Syra sat hunched against the stone wall of her cell, the thin fabric of her gown draped over her legs she had pulled to her chest [https://img.wattpad.com/8f464bf2a7ea7a949c2d9352710147f83dad6d43/68747470733a2f2f73332e616d617a6f6e6177732e636f6d2f776174747061642d6d656469612d736572766963652f53746f7279496d6167652f4d5376725548574f554b386a4b513d3d2d3336373739393133342e313461373032613764326534363564363636353832323738343637392e6a7067?s=fit&w=1280&h=1280]

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When the dust cleared, a mound of rubble laid sprawled in the ruined street. People gawked and cried and ran to loved ones buried underneath.

"What happened? Did everyone escape?" Rogan called out, riding in from an intersecting street that remained intact.

"They got caught in the collapse!" Senec said, huddling in a group by the gate wall, "Aidan's in there!"

"No..." Rogan said, dismounting and running to the rubble in a feeble attempt to dig out his son.

He stopped at the sound of moving rock. The pile groaned and cracked, and Rogan threw himself back as the pile bulged and stone fragments fell away from the shimmering dome beneath it. Rogan gawked in silence as the golden barrier dissipated, leaving a large bronzed dragon crouched over Aidan and others.

The peoples' cheers of joy turned to shrieks when they realized what was standing over them. They scrambled out from the debris and ran. Aidan, too, ran.

"Aidan!" Syra said, rising on weak legs, her power drained, "It's okay, it's me!"

Aidan spun around, the familiar voice bigger and fuller than usual. And then he saw where it came from. His legs gave out from under him.

"Aidan!" Rogan said, managing to catch him, "Get away from that mons—"

"It can't be." Aidan said, his voice weak in disbelief.

Syra lowered her head and stared into his eyes, "It's okay, I won't hurt you."

Those eyes. Green like the leaves they just picked for his father's migraine tonic. Those eyes that he loved so much now stared at him from a scaly beast he had sworn to hate.

"Syr—" His voice caught, acid singeing the back of his throat as he forced the bile back down.

Syra stopped. She could smell his fear, the vomit on his breath, the ammonia from those who had pissed themselves. All eyes were on her and their silence screamed in her ears.

"Away!" The flash of Rogan's sword made her flinch, "Vile beast! Away with you and your stench of death!"

Syra's pupils narrowed, focusing on the cold glare and steel facing her. "You despise me that much, my king?"

Rogan halted, taken aback by the smallness and familiarity in her voice.

The crowd watched on as the giant lizard shimmered and shrank, leaving a human in its place. Rogan's sword fell from his hand.

"You...this whole time?"

"I can explain!" Syra stepped forward and Rogan snatched up his sword as quickly as it fell.

"You!" Rogan shoved its tip forward, forcing her back, "lied to me! Betrayed me!" His voice cracked.

"Never!" she bellowed, eyes narrowed and stance firm, "I am a dragon, yes. But never have I betrayed you. I was raised as a human by your own hands and yet all you see is a mons—"

"So I have betrayed my own kingdom by fostering an enemy?!" he grimaced.

"I am not your enemy!"

"You manipulated me...us...the whole goddamn kingdom, into believing you were just some innocent orphaned girl!" He wailed his sword, its blade shaking. "I took you in!" Regret stung his face and his eyes shimmered, "I sheltered you! Taught you, believed in you! I sent you to the academy when no one gave a shit about you!" He froze, swallowing the knot in his throat, his voice weak, "I gave you Ethan's room."

Syra watched the realization wash over him and Aidan. Watched their skin grow pale and their lips quiver. The air smelled cold and sickly. She did not want this, nor had she anticipated it.

"Get on the horse." Rogan sheathed his sword and signaled his steed over, heaving Aidan to his feet.

Aidan simply gawked at Syra with dead eyes, "All this time—"

"Now!"

Aidan mounted, his legs weak.

"Soldiers!" Rogan called over his shoulder, "Restrain this creature until I can decide what to do with her."

Two soldiers approach Syra with timid feet, but she lowered her head, "It's alright." She held out her hands to be shackled, her gaze fixed on Aidan.

Rogan placed himself between her and his son, "You are not to associate with my son any longer. Is that clear, dragon?" He let the last word rumble in his throat.

Her eyes looked past him to the hunched figure atop the horse.

"Is that clear!" He repeated.

Spit splattered her cheek and she averted her gaze with a clenched jaw, "Yes, sir."

Rogan spun on his heel and mounted behind Aidan, leaving Syra to the squad of soldiers, "Take her, then fetch me Valen. I have many words for my so-called advisor."

***

The soldiers led her down the longest route through the city. Past the market and Revinia's bakery, past the little alley book store, past the training arena, and past the academy where two familiar and confused faces watched from its windows.

I'm sorry, Ricca...Rimmel. Looks like I won't be graduating with you after all.

She tore her eyes away from her friends' concerned faces only to see her suitemate and oldest friend come charging down the main stairs.

Oh, shit, Nelly.

"Syra! Syra, what happened?"

Syra stopped short but her guards tugged her forward, turning their backs to Nelly.

"Go back to your room, miss. This one's no longer your concern."

"Excuse me?" Nelly's shrill echoed off the high walls as she planted herself in front of them. "What on Erd did she even do? Surely a pocketful of cookies doesn't warrant this."

"It's alright, Nelly. Just a misunder—"

"Hush!" The guard jerked her chain and Syra lowered her head again. "And you," he glared back at Nelly, "stop interfering or we'll get you a matching set."

Nelly puffed her chest but Syra stepped around her, shaking her head in silent surrender.

"Aidan's going to hear about this!" Nelly called after them. "I'll make sure of it."

Syra's chest warmed and stung at the same time.

Thank you, Nelly.

***

But the relief of Nelly's kind words was short-lived upon entering her cell.

"Syra!" A handmaid barely older than herself scurried into the iron-laced room in a huff. "I came as soon as Valen told me. What's going on?"

"Krina, I—"

"I said, no talking!" The guard tossed her face-down onto the stone floor. "You'll defile our language with that forked tongue of yours."

Krina's huffing stopped, and her face fell flat, "So it's true. You really are...what they say you are?"

Damn it, does everyone know now?

Syra heaved herself from the floor to look her handmaid in the eye, "And just what are they saying I am—"

"A dragon!" Krina's dainty hands flew to her mouth just for the utterance. Her hands were shaking, but her gaze remained fixed with an ember of hope still alight. "They're saying that...this whole time you've been...one of them."

Syra's stomach clenched against the words bubbling up and she only looked away.

The room filled with Krina's fearscent.

"Syra?"

Syra barely lifted her gaze from the floor, "I'm sorry, Krina."

The ember died, and Krina's hands fell to her side, "I see." Her face drained and her eyes clouded. "I suppose it is my own fault." Her brow furrowed. "I should've known. I should've...seen it. After all these years you'd think I'd put the pieces together."

Oh, no no. Please don't.

Syra reached out at the sparkle that rimmed Krina's eyes, "Not at all. Krina, you couldn't have—"

"Couldn't have what?" Krina snarled, stopping Syra short. "Figured you out? Why, because I'm just some dumb maid and you're this...this noble, dragon mastermind spy?" Her voice cracked but her glare held Syra fixed.

"What? No, of course n—"

"'Cause I saw."

Syra raised an eyebrow, "Saw...what?"

"You sneaking around. Off to the kitchen, or the armory, or the library when nobody was around." Krina narrowed her eyes, "And your linens, they...they only turned red recently. And once a year at that!"

"Krina!" Syra flushed.

"Oh, don't 'Krina' me. I might be—have been—a confidant, but I was still your maid. I still saw things."

"Yes, you saw normal things. I'm a soldier—I get hungry. And mages use the library all the time. Especially when no one's around, and it's quiet."

"Or maybe that's what you wanted me to think!" Krina lurched forward, snarling. But, hearing her voice echo off the stone, she bridled herself and dug her nails into her skirt.

"And I did. Every day. Over and over, while the pieces lay right in front of me. But, as you said, you were...you. And I just kept making excuses. No lady your size could eat that much, but you do need the energy. And you only bled after the Bud Moon, but maybe that's a lightblood thing. And your clothes! Goodness. They always smelled...different. Like earth and stone, but never musk like the other soldiers."

"Soldiers do train outside."

Krina met her smirk with a flat face, "I tend after other soldiers, too, Syra. Even our armed ladies smell foul at times, but they never smell like that. And then there's the sleeptalking—"

"Sleeptalking?"

Aidan never mentioned that before.

"Or rather, sleep-singing." Krina sighed, seeing Syra's confusion, "Every once in a while I'd hear singing from your room. Not loud, just...whispering of a melody. I thought it was just an old lullaby, until I heard the words." She sneered, "Draconic words. Bunch of garbled gibberish to me, but I'd know that throaty hiss anywhere."

I sang in...draconic? Do I even remember any songs?

Syra searched Krina's face, reading the lines at her eyes: Confusion. Anger. Betrayal. Guilt twisted her gut.

"And yet you said nothing?"

Sorrow.

"Like I said," Krina straightened herself, "I made excuses. I don't know what dark magic they teach you mages, and far be it for a lowly maid to question the Gifted."

Syra lowered her gaze, "I never meant to hurt anyone."

"Neither did The Black One, I bet." A wry smile curled at Syra's apparent disdain for the mention of Marrak.

A spark flared in Syra's chest, but she held her temper.

I can't really blame her—Marrak took my father, too.

"Now strip!" Krina held out an impatient hand, "As you have betrayed our king, you are no longer privileged to wear Altairian colors or armor."

Syra hesitated but obliged. With slow hands, she removed her cape, vest, and leggings. Even her earrings, tunic and britches were surrendered until she stood, red-faced and half-naked, shivering in the evening chill.

Krina looked her over with a slow, critical eye, "And to think I was jealous of you. Aidan's truly a fool to fall for you." Krina scoffed, moving to the door. "That reminds me," she paused and held her hand in Syra's face, "the prince insisted you remove everything."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Syra raised an eyebrow.

"Ev-er-y-thing," Krina accentuated, looking down at the ring glinting on Syra's finger.

It was Syra's turn to go waxen as she fumbled with the metal band.

"Any day now, dragon."

Syra's dead eyes watched the ring fall from her fingers into Krina's palm. Watched her shove it greedily into her apron pocket. And watched as her once-friend closed the barred door with a screeching slam.

"I don't know what the king has planned for you," Krina said from over her shoulder, "and my mother would scold me for wishing harm on another person, but," she glared at Syra from the corner of her eye, "you aren't a person, and I know plenty of guards who'd like a taste of revenge." With that, she locked the door and curtsied, "Good night, Lady Syra."

***

Syra sat hunched against the stone wall of her cell, the thin fabric of her gown draped over her legs pulled tight to her chest. As instructed, Krina brought her a change of clothes, but had made sure it was of the thinnest, scratchiest material available. But the linen still smelled of soap and sunlight, and she shoved her nose into its wrinkles for any remaining comfort. She realized too late what was left in her pocket after Krina left. The pearl, the entire reason behind these last nine years, was now Draco-knows-where while she sat on death's door.

She squirmed in the quiet in a feeble attempt to bring feeling back to her backside. The rattling of iron echoed from the chains about her wrists. Even in shadow they shown red from where she had wracked them against the cuffs in a petty attempt to squirm out. She had tried to shift—indeed, that was the first thing she had tried—but iron defends against magic even more than brute force, and she was left exhausted without result.

"Hey! who's there?" There was shuffling of booted feet and the scrape of a sword being unsheathed. "State your na—what the hell?" Atop the dungeon stairs, the candlelight cast dancing shadows as the guard fought with, from what Syra could tell, nothing. And then, there was nothing. Silence, no movement. Just the guard's heavy breathing.

"Aye, understood."

Syra inched away from the cell door as the sound of footsteps descended into the chamber. They drew closer, the scuffling of heavy boots echoing off the metal and stone. As they did, a light grew brighter against the bars of the adjacent cells. Not firelight. No, this light was not warm or yellow, but a deep, molten red.

Syra stared wide-eyed at the guard looming over her. His eyes were clouded, almost dead, and misty red light shown from atop his head. The familiar, a mirage of light and dust—and in this case, butterfly-shaped—perched on his crown, its tiny legs attached to his scalp. It twitched its antennae at Syra and the guard took the keys from his belt, opening her cell door.

Syra watched the glowing insect steer the man like a mule. With another twitch, her shackles hit the floor. She stared at the man wavering on his feet. He looked drunk, or half-asleep.

Well, that's convenient.

As if to respond, the familiar fluttered. Its legs detached. And the man fell in a crumpled heap on the floor, passed out. Hovering, the butterfly drew close to Syra's face. She flinched, feeling the light taps of its feet on her nose.

"Come."

Her eyes shot open and stared cross-eyed at the bug, surprised by the deep voice in her head.

"Must follow." It darted out of the cell and towards the stairs.

Syra didn't take time to think, but bolted after it with a faint tap-tap of her small feet on the stone floor.

To her surprise, the guard's ruckus hadn't caused a stir on the floor above. The halls were empty and the air hummed with sleep. The familiar paid no heed in its charge and Syra padded quickly after it, pausing briefly at each corner until they reached the Southeast staircase.

Up, up, up they went until Syra's weakened legs began to give.

"Just where on Erd are we going?" she huffed a whisper. The familiar's glow reflected off her ashen face that was dotted with sweat.

"Come," it repeated, and spiraled up the staircase.

Syra gritted her teeth against the burning in her thighs and pressed on, pulling on the handrail for support.

They stopped at the South Arch, the breezeway leading to the South Plaza and connecting the East and West Wings.

"Follow," it commanded, leading her down the window-lined hallway.

But she stopped as they neared the plaza. Beyond a window, tiny lights flickered from the infirmary despite the moonset.

That many? Damn it, I should be there. I need to—

"Come," said the familiar again, this time with a hint of frustration. "Need to come."

Syra gritted her teeth against the pang in her chest, but pulled herself away from the window, "I'm sorry."

Three guards stood watch over the plaza garden, and the familiar paused at the edge of the breezeway. Syra gripped at the wall as her legs gave from under her. She held her breath but the tapping of bootsteps only grew louder.

Shit. How am I supposed to fight when I can barely run?

But his approach stopped short, and she released her breath just in time to watch, in horror, as the familiar dashed into the plaza.

"Run."

The speck of light darted about the plaza, drawing the guards after it in a confusing game of chase.

But Syra took the opening and sprinted across the plaza towards the opposite breezeway.

"Wait, over there!" One guard caught her shadow and rounded on her.

"Stop!" The guard boomed, latching a large hand onto her arm and wrapping an arm around her neck. She strained but he was a rock. "Where do you think you're going?" He pulled at her chin to see her face, and she felt him flinch. "You!"

She couldn't fight. Not in this condition. But she didn't have shackles anymore, either.

"Surprise!" Syra gave a weak mew and planted a hand against his forehead, channeling mana like a cloud into his head. His grip loosened and his eyes rolled, collapsing on the ground dead asleep. "Sorry, Phillip."

Syra ran onwards but a bolt of lightheadedness made her stumble. Her vision blurred and she staggered to grab the breezeway wall. The guards' voices muffled in her ears, and she strained to see the familiar through tunneled vision.

The two guards chased the red dot in circles, swinging at empty air.

"Goddamn pixie!" A guard pivoted on his heel, bringing down his sword quick and true, splicing the apparition in half.

"No!" Syra squeaked, her vision finally clearing.

His sword hadn't yet left its target when the two remaining halves exploded into a cloud of dust, surrounding the two guards. It swirled around them as if blown by strong winds, making them cough. And then they fell, one after the other, asleep.

The dust calmed and settled near the ground, retreating from the guards like a serpent towards Syra. Then it continued into the breezeway and down the hall without a sound.

"Come."

Down the breezeway and up the Southwest staircase they went. Up one story, then up some more, until they reached the floor just below the aviary. Syra could smell their scat, and dust, and the rotted half-eaten mice the caretaker missed while cleaning.

She hastened down the hallway of rooms, flat-footed and slower this time. Her head was still dizzy and her breathing shallow. She didn't even notice who's room she stopped at until the door was already open.

"Good evening, Syra," Valen said, standing over an herb-ladened desk and brewing a fresh pot of tea. The familiar slithered up desk and disappeared into one of his many jars. "Come and sit."

Syra nearly collapsed right there in the doorway. The warmth from the small but kindly fireplace, and the scent of smudged parchment and herbs sent a wave of relief that weakened her knees.

Valen's study. A cluttered but comfortable room attached to his sleeping quarters, and one filled with memories of winter naps and long afternoons under his personal tutoring. Even her globular attempt at a glass dragon still perched atop his mantle.

"Close the door, please," Valen said as she entered the room. "There is little moonlight left and much to discuss. I don't want to be disturbed. Oh, and take that cloak right there, the blue one." He pointed to a luxurious blue cloak with silver stitching around its border, "It's a tad nippy still, and I'd like to consider myself a gentleman."

Syra raised an eyebrow to Valen's averted gaze, but flushed as soon as she realized just how thin her gown indeed was.

"Thank you," she said, draping the cloak over herself and pausing to note its quality. "Talian silk?"

"Yes," Valen said with a grin, bringing over the pot and cup to the small table by the sofa, "a gift from a friend long ago. I was going to give it to you after the tournament as a congratulatory gift, but..." he sat, recalling the events of earlier, "I couldn't seem to find a good time."

"It's beautiful, thank you," she said, taking her usual spot next to him.

"You look horrible," he said, studying her sallow face and clammy skin. She was shaking at this point and darkness ringed her eyes. She even smelled sick.

"No shit." Syra half-joked. The familiar atmosphere had lowered her guard and the tears began to well up. "My fiancé just dumped me, my friends probably hate me now—Krina certainly does—and Rogan probably wants to send my head home as a warning."

Valen steadied her shoulder, "That is not what he wants, trust me. His mind isn't that far gone."

"Not like it matters anyway," she muttered to herself, "the pearl's go—" her seizing gut interrupted her as a flux of acid jetted up her throat.

"Oh, dear." Valen snatched an empty flower pot just in time for her to wretch.

"I can't go back without the pearl." Her voice cracked and her hands shook against the pot's rim.

"Pearl?" Valen asked, placing the pot aside and handing her a small cloth.

"Y-yes," she stammered, realizing she had probably said too much, "It was a...gift from my father." That wasn't a lie. "The last thing I got from him before he..." she trailed off and wiped her mouth with the cloth.

"I see. Well, lost things usually turn up sooner or later."

Syra simply hugged her knees and her gaze seemed to travel elsewhere.

"But, that's not what I was talking about." Valen returned to his desk, "Yes, your current situation is...upsetting. But it is not the cause of the sickness I see here." He opened a drawer and drew out a wide, wooden box. "You haven't been drinking your tea, have you?"

She flinched, "Because they never have the purple ones!"

Valen's face fell flat.

"What? They taste better."

He bit back a small grin and handed her the box of mana stones, "Mana is mana, regardless of color."

"Says the man who hordes the red ones." Syra snickered as she pulled out the sole purple stone from among the stash of red malphic crystals.

It was his turn to flinch.

"They were on sale," he stammered, opening the tea pot and straining the string of aromatic leaves with practiced precision. "Plus, you know amec are hard to come by these days."

Syra's gut tightened remembering the dragon-trade ban, "Yet it wasn't even our fault."

A drop of tea fell onto the table as Valen watched her shrink back.

"No, it wasn't," he said, placing the leaves on a saucer. "But worrying about it now won't bring your strength back. Here," he took the crystal from her hand and dropped it into the pot. It glowed then flickered, the color leeching from the crystal and dying the water a pale lavender. He poured the purple tea into her cup, "Now drink. Shapechange requires a good deal of mana and you will eventually run out, even with your capacity."

She absently brought to cup to her lips, but then hesitated. Her eyes locked onto his, "Why are helping me?"

His gaze softened, "Drink first. It's not poisoned, I promise."

She sniffed the steam anyway. Even without her medic training, there was only one toxin that could fell a dragon, and its scent was unmistakable.

"Fine." A sip was all that was needed to feel its effects. She felt warmer immediately, and more alert. The cup was empty in a few gulps.

"Again," Valen said, refilling the cup.

"You never answered my question." Syra said, peering over the rim.

Valen paused, mentally preparing himself for what he had to say.

"Aye." He turned and grabbed a dagger from a drawer, pricking his finger. He pressed the bead of blood to the space of wall above his desk. Syra watched, stunned, as light spiraled from his finger forming a tree-like emblem.

"Sylvani?" Syra asked, recalling the map in her old den. "That's the Sylvani crest. Why...how are you using it?"

When the light faded a small nook in the wall was left behind.

"Who do you think taught me magic in the first place?" He shuffled around the mirror and various trinkets within the nook and brought out a wooden box. "Dragons aren't the only race allowed to study at the Sylvani library, at least with permission. I studied under Alder as an adept, so I learned a few dragon tricks along the way."

Syra almost snorted her tea, "Alder? As in, the Alder of Heartwood?"

"Aye," Valen sat and opened the box, revealing a map, a silver ring, and a slew of ripped-out book pages. "He is the one who told me of Marrak's plan...and of you."

Syra froze at Marrak's name.

"Syra, I need you to listen closely because I'm going to be brief." He laid out the book pages, all covered in faded ink and illustrations. "You remember the Battle of Dorrak?"

"The one that killed the dwarves, right?"

"Yes, that one. Remember how Gurn caused the landslide with that enchanted hammer of his?"

"Y-yes, why?"

"Well, it wasn't enchanted. He was just that strong."

Syra paused in thought, "That makes no sense. How—"

"Because he used these," Valen slid one of the pages over to Syra. Drawn out was a picture of five crystal shards mounted into an elaborate altar. "Amec, Syllic, Malphic, all mana crystals we are all familiar with, but these!" he pounded his finger on the image, "these are different."

He shoved yet another page in front of her, "They're all of them! All three types in one—inclusions, if you will. And they're powerful, too powerful."

He stared forlorn at the image of the altar, "With Dwarven fire and hammer smelt, an altar to alter all damage dealt. The gods of metal and gods of stone, forged a warrior never before known."

"Catchy." Syra mused, but Valen remained stern.

"He became invincible, Syra. Nothing could kill him, and one swing leveled a city. We still can't even build there. All from using adept-level alchemy and those crystal shards. That, Syra," he stared straight into her, "is what Marrak is after."

Syra was speechless. The dragon who threatened her clan, attacked this city, and killed her father was about to become even more powerful.

"Can he do it?"

"Of course he can, he's an archmage. Studied under Alder, just like me." Valen paused, regret light on his tongue, "But that's why you're here."

"Me?" Syra exclaimed, "I'm still a wyrmling, and an apprentice at that. How—"

"Technically, you've already graduated."

"Come again?"

Valen paused to dislodge the gold hoop from his ear and set it on the table. "Another gift I was going to give you earlier. Congratulations."

"T-thank you?" she stammered, battling between fear and elation. "B-but that doesn't make much difference, now does it?"

"Not without help, it doesn't." Valen now took out the ring—a silver band engraved with looping knots that formed a five-petal flower with a tiny green gem at its center. "This is the mark of the Kesh Raza, and this," he added, grabbing the map, "is where to find them."

Valen unrolled a map detailing all the realms of Tairon, with certain cities and towns donning small stars.

"Those crystals in that picture, there, were collected after the altar was destroyed. The Kesh Raza vowed to protect those crystals and keep them from ever being misused. These stars," he said, pointing to the map, "mark their location."

Valen stopped and calmed himself, seeing the overwhelm washing over her face.

"Syra, I know it's a lot. But, that tremor we felt today? It wasn't an earthquake. You saw that aurora, you felt that shockwave. That was Marrak. Somewhere south of here, he has already remade that altar, and he already has the first shard—Lord knows where he got it." He sighed and placed a firm, affectionate hand atop Syra's head. "I've already contacted the Kesh Raza. They know you're here, and they're standing by to help." He assured her with a light grin, "You're not alone in this." He paused for a moment before adding, "This is why Rigel sent you here."

Syra snapped to attention, "You knew my father?"

"Indeed I did. And your mother, too, a long time ago." He sat up and reached into his pocket, "How else would I have known what this was?"

Out of his hand rolled the pearl, shiny and undamaged, but now hung about a leather chord. "I hope you don't mind the alterations. I figured it'd be easier to carry this way."

Tears filled Syra's eyes and she clutched at the necklace as if it would vanish like smoke, "Sooner or later, huh?"

He chuckled. "Here, let me," Valen offered, draping the chord over her neck, "Not a bad fit, actually."

"But how?" Syra managed to squeak between semi-controlled sobs.

"That Krina girl seemed very pleased to be rid of your clothes. Didn't ask a single question. Though I think she kept your earrings, sorry to say." He pointed to the two empty piercings on the cartilage and lobe of her left ear.

A scratchy laugh escaped Syra's lips, "Let her." She picked up the gold hoop from the table and attached it to the top hole, "I got this one."

"So, you're up for the mission, I take it? We can count on you?" Valen stood and held out a proud hand.

"Do I really have a choice?"

Valen's gaze turned surprisingly seriousness, "You always have a choice."

True, but not a good one. It's not like I can go back to the clan now. Not with Marrak on the move. And even if I did, Petra would certainly go hunting for him, and I can't get them involved. She'd probably bite my head off before I even got to the lair.

She paused at the image of the lair's entrance, with her father towering and radiant in the sunset, and she gripped hard at the pearl hung about her neck. It was still warm, and offered a calming comfort to her clammy hands.

"If this is what my parents wanted, then yes. I am," she said, finally, standing and taking his hand.

Valen's smile was the brightest she could remember, and he pulled her in tight. His chin rested lightly atop her head, and his fingers fiddled absently at her long braid that matched his.

"You've come such a long way," he cooed, pulling her braid over her shoulder. "I remember when I had to braid this for you. And now, you're weaving spells of your very own. I know it's expected coming from a mentor, and I probably say it too much, but...I am truly proud of you, Bug. You've done well, and this won't be an exception."

And there it went. The last shield in her defense. She let the words soak into that small hole inside her as she clung tight to his side. Valen just stood there, accepting it and patting her tiny head like 'the fuzzlebug that couldn't sleep'. Like her first day at Academy. But instead of sending her off to classes, he was sending her off to war. Again.

"It's going to be alright, I promise. And once this is all over, I'll have Revinia bake an entire cake just for us. We can even have tea down at the pond and I'll tell you all about my time in Heartwood."

Syra's chest warmed at the promise of returning to their old meeting spot. The addition of sweets and stories only made her grin wider.

"You promise?"

Valen hooked an index finger around hers, "Promise. Just you wait, tomorrow everything will be different. A good different. I've even taken the charge of notifying Cassius and Petra for you."

All warmth left Syra's chest as her body tensed.

"You what?" Syra said flatly, her voice muffled by his shirt.

"I sent them a raven earlier. They should be meeting you sometime tomorrow afternoon." Valen leaned over to see Syra's face frozen and ghastly pale, "You have been keeping up with them, yes?"

Syra could barely shake her head and gripped tighter at Valen's shirt.

"Oh dear," he chuckled, patting her on the shoulder, "this should be an entertaining reunion."