“Silver’s new,” I say, pocketing a roll for Sarak. “Means the old bloodlines are mixing again.”
Hanna lowers her voice. “And the scouts from the Verdant Court arrived yesterday. They want to reopen the sky-bridges.”
My heart stutters. The sky-bridges—vine and stone, dragon-forged and elf-woven—have been sealed since the Betrayal.
If they’re talking trade, talkingalliance…
Sarak’s tail flicks. He heard.Of coursehe did.
That night, we climb the hill behind the village to our home—a forge-cottage grown half into living oak, half into dragon-stone. The hearth is always warm; the bed is always big enough for wings and mischief.
I sprawl across Sarak’s lap, tracing the new scar along his ribs.
“The elves want to meet,” I say. “At Drak’Vahl. Full moon.”
My Daddy hums, fingers combing through my hair. “And the dragons?”
I nod.
He’s quiet a long moment. “You nervous?”
“Terrified,” I admit. “What if they see us and thinkbetrayalall over again?”
Sarak cups my chin. “They’ll see a village thriving. Children with scalesandpointed ears. They’ll see the Pact reborn in miniature.” He kisses me, slow and thorough. “They’ll seeus.”
I melt into him, but the worry lingers.
Summer turns to autumn.
The meeting is set for the Harvest Moon. Delegations arrive: elf song-weavers in robes of living leaf, dragon lords in armor of obsidian and gold.
They fill Drak’Vahl’s ruined halls, eyes wary, hands near weapons. Sarak and I stand at the Heartforge, now restored—flame burning steady gold and green.
I speak first. “Ten thousand years ago, our ancestors forged peace in this fire. Two centuries ago, they broke it. Five moon years ago, a dragon and an elf chose to mend it—one cursed stone, one reckless theft, one stubborn love at a time.”
Sarak’s wing settles over my shoulders. “We offer a new Pact. Not of blood-oath, but of choice. Trade. Children. Shared skies.”
The elf High Weaver—a woman with silver antlers—steps forward. “And if we refuse?”
I smile, sharp. “Then you miss the cider. And the honey rolls. And the chance to fly with dragons again.”
Laughter ripples. At first, it’s tentative, then genuine.
A dragon lord spreads his wings. “I’ll take the cider.”
Negotiations last three days. Treaties are signed in dragon blood and elf light. The sky-bridges bloom overnight—vines twisting through stone, glowing with Emberflame. Children ride dragons between them, shrieking with joy.
But peace is never simple.
Winter brings rumors.
Scouts from the Ashen Marches speak of shadows moving where none should—wights, butwrong. Twisted. Eyes like dying stars. Revaster’s echo, some say. Others whisper ofsomething older, woken by the fire stone’s shattering. The Heartforge flickers some nights, gold turning sickly green.
Sarak and I stand on our hill, watching the northern horizon. Snow falls soft and silent.
“Think it’shim?” I ask.
“No.” Sarak’s tail curls around my waist. “Revaster wanted dominion. This feels like… hunger.”
