteem astronomically inflated. Somewhere in his glowing chest beat the heart of a future legend—or so his union supervisor had said before flinging him off the Sky Kingdom’s eastern cliffside.

Now he cruised at high altitude, slicing through the tropical haze with a grin that said absolutely unkillable. The parcel he carried—Letter Two of Several—was still sealed tight in wax, enchanted against humidity, and snugly nestled in his satchel like a precious scroll of destiny.

He’d braved mountain thermals. He’d dodged a rockslide near Agate. He’d even flown over a particularly territorial flock of parrots. But nothing, nothing prepared him for RainWings.

As the treetops swelled beneath him in a jungle ocean of green and gold, Callis squinted toward the woven balconies and vine-strung hammocks of the RainWing village. Somewhere down there, Queen Glory reigned over a kaleidoscope court of fruit-sipping, nap-worshipping dragons—and, inexplicably, still the NightWings too.

He adjusted his glide, just slightly, and began to descend.

That’s when it happened.

A philosophical query bloomed in the back of his mind like a bad idea during finals week: Wait… weren’t the NightWings supposed to be ruled by Darkstalker now? Didn’t the Agate Mountain Accord shift jurisdiction north?
Should I ask her about that?
Would that be treason?
Can you be fired mid-air?

Thunk.

Something soft, sticky, and disturbingly herbal hit him in the neck.

He had just enough time to think this wasn't union-approved before his limbs turned into boiled noodles and his flight path collapsed like a wet paper kite. Down he spiraled—peacefully, slowly—like a falling leaf with a grudge.

From the canopy below came a lazy voice:
“Delivery incoming.”

A set of talons snatched him from the air with professional ease—mid-plummet, mid-sedation, mid-brief existential crisis—and Callis promptly passed out in the arms of Deathbringer, who grinned like he’d just caught a particularly cooperative coconut. Which, in his defense, this sort of thing did happen most Tuesdays.

From the underbrush, a cluster of RainWings uncurled like very relaxed predators. Blowguns were lowered. Scales shimmered from full invisibility to a cheerful shade of group-project magenta.

“Nice shot,” Deathbringer said, setting the limp SkyWing gently on a bed of moss with the same care he might offer a dropped kitten or a mildly cursed artifact. “Seriously. That was clean. Have you ever considered professional sport? We should host a tournament.”

One RainWing, older than the others—distinguished by a sage-green wash to her scales and the patient disdain of someone who’s organized too many staff potlucks—arched one brow. “We told you a courier was en route.”

“And you still all got excited,” Deathbringer replied, tone halfway between amused and indulgent. “Which is valid. Honestly, I respect the hustle.”

A younger RainWing, barely past her first fruit-diplomacy lesson, bounced up beside the slumped courier and gasped. “Do you think it’s a love letter ? Should we read it?!”

“Please don’t read the Emperor’s mail,” Deathbringer said smoothly, already unfastening the satchel and removing the letter with the practiced caution of someone who’d once triggered an animus curse by opening a birthday card too early. “That’s how dragons end up emotionally maimed. Or turned into moss.”

Tucking the parcel beneath one foreleg, he vanished into the jungle shadows, ascending through the dense foliage toward the treetop palace. Somewhere above, Queen Glory was attempting—yet again—to balance the weight of two kingdoms, three dozen opinionated advisors, and one rapidly melting fruit salad.

He landed silently on the royal balcony.

Inside, Queen Glory lounged sideways across her throne like she’d fought it for dominance and won. Her crown was clinging to the edge of one horn like it had given up. Tamarin stood beside her, armed with a decorative bowl and a diplomatic scowl, currently locked in debate over whether a particular mango slice resembled Glory’s third least favorite NightWing.

(It did. Down to the smirk.)

Deathbringer cleared his throat with theatrical flair.

“Mail for Your Majesty,” he declared, holding up the wax-sealed letter like it was a peace offering or possibly a trap.

Glory didn’t look up. “If it’s from the SkyWing court again, I swear by all three of my royal titles I will turn it into compost and write back in papaya juice.”

“It’s not,” Deathbringer said. “It’s from him. ”

She sat up. So did Tamarin.

The mango slice dropped silently to the floor.

Glory took the parcel with one claw, slicing the wax seal open with the same elegance she used to decapitate political arguments. She unfolded the thick parchment, eyes scanning the page. Her expression remained unreadable for a moment—then froze. Just a fraction.

There was a beat of silence.

Then:

“Oh no.”

Tamarin glanced up from her diplomatic fruit sculpture. “Oh no good, or oh no bad ?”

Glory reread the letter, slower this time, her wings twitching once. Her expression began to morph—less dread now, more delight. A wicked smile curled at the corners of her mouth like ivy on palace stone.

“Oh no,” she repeated, a little more dramatically this time, eyes gleaming. “Tamarin. Cancel my afternoon appointments. We have a wedding to sabotage—I mean, attend. ”

“Same thing,” Deathbringer said, dropping into a casual sprawl beside the throne, one wing flared just dramatically enough to look rakish. He stole a mango slice off Tamarin’s tray. “Who’s getting married? Please tell me it’s Queen Coral to her own ego.”

“It’s Turtle, ” Glory said, tapping the letter once with her claw for emphasis. “Apparently the Empire is throwing a pan-continental celebration-slash-ritual-slash-political-summit disguised as a wedding, and we’re all invited.”

Deathbringer blinked. “Wait, he ’s finally tying the knot with Mister Magic and his gravity-defying eyeridges?”

“You mean the Emperor,” Glory said primly.

“I always mean the Emperor,” he grinned. “I just say it with affection and abject terror.”

At that moment, a small dragonet burst into the chamber like she’d been fired from a party cannon. “Mum! Mum! I finished the trapdoor project and no one fell in except you know who —and he had wings, so it wasn’t even that big a deal!”

“Excellent,” Glory said without looking. “Deathbringer, why is our child unsupervised and constructing trapdoors again?”

“She said it was for educational purposes.”

“She said that last time,” Tamarin muttered. “It was over a pit of quick sand.”

“I didn’t fall in,” the dragonet protested. “I leapt in. It’s different.”

Glory rolled her eyes and handed the letter down to her daughter. “Go read that aloud to your father. He never reads his mail properly.”

The dragonet took it with the reverence of someone being entrusted with classified knowledge. She cleared her throat like a miniature court herald and began to read: “You are cordially and imperially invited to attend the union of His Magnificence Emperor Darkstalker of Agate Mountain and His Benevolence Prince Consort Turtle, etcetera etcetera… oh, there's a whole page of titles. Ooh! ‘Festivities to include sky dancing, illusion theatre, diplomatic panels, and fruit buffets curated by Clay of the Mud Kingdom.’ That’s Uncle Clay!”

Tamarin looked up, only mildly interested. “Cute. Send them a gift. I’m sure there’s a registry.”

“Oh, you misunderstand,” Glory said sweetly, standing with a stretch of her wings. “We’re attending. Full delegation. Fancy robes. Speeches. Cheek kisses.”

Tamarin dropped her fruit tongs.

“What?”

“We leave in three days,” Glory said. “Better start packing.”

Tamarin squinted blankly. “Wait. Wait. Agate Mountain means—”

“—You’ll see Kinkajou, yes,” Glory said breezily, inspecting her talons. “I believe she’s stationed there full time now. Something about managing imperial flora or emotionally terrorizing diplomats with sunshine. One of those.”

Tamarin was very still for a moment.

“…And you didn’t think to lead with that?”

Glory looked innocent. “Why would I do that?”

Deathbringer leaned in with a grin, stage-whispering: “She totally did that on purpose.”

The dragonet was already halfway to her room shouting something about "ceremonial explosives" and "matching outfits." Deathbringer made a mental note to check her satchel before departure. Or to not check it, depending on how the wedding shaped up.

Glory swept from the throne, tossing her crown of fronds and flowers like a queen who knew she’d just found her next performance venue. “This is going to be delightful, ” she purred.

“Delightful,” Tamarin echoed weakly, trying not to look like she was already mentally picking out floral accessories.

“Oh yes,” Deathbringer said with a grin that could cut through steel. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Queen (Tourmaline) Ruby

Ah, the Sky Kingdom.

On parchment, it should have been the easiest delivery on the route—just a warm updraft or two from Agate Mountain. No jungle ambushes. No diplomacy conducted via echolocation. No palace guards that asked whether you were “emotionally prepared” before letting you in. Just thermals, clean skies, and one former war kingdom trying very hard to keep its nose out of imperial politics.

But logic had never been the Sky Kingdom’s strong suit. Their towers curled upward like the sketches of an architect with a grudge against gravity. Their bureaucracy had two simultaneous chains of command, three rotating guild councils, and no fewer than seven different uniforms for weather. And then there was the queen.

Queen Ruby—unmistakable, even without the crown—sat at the head of a sunlit chamber that seemed more like a wind tunnel than a throne room. The windows were wide open, the walls undecorated, and the royal dais had clearly been converted into a workspace. Neatly stacked ledgers rested on one side of her, an open letter from her hospital matron on the other. She wore no jewellery, no ceremonial garb—just a simple band of gold around one foreleg and a pair of reading lenses perched halfway down her snout.

At first glance, she didn’t look particularly dangerous. Courteous, yes. Composed, certainly. But not the sort of dragon who’d ever set a battlefield on fire.

She hadn’t risen to power by shouting. She’d taken the throne by challenging Scarlet—her own mother—and winning in the eyes of tradition. She hadn’t kept it by spells or spectacle either, but by building, listening, restructuring, and, most improbably of all, apologising when she bumped into dragons. SkyWings still whispered about that part.

Ruby drummed her claws on the armrest. She missed Cliff. The palace hadn’t been the same since her son had left for Jade Mountain Academy—no more unsolicited lullabies at sunrise, no more original songs with names like “Cliffhanger: The Hero’s Ballad (Part V of XXVI).” No more wake-up gongs. No more emotional monologues about breakfast.

She told herself it was good he had space. She even believed it. Occasionally.

Still, things had grown dangerously quiet.

Which was why the sudden CRASH of stained glass shattering to her left was almost… Welcome.

Something red, winged, and distinctly overpaid slammed into the window beside the throne like a comet of poor life choices. The impact produced a high-pitched, whimpering hoo-uhnng as the figure bounced off the stone with theatrical defeat and vanished from view.

From somewhere below, a groan echoed upward, followed by the strained voice of a seven-year-old trying to hold onto his dignity: “I love this job.”

Ruby blinked. Sat up straighter.

“Finally,” she muttered.

She motioned lazily to a guard. “Go scrape our courier off the rose trellis, would you?”

The guard saluted and vanished, leaving Ruby with a small, smug smile playing on her snout. Not because of the delivery. But because this — this was the kind of drama she’d been missing.

And she couldn’t wait to see what fresh lunacy the Imperial Court had just flung into her lap.

A moment later, the doors swung open to reveal a very toasted, very miserably chipper SkyWing courier dangling between two guards like a burnt curtain. His goggles had melted slightly to one side, his harness resembled a particularly stubborn knot puzzle, and the letter—moons bless it—was lodged directly between his horns like a failed narwhal impression.

He lifted his head with heroic effort, made eye contact with Queen Ruby, and croaked:

“I have… mail.”

Then keeled sideways into the nearest guard with a noise like a dying kettle.

Ruby approached at a leisurely pace, arching one brow as she plucked the parcel delicately from his brow ridge. The scroll was hot to the touch and slightly damp with what she hoped was sweat. The wax seal remained intact. The waterproof enchantment had held. The courier whimpered into the floor tiles like a dragon praying for sweet release.

She didn’t look away from the scroll. “Get him some jerky and a cold rock. And someone replace the window before I throw myself through it next.”

The guards saluted. One of them muttered, “This keeps happening,” on their way out.

Ruby turned the letter in her claws, cracked the seal with a practiced flick, and read in silence.

The clerk nearby—young, freckled, and visibly debating whether breathing too loud would get him exiled—watched her tail twitch once. Then twice.

Then Ruby laughed.

It wasn’t loud. But it was sharp and gleaming and full of something ancient and satisfied.

“Well, well,” she murmured. “He’s really doing it.”

“Your Majesty?” the clerk asked nervously.

Ruby rolled the scroll closed and tucked it under one wing like a blade she fully intended to use.

“Clear the rest of today. No, the week. Have the palace scrubbed and my formal armor polished. And send a reply to the Imperial Court.”

Her eyes caught the sun through the broken stained-glass. Gold flared across her snout like a crown on fire.

“If Darkstalker and his prince are tying the knot, I am going to be there.” She grinned, flashing teeth. “In person. Possibly in combat gear.”

The clerk scribbled furiously.

From somewhere deep in the stone walls, she could almost hear a voice—young, clear, slightly off-key—belting out a song about heroic SkyWing mothers and lava-proof love.

Cliff. Off at Jade Mountain, safe, thriving, undoubtedly getting detention for a musical. Ruby’s chest ached and warmed all at once.

Peril had found her own version of peace. Turtle had stood by her side when the flames burned highest. And now here they were—writing invitations instead of war.

She flicked her wings once, delighted.

It was about to be a truly unforgettable wedding.

Queen Snowfall

Well. This one was going to be interesting.

By now, the SkyWing couriers had survived enough of Pyrrhia to merit a very specific kind of medal—something embroidered with “I Did Not Sign Up For This” and probably enchanted to stop recurring flashbacks. They had, in no particular order: been tranquilized by a RainWing’s spontaneous affection, crashed through a stained-glass window in the Sky Palace, and delivered a scroll to a queen who smiled like a wolf who’d been waiting for someone to give her an excuse to smile.

So far, IceWing territory was quiet.

Which made it worse.

The wind didn’t just howl here—it made deals. The cold didn’t just nip—it judged. He descended toward the palace courtyard with the slow, cautious flapping of someone who’d been very recently launched through architecture and did not want to make that mistake again.

A reception committee was already waiting.

Three rows of guards, perfectly symmetrical, their white-and-silver armor so polished it reflected his increasingly frantic wingbeats. They did not blink. They did not breathe. They watched him land like he was a bug they’d found on imported silk.

He offered his best tired smile, which felt more like a grimace. “I have a letter for—”

“State your business,” said the captain of the front line. His breath smoked in the air, curling out in frosty spirals. The helmet gave him horns he no longer have and a sense of eternal disapproval he very much did.

The courier cleared his throat. “Official correspondence from the—”

“Follow us.”

They turned. Not in a relaxed way. In the way falling axes turn.

He shuffled awkwardly after them, claws slipping slightly on the perfectly polished ice floors. The halls were cathedral-like: vaulted ceilings, cold light pouring in through enchanted frostpanes, and statues that loomed with the quiet, terrifying certainty that if you breathed wrong, one of them would come to life and scold you.

It was cold. The kind of cold that wasn’t content with just your scales. No. This cold wanted to know you personally. It reached into his joints, wrapped fingers around his spine, and whispered you should’ve stayed in school with every step.

Portraits lined the walls—stern IceWings staring out like disappointed ancestors. He could feel their gaze narrowing every time he adjusted his flight harness.

And then the throne room doors opened.

It was not warm.

Queen Snowfall stood at the center like she’d been carved from a single unbroken sheet of ice. Not sculpted— carved, with force and precision and zero room for error. She wore a crown that looked more like a warning than a decoration. Her wings were sharp, her stance sharper, and her eyes…

Her eyes were a problem.

Winter had described her, in one letter to Turtle, as “abundantly blessed with mean smugness.” That had been kind. The courier now understood that up close, Queen Snowfall resembled a snowstorm that had made peace with murder.

She narrowed her eyes at the scroll he held, like it had personally offended her by existing.

“Is it enchanted?” she snapped.

The courier blinked. “I—no? I mean, I don’t think so, it’s diplomatic, it’s from—”

“I know who it’s from.” She rolled her eyes with the weariness of someone who had read five pages of drama before breakfast. “Give it here.”

He started to extend the scroll, claws shaking from a mix of cold and sheer existential fear, but Snowfall snatched it mid-motion without ever looking at him directly. She turned on her heel and dismissed him with the back of her wing like he was a breeze she found inconvenient.

“You’re dismissed,” she said, already halfway up the steps to her glacier-carved throne. “Take a coat on your way out. You look like you’re about to shatter.”

“…Thank you?” the courier squeaked.

She did not reply. She was already cracking the wax seal and reading, eyes darting like knives across the page.

The guards silently closed ranks behind him. One wordless talon guided him out. Another handed him a fur-lined flight cloak. He slipped it on with gratitude and trudged back through the frigid halls, back to his life, or what remained of it after this diplomatic odyssey.

Behind him, in the icy stillness of the throne room, Snowfall read.

And for a moment—just a moment—her frown lessened.

“So,” she murmured to herself, “the lunatics are getting married.”

She said it like it was both ridiculous and inevitable.

Then she glanced at her schedule, crossed out three inspections and a delegation meeting, and muttered, “Winter is going to love this.”

Her breath frosted the page.

And somewhere in the farthest corners of the Ice Palace, the walls creaked like they, too, were bracing for impact.

The Ice Kingdom had changed under her rule. The Circles caste system—gone. The Great Ice Cliff—melted, both metaphorically and literally. She had overseen more diplomatic pacts and tech trades than any IceWing queen before her. But this?

This was different.

This was personal.

Queen Moorhen

The Mud Kingdom in summer was a kingdom of steam and stillness. Cicadas chattered like gossiping aunties in the reeds. The air was thick with heat and the scent of sun-warmed river mud. The banana trees sagged slightly under the weight of the humidity, and even the most enthusiastic soldiers at the palace gates were half-asleep on their feet.

Except one.

“Courier incoming!” the watchdragon shouted from the tower, squinting into the shimmering blue.

A moment later: splat.

The SkyWing courier hit the palace moat with a strangled yelp, skipped once like a flat stone, then landed in the mud with a resounding glorp .

From inside the palace, Queen Moorhen sighed. Loudly.

“I just cleaned the guest wing,” she muttered, pushing herself up from where she'd been sorting through a box of fruit preserves—courtesy of her sister Creek, who'd recently discovered the joys of home canning and was now flooding the royal kitchens with experimental pickles.

“Creek!” Moorhen barked. “We’ve got another one!”

The courier staggered into the throne room a few minutes later, dripping, panting, and leaving muddy clawprints across the clay tile floor. His wings looked like someone had attempted origami with wet paper. A dragonet—one of the queen’s brothers—giggled and helpfully offered him a towel the size of a picnic blanket.

“From the imperial court,” the courier wheezed. “Sealed for your eyes, Your Majesty.”

Moorhen took the scroll with one massive claw. She was huge, even by MudWing standards—taller than her guards, broader than most palace doors, and commanding in a way that required no volume. Her russet-brown scales glowed dully in the lanternlight, and her embedded gemstones—rubies and topaz—caught the light like warning beacons.

She broke the seal. Read once. Paused.

Then read again.

“Oh,” she said simply. “ It’s time. ”

There was a rumble through the room as her siblings—all four of them—looked up from their various distractions. One was dozing under a fan made of palm fronds. Another was painting clay mugs with garish fish patterns. Creek looked up from the preserves and immediately stuffed another jar into her satchel.

“You are going, right?” one of them asked, wide-eyed.

“I have to,” Moorhen said, though there was no trace of annoyance in her voice—just a quiet certainty. “It’s a family thing.”

And that meant something, coming from her.

In the years since Darkstalker’s re-emergence and Turtle’s rise as Prince Consort, Queen Moorhen had seen something shift across Pyrrhia. The great tribes were still stubborn, still proud, still prone to drama like dragons were born with theatre masks glued to their faces—but the violence had calmed. The post-war tension had begun to finally bleed away.

The old SeaWing-MudWing border dispute, once the subject of snarled threats and subtle skirmishes, had been resolved. Instead of a warzone, the contested land had become a thriving trade outpost. Mud and tide mingled, forming a slippery sort of peace—and then something more. A little town grew up along the coast. Not quite SeaWing. Not quite MudWing. Not quite anything at all. Just dragons. Trading, working, flying in and out, living side by side.

No queens. No warlords. No walls.

Moorhen liked it.

It reminded her of the idea she'd always clung to, even when politics got loud and bloody: safety was more than defense. It was life. A chance to live, to keep living, with dignity and space to breathe. That’s what she’d fought for. That’s why she’d chosen the option that cost her the most pride but the fewest lives. That’s why she’d joined Burn. Not because she wanted to. Because the threat was real, and her dragons came first.

Now? For once? She had time to be with them. To be a Bigwings, not just a queen.

She went on morning hunts with her youngest brother, who still couldn’t catch a squirrel if it sat on his snout. She gardened with Creek (badly), listened to her brother’s moonflower poems (worse), and sometimes—just sometimes—forgot what war felt like in her bones.

So this scroll, this letter from the imperial court… It felt like the start of a new chapter. Maybe even one where she wasn’t the last line of defense. Maybe she could be just family again.

“Do I need to wear anything fancy?” she grunted to no one in particular.

“You could wear a decorative poncho,” Creek offered helpfully.

“I’m not wearing a decorative poncho.”

“Maybe a ceremonial necklace?” her brother added.

Moorhen growled.

“Crown?” Creek tried.

Moorhen snorted. “I’m not showing up looking like I stole Queen Coral’s jewelry box.”

She looked back at the courier, who was sitting now, wrapped in a towel and sipping guava juice with the shell-shocked look of someone who had accidentally walked into a family reunion and been adopted on the spot.

“You coming with us?” she asked him.

The courier’s eyes widened. “I—uh—I—”

“Too late,” Moorhen grinned. “You’ve met the siblings. That’s binding.”

The letter lay open on the table beside her, still damp around the edges from his unfortunate landing.

She read the last line again.

And smiled.

For Turtle, she would go. For Darkstalker… well, she'd keep an eye on him. Someone had to.

For her family?

Always.

Queen Thorn

The SandWing palace, once the scorched heart of Burn’s war machine, had grown softer in its twilight years. There were still remnants of the old architecture—claw marks in the stone walls, obsidian scorch lines from dragons long gone—but now bougainvillaea (thorny ornamental vine) clambered over the battlements in riotous purples and pinks. Silk curtains flapped in the dry wind. The great sandstone courtyard, where once prisoners had been paraded, now hosted a spice market on alternating moons. It smelled of turmeric, salt, and roasted cactus.

And at its centre, walking briskly past a troupe of singing street performers and politely nodding to a pair of mud-caked scavenger children carrying pomegranates, was Queen Thorn.

She was smaller than the palace expected her to be. All her presence came from the way she held herself—shoulders squared like a blade, gaze sharp and scanning even as she smiled in passing. Thorn walked like someone who always had somewhere to be, and something to solve. Her scales were desert-matte, her posture all pragmatism, and her claws calloused from decades of living in the sand before she’d ever worn a crown.

She wasn’t in the throne room. She didn’t like the acoustics there—it echoed too much for proper conversation, and made jokes fall flat. Instead, she worked in what used to be the war room: a modest chamber with thick sandstone walls, a low table covered in correspondence, and—curiously—a scavenger-drawn map that had been annotated with dragon-sized handwriting. She was currently bent over it, dictating a note to her scribe about irrigation designs from the Mud Kingdom.

She paused mid-sentence. She felt the shift in the air before anyone spoke.

The SandWing guards outside didn’t shout or raise their voices. That was the thing about Thorn’s rule: you didn’t need to bark orders when everyone was already well-fed, well-trained, and well-respected. A quiet word travelled faster than a trumpet.

A moment later, the door opened and a SkyWing courier was ushered inside.

He looked nervous. To be fair, most dragons did, around Thorn. Not because she was particularly terrifying—though she could be, if the occasion demanded it—but because she noticed things. She had a way of looking at you like she already knew your secret, and was simply waiting for you to tell the truth of it.

This courier was younger than the others. A little out of breath. His wings still had the dust of the northern mountain passes on them, his delivery satchel marked with soot and wax.

He saluted, perhaps a touch too stiffly. “Courier from the Imperial Office, Your Majesty. Special delivery, no signature required.”

Thorn raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth tugging upwards.

“No signature? What’s the world coming to.” She held out a claw.

He handed it over and dipped his wings in farewell. “There are… six other copies going out,” he said, unable to mask his curiosity, “but I wasn’t told what it said.”

“Of course you weren’t,” Thorn said warmly. “That would ruin the surprise.”

She waited until he left, then broke the wax seal with one swift motion.

The letter was scrawled in seawater-resistant ink, folded meticulously, the kind of parchment that smelled like kelp paper and moonberry wax. Neat penmanship. Foresight. Someone had taken their time.

She read the contents once. Then again.

And when she was done, she exhaled—long and low.

There was no laugh. No gurgle. No screech of surprise. Just the faintest spark in her dark amber eyes, as if something had just caught fire behind them.

“Well, well,” she murmured aloud, turning the letter over in her claws. “Looks like the Imperial Court’s waking up for real.”

She tucked the letter beneath her wing and turned toward the door, calling out as she walked:

“Someone fetch Qibli. And bring me something strong to drink. I think I just read a marriage proposal.”

Her scribe choked audibly behind her.

Thorn didn’t stop walking. She just smiled. Not a queen’s smile, not a diplomat’s smile—a mother’s, and a fighter’s. A little tired, a little amused. Entirely ready.

Because if Darkstalker was planning something?

Then by the sun, she intended to be three steps ahead.

Turtle

The heat rose in soft curls above the surface of the bath, fogging the windows and pooling like silk in the corners of the tiled chamber. The water was salt-rich and gently steaming, glowing faintly from the candles lining the pool edges. It was deep enough for a dragon to soak entirely, deep enough to hide a kingdom's worth of tiredness in one long exhale.

Turtle was submerged up to his snout, chin resting on the smooth obsidian edge. He blinked slowly, gills fluttering open and shut with the occasional underwater sigh. The soft click of his claws against the stone tiles beneath the surface was the only sound.

Well—except for Darkstalker humming.

The big NightWing was behind him, practically wrapped around him, claws working slow lazy circles into the muscles of Turtle’s shoulders. It wasn’t the kind of massage you give someone because they’re tense. It was the kind you give because you want to touch them . Because they’re here. And they’re yours.

And Turtle, to his own mild horror, was beginning to purr.

Not audibly. Not quite. But somewhere in his throat, under the warm brine and steam, something vibrated in appreciation every time Darkstalker’s thumbs circled just the right spot.

“Mmh. You’re being weird,” Turtle murmured.

“Am I?” Darkstalker didn’t stop.

“You’re never this—uh. Doting.” He tried to make it sound casual, but the word came out crooked, like it had tripped over the back of his tongue.

“Not true,” Darkstalker said, annoyingly serene. “I’m doting all the time . You’re just more receptive after you’ve sent world-altering letters to six monarchs.”

Turtle huffed, ducking his head further into the water so only his eyes remained above the surface. “They weren’t world-altering . Just… informative.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Darkstalker agreed smoothly, now inspecting one of Turtle’s talons like a jeweller inspecting a precious gem. “Informing them of a political marriage that reshapes the balance of post-war diplomacy, redefines animus alliances, and terrifies Queen Glacier so thoroughly she might retire a second time.”

“I am still worried about Glacier.”

“You worry about everything.”

“I do not —” Turtle’s protest was interrupted as Darkstalker leaned forward and gently nibbled on one of his horns. “ That’s not cleaning.”

“Mmh,” came the noncommittal reply. “You’ve got stress buildup.”

“I do not! ”

“You’ve been worrying all week, my darling Turtle. And you’re not exactly meticulous when you’re under duress. Also,” he said, brushing one claw under Turtle’s jaw, “I like doing this.”

Turtle flushed. Visibly. His scales lit with soft lights in spots, and he cursed the way his own bio-luminescence betrayed him so easily. It was one thing to be bathed in love, and quite another to have your scales tattle on you.

“I can clean myself,” he muttered, though he made no effort to move.

“I know,” Darkstalker said, reaching up now to gently brush his claws along Turtle’s jaw, lifting his chin like he was being appraised. “You always can. You’re very capable. But sometimes the point isn’t whether you can do something.”

His voice dropped lower, intimate, wry.

“Sometimes it’s letting someone else show you how much they want to.”

That shut Turtle up. Which was saying something, because usually if he wasn’t worrying out loud, he was muttering his worries under his breath. Now he just stared at the stone wall across the pool, tail curled tight beneath him in what he hoped looked casual but probably looked like an emotional knot.

Darkstalker leaned forward, pressing the side of his snout to Turtle’s and speaking into the space behind his earfrill. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

“…You don’t have to,” Turtle said, very quietly. But he didn’t pull away.

“I want to,” Darkstalker said simply. “That’s all.”

He reached for Turtle’s other horn and polished it with the same maddening, affectionate precision. Then his teeth—gently, reverently, brushing over Turtle’s incisors, his molars, inspecting each one with the tenderness of someone cleaning the blade of a beloved weapon.

Turtle squirmed, but not in protest. “This is embarrassing.”

“No, it’s indulgent. There’s a difference.”

“Do you do this for yourself, too?” Turtle asked, grasping for even footing in the conversation. “All this, uh—horn polishing? Teeth cleaning?”

“I do now,” Darkstalker purred, dragging his claws slowly down the back of Turtle’s neck. “You’re contagious.”

“I’m not!” he said, a little too fast.

“You are. In a very dangerous way. I’m considering writing a report.”

Turtle snorted and sank lower into the bath. The waterline now sat just under his eyes.

“I’ll make sure the historians include this part,” Darkstalker added. “It’s important context. Future Emperor Turtle was devastating in his bath. ”

“Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, I won’t. This is just for me.”

There was a pause. A long, slow inhale.

Then Turtle whispered, in a voice barely above a ripple:
“…Okay.”

Darkstalker smiled. And continued. Gently. Wordlessly. Tenderly.

The bath steamed on. Outside, Agate Mountain glowed faintly under a sapphire sky, stars visible even past the fast moving clouds. The letters had been delivered. The monarchs notified. The world— their world—was changing.

But for now, it was quiet. And here, in this sacred hush of water and warmth, Turtle let himself be loved.

Darkstalker

Darkstalker wrote by candlelight.

It was his preferred kind of silence—not complete stillness, not the crushing kind that left his mind too loud, too untethered—but a softened quiet broken only by the low whistle of wind across the balcony, and the tiny, rhythmic scrape of his quill against parchment. Somewhere deep in the palace, the stonework breathed. The hearth embers still glowed faintly in the next room.

And in the bedroom, his favorite sound: soft snoring. A kind of half-sigh, half-murmur, breath caught in a gentle rhythm. Turtle was tangled around three pillows and possibly the bedsheet, his frills flicking with each slow exhale. He had looked so peacefully ridiculous that Darkstalker hadn’t dared wake him when the snoring started. Just nudged a pillow into the curve of his talons and slipped free, with a whisper of a kiss to the side of his jaw.

He always looked so serious in sleep, for someone whose head was resting upside down.

Darkstalker smiled faintly to himself and dipped his quill in ink again.

The scroll in front of him had more annotations than original lines by now. Curves of thought, arguments with himself, entire sections boxed in question marks or circled twice over. Every few moments he paused, tilted his head, and murmured under his breath—not spells, not yet, just language. Careful, considered language. This one had to be right. This one had to be more than right. It had to hold .

He shifted, reaching for a second scroll. Reread a line. Crossed it out. Rewrote it slower.

There was a version of himself, two thousand years younger, who would’ve rushed this. A version who believed intent alone would make an enchantment safe. A version who thought—wrongly—that power meant certainty.

He had learned. Was still learning. There were no shortcuts to trust. And if there were… well. He didn’t want to take them.

This wasn't about proving anything to anyone. It wasn’t about being worshipped, feared, or adored. It wasn’t even about magic, not really.

It was about the future. The quiet, unremarkable, domestic future. The kind that wasn’t built in a day, but held together over time—claw by claw, vow by vow. He could see it: a tomorrow where Turtle still woke up beside him, and another tomorrow after that. Not because a spell said so. But because they chose it. Again and again.

A soft groan floated in from the bedroom.

Darkstalker glanced over his shoulder.

Still asleep. Still sprawled. One wing draped dramatically over the pillows now, like he’d won a very minor war and claimed the bed as his prize. His tail twitched. His snoring resumed.

Darkstalker chuckled under his breath, quietly—so quietly—and let the ink dry a little longer.

He turned back to the page. Lit a second candle for better light.

One more note. One more test. One more line rewritten, in smaller, tidier letters. This one circled with red ink.

If he got this wrong, if he left a loophole, if he rushed it and the spell collapsed like a house with rotted beams—he’d pay the price. And maybe more than him. That was the risk. That was the weight he held in one talon and the future he held in the other.

But then he remembered what Turtle had said, curled up beside him last week, somewhere between sleep and waking:

“You always look so surprised when you're happy. Like you think someone’s going to take it away.”

He had been surprised. Still was.

But not scared.

Not tonight.

He placed the quill down gently and breathed in the scent of warm parchment, hot wax, and—underneath it all—saltwater and eucalyptus, the fading trace of Turtle’s bath oils clinging to his own claws. He could still feel the shape of Turtle’s shoulders under his talons. The way Turtle had muttered, embarrassed and flustered, about not needing help. The way he’d melted anyway.

He was doing this for him.

And maybe a little for himself.

But mostly for the one snoring in their bed, tail thumping sleepily against the wall like a dragonet in a dream.

Darkstalker rolled the scroll closed with careful claws. Tied it with a strip of dark velvet. Set it in the cedarwood box he’d carved weeks ago, just for this purpose. 

Keep this concept of an enchantment safe. Before Turtle could change his mind. Before he could change his own mind. Until the time he got the wording right.

Then, finally, he blew out the candle.

And padded quietly back into the bedroom.

Turtle didn’t wake when he returned. Just grumbled something incoherent in Seawing and latched onto him like a barnacle. Darkstalker sighed—mock exasperated, thoroughly fond—and let himself be dragged back beneath the blankets.

The future could wait.

Tonight, he would rest.

Chapter Text

There was a mirror in front of me.
And one behind me.
And another to the left. And right. And one overhead, angled just so, as if it were spying on me from the ceiling.

I looked like a royal roast. Turned and rotated and studied on all sides. Polished. Seasoned. Garnished. Garnished again. Then un -garnished because apparently Kinkajou had too many opinions about flower placement.

“No. Not the forehead,” Winter was saying through gritted teeth, smacking Kinkajou’s paw away for the fifth time. “He is not a bouquet. This is not a parade float. This is solemn. ”

“It’s festive,” Kinkajou insisted, holding up what appeared to be an entire chain of golden hibiscus blossoms. “Also symbolic. And fun. Don’t you like fun, Winter?”

“Fun is for after the ceremony. When we’re not on a schedule,” Winter muttered, stepping back to inspect me like a jeweler examining a cracked gemstone. His talons moved with practiced sharpness, flicking a stray seasilk thread flat along my shoulder, then dabbing scale-polish onto a patch I hadn’t even realized was dull. I blinked at my own reflection as he worked—five versions of me blinking back.

I looked…
Well.
Honestly? Like someone who hadn’t known he had cheekbones until today.

“Stop fidgeting,” Winter snapped. “You’ll smudge it.”

“I’m not fidgeting,” I said, even as my frill twitched with nerves. “I’m contemplating. ”

He gave me a look in the mirror that said he had precisely zero patience left for contemplation.

I couldn’t blame him. We were all on edge. Everyone was here , somewhere in the mountain, making last-minute arrangements or arguing about seating charts or lighting or whether the ceremonial platform was slightly crooked . Kinkajou was gleefully unbothered by all of it, of course. She had already bedazzled the railing.

And me? I was trying to breathe. In, out. In, out. No seawater. No magic. Just air. Just breath. Just the quiet, steady knowledge that I was about to say something real and permanent in front of everyone.

And Darkstalker.

Stars, he was going to see me like this.

I felt my gills flutter traitorously, somewhere between pride and panic.

Winter finished adjusting my ceremonial neck chain—smooth, shell-carved, traced with silver filigree that shimmered like moonlight. The design was unmistakably Seawing, but with angular patterns along the clasps that mirrored old Nightwing carvings, a deliberate echo of Darkstalker’s past. His heritage. Our shared future.

“Okay,” Winter said, stepping back. “Turn.”

I did. Slowly. Mirrors caught the movement, fivefold.

He nodded. “Good. You look—” He stopped. Coughed. “—Presentable.”

“That sounded suspiciously close to a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.” He reached for a final pot of polish. “Now hold still. You missed a scale near your tail.”

Of course I had. I always did.

Kinkajou leaned over Winter’s shoulder, eyes gleaming. “So. Any last words before you become legally, magically, and emotionally intertwined with the most powerful dragon in Pyrrhia?”

I stared at myself. Five versions of me blinked again. I swallowed.

“I hope the platform doesn’t collapse.”

I left the mirror chamber feeling like I’d survived a battle I hadn’t trained for. Not a scratch on me, yet I was somehow exhausted — from holding still, from being buffed and adjusted like a sculpture, from resisting the urge to flee into a sea trench and pretend I was just a barnacle again.

The hallway outside was mercifully quieter. Cooler, too — stone and shade making the air taste less like ceremonial sweat.

Qibli was leaning against the wall with practiced elegance, tossing a gold coin between his claws. He looked obscenely relaxed for someone who’d spent most of yesterday panic-editing his speech until Moon threatened to hide all his inkpots.

Peril sat beside him. Well — sat might be generous. She was more perched , talons twitching against the stone floor, her wings pulled in tight like she was trying not to set the entire hallway on fire just by existing. A faint scorch mark told me she'd already failed once.

Moon was with them, crouched between the two like a peacekeeping orb of gentle telepathy and increasingly affectionate exasperation.

“There he is!” Qibli announced the moment he spotted me, standing upright with a flourish that absolutely didn’t match the casual slouch he’d been in seconds earlier. “The royal roast himself! You look incredible, Turtle. Positively edible.”

He flicked his coin, caught it, and winked.
“In the regal way, of course. Not in the cannibalistic way.”

Moon groaned, lowering her wings over her snout. “That wasn’t anyone’s first assumption… until you said it.”

“I make sure no one ever gets too comfortable,” Qibli said cheerfully.

Winter’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide with the sharp incredulity of an IceWing faced with crimes against dignity. “You what ? Are you openly admitting you considered eating him? Another dragon ?”

Qibli blinked, smirked, and leaned his weight onto one hip. “Nooo, obviously not. I’m talking about eating him up with my eyes. Like, appreciating the view. You know. Compliments.”

Winter sputtered, gesturing vaguely between me and Moon as though he needed witnesses. “You have a mate . Two of them! Where is your loyalty?”

“Right here,” Qibli said, sliding an arm around Moon’s shoulders with the ease of someone very used to being scolded. “But loyalty doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate art. Turtle is art today. I mean—look at that polishing job. That’s your work, right?” He leaned in conspiratorially. “You have to admit you buffed him up like a gemstone in a museum.”

Moon muffled a laugh behind her talons, peeking at me through her claws. “Winter, don’t. He’s baiting you.”

“I am not baiting him,” Qibli said, all false offense, before tilting his head thoughtfully. “Although, if I was going to—”

“Qibli.” Moon’s voice carried the quiet, resigned weight of someone who had watched this particular disaster unfold too many times before.

Winter drew himself up to his full, icy height, tail lashing. “If you so much as think about tasting him, metaphorically or not, I will—”

“Date me twice?” Qibli interrupted with a grin so bright it was practically weaponized.

Moon dissolved into muffled laughter, wings over her face. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh or crawl under the nearest decorative fountain.

“Are you nervous?” Peril asked, her voice low but direct, eyes locked on mine. “You don’t smell like panic. But your frills are weird.”

“They’re always weird,” I said.

“But they’re really weird right now.”

I shrugged, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I was still holding. “I’m… nervous in the way you get when something matters. Like standing at the top of a slide that’s on fire and everyone’s watching and it’s too late to go back.”

Moon tilted her head, thoughtful. “But you want to go down the slide.”

“Yes,” I said. “Even if I get singed.”

“I like this metaphor,” Peril added brightly.

“You would ,” Qibli muttered.

“I’m proud of you,” Moon said softly. “You’ve grown so much. And also let Winter buff your tail.”

“It was not optional,” I said.

Just then, the hallway brightened — footsteps, voices, the sound of ceremonial jewelry clinking lightly against royal scales.

Tsunami was first around the curve. Taller than I remembered. Still my sister, somehow both a hurricane and a hug in one body. Anemone beside her, eyes narrowed in appraisal — no doubt already assessing which minor enchantments she could add to the proceedings without being yelled at. Auklet trotted between them, beaming like she’d just invented weddings.

And behind them came Coral. Queen Coral. My mother.

She was dressed in court regalia, pearls woven through her frills, an opal circlet resting just behind her horns. She looked radiant. Regal. And impossibly proud.

I stood straighter before I even meant to.

Qibli let out a low whistle. “Showtime,” he murmured.

And for the first time all morning, I smiled without needing to rehearse it.

“Turtle!”

Tsunami’s voice carried down the hall like a conch horn announcing a storm. Before I could even take a step, she had me in a full-body hug that left my polished scales squeaking against hers.

“Careful!” Winter’s voice echoed faintly from behind the door I’d just left. “I just buffed him!”

Tsunami ignored it completely, lifting me half an inch off the ground like I was still a dragonet. “You look amazing ! I knew you would! Look at you, all princely and shiny. My brother. My favorite brother.”

I blinked at her. “I’m the only brother you really know.”

“And still the best one,” she said without a shred of irony, setting me down with a grin that could rival the sun.

Anemone circled me like a shark, her snout wrinkled in thought. “Hmm. Not bad. You could use a touch of bioluminescence though. Maybe a charm for a slow shimmer? Something elegant, like—”

“No enchantments,” I said quickly. “We agreed. No enchantments. ”

She pouted, flicking her tail. “Fine. But if your paintings come out boring, that’s on you.”

Auklet toddled forward between her sisters, eyes wide and sparkling like someone had put fireworks in a clam. “Turtle! You look like a hero from the stories! Like when you and Darkstalker did the big play and you were the scared green prince!”

Heat crept up my snout. “I… remember that.”

I also remembered that Queen Coral had attended every single one of those performances, front row, clapping the loudest. She’d insisted on them at first — said they were “good for my confidence” — but I’d always assumed it was more about appearances than me.

But now, seeing her glide toward me, radiant and beaming, pearls catching the light… I wondered if maybe it wasn’t just about appearances at all.

“My son,” Queen Coral said, her voice warm as the shallows in summer. She stopped in front of me and touched her snout to mine — a gesture so gentle, so deliberate, that it made my throat tight. “You look… perfect.”

I swallowed. “…Thank you, Mother.”

Her eyes shimmered with pride — and maybe the threat of tears — before she turned to adjust Auklet’s necklace, regaining her queenly composure in a heartbeat.

“You’re going to make a magnificent husband,” she said, with the easy certainty of someone announcing the tide.

I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear that until right now.

Over her shoulder, Qibli mouthed aww and pretended to wipe a tear. Peril looked like she might combust from holding back commentary. Moon was just smiling, soft and knowing.

For a moment, standing in that sunlit hallway with my sisters and my mother and my friends, I felt something unfamiliar but solid settle in my chest.

Maybe… I was ready.

The procession down the hallway began in that half-organized, half-chaotic way that only my family could manage. Tsunami looped her wing over my back like she was escorting me personally to glory, even though I was already walking on my own. Anemone darted ahead and behind in restless little zigzags, alternately inspecting the walls and herself in the polished stone floor. Auklet trotted between us, humming an off-key wedding march she was clearly improvising.

Behind them, Qibli and Peril followed, snickering like they were watching the best play of their lives. Moon glided at their side, her quiet smile softening the chaos. Winter walked just behind them, composed in that icy, elegant way that somehow made his silent glower feel deeply affectionate. He said nothing, but his eyes kept flicking to me — and when he caught me looking back, he rolled them with a theatrical sigh, like of course I had to look good today of all days.

And my mother brought up the rear, regal as ever, though every few steps she tilted her head to look at me like she still couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“I hope Darkstalker remembers he’s supposed to stand still,” Tsunami muttered, leaning in conspiratorially. “I feel like he’s the type to start monologuing mid-vows.”

“He is the type,” Qibli said immediately, his voice dripping with amusement. “I give him three sentences before he breaks into some heartfelt speech about destiny, the future, and how the stars themselves are attending.”

“Two,” Peril said. “And he’s going to cry.”

“Darkstalker doesn’t cry,” Anemone scoffed, tossing her head.

“He cried when Turtle tripped on a pebble once,” Kinkajou’s voice suddenly chimed from somewhere ahead, and I startled—she must’ve sprinted down another hallway to join us. She popped out from behind a pillar with a crown of flowers and flung it onto my head before I could stop her. “He was so dramatic ! He practically threatened to murder the rock!”

Everyone laughed, and I groaned, adjusting the flower crown so it didn’t cover my eyes. “I can still back out, you know.”

“Nope,” Tsunami said firmly, nudging me forward with her shoulder. “You’re getting married, and you’re going to look great doing it.”

We emerged into the courtyard, and for a second, even I forgot to be nervous.

The sky stretched wide and clear, a black velvet canopy pricked with stars. Three moons cast silver light across the stone and the pools of water scattered artfully throughout the space. Small waterfalls trickled into shallow channels that wound through the courtyard like silver-blue veins, their glow accentuated by scattered pearls and bioluminescent shells.

The NightWing aesthetic was everywhere — rich, velvety banners with threads that caught the starlight — but the SeaWing touch softened it: arches of coral-shaped stone, small ripples of water where any SeaWing guest could slip in and relax. Tiny floating lanterns drifted across the surface, like stars had decided to visit in person.

A gasp escaped Auklet, and her whole face lit up. “It’s like a storybook!”

“It’s like a wedding ,” Anemone corrected, but she was smiling too.

I glanced at my friends and family, then back to the courtyard, where dragons were already beginning to gather, hushed and curious beneath the moons. For the first time all day, I let myself take a slow, deep breath.

This was happening.

And, stars help me, it was beautiful.

I had barely taken three steps into the courtyard before I felt the first pair of royal eyes lock onto me.

Queen Glory stood with the kind of casual grace that made it look like she hadn’t been staring me down for at least ten seconds before I noticed. Deathbringer was beside her, holding a tiny bundle of ebony-green scales in his forearms — their dragonet, who had apparently inherited the full range of her mother’s unimpressed facial expressions.

Glory tilted her head just slightly, a slow, predatory little motion, and I could see her sizing up everything about me in my ceremonial finery: the polished scales, the silver-inlaid silk, the subtle NightWing accents in the SeaWing jewelry. Her mouth curled into a smile that could only be described as: delighted mischief.

“Well,” she said, loud enough to cut through the polite hum of conversation, “doesn’t someone clean up nicely.”

A few nearby dragons turned to look, and suddenly I became hyper-aware of the flower crown on my head.

Deathbringer leaned down and stage-whispered to their dragonet, “That’s your Uncle Turtle. He’s about to make some very questionable life choices.”

The dragonet sneezed directly on his snout.

Glory, meanwhile, was still staring, clearly enjoying every ounce of my discomfort. She shifted her dragonet in the crook of her wing and began to stroll toward me, Deathbringer trailing behind like a smug shadow.

“Congratulations, Prince Consort,” she said, her tone dangerously smooth. “I trust the Emperor hasn’t completely bullied you into this?”

“I—uh—no?” I said, which earned me a grin from Deathbringer and a knowing snort from Glory.

Tamarin appeared behind them a moment later, balancing a tray of fruit for reasons I didn’t understand, and gave me a little wave. “Kinkajou says you look perfect!” she said brightly, before vanishing back into the crowd to rescue a mango from someone’s claws.

Glory smirked. “Perfect, huh? Well. We’ll see if Darkstalker agrees.”

Deathbringer nodded sagely. “Or survives.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but a ripple of movement caught my attention — more royalty approaching, their conversation pausing as they spotted me.

If I thought Glory’s grin was predatory, Queen Snowfall’s was… whatever the opposite of a grin is. A grimace, maybe. The kind that could make the air temperature drop five degrees just by existing.

She was approaching from the opposite end of the courtyard, flanked by two IceWing guards in ceremonial armor that glittered like sculpted frost. Two guards. Only two. Which, given her opinion on NightWings and the fact she was walking straight into Emperor Darkstalker’s territory, was practically a love letter in itself.

I mean, sure, two guards was still arguably impolite for a wedding. But with Snowfall, that was basically a hug.

She spotted me almost immediately and quickened her pace, the guards clinking behind her in perfect unison. I braced myself as she came to a stop a polite-but-pointedly-calculated distance away.

“So.” Her eyes swept me up and down, and I swear I felt frost creep into my scales. “You’re really doing this.”

I swallowed. “Apparently.”

One of her guards, a burly fellow with a scar over his snout, muttered something I couldn’t catch. Snowfall didn’t even glance at him; her attention was entirely on me, on my jewelry, on the flower crown she looked personally offended by.

“You look… shiny,” she said at last. “I suppose that’s a compliment.”

“Thank you?”

She opened her mouth—probably to interrogate me on why I was marrying a two-thousand-year-old war criminal or to make a comment about decorative waterfalls—and then she froze.

Literally froze. The tip of her tail twitched once. Her eyes had drifted over my shoulder.

I followed her gaze and found Winter standing just behind me, his scales like fresh snow under the moonlight, his expression caught somewhere between politely neutral and I hate every second of this social interaction.

Snowfall’s entire body language shifted. The frost melted right off her face. She blinked twice, her voice suddenly going sharp but… brighter.

“Winter,” she said, as if surprised he was even real.

“Your Majesty,” Winter replied stiffly, bowing his head with perfect form.

“Good. You’re… here. That’s good.” She hesitated, tail curling and uncurling like she was re-learning how to have emotions in public.

I had never in my life felt more like a piece of decorative coral.

Before I could be forced to mediate whatever strange cousinly thing was about to happen, another familiar voice rang out across the courtyard, warm and sharp all at once.

I didn’t get to fully process Snowfall’s Winter-activated personality shift before another presence swept into the courtyard, bringing with it the soft rasp of sand and the smell of warm stone.

Queen Thorn didn’t walk so much as arrive . She had that confident, compact SandWing poise that said she could cross a desert without breaking stride. Her golden-brown scales caught the moonlight like polished amber, and her eyes missed absolutely nothing.

And—because apparently teleportation was one of his many talents—Qibli was already trotting along at her side, grinning like he’d been born there. When did he even get over there? I blinked.

“Turtle!” Thorn’s voice was warm, steady, and dangerous in that SandWing way, like a dagger with a friendly handshake. “Look at you. I almost didn’t recognize you under all the polish and flowers.”

I ducked my head, muttering something about Winter’s fault while Thorn gave me a once-over that felt equal parts auntly approval and tactical assessment.

Qibli leaned closer, stage-whispering, “I told her you’d be nervous. She said you’d either be pacing holes in the floor or trying to hide behind a decorative fountain.”

I flicked my tail at him, which only made him grin wider.

“You look happy,” Thorn said, and even though her tone was soft, her eyes were sharp. Observant. Razor-edged in that way where she could probably see right through me to every worry I’d had in the last week.

“I… am,” I said, surprised by how true it felt when I said it out loud.

“Good,” she said simply, then tilted her head slightly, her gaze flicking toward the nearest set of ceremonial waterfalls and the gathering crowd. “You’ve got family here. And family by choice, too. That counts more than blood sometimes.”

Qibli nodded like a sand lizard agreeing with its own reflection. “Desert rules,” he said. “If you’d trust someone with your life, they’re family. And you…” He gestured at me, at himself, at Thorn, at the general concept of us . “You’ve got a whole desert’s worth here tonight.”

Warmth swelled in my chest, and for a second I almost forgot about the starry courtyard, the mirrors, the flowers, the growing crowd of monarchs.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, and I meant it.

Thorn’s eyes softened, but only for a moment before narrowing again in that calculating, canny way of hers. “I like seeing you like this,” she said. “But I’ll say it once, for the record—if he hurts you, I don’t care how old or magical he is. The desert has ways of handling things.”

“Noted,” I said, managing a small laugh.

Somewhere behind us, a ripple of motion spread across the courtyard, and the murmuring of the assembled guests grew louder. Moonlight spilled in silver ribbons across the marble, catching on every droplet of water and every polished scale.

Which meant, of course, that Darkstalker was about to make his entrance.

The courtyard stilled.

One moment there was the soft hum of conversation, the trickle of water over stone, the faint splash of SeaWings slipping into the reflecting pools. The next—absolute, crystalline silence.

Then came the announcement.

The palace guards, who’d been drilling for exactly this moment, moved as one. Their voices rose like a single, well-oiled mechanism—sharp, crisp, and impossibly resonant.

“His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Darkstalker of Pyrrhia.”

Even the waterfalls seemed to hesitate.

And then he stepped into the moonlight.

I’d seen Darkstalker dressed a hundred different ways—casual, dramatic, slightly smug—but nothing, nothing , compared to this. He moved like a shadow given life, or maybe like a cat that knew exactly how beautiful it was and didn’t care if the world choked on it.

The silk clinging to him was nearly invisible until the light caught it: whisper-thin sheets of emerald and midnight-black that trailed along his flanks and over his tail, whispering against the marble with every step. Slivers of pure ice-white rippled along the edges, delicate as frost, catching the silver starlight. I caught Snowfall’s faint intake of breath from across the courtyard and tried very hard not to laugh.

Jewelry glittered across him in subtle, deadly lines—emeralds and onyx carved and polished to a liquid sheen, tracing the curves of his horns and the length of his talons. A smaller crown rested just above his brow ridges, understated compared to his usual regalia, but it gleamed like the night sky had bent forward to kiss him.

And the veil—stars above, the veil.

A gossamer film of black and green silk draped from his horns down across his muzzle, half-revealing, half-concealing, turning his platinum eyes into liquid moonlight through the fabric. His sclera were near-black, a void-like contrast that made the irises gleam even brighter — like molten silver poured into obsidian bowls. Every slow, deliberate step he took made the light shift across him like ripples on the ocean floor, each movement casting glints like sunlight breaking through deep water.

He didn’t look intimidating.
He didn’t need to.
He looked regal. Like a forgotten prince from some ancient myth, or a sea god stepping out of the deep, swathed in silk and stormlight. He looked untouchable, like someone who could command the stars to halt if he felt like it.
He looked unreachable. And somehow—he made me want to reach anyway.

And he looked—oh no.
He looked ravishing.

I knew he wasn’t reading my mind. He never did, not anymore. Not unless I asked, not unless I begged. But right now? He didn’t need to. I felt it. In the faint tilt of his head, the flicker of one brow, the subtle curl of a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He knew.
He knew exactly what he looked like.
And worse—he knew exactly what he looked like to me.

And I was in so much trouble.

My face heated under my scales, and I ducked my head just enough that Kinkajou, hovering somewhere behind me, wouldn’t immediately start whispering about it. I could feel his gaze even through the veil, warm and weighty, and all at once my heartbeat felt like it had relocated to the base of my throat.

The crowd parted instinctively as he crossed the courtyard, as if even the marble itself wanted him to glide unimpeded toward me.

For a moment—just a moment—I forgot there were queens here. I forgot there were diplomats and guards and waterfalls and stars.

It was just him.
And the way he made me feel like the only dragon in the world.

He reached me at last, the silk of his veil brushing faintly against my snout as he stopped just close enough to steal the air from my lungs.

For a heartbeat, we just looked at each other.

Then Darkstalker leaned in, slow and deliberate, and greeted me the way he had once explained NightWing tradition demanded: three soft kisses, alternating, one on each cheek and the last on the first.

Left.
Right.
Left again.

Each one lingered like the ghost of heat in the cool night air, the veil whispering across my scales as he drew back. My gills trembled despite my best effort to look appropriately princely.

“You look…” My voice cracked embarrassingly. I swallowed, tried again. “You look—stars above— incredible .”

His platinum eyes glimmered through the black-green veil, catching starlight and the reflection of every waterfall in the courtyard. He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head in that way that said he was both amused and pleased, the corners of his mouth softening into that private smile that made my heart feel like it was trying to swim right out of my chest.

“And the white accents,” I added, almost whispering now, leaning just slightly closer. “You did that on purpose.”

His gaze held mine, unblinking, and for a moment the world narrowed down to the glint in his eyes—mischief and affection and something so much deeper, wrapped in the calm of a dragon who knew exactly the effect he was having.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Because in that silence, in that look, was the answer: Of course I did.

And my heart, the treacherous thing that it was, executed a perfect somersault.

It was showtime.

The courtyard—our courtyard—seemed to hold its breath. Waterfalls whispered at the edges, moonlight glinting off the carefully carved channels and shallow pools where SeaWings lounged or floated in soft reverence. Lanterns strung between the arches flickered in colors like trapped starlight, reflecting off the mirror-sheen of polished stone. Above, the sky stretched velvet-dark and endless, the moons watching like silent guests of honor.

And in the center, standing with the unshakable poise of someone who had survived empires and exiles alike, was Foeslayer.

Darkstalker’s mother looked… official.

Not in the gaudy, jewel-encrusted way of most royal traditions, but in a quieter, older manner that felt almost heavier. Her black scales were framed by an embroidered shawl, deep plum with silver-thread constellations that shimmered when she moved, cascading over her wings like she carried the night itself on her shoulders. She held herself with the easy calm of someone who knew this ceremony was hers to command.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I supposed it made sense. Darkstalker wanted this done the old way. Who else would know the rituals of two thousand years ago better than the only other dragon alive who had truly been there ?

“Step forward,” she intoned, voice low and resonant, carrying easily through the courtyard.

I did. My talons clicked once on the polished stone as I took my place opposite Darkstalker, who moved with that infuriating feline grace that made it look like he was floating rather than walking. His veil fluttered, catching the moonlight, and for a second I forgot how to breathe.

Foeslayer’s gaze swept over us—warm when it landed on her son, sharper when it landed on me, but there was pride in it, I thought. Maybe.

“In the ancient accord of the NightWing tradition,” she began, “we recognize this union not only as a joining of hearts, but of futures. Of souls, entwined.”

Two attendants—NightWing and SeaWing both—stepped forward carrying a length of ceremonial ribbon, silk shot through with threads of silver and green, the colors of both our heritages.

“This is the Clawfasting,” Foeslayer said, her tone softening, almost fond. “Once bound, you pledge to one another your trust, your loyalty, and the life that follows after this one. This is not a promise made lightly.”

I lifted my forearm. Darkstalker did the same.

The ribbon wrapped around our talons, first loosely, then tighter, winding in a spiral that felt like the slow turning of fate itself.

Warmth thrummed under my scales where we touched, his claws steady against mine. My frills trembled, but I held my head high.

I couldn’t help a faint, breathless laugh as our claws brushed. “Guess this makes it official,” I whispered.

Darkstalker didn’t whisper. His voice was low, rich, and carried just for me.
“It always was.”

The ribbon hung between us, coiled and gleaming under the lantern light, talons bound. My heart should have slowed by now, but instead it thrummed faster, echoing in my ears, keeping time with the soft splash of water in the pools around the courtyard.

Foeslayer’s voice took on a new weight, a gravity that made even the monarchs lean in.

“The second rite,” she said, “is the Bonding. It is older than crowns, older than courts. A pledge of blood to blood, pain to pain, life to life. To share all that comes—joy or sorrow, fortune or fate. This is the vow that cannot be broken.”

There was a subtle ripple through the crowd. Even in this age, everyone knew what came next.

The attendants returned, one carrying a ceremonial blade. It wasn’t particularly large—more like a wide dagger, its hilt inlaid with bits of moonstone—but it seemed very sharp in the moonlight.

I swallowed, flexing my claws in the silk binding. “Oh,” I said faintly, before I could stop myself. “Right. That part.”

Foeslayer’s eyes flicked to me with the faintest hint of amusement, as if to say: Yes, dear. That part.

The attendant held the blade out. I hesitated for only a heartbeat, then extended my talons. A shallow cut across the palm—more ceremonial than anything. Beads of dark blood swelled from where the razor sharp edge met my softer scales.

I looked up at Darkstalker, expecting… I don’t know. A grin. A comment. Maybe a gentle we can skip this, because of course we could.

Because Darkstalker couldn’t bleed.

He had told me once, in that offhand way he said horrifying things: “Knives just get bored halfway in.”

I opened my mouth to whisper, It’s fine, you don’t have to—

And then he lifted his palm to the blade.

The cut sliced clean, and for the first time in two thousand years, Emperor Darkstalker bled.

Droplets of dark crimson welled at the edge of his palm, then ran down his talon, heavy, real.

I gasped. I wasn’t the only one—there was an audible murmur across the courtyard, wings shifting, frills flicking, a ripple of shock that passed through royals and commoners alike. Even the waterfalls seemed to hush for a breath.

The blood gleamed like a ruby in the moonlight, then sank into the length of ribbon around our paws.

My throat felt tight. My mind spun with all the impossible implications, but all I could manage to whisper was:
“…Darkstalker?”

He met my eyes, calm and unshakable, though a private smile tugged at the edge of his veil.

I realized, in that moment, what he’d done.

This was the enchantment he’d been working on. The careful words. The hours in the study, hunched over scrolls, muttering to himself like he was holding a conversation with fate.

He had built this promise into something binding.

And the cost…

He’d undone his own immortality.

Not with fanfare. Not with a dramatic proclamation. Simply with a choice. With an unspoken vow that meant something only because it could end—because it would end, someday, and that was what made it real.

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even blink. My heart ached and swelled all at once.

He gave me that private, glinting smile again, like he could hear the thought I didn’t dare say: You chose me over forever.

“Clasp my claw,” he said softly.

I did. 

Our talons locked, blood mingling, the ribbon binding us now darker with the faintest swirl of red.

Somewhere behind us, Foeslayer spoke the words of the vow, but for a moment, it was just him and me. Just the warmth of his claw in mine, and the shocking truth blooming in my chest:

He’d given up something eternal—for this.

For me.

The courtyard had gone very still.

Even the murmuring streams and enchanted waterfalls seemed to hesitate, their babbling fading into the background, like the whole palace was holding its breath. A ribbon of moonlight caught on the blood at the edges of our claws, glimmering faintly against the dark silk binding our forearms.

Somewhere in the distance, a SeaWing hatchling squeaked, hushed by an older sibling. Otherwise—silence.

Foeslayer’s voice rose into it, steady and measured. “Then let the vows be spoken. Let them be clear, and true, and binding. This is the moment where words hold the weight of lives.”

I had to swallow twice before I trusted my voice. I started first, because I knew Darkstalker would end this with something… well, something very Darkstalker.

“I, Prince Turtle of the SeaWings” I said, my throat tight but my voice even, “swear by the moons, the tides, and every path our lives may take… to love you, protect you, and stay with you for as long as I live. Through calm seas and storms. Through fear and hope. In all things, together.”

My chest trembled with each word. I was hyper-aware of his talons in mine, his blood— our blood—warm in the night air.

Then Darkstalker’s turn.

When he spoke, the air itself seemed to hum. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried —through the courtyard, across the pools, maybe across the whole mountain. I felt it in my chest like the first deep toll of a bell.

“I, Darkstalker… son of Prince Arctic and Foeslayer, heir of the NightWings and IceWings… swear by the three moons and by all the futures I have ever seen or not… to love you, protect you, and remain by your side until the end of our days. I will guard your heart as fiercely as my own. I will share in your joy and in your sorrow, in your triumphs and in your rest. My life is yours, as long as it is mine to give.”.

Foeslayer’s voice rose once more, clear and solemn.

“Then by blood and bond, by vow and witness, you are joined. Until the end of your days… as one.”

Our claws warmed for a heartbeat, and I felt—not magic exactly, but a promise settle in my chest, like the click of a lock.

The crowd exhaled. Somewhere, applause broke out. The waterfalls began to sing again.

But for me, it was still silent. Just him. Just us.

The cheer went up around us like the sound of an ocean crashing against cliffs.

But I didn’t hear it. Not really.

Darkstalker leaned in, and I met him halfway. Our foreheads touched for a heartbeat, and then his mouth was on mine—soft, warm, familiar—and it was good . Good enough to muffle the sharp, shuddering sound I realized was coming from my own chest.

A sob. Or a laugh. Or maybe both, strangled together.

You stupid idiot, I thought at him. You ridiculous, stupid mortal idiot.

His talons tightened gently around mine, and I knew he heard me. Even without animus magic, even without his powers reaching for my thoughts—he heard me.

A tiny huff of amusement escaped him, almost lost in the kiss. Then, against my mouth, a murmur:

“I hope you can forgive me,” he said softly, so only I could hear. “I was… selfish. I couldn’t do it, Turtle. I couldn’t stand the thought of you growing old without me—of me lasting forever without you. I couldn’t let you go. So…” His voice caught, and for once, he hesitated. “…so I won’t.”

I clutched him tighter, my chest aching, and kissed him again because I had no other words. My thoughts swirled, loud and helpless: I love you, but you are such an idiot. My idiot.

He smiled into the kiss like he heard every word.

Around us, the courtyard erupted in cheers and different forms of celebration.

Queen Thorn, standing beneath a vine-wrapped arch, didn’t clap—she only narrowed her eyes and murmured something sharp to the Outclaws at her side. A moment later, they doubled their patrol around the perimeter, eyes scanning the mountain shadows.

Queen Snowfall shocked everyone by leaning toward her nearest guard and muttering, “Stay sharp. He can bleed now.” Then, after a pause: “…He’s not so bad.”

I caught Qibli’s gaze over the crowd. He wasn’t cheering, exactly—he was watching the Agate Mountain guards, the way they stood straighter, prouder, sharper now than ever. It clicked in his eyes.

Loyalty.

That was why Darkstalker had pampered them, trained them, paid them better than any other guard corps in Pyrrhia. Because even now—even in this perfect moment—he had enemies. And now, for the first time in two thousand years…

He could bleed.

I buried my face briefly against his shoulder, hiding the mess of my expression. I wanted to stay in this bubble, this warmth, this kiss and the low hum of our promise. Just for a little longer.

Because beyond it, I could feel the weight of a world shifting.

The music started first—soft strings and lilting flutes echoing off the stone walls of Agate Mountain. Then the cheers shifted into chatter, congratulations, and the unmistakable hum of a party bursting to life.

Darkstalker and I had barely taken two steps down from the ceremonial dais before we were engulfed.

“Matching scars!” Peril shouted the moment she spotted us, wings flaring in excitement. She shoved her snout almost into our joined claws to inspect the faint red line across our palms. “That’s so cool. So cool. Now you look like battle buddies! Or like… blood brothers? Wait, blood husbands? Yeah, blood husbands!”

I tried not to laugh, which only made me snort instead. Darkstalker chuckled under his breath, and Peril beamed like she’d just been complimented.

Qibli appeared at her shoulder, eyes sharp and already spinning a thousand miles an hour. “Okay, but—hang on, hang on —you can bleed now? As in, like, really bleed? And you timed this…for the vows?” He glanced between us, his tail lashing in pure mental overdrive. “You planned this, didn’t you. This was a long con. Oh moons, I knew you were—”

“Qibli,” I interrupted gently. “It’s a party. Breathe.”

“I am breathing! Loudly! In suspicion!”

Winter slid into the group with silent efficiency, his pale blue-and-silver scales catching the moonlight. He didn’t say a word—just gave Darkstalker a single, slow nod. The kind of nod only IceWings seemed to understand. Quiet respect. A wordless I see you.

Darkstalker returned it, equally solemn, before Kinkajou’s voice burst through the air like a firework.

“OHMYMOONS, I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS—” she launched straight into a rapid-fire rant about flower arrangements, night-market souvenirs, commemorative pastries, and how we had to let her decorate the next courtyard for “vibe consistency.” She didn’t stop for air, and somewhere in there I was pretty sure she started listing species of frogs that would look good at a wedding.

Moon slipped in at last, soft and glowing in the lamplight. She didn’t say much, didn’t have to. Her claws brushed Darkstalker’s shoulder, and when he turned to her, she gave him a smile so bright it felt like sunlight breaking into the courtyard.

He froze, just for a heartbeat, like her joy had reached some deep and fragile part of him.

“Congratulations,” she said quietly, but there was so much warmth in the words it nearly undid me.

Around us, the music picked up, lanterns swayed, and the smell of spiced fish and roasted fruit filled the air. Friends pressed in close, queens watched from the edges, and for one dizzying, wonderful moment, I thought maybe— maybe —we could actually have this.

A celebration. A night of happiness.

Before the world remembered that Darkstalker could bleed.

By the time the party winds down, the courtyard looks like a battlefield of joy. Lanterns bob in the night air, reflecting off the artificial streams and waterfalls. Half the queens are gone or slumped in various states of regal inebriation. Someone—probably Peril—set off a controlled explosion in the far fountain, which now sprays in three different directions. I’m… ninety percent sure that was intentional.

Darkstalker, our friends, and I have retreated to our private living quarters: a sprawling room that’s part library, part lounge, part communal nest. Pillows are scattered everywhere. Low tables groan under half-empty bowls of fruit, roasted fish, and the occasional mystery snack Kinkajou insisted we try.

Dragons are flopped in various corners. Qibli is sprawled belly-up, muttering half-hearted theories about “arcane blood-binding side effects” between bites of mango. Moon is curled near the small fountain, her eyes half-lidded in sleepy contentment. Winter has stationed himself like a dignified ice sculpture in the corner, sipping something dark and strong while Peril perches upside down on a chair she absolutely should not fit on.

And me? I’m sitting on the edge of the central nest, staring at my claws, trying to make sense of the fact that my life just… changed. Again.

Darkstalker is across from me, lounging with impossible grace, as if he hadn’t just detonated my entire emotional existence in front of all of Pyrrhia.

I inhale sharply through my nose, the way someone might if they were about to yell or maybe just fall apart. Then I glare at him with all the emotional intensity of a dragon who’s just been handed the weight of the cosmos and a soggy napkin to deal with it.

“You idiot,” I croak.

Darkstalker blinks. “…I mean, yes. Technically.”

“You gave up eternity. For me. ”

The room goes quiet—well, quieter. Kinkajou is still mumbling to herself about how cute we looked kissing, but everyone else pretends very hard not to listen. The faint lap of water against the stone fountain fills the pause.

Darkstalker shifts, sitting upright, claws folding loosely in his lap. His voice, when it comes, is quiet. Stripped of all the grandeur he usually carries like a second skin.

“It wasn’t eternity,” he says softly, “if you weren’t in it.”

A horrible, strangled sound tears out of me. The kind of noise one makes when reading a devastating love confession in a scroll at two in the morning, alone, and realizing it will ruin your sleep.

“You don’t get to just say things like that,” I hiss, burying my face in my claws. “You don’t get to just live like a tragic hero in a story I would’ve written and then act like it’s normal. I wrote things like this. I read things like this. They always end in—”

I choke, cutting myself off before the word comes.

Darkstalker leans forward, his expression unreadable. “Always end in what?”

“Loss.” The word comes out small. Broken.

He is silent for a long moment. So long that the soft splash of someone dropping a grape into the fountain feels like a thunderclap.

“Then let’s rewrite that ending,” he says gently. “Let’s make it our story. You and me. Until the last page.”

I finally look up at him—and I hate it. I hate how real he looks now. Not some untouchable myth, not a glittering god of old stories. Just a dragon. Bleeding. Mortal. Mine.

“You are the most powerful dragon I’ve ever met,” I whisper, “and you gave it all up… for someone who still hides behind spell-scrolls and stammers through his own name on bad days.”

There’s a rustling sound behind us. A muffled yelp.

Qibli flails.

“Winter, what in—stop that! You can’t just knead me like I’m fresh pastry!”

Winter doesn’t blink. “You were making that face again.”

“What face?”

“The one where you pretend you’re fine but secretly want to die. I find it... soothes you.”

Moon lets out a soft, amused breath, barely stifling a giggle as she turns her head toward the fountain. “He’s not wrong.”

“I am a respected intellectual,” Qibli mutters as Winter resumes calmly pressing his claws into his belly like he’s testing for ripeness. “Not a sourdough starter.”

Peril swings her tail dangerously close to someone’s head. “Does this mean you’ll knead me next?”

“No,” Winter and Qibli say at the same time.

I glance at Darkstalker.

He’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

I love them. I love him.

And it wrecks me.

Darkstalker smiles, slow and devastating. “I didn’t fall in love with a god. I fell in love with you. With the way your voice shakes when you’re nervous. The way you see beauty in the small, weird things. The way you keep showing up, even when you’re scared.” He tilts his head, eyes soft. “You’re the bravest dragon I’ve ever known, Turtle. I wanted to earn the right to be beside you.”

I break.

I throw myself at his chest, hugging him so tightly it’s basically a tackle. He oofs but wraps his wings around me instantly, strong and warm and shaking a little like maybe he’s not as invincible as he used to be.

“You absolute disaster of a NightWing,” I mumble into his scales, voice cracking. “I’m going to cry on your scales for the rest of your short, mortal life.”

“Good,” he murmurs into my frill. “I want them to smell like you.”

Somewhere behind us, Qibli mutters, “Romantic, but weird,” before Peril shushes him and offers him more wine.

And in that little bubble of warmth and exhaustion, with my stupid mortal husband holding me like I’m the center of his universe, I realize I wouldn’t change a thing.

Chapter Text

I had been on the throne for all of twenty minutes before I began to suspect that this was, in fact, how I was going to die. Not in a blaze of glory, not in some grand betrayal, not even in the subtle venom of court politics—just here, in my own hall, surrounded by polished obsidian and pale agate, felled by whatever petty mortal virus had decided to colonise my body.

The throne room, normally my favorite stage for calculated performance, felt like it had grown cavernous overnight. The air shimmered faintly with torchlight, but every flicker stabbed behind my eyes. The high vaulted ceiling, with its elegant NightWing arch work, mocked me by being several miles above my head, impossible to reach without flying—an activity that currently seemed as achievable as swimming to the moons. My head was too heavy. My wings felt like they’d been swapped for wet sails.

I was sitting straighter than usual, but only because slumping forward would reveal too much weakness. My tail was wrapped neatly to one side, claws perfectly still on the carved obsidian armrest… except for my right claw, which I was absently rubbing over the pale, healed scar in my palm from the wedding ceremony. The mark caught the light whenever my talons flexed, a ghost of the day Turtle had slid a ring there and smiled at me as though I were a good idea.

Of course, the day had also involved incense, feasting, speeches, and a lot of contact with other dragons. I’d shaken claws, been kissed on the cheeks, and endured an alarming amount of well-meaning touching from the populous. Back then, I’d been too distracted by Turtle’s soft, steady presence at my side to notice any brewing danger.

Now, the danger had clearly noticed me.

My nose had staged a quiet rebellion, clogging itself just enough to make breathing through it an act of courage. My throat felt as though I’d been gargling desert sand. Every time I swallowed, it was with the resigned awareness that whatever was in there was winning. I’d already sneezed three times since taking my seat, and the fourth was building ominously—thick in my sinuses, a slow, traitorous tide rising toward inevitable disaster.

I would’ve blown my snout, but that required a handkerchief, and a handkerchief required admitting weakness to at least one courtier who would, without a doubt, inform my mother within the hour. And then I’d have two things to survive: the illness, and her smothering fuss.

The queue of petitioners shuffled forward somewhere below my dais. Their voices were a murmur, words indistinct, like I was hearing them through river water. The first one was already speaking to me, a stocky MudWing with something about a boundary dispute. I tried to focus. Really, I did. But then the sneeze overtook me, and for one humiliating instant, I was doubled over with a noise that echoed off every polished surface in the chamber.

There was a pause. A small one. Long enough for me to know that everyone was pretending not to have noticed.

I straightened, pretending my eyes weren’t watering, pretending I wasn’t gripping the arm of the throne for balance. “Continue,” I rasped, my voice an octave lower and full of gravel. It might’ve sounded commanding if I didn’t also sniff right after.

This was not the kind of royal presence I liked to project. Usually, I could lean back into that delicious mix of intimidation and charm, tailor my posture and tone so that every word dripped control. Now, I felt like an overgrown hatchling in a robe three sizes too big, trying to keep his crown from slipping into his eyes while his head pounded in time with his heartbeat.

It was ridiculous. I’d faced near death. Actual death. Betrayals, visions, centuries of isolation. And yet this—this petty, mortal ailment—was unravelling me faster than all of it.

I had forgotten what it felt like to be sick. Truly sick. Mortal sick. No invincibility, no magic to knit it away. Just me, my wretched immune system, and the deep, sinking awareness that Turtle was going to find out sooner rather than later… and that when he did, I would never hear the end of it.

Not because he’d scold. Oh no. Far worse. He’d dote . He’d fuss in that soft-spoken way of his, bringing me warm food and telling me to “just rest” while he ran the kingdom for the day. Which would be almost tolerable—if not for the way he’d look at me while doing it. As if I were breakable. As if I needed looking after. As if I weren’t, in fact, Darkstalker.

A fresh sneeze threatened. I clenched my jaw, nostrils flaring, determined to out-stare the MudWing into continuing his petition. Somewhere to my left, one of the scribes made the mistake of glancing at me with barely concealed sympathy.

If I died here, at least the funeral would be spectacular.

A few hours later, and I had apparently reached whatever evolutionary milestone sits between “mildly unwell” and “should be formally declared a public hazard.”

The fever crept in like a cat burglar, stealing my ability to think straight, my patience, and my will to sit upright. I would have magicked it away without a second thought, but Turtle had planted himself squarely between me and that solution. He’d made this gentle-yet-ironclad decree about letting my body “fight it off naturally” because something-something “repeated animus magic eroding the soul” and “especially now that you’re vulnerable.” Honestly, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear I’d married Fathom in a costume.

Though, to be fair, Fathom never looked this good while bossing me around.

Still. It’s alarmingly easy to blur those mental lines when your vision is already blurring because your eye sockets feel like they’ve been filled with molten iron. So. Fever. Great. Apparently that’s what this is.

The throne room had gone from “pleasantly cool” to “actively mocking me” over the course of the day, the distant stone walls somehow sucking warmth from my bones one moment, then radiating it back into my scales the next. My skin—my poor, mortal, no-longer-immortal skin—felt clammy and oversensitive, every faint breeze from the open clerestory windows slicing across me like it had an agenda.

My head throbbed in slow, synchronized pulses, as though my own heartbeat had decided to move upstairs and rent out the loft space behind my eyes. Every sound in the hall—the soft shuffling of guards, the quiet clink of a scribe’s quill stand, the occasional cough from a petitioner waiting to be announced—registered far too loudly, each one a personal offense.

I tried to sit like a monarch, but my spine kept doing this slow, traitorous melt toward the throne’s carved backrest, until I found myself slouched and listing slightly to one side. I couldn’t tell if the guards were politely ignoring my decline or taking bets on whether I’d keel over before the next audience.

What I could tell was that my nose had entered a treacherous cycle of blocking entirely, unblocking for ten glorious seconds, and then slamming shut again just as I dared to breathe normally. This, naturally, led to an ever-growing pile of embroidered handkerchiefs—Turtle’s doing, obviously, because nothing says “royal dignity” like having a cold in front of half your court and an entire embroidery project in your lap.

“Your Majesty,” the herald called, voice bright and steady, “the next petitioner is ready to speak.”

I nodded—or possibly just tilted my head in a way that could be interpreted as nodding—and tried not to visibly sway as the petitioner approached. My skull felt like it was filled with wet sand that shifted every time I moved, and if I accidentally sneezed on this poor dragon, it would be remembered as the day the Emperor declared war via nasal spray.

It occurred to me, in a distant, fever-hazy way, that Turtle might actually be right about the whole “magic erosion” thing. Not because I was worried about my soul—please, I’ve survived worse—but because he’d taken on this stubborn, infuriatingly warm caretaker role, and I wasn’t sure I could face disappointing him. Even if it meant enduring what was shaping up to be the most pitiful, mortal, and undignified day of my reign.

And the way my throat was starting to tickle? Oh yes. It was only going to get worse.

By mid-afternoon the cool tiles are my salvation and my sentence.

I curl against the stone like some disgraced deity seeking refuge from the sun. The floor takes the heat from my belly in patient, indifferent gulps; the marble drinks until my scales stop feeling like they might combust. Every time the patch of tile beneath me grows the faintest bit too warm from my fevered blood, I heave myself up and slide—slow, graceless—until another square of basalt promises a reprieve. It is humiliating in the way only good plumbing and climate control can make you: I, who once bent moons to my will, am conducting a miniature migration across the threshold.

Turtle moves around me like a careful tide. He has adopted the air of someone who both adores and fears a particularly expensive instrument; hands precise, voice low. He set down a shallow bowl of broth within reach some time ago—fish and kelp, simmered until the oil beads on the surface like tiny suns—and now he is bent over a stack of scrolls, lips moving as he reads aloud under his breath.

“Steam inhalation,” he murmurs, glancing up as if I might argue. “A poultice for the temple—that’s clay and seaweed—no raw animus magic. The hand of the royal surgeon is unnecessary for this. We can do it here.” He says it as though I should be comforted that I’m not going to be carted off to some antiseptic wing with snooty attendants. I am. I am very comforted. I am also furious at how very comforted I am.

“I’ll die if you put kelp on my forehead,” I grumble. The complaint comes out thin and oddly high; the fever has stolen my register. My claws find the old scar in my palm by habit, rubbing it as if its presence could anchor me.

Turtle looks at me—really looks—and the edges of his mouth catch like he's trying not to smile. “You will not die,” he says, firm and a little too earnest for the tone. “You’ll sweat like a SeaWing at a tea ceremony, you’ll also get better, and you’ll learn to stop trying to do everything yourself.” He says the last bit with fond exasperation, which is both soothing and infuriating because it is true.

He reaches down and presses a cool cloth—soaked in something that smells faintly like mint and salt—onto my brow. The cool is clean, precise, a wedge between me and the fever that wants to boil my skull. I close my eyes and permit a tiny, animal sound of gratitude to escape. It makes him hum, pleased, and his fingers ghost along my flank in a practiced worry.

He has the scroll open where he marks each remedy as if he's tallying success. There’s a list—broths, compresses, steam, rest; and a second list with a line through it: animus wards, quick unbinding, hasty magic. I think the hasty magic line is primarily there to remind him to scold me later. He reads the next line aloud, “If fever persists beyond two days, call the surgeon.” His voice is level. There’s a small, stiff tremor there that speaks of the small rule he’s laid down: he will not call the surgeons unless absolutely necessary because he’d rather fuss for me than have others fuss for me.

Blob—of course—chooses that moment to clamber up my flank. That ridiculous carved octopus, warm from the sunlit sill earlier, scuttles with the comedy of a thing that should not be mobile. Its wooden suckers tap quietly against my scales; its head bumps my snout with an absurd confidence. Blob settles on my back with the gravity of a small, wooden emperor and starts to vibrate in that strange, enchanted way that counts for a purr.

“You’re an absolute menace,” I tell it, which is both true and useless. Blob makes a satisfied creak and presses so that one tentacle rests on the kelp-broth bowl, sending a ripple across the oily surface.

Turtle laughs. It’s soft and delighted and exactly the wrong sound for an Emperor to be melting over, except that I melt. He pulls a blanket from the side, not the wool fortress from last time but a lighter coverlet, and drapes it over Blob and my wings, tucking it under my side with a care that is almost religious.

“You should be in bed,” he says again, sitting on the floor near my out stretched claws as if he can anchor me in place. He returns the scroll to the pile and fusses with his frill, the same way he did before the wedding when I still pretended I didn’t like being watched. He presses his palms flat to the stone, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him through the blanket. “You’re allowed to be alive and not ruling everything for a day.”

I think of retorts—clever things about sovereignty and duty and the inconvenient heroism of endurance. The fever screws with my tongue, makes witty points taste like sand. Instead I make a noise that is mostly surrender.

Turtle hums a small victory and pulls up a shallow brazier of steaming water with herbs tucked in a cloth—peppermint, hyssop, slivers of candied ginger. He leans forward and holds the steaming bundle near my face, the vapour washing over my nose with green, sharp comfort.

“Breathe,” he instructs, as if teaching a hatchling to swim. I do, slow and desperate, inhaling until my chest feels like it might mend. The steam burns at first, then clears my sinuses like a reckoning. My head lowers toward the stone and I find myself willing the world to stay, right there: Turtle’s careful claws, the low hum of the brazier, Blob’s ridiculous weight anchoring me like a little, ridiculous talisman.

“Stay,” I tell him, because there is the old part of me that still wants to stride towers and issue decrees, and the new part that would prefer to keep my talons in his and live longer for small things—fish and kelp, stolen moments and slow afternoons. “Stay.”

He stays. He moves his knee to prop against my flank and murmurs, “Always.” Then he begins to tell me about the small bureaucratic victories of the morning—the irrigation channel approved, a petition resolved—things he thinks will comfort me because they stitch the world together. His voice is warm, lulling. I let it thread through the fever like a rope.

When my eyelids grow heavy, I worry absurdly about the indignity of sleeping on the floor rather than the bed and of Blob presiding over my rest like a carved lighthouse. Turtle sighs once, fond, and takes the coverlet, drawing me up until my head rests against his shoulder. The tiles are still cool, but his warmth is a new kind of refuge. He wraps an arm around me, not possessively but as if to mark me: this is mine.

The fever stutters, not gone but softened. I can feel the world in measured degrees again: the tick of the brazier, the creak of a well-loved floorboard, the soft rasp of Turtle’s breath. Blob’s wooden tentacles flex with a slow, pleased rhythm. My palm, that scarred pale line, aches with a memory of vows and blades and promises. I press it to his claw and find a steadiness there.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I say hoarsely, the insult affectionate.

“So are you,” he answers, and the corners of his mouth tug into a smile I would follow into any ruin.

I close my eyes and breathe, once, twice, each breath a small, fragile victory. Outside, the mountain mumbles with the business of courts and commerce. Inside, on the cool tiles, a mortal and his SeaWing nurse pretend that the world can be managed with broth and blankets and the soft insistence of being held.

For now, that will have to be enough.

Night air always did me good. The cool wind sluiced through my spiked frill and over my scales, pulling at every lingering thought, every sluggish mood. I’d told Turtle it was just a short flight to clear my head, a lazy loop around the mountain. He’d given me that very patient, very “you are a known liar” look, but let me go anyway.

Speed felt natural — I’d enchanted my wings for that centuries ago — the same way strength felt natural. Neither needed to be flaunted. No one else needed to know that the invulnerable part was gone, that my body was now just… a body. I still flew like a creature convinced he could barrel through a lightning storm and come out unscathed.

The courtyard loomed below, neatly terraced, dotted with lanterns and Turtle’s precious imported ferns. I descended with all the grace of a god returning to earth. Absolute picture of poise , I thought, tucking my wings in for a perfect landing—

—until my right talon caught the rim of the fountain.

The next half-second consisted of: a) my own startled, undignified squawk, b) a complete and irreversible failure to recover balance, c) the sudden discovery that Agate palace tiles were much less forgiving when you could bruise.

Impact. A heavy, resounding thunk that vibrated through my skull.

The view from the floor was… unique. Lanterns spinning lazily in my vision, the faint scent of Turtle’s treasured jasmine crushed under my shoulder, the far-off sound of water still splashing from the fountain I’d apparently half-collapsed into.

I lay there, limbs akimbo, staring up at the sky and mentally adding “trip over fountains” to the list of mortal hazards I now had to consider.

By the time the palace guard arrived, I was still on my back, blinking up at them with what I hoped was a regal smirk but probably looked more like a dazed grin. One of them leaned in, whispered something, and I caught the words “Darkstalker-shaped stain” .

Fair. Accurate.

Mostly okay, though. Just… a little more mortal than I’d planned to be.

The night sky still tilted and spun above me, a dizzy carousel of stars, when a shadow fell across my vision.

“Sorry, sir,” came the low murmur — barely more than a rumble in my ear. There wasn’t much time to process what was about to happen before I felt talons close firmly around the base of my wing.

I turned my head just enough to catch the silhouette of one of my senior guards — broad-shouldered, calm-eyed, one of the handful I trusted to react without waiting for instructions. In that moment, the guard’s expression was the careful, assessing kind soldiers wore when weighing how much pain they were about to inflict in the name of preventing something worse.

There was no countdown. Just a decisive, urgent shove. A jolt of white-hot fire shot through my shoulder joint as something that had been very out of place slid back where it belonged with a deep, unpleasant pop .

I sucked in a breath sharp enough to taste the courtyard air all the way down my spine. A few jasmine petals stuck to the inside of my mouth when I exhaled.

The guard stepped back immediately, claws lifting in that neat “job done” gesture only soldiers and surgeons seemed to have. “Better to do it fast,” he said, voice steady, “before the muscles lock.”

I lay still for a few moments longer, wing trembling faintly as sensation returned in erratic little shocks. The rest of the guards hovered nearby — one keeping a polite distance with a flask of water, another subtly glancing toward the palace as if considering fetching Turtle.

I almost laughed. This was why I'd hired them — not just for their strength, but for the way they could take one look at a sprawled, half-dazed emperor and, without hesitation, do what needed doing. No melodrama, no awkward waiting for permission.

Competent. Efficient. Quick on their claws.

And, I had to admit, probably enjoying the fact they’d just put me back together like an overturned training dummy.

I barely had time to set one talon over the threshold of our chambers before the sound hit me—not a roar, not quite a hiss, but that sharp snap in Turtle’s voice that told me he’d skipped past his usual gentle patience entirely.

The room was warm, lamplight flickering against the soft green drapes. Scrolls lay pushed aside on the bed in a neat little pile, abandoned mid-reading, and there he was at the foot of the bed, standing like an anchor of scales and authority. His frills twitched. His tail flicked once against the carpet.

“Are you trying to kill yourself?!”

It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation, hurled straight at me. I opened my mouth, maybe to be witty, maybe to comment on dramatic entrances, but Turtle was already closing the distance, two long, deliberate steps that made my chest tighten.

“You can’t just—” His talons brushed along my wing, testing the joint with careful precision, as though he’d read three medical scrolls before dinner. His eyes narrowed. “You fell out of the sky.”

“I landed in the courtyard,” I corrected, and his look could have curdled seawater.

“Landed? There’s a stain in the courtyard shaped like you,” he said flatly. “I had to hear about it from the guards, who, by the way, apparently fixed your wing before you could even stand. What if they’d been wrong? What if it was broken? What if you—” He cut himself off, jaw working, tail curling tighter.

I tilted my head, a slow smile tugging at my mouth despite the ache radiating from my shoulder. “You’re worried about me.”

“I’m—!” His frills flared, betraying warmth behind the sharpness. “Of course I’m worried about you! You’re my—” Words caught in his throat. He exhaled hard and shook his head. “Just… try not to plummet out of the sky without warning next time, alright? Or at least take someone with you who can stop you from making courtyard art.”

I chuckled low, letting him fuss over my wing a moment longer. “Noted, my beloved co-ruler.”

He gave me one last glare for emphasis, the kind that said the conversation was not over, before turning to fetch an ointment jar from the bedside table, muttering under his breath about reckless NightWings and fragile Seawing hearts.

It started with the ointment jar.

For the first two days after the courtyard incident, I thought Turtle was simply being endearing — brushing his talons over my wing when we passed in the hall, pausing to tilt my chin toward the light, squinting at me like I might spontaneously develop an infection from air . But by day four, I’d caught on. This was not mere affection. This was surveillance.

The moment I returned from a meeting, his gaze dropped to my claws. “Scratch on your foretalon,” he murmured, like a royal physician delivering dire news. When I tried to wave it off, he fetched the ointment jar anyway .

By day six, I’d come in from a short flight — barely a hop across the mountain — only for him to appear from the balcony with a damp cloth, frills stiff, eyes scanning me for damage like a hawk over a battlefield. I swear he catalogued every scale. “What’s this?” he asked, brushing at my forearm.

“A smudge of dirt.”

“A smudge,” he repeated, tone heavy with disbelief, “on the same dragon who faceplanted in the courtyard last week.”

That was when I realised the stakes. If I so much as stubbed a claw again, I was going to end up confined to our bedchambers under royal orders. And if that happened, there was every chance he’d follow through on the threat he made in jest over dinner — to wrap me, SandWing-style, in layer upon layer of blankets until I resembled a ceremonial burrito.

I love Turtle. I adore Turtle. I would burn kingdoms for him. But the thought of lying helpless under half the palace’s blanket supply while he hovered with soup and suspicious eyes was enough to make me tread very carefully.

So yes. I have been minding my steps. I have been watching for uneven stones. I have, for the first time in centuries, actually thought about landing instead of… arriving. Because no matter what else happens in my reign, I refuse to go down in history as the NightWing Emperor who got burrito’d by his husband.

…It is very difficult to conduct a serious marital inquiry when the subject of said inquiry is crouched in the corner like a very large, very pretty, very possessive housecat.

The nest — for I can call it nothing else at this point — had grown to alarming proportions. At first, I thought it was a phase. A single blanket left in the corner after a long day? Fine. A second, perhaps pilfered from the laundry staff, folded neatly atop the first? Quaint. But by the time we were up to ten layers, two borrowed pillows, and what I strongly suspect is part of my ceremonial cape, I began to feel less like an emperor and more like an uninvited guest in my own quarters.

Today, however, is different. Today, I have stumbled upon him in the act.

Turtle’s curled in the centre of the pile, wings tucked in, claws flexing into the blankets like he’s personally reweaving the fabric with every knead. His frills are lowered but quivering, and the bioluminescent scales along his sides are flaring in slow, rhythmic pulses, like the tide rolling in and out. The sound coming from his throat is somewhere between a purr and a warning hiss, which is… an unusual combination, and possibly a new entry in the lexicon of "Things My Husband Does That I Don’t Understand."

I linger in the doorway, torn between stepping closer and retreating before whatever this is reaches a dangerous stage. Because there is also the touchiness. The last week, every time I’ve approached, he’s been all over me — brushing against my side, draping a wing over my back, curling his tail around mine — yet also, inexplicably, steering me toward the door. As though I’m meant to be elsewhere .

I suspect there is a pattern here. I also suspect that prying too soon might result in my removal from the nest pile by force. Still… this is my husband. My beloved. The other ruler of our empire. If something is going on, I should hear it from him directly.

It would be prudent to ask. Yes. That’s the rational thing to do.
…Just as soon as I’m certain he won’t bite me for it.

I might have dropped hints at our breakfast-lunch-dinner table — whatever it technically is, it’s ours. Mine. Turtle’s. And our friends’. It’s odd to even think of it that way, but there it is: a table full of dragons I once only knew as names in Moon's head, now lounging across from me as if we’ve always been like this. It’s stranger still to admit, even to myself, that the Jade Winglet are my closest friends now. But if you subtract those inconvenient two thousand years I spent in an enchantment-induced sleep, I’m essentially their age. The math checks out… in a horrifying, "don’t think about it too much" kind of way.

So yes, I may have casually — very casually — floated the topic of Turtle’s… “condition.” Not in a panicked way. Certainly not in a way that might suggest urgency. More in the manner of a dragon idly remarking that his husband has been hoarding blankets in a suspiciously nest-like fashion and hissing at him while glowing in wave patterns. You know. Standard household quirks.

The thing is, I don’t really have any close SeaWing friends to compare notes with. The few I’ve known were more political acquaintances than personal ones. I have no mental index for “SeaWing seasonal behaviors.” There’s no scroll in my library labelled What To Expect When Your Husband Is Acting Like a Bioluminescent Cat . And the whole situation doesn’t seem serious — at least, not in the way that would demand healers or frantic interventions. But it is peculiar , and I dislike mysteries that involve my spouse and a growing mound of my stolen capes.

I’m beginning to think I’ll have to actually get up and find a scroll on SeaWing biology if Turtle doesn’t just tell me what’s going on. I can practically hear Fathom laughing in the afterlife at my plight.

Meanwhile, Qibli has been giving me looks. Not casual glances — no, these are loaded, knowing, smug looks, the kind that suggest he has already written the entire answer in his head and is simply waiting for me to catch up. He probably knows. He probably enjoys knowing. And if Qibli knows, then Moon definitely knows.

Ah, Little Moon. Sweet, curious Moon, who has never once managed to resist the temptation of a mystery. She wears her curiosity like a crown and, unfortunately for me, no one here is wearing Skyfire at the moment. Which means she has easy access to everyone’s thoughts — mine, Turtle’s, and everyone in between. She hasn’t said anything yet, which is telling in itself. That means she’s either politely waiting for me to ask her directly… or she’s already piecing together the whole story from Turtle’s mind and storing it away for the exact moment it will cause the most emotional upheaval.

I’d almost prefer she just blurt it out at the table. Almost.

I suppress the urge to scream at my SeaWing.

During my court break, I had returned to our bedchambers with very specific, entirely wholesome intentions: a cup of tea, a quiet read by the window, maybe polish a few dull spots on my scales. A little self-care — nothing outrageous. I’ve been taking Moon’s therapy suggestions seriously, and she insists “scheduled downtime” is vital for maintaining balance in a high-pressure environment.

Apparently, I forgot to factor in the part where my husband transforms into a highly territorial, aggressively affectionate predator when the mood strikes.

Now I’m trapped — truly trapped — in a bizarre loop of mixed messages that would give any reasonable dragon emotional whiplash. One moment it’s “No, stay,” delivered in that deceptively soft tone he uses right before pinning me in place. Claws curl against my sides — not hurting, but handling , as if I’m a particularly valuable piece of coral he’s decided needs constant physical inspection. Sometimes it escalates to outright groping, which, while flattering, is not conducive to quiet reading.

Then, without warning, it shifts: “Leave. Leave now,” accompanied by a sharp, guttural hiss that suggests I have trespassed into some invisible SeaWing boundary zone. The instant I obey and make it halfway toward the door, the cycle resets. He’s purring again, low and warm, growling in that strangely fond way, pulling me back with kneading claws and an expression that says I have no business being anywhere but under him.

I’ve tried logic. I’ve tried humor. I’ve even tried distracting him with food — and that only bought me enough time to make tea before I was herded back into the nest like a particularly slow-moving school of fish. His bioluminescent patterns keep flashing in erratic waveforms, and the staff outside the door are pointedly pretending not to notice the noise.

I know this isn’t hostility. If anything, it’s the exact opposite — intense, instinct-driven affection wrapped in a distinctly SeaWing brand of territorial behavior. But the unpredictability of it, the endless whiplash between “stay forever” and “get out immediately” is driving me toward madness. And yet… I can’t entirely bring myself to hate it.

Not that I’d ever admit that to him.

I spear another bite of food, chew, swallow, and try to pretend the ringing in my ears isn’t from Turtle’s last keening wail. I made it out of our chambers alive. Barely.

Moon, Winter, Peril — they all look at me with varying degrees of expectation. Or amusement. Or, in Winter’s case, that sharp little look he reserves for when he thinks he’s about to witness my downfall.

I set my fork down. Breathe. Then:

“Moon,” I say. “You wrangle two idiots on a daily basis.” I gesture vaguely at Winter, who bristles, and Qibli, who is mercifully absent. “What would you suggest? You’re the most mature out of all of us. I think. I hope. Besides Turtle. But I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to hold a coherent conversation with my favorite sea cucumber at the moment.”

Winter chokes on his drink. Peril lets out a strangled snort, trying to smother her laugh in her claws. Moon blinks at me, a little wide-eyed, like I’ve just dropped a confession she wasn’t prepared to hear.

I press on. “He’s nesting. He’s glowing. He’s dragging me into bed only to kick me out five minutes later. He’s building forts out of blankets like he’s preparing to fend off a siege. And I…” My throat tightens, surprising me. “I don’t know how to meet him there. I can’t follow the map. I can’t… read this instinct of his.”

Peril, ever blunt, mutters, “It’s because he’s broody. He wants dragonets.”

The words hang in the air like a thrown knife.

I laugh. A sharp, ugly sound that makes Winter smirk harder. “He wants dragonets,” I repeat. “Of course he does. And what do I give him? Blank stares. Sarcasm. I thought he was—” I cut myself off before the word feral slips out.

Moon’s voice softens, her eyes steady on mine. “Darkstalker. He’s not angry at you. He’s not even confused. His instincts are pulling him one way, but underneath, he just… wants a future with you. A home. A family. That’s what all of this is about.”

The fork in my claws feels suddenly heavy. I lower it, very carefully, onto the plate.