The mess hall is a roar of voices. The entire population of the underground is packed into one extravagant and sprawling hall. I’d even opened up the back wall to allow Ollie access, though he can only poke his head and forepaws through the opening to share the meal. On Beryl’s insistence, the giant stone tables that had previously stretched the span of the room have been removed and replaced with cushions of moss and fur. We’re seated in communal circles around large cauldrons of stew, with both original residents and newcomers mixed together. Our ring, conspicuously placed at the head of the room, consists of me, Mirzayael, Beryl, Nek and his family, Dizzi, Hetlanir, and a dracid named Torim who is the harpy leader’s second-in-command. I have Echo run a quick tally of the rest of the hall: there’s over two thousand of us.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Nek says, leaning against his wife’s shoulder as he looks around the room in awe. “So many people. So much food.”

“And so warm,” Sora says as she snuggles against his fur.

I can’t feel the heat as keenly as dracid can, but the sight of her awake, of the dracid children running around and playing with the newcomers—that fills me with more warmth than the room ever could. I take a sip of the soup; it’s hot and meaty, and its day-long stewing has filled the palace with a rich, mouth-watering aroma. I’m in agreement with Nek. Finally. Finally it feels like we’re getting a taste of prosperity.

“Fyreneth,” an arachnoid says, approaching with a respectfully bowed head.

I twist my grimace into a smile. “Just Fyre, please.”

“Of course. Fyre.” The young man looks up. “I wanted to offer you a gift, as a token of my family’s appreciation.”

“That’s really not necessary,” I say. I already have a stack of such gifts in my room, and it’s not getting any less awkward to accept them.

“It’s not much,” he says, holding out a bone-carved dagger. “But it would make me happy to offer it to you.”

“Fyre is currently not accepting any offerings,” Mirzayael abruptly cuts in. She sets down her bowl, but doesn’t stand; the way all seven of her legs are tucked up around her, with the eighth severed limb awkwardly set to one side, I suspect it’s more effort to get around than she makes it seem. “You can keep your dagger.”

I wince at Mirzayael’s bluntness, especially as the newcomer’s face falls.

“But you know,” Dizzi jumps in, “Ollie would just love it. In fact, all further offerings can be redirected to the dragon.”

The man’s face lights back up at Dizzi’s suggestion. “Thank you. It would be my honor to please Fyre’s familiar.” He bows to me again, then cautiously shuffles away, approaching Ollie’s perch.

“Oh, no,” I say. “But he’s just a little kid! He shouldn’t be given a knife.”

“He’s a dragon the size of an ice floe,” Mirzayael says. “A dagger won’t even pose the threat of a splinter.”

“Besides,” Dizzi cheerfully adds. “He’s already got tons of rusty swords and things in his collection. Have you dug through that pile yet? There’s some gnarly stuff.”

I grimace, resolving to investigate exactly that after the feast. Ollie looks up from his cauldron of soup—mostly just the bones and stinger chitin used to make the broth, actually—and tips his head as the arachnoid approaches. He raises the dagger above him, which Ollie gives a sniff. Then he nuzzles the man, and only the fact that the arachnoid has eight legs keeps him standing. Still, he laughs as Ollie excitedly nudges him over to the small hoard that has been accumulating over the course of the evening, and the man is all too happy to add his blade to the stash.

Mirzayael and Dizzi are both probably right that things like blunt swords and little daggers are no threat to Ollie, but it’s hard not to worry. A parent’s instinct, I suppose.

“They don’t really think he’s my familiar, do they?” I ask as I watch Ollie and the arachnoid.

Mirzayael snorts. “Of course they do. You’re the only one who can understand him.”

“Yeah and you’ve got some kind of mental bond,” Dizzi adds.

“That’s just a telepathy spell,” I object. “I could form one with anyone. It just takes a bit of mana, and he and the Dungeon Core are the only ones I’ve really needed to use it with.”

Dizzi sighs fondly. “That’s so cool.”

“Don’t feed her ego,” Mirzayael warns.

Dizzi scoffs. “Fyre? What ego? If anything she could stand to take a little more pride in her achievements.”

“You’d have me add more fuel to the fire of my devotees?” I counter. “Nothing good could come of that.”

“Nonsense.” This time, to my surprise, it’s Beryl who speaks up. I hadn’t even known she’d been listening. “They’ll see you as a leader, whether you want it or not.”

“It’s about deserving it,” I say. “They only see me as a leader because of this other person’s legacy they’ve projected onto me.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Beryl barks out a laugh. “Is that so? So none of their respect comes from you restoring Fyreneth’s Fortress?”

“And giving us enough warmth to be able to live a full life,” Sora says.

Nek hugs his wife. “And taming a dragon!”

“Forging a path to the surface so we can scout and hunt again,” Mirzayael says.

“Not to mention, sharing your knowledge,” Dizzi adds.

Hetlanir tips his head to me in respect. “You helped facilitate the reunion of our people.”

I lean back, at a loss for words. Of course, bettering their lives had always been my goal. But it was such a piecemeal thing, I hadn’t realized how much had truly been done until they laid it out like that.

“I’m not sure what to say,” I admit. “Thank you. Your faith in me—the kindness you’ve all shown—it’s more than I ever could have expected.”

Beryl nods stiffly. “If you’re feeling charitable and want to show your appreciation, then next time someone offers you a gift: take it.”

A humbling lesson, to be sure. “I will,” I tell her.

“Good,” she grumbles. “Now everyone get back to your bowls before the soup gets cold.”

We don’t need a second reminder. The meal passes in a blur of laughter, heavy food, and even, to my surprise, a cask of libations. Brewed by a family of arachnoids, the drink gets passed around, and tastes like jet fuel. Even so, it produces a pleasant buzz, and even Mirzayael appears to lighten up a little. As the conversation turns idle, I turn my attention inward.

I remove the piece of cloudstone Dizzi had given me from my personal Inventory. I don’t often use my personal Inventory, since it only has one slot while the Dungeon Core has access to hundreds of thousands. But there’s something more personal about putting a keepsake in my own Inventory, like carrying a lucky charm around in one’s pocket.

I pass the lighter-than-air stone between my hands, idly playing with the rock. I desperately wish to unlock a wind Affinity, and supposedly this little bit of stone can help me with that. I’ve tried meditating with it several times now, but so far I haven’t felt anything. I must be doing something wrong. Maybe the alcohol will help free me of any subconscious inhibitions I’ve been harboring.

Eyes closed, I take a deep breath in, and slowly let it out. I concentrate on the stone between my hands, trying to feel the mana trapped within its pores. The Dungeon Core interface immediately surfaces, ready to analyze the mass, the density, the mana volume, but I brush it aside. I’m supposed to be resonating with it. Feeling the magic. Not analyzing it like any other science experiment.

It feels… like a rock. I know there’s wind mana trapped inside this cloudstone, because Mirzayael and the Core’s interface have both told me that’s the case. But if it weren’t for the fact that the rock was trying to float out of my hands, it would feel like any other hunk of stone. Cold. Solid. A bit dusty. I frown, squeezing it tighter.

“What are you doing now, Outsider?”

I jump at Mirzayael’s voice, cracking an eye open. “Isn’t it obvious? Trying to get in touch with my spiritual side.”

A light laugh bubbles out of Mirzayael. “You have a spiritual side?”

“I’m beginning to think I don’t.” I pass the cloudstone from hand to hand, studying it. “Dizzi said affinities can be obtained through dedicated study, though so far I’ve yet to make a breakthrough. I’d desperately love to learn wind magic. My heart has been in the clouds ever since I was a child.”

Mirzayael holds out a hand, and I pass the stone to her. “Well, that’s a good start. Having that passion helps. But it’s not dedicated study, exactly. It’s more like… finding the resonance.”

“Have you learned any types of magic you weren’t born with?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Never felt I had the time. I suppose theoretically anyone could learn all forms of magic, given unlimited time and resources. But down here, every choice mattered. You had to pick what your place was in society—what your expertise would be—and then dedicate yourself to that. For me, that was becoming a guard of the Keep, as my parents were. I trained in combat, scouting, and navigation from a young age. And yes, some basic fields of magic, primarily related to combat and survival skills. But as with any skill, learning magic takes time. More so if it’s not something you already have an affinity for.” She bounces the cloudstone between her hands, then passes it back to me. “I chose to focus on developing the strengths I already had.”

“What are you saying?” I play the stone between my fingers. “That I should stay in my lane? That it might be futile to dream of flight?”

“I doubt anyone can stop you once you’ve set your mind to something,” Mirzayael says. “But perhaps gaining an affinity for wind arcana is not the only way to achieve what you want. You’re intelligent, and already know quite a lot about the sky. I am sure you will figure it out one way or another.”

I absently run my fingers through the feathers of one of my wings. “God, can you imagine? It would be amazing. You know, I wanted to be a pilot when I was a kid. Someone who flies one of those airplanes I’ve mentioned. But I… well, it never panned out for me.”

Mirzayael tipped her head. “Why not?”

I squeeze the cloudstone, then let go, catching the rock with the other hand hovering above. “No reason, really. A lack of nerve, perhaps. Engineering seemed… a more stable career path. Safer. Building them is no less important than flying them, after all.”

“But it’s not what you wanted,” Mirzayael says.

“I suppose not,” I admit. “I guess that’s my life in a nutshell. Always picking the easier path over the one that excited me. Low risk, high stability.”

“That was your life,” Mirzayael says. “This person you’ve described—low risk, lack of nerve. They are not the same person I have observed exploring caverns, fighting wolves, and blowing holes in glaciers.”

I laugh at that. “Maybe you’re a bad influence on me.”

Mirzayael sniffs. “I am not a bad influence on anyone. If anything, my upstanding nature has provided a good example of what you could aspire to be.”

I smile softly. “I think perhaps you’re right about that.”

“Of course,” Mirzayael deadpans. “I am always right.”

I toss the cloudstone toward the floor, then catch it as it rises back up. Alternatives, Mirzayael said. What alternatives do I have to work with? Sora and a family of dracid are in the middle of crafting a saddle for me to use with Ollie. But being able to fly independently is the real goal.

Cloudstone certainly contains interesting potential for aircraft materials. Maybe even if I can’t fly on my own, I could still use it to create a craft and take flight the old-fashioned human way.

I’m in the middle of tossing the rock back and forth between my hands, widening the gap each time, when a guard bursts into the hall. The commotion isn’t immediately noticed by others until they come running up to our group.

“Captain.” They salute Mirzayael, but there’s a tremor in their arm.

She looks up from her meal. A brief flicker of surprise quickly melts into an all-business frown. “Scout Rei. Report.”

“There’s a troop of people on the surface,” they say. “Perhaps two dozen individuals. One of Hetlanir’s scouts confirmed they’re not from the lost colony. They’re carrying weapons and accompanied by direwolves.” They swallow before continuing. “We… we think they’re Jorrian.”