“What does dragon-bonding even mean, though?” I ask, turning back to the paintings. “I mean, practically speaking. What does it actually do?”
Byron gestures for me to follow him to another section of wall, where the paintings show fae and dragons working in tandem—hunting, building, even what appears to be healing. He points to each image in turn, then taps his temple and his heart.
“A mental connection,” I interpret. “And... emotional.”
He nods. It must grant a deeper kind of control over dragons, the kind they give willingly, for those fae who have the aptitude to connect with them.
I turn back to look at the mural with the woman surroundedby dragons. There's something in her painted face that speaks of both power and burden, joy and sacrifice.
“It's beautiful,” I whisper. “But dangerous too.”
Byron moves in beside me, close enough that I catch the faint scent of leather and smoke. His presence is solid, like an anchor in the shifting dark. He rests his hand against the mural, fingers splayed over one of the painted bonds between fae and dragon. When he looks at me, the question in his eyes is quiet but insistent:Would you risk it?
“You want to know if I'd be willing to try it,” I confirm. “To… really embrace this power, not just use it when I have to.”
He waits, patient, offering no pressure—just possibility.
I think of the risks: discovery, punishment, death. But I also think of the prismatic wyrm today, the moment of connection when three chaotic minds found harmony through mine. The ashblood in the pit, reaching out through darkness. Of all the other dragons I’ve touched since coming here, their thoughts grazing mine with frustration, anger, or just curious intelligence.
“I don't know if I'm brave enough,” I admit. “Or strong enough. But I’d love to be. I’d love to feel what’s really in my blood.Everythingthat’s in it. What I really am.”
I’m not sure if my mother ever understood what she truly was. I didn’t. Still don’t, through the fragments of memory I have of her. It’s hard for me to even guess.
Byron's expression softens a touch. He points to the mural again, to a smaller figure standing beside the central woman—an apprentice, perhaps, or a child. Then he points to me and traces a rising arc in the air.
“You think I could grow into it,” I translate. “Learn, over time.”
He nods.
Of course, even if somehow learning was possible, time is just what we don’t have now. Still, the suggestion hangs between us, genuine and unexpected. In this place of ancient truth, with thisquiet, strange man who speaks to dragons as I do, I feel a flicker of something dangerous—hope.Maybe one day.
“How did you learn about all this?” I ask, voicing the question that's been nagging. “Selen?”
He nods again.
“How long have you known her?”
Byron studies me for a long moment, his amber-tinged eyes thoughtful in the torchlight. Then he traces another word in the dust:ALWAYS.
Oh.I blink, taken aback.Meaning they’re somehow related? How?
Before I can ask, Byron straightens, brushing the dust from his palms, and gestures toward the path ahead. Enough talk. He leads me through a narrow passage that opens into a third chamber, my questions still circling. This one is smaller than the others, but with a closeness that makes the air feel heavier.
In the center sits a shallow stone basin, ancient and worn smooth. I wonder if this was from the time of the mountain fae Selen had mentioned in passing, one race she’d hinted had learned to bond with dragons. Byron kneels beside it, placing his torch in a crude holder embedded in the wall. From inside his jacket, he produces a small leather pouch. His movements are deliberate, almost reverent, as he opens it and shakes a fine, glittering powder into the basin—the color of crushed amber with flecks that catch the light.
“What is that?” I whisper.
He taps his temple, then points to a small dragon etched into the cave wall. He follows this with a brief mime of drinking. The meaning is clear: something to enhance connection.
My pulse picks up. “Is it… safe?”
He nods, then pauses to make a measured hand gesture, which suggests moderation, not excess.
From another pocket, he produces a small waterskin. He pours carefully, just enough to mix with the powder, creating asolution that shimmers subtly in the torchlight. He stirs it with two fingers, until the surface glimmers with tiny whirlpools.
When he's satisfied, he looks up. The question in his eyes is an offer, confident I’ll see the sense in it.
Though I could walk away, stay where it’s safe, instead, I find myself kneeling opposite him. “What will it do, exactly?”
