My breath caught. “These aren’t just between the Sigil and the Varnari.”
Zander’s fingers hovered over one message. “Some of these are between noble houses.”
“Which means,” Solei said coldly, “this goes deeper than anyone thought.”
Jiaran nodded once. “There’s a storm coming. You two better find a way to fly above it.”
The forge door creaked open, a muted groan of rusted hinges and sudden light cutting through the haze. A man in tattered clothing slipped inside, his hood low and steps quick. He didn’t say a word—just pressed a folded parchment into Jiaran’s calloused hand and slipped back into the street like a shadow swallowed by smoke.
Solei narrowed her eyes as the door thudded shut behind him. “Why do I get the feeling your spy network rivals Cyran’s?”
Jiaran snorted, shrugging his massive shoulders with the weight of someone who’d seen more than his share of kingdoms rise and fall. “We both know I’ve got no desire to run a criminal underground. If I did, Cyran would’ve had me assassinated years ago.”
I stepped closer, nodding toward the paper in his hand. “What does it say?”
He glanced at it once, then again, slower this time.
His jaw tightened.
“It seems,” he said, “that the dragons… are refusing to answer their riders.”
My blood went cold.
“They won’t come at all?” Zander asked, his voice tight.
“Not a one,” Jiaran confirmed. “The skies are nearly empty. Panic’s already spreading.”
Solei swore under her breath.
Jiaran folded the parchment with precise fingers. “Everyone’s up in arms. And the majors—Kaler, Ledor, have issued a continent-wide search for both of you.”
“Let me guess,” I muttered. “Dead or alive?”
“No,” he said, and his gaze locked on mine, grim and edged with steel. “Alive. They were very specific. Word is, if any harm comes to either of you, the aggressor’s entire bloodline will be annihilated.”
Zander blinked. “That’s… extreme.”
“No,” Solei said softly, looking toward the forge door. “That’s a warning. The dragons aren’t just refusing to fly. They’re making a statement.”
“Siergen ordered the dragons not to fly, but I didn’t really think…”
“That they would break the treaty over us,” Zander said.
“Yeah, that.”
Solei folded the last missive carefully and slid it back across Jiaran’s desk.
“We need to talk to Cyran,” she said, rising to her feet. “See what he thinks our next move should be.”
Jiaran gave us a silent nod, already returning to his forge as the hammer began to ring again.
We slipped out the side door and made our way through the narrow streets, winding through the thrum of mid-morning merchants and bleary-eyed locals. The tavern above Cyran’s tunnels came into view—faded wood, a tilted sign, and laughter echoing from within. But there was a tension under the surface now. The kind of silence that gathers just before the storm.
Inside, we threaded our way through tables full of half-drunk patrons and cloaked figures. The smell of stale ale, pipe smoke, and something spiced drifted thick through the air. I kept my hat angled down, Zander trailing just behind me.
Solei didn’t stop until we reached the tapestry at the back. A faded depiction of a fox in a field of thorns. With a practiced flick, she pulled it aside and opened the door behind it.
We descended into the tunnels beneath the city. The familiar echo of our boots on stone and the glare of torchlight leading us to the deeper hall.
