The left head stretches forward, captivated by the swirling colors. Its pupils dilate with fascination.
The central head watches us with newfound respect, sensing Zeriel's power but also our restraint. The right head remains cautious but has stopped its threatening posture, settling into watchful alertness.
Slowly, deliberately, I rise to my feet, maintaining the delicate balance we've created. The wyrm's body relaxes, its segmented length no longer coiled to strike.
“Now what?” Zeriel asks, voice low, rough.
“We show it we're not a threat, but we're not prey either.” I step closer, my hand extended.
Together, we hold. Me with calm recognition, him with that quiet, pulsing rhythm in his hand. For a breathless moment, all three heads still. Balanced.
When I'm within arm's reach of the central head, I stop. Themassive dragon studies me, its crystalline eyes reflecting my image back at me. I hold its gaze, projecting calm confidence. Then, slowly, I bow my head, not in submission, but in acknowledgment. One predator recognizing another.
To my amazement, the central head dips in return, a gesture so deliberate it can't be mistaken for anything but reciprocation. The left head continues watching Zeriel's energy display with childlike wonder, while the right head maintains its vigilant guard.
“It's accepting us,” I breathe.
Zeriel moves to my side, his shoulder brushing mine. The contact jolts through me—heat, awareness, a surge in the energy flowing between us. The wyrm senses it too, all three heads pulling back slightly in surprise.
“Easy,” I murmur, to both Zeriel and the dragon. “We're finding balance.”
The wyrm settles again, its massive body sinking lower to the ground in a posture that's almost relaxed. The threat has passed. We've established an understanding.
Zeriel lets the shard fall from his fingers, his hands lowering to his sides. For a moment, we stand there in silence. Two figures facing an extraordinary creature, bound not by strength of steel but by something far older. Three minds in one body… and us. Two fae whose blood has answered a call it should no longer remember. Fae whose gifts have connected in ways neither of us yet understands.
Selen did something to us in her office. Something to stir our magic, she said, and apparently, she used us like sounding boards for each other, like an echo chamber meant to sharpen the effect.
With surprising grace, the wyrm turns, its segmented body flowing like water over stone. It ascends the ravine wall with effortless strength, pauses at the top to look back at us—all three heads in perfect alignment for once—and then disappears over the ridge.
Silence crashes down, heavy and electric. I’m still reeling whena slow, deliberate clap cuts the air. Selen steps from shadow, her expression unreadable.
“Quite impressive for a first attempt,” she says.
The others follow—Lira and Nyx’s sharp grins, Ellis wide-eyed.
“You sent a prismatic wyrm after us,” Zeriel growls. He brushes away the blood from his nose. “Do you realize what could have happened?”
Selen tilts her head, calm. “I had complete confidence. And I was right.”
The group murmurs, half awe, half disbelief. Ellis blurts, “The way you—controlled it—” and can’t finish.
Byron lingers back. He doesn’t speak, but his gaze is locked on me with an intensity I can’t decipher. I wonder if he ever speaks for anyone.
My legs still feel unsteady as Selen approaches closer. “You worked well together,” she says. “But there's an obvious problem.”
“Besides nearly dying?” Zeriel snaps.
“Your magic,” she says simply. “It was far too visible. You might as well have rung a bell across the ravine.”
Zeriel's jaw hardens. “Yes, obviously. So what was the point?”
“The point,” Selen says, “was to get you to access your abilities under pressure. To acknowledge what you are.” She steps closer, her voice dropping. “I see my little ignition accelerated the process for you in that regard. But this is only the beginning. With practice, you can learn to channel your gifts more subtly. Comfortably. To use them without detection.”
“In three days?” I ask skeptically.
Selen’s sigh is sharp. “Probably not. But possibly.”
Zeriel scrubs a hand through his hair, storm-dark. “Then what?—”
