It flashes through me: the taste of mountain air seasoned with pine smoke, the throb of pack hearts marching in sync, the metallic twist of guilt being scoured clean. As the spark snaps away, crystal at my collar flares, but not with pain. This glow feels like dawn sunlight catching snowfields—cold but radiant with purpose.
The void reforms into cliffside shelter. Fire crackles, wet logs hissing. Snowstorm still bellows outside, but we are warm. Yet something glows bright as magma between us. I look down; my palm still lies flat against his sternum—no longer dreamlike. We are both seated by the dying fire, knees brushing, the memory having overridden waking moment.
He stares, eyes wide, breaths coming fast. “We weren’t dreaming alone.”
“No.” My voice trembles; proximity of his heartbeat sends vibrations through lattice. “Your memory invited me.”
“I didn’t invite—” He stops, recalibrates. “Memory must look for release. You followed.”
“It sought connection. Perhaps because your grief touched the shard, which touched me.”
We remain frozen in near embrace. Fire pops, releasing spark that floats past his cheek. Shadows dance across cave walls—two figures, one vast and fur-driven, one slender and crystal-lit, joined by flicker of light.
Cautiously, I withdraw hand. His chest rises then falls, as though a weight lifts yet recognition lingers. The burn of bond transition remains inside my veins: sweetness edged with danger.
I clear throat. “Our lines crossed. It will make future dreams… porous.”
“That terrifies me,” he admits, honesty raw.
I wrap arms around ribs, partly for warmth, partly to keep spark from leaping again. “Dragon oracles share prophecy only with willing anchors. You may close the door.”
“Can I?” he whispers. “Feels welded now.”
I press back tears—born not of sorrow but of awe. I, who spent centuries ensuring no tether could find me, have stumbled into one forged in a storm shelter without warning. Fear rushes ice-water through marrow. I glance at the lattice; fine veins shift subtly, as though tasting new potential. If bond deepens, the crystal might feed nights away from my lifespan.
“Kylan,” I begin, but voice breaks. I stand, step away to the cave mouth, letting storm air numb cheeks. Snow swirls, stinging exposed skin. The sky-bridge overhead groans—ancient structure spiderwebbed long before our birth, once a trade arch between mountain enclaves, shattered by shifting ley. Now it shelters travelers like wing of broken dragon.
Kylan’s footsteps crunch behind me. He stops at respectful distance. “You gave back Yarrow’s silence. The pack will sing differently now.”
“I did only what shadow stole.” I swallow. “But connection carries risk. One oracle anchored to one alpha—legend says such bonds can bring realms to heel or to ruin.”
He exhales mist. “Seems we’re already heading toward ruin. Perhaps heel is overdue.”
I glance over shoulder. Firelight sketches him bronze and obsidian. Snowflakes land in his hair, melt instantly. “You jest.”
“Half.” His eyes shift downward. “Did it hurt you? Mending that memory?”
“Not as much as it might have.” I brush fingertips over throat crystal; warmth pulses once. “Strangely, it steadied the lattice.”
“Then let it stand.” He steps closer, though still arm’s length. “But if ever bond endangers you, I break it.”
“You cannot break it alone.”
“I’ll try.” Resolve steels his voice.
I close eyes against wind. Scene of Yarrow’s new peace flickers behind lids; lullaby’s final soft note reverberates. I feel Kylan’s presence like heat through stone, an ember lodged in granite. Comforting, but if I linger I might reach out again and stoke flame. That path leads to shortened breaths.
“Storm eases,” I say. In truth, wind still shrieks, but less ferociously. “We should sleep. Shrine demands tomorrow’s strength.”
He nods. We return to hearth. I feed fresh wood. Sparks ascend, reflecting in obsidian shard still nested near our packs. It remains dark, possibly sleeping, but I cannot trust truce.
I spread my cloak opposite his vigil spot, yet neither of us lies down immediately. Silence stretches, taut with unsaid things. Finally he breaks it in clipped cadence.
“You told Yarrow the altar was not the first price.”
I frown; I spoke no such words. Then I recall final whisper unheard during dream collapse. “That was prophecy.”
“Meaning?”
