When she stepped inside the house, the silence was the first thing that hit her—heavy and wrong. Rhavor was hunched at the kitchen table, those massive shoulders bowed as if the roof were physically collapsing on his spine. He was clutching a letter that looked like it had been folded and unfolded until the paper was screaming for mercy.
When he looked up, a faint, tired smile ghosted across his face. It didn’t reach his eyes.
Her heart skipped, a nervous little tripwire. “What happened?” she asked, her voice dropping into that soft, careful register.
His eyes were storm-dark. Dangerous. “Ronda’s lawyers,” he said flatly. “They’ll accept the dragon heritage clause. They have to.”
“That’s... good, isn’t it? A win?”
“Not exactly. They’ve doubled the deed price.” He tossed the letter aside like it was radioactive waste. “Recalculated for ‘current market value.’ They’re squeezing me, Sylvie.”
He rose, his movements heavy with a restless, coiled energy, and stalked to the window. He stared out at the land with a hunger that made her ache.
“She doesn’t even want the dirt,” he growled, his fists clenching until the knuckles turned white. “She just wants to see me lose it.”
The rawness in his voice hit her harder than any legal threat.
“Vera got the seed,” Sylvie said, stepping into his space. She let her hand find his arm—solid,scorched-earth warmbeneath her palm.
His wings twitched, a reflexive, sharp movement.
“Not quite,” he rumbled, the sound vibrating through her bones. “They want the purest form. The Drakoryte gem. The one the seed transforms into. It’s an ancient technique, Sylvie. It requires controlled dragon-fire. Precision. A blacksmith who won’t blink. The actual instructions? They’ve been gone for centuries.”
She was a baker. She dealt inmille-feuilleand profiteroles, not ancient dragon forging. Then something clicked.
“The book,” she breathed.
She crossed the room in a blur, grabbing101 Ways to Work the Flamefrom the shelf. She’d been so focused on the baking side, but she’d seen those strange side notes—the ones she’d brushed off as gibberish.
He frowned, watching her flip through the pages. “Sylvie, that’s a cookbook.”
“Not only.” She slapped the book open to a marked page. “Look at the annotations in the margins. I ignored them because I’m human and I don’t breathe fire, but look—someone has scribbled references to heritage forging.”
She flicked through the pages. “Here.” She pointed to the drawing of a stone labeledDrakoryte.
He leaned over her shoulder, his heat radiating off him in waves that made her dizzy.
“They’re fragmented,” he murmured, his breath hot against her neck. “But... it might be enough.”
“We have the map,” she insisted, turning to look at him.
His gaze shifted to her, the amber turning molten, glowing gold. He pulled her close, his hands heavy and sure on her waist.
“You...” His voice dropped into that rough, territorial edge. “You are extraordinary.”
She steadied herself against the hard planes of his chest, her pulse jumping. “I have a fire oven at the bakery that hits the right temperatures. And I know exactly which grumpy blacksmith can handle the smithing.”
***
By the time they reached Flour & Fire, dusk had settled over Honeybay like a bruised mark on the sky. Vera and Bobby were already waiting inside. Bobby looked deeply suspicious—like he was expecting a tray of croissants and not a piece of ancient dragon history. Arla and Julian had tagged along too, claiming “moral support,” though Julian looked far too excited for something that might end in a structural fire.
The oven was already roaring, the heat a physical weight in the room. Vera had pushed it to the absolute limit. When she saw the book in Sylvie’s hands, her green eyes went wide. “I hope you didn’t have to wrestle a hydra for that.”
“No,” Sylvie laughed, slightly breathless as she checked the internal temperature. “Just a very enthusiastic self-taught dragon.” She shot a smirk at Rhavor.
Bobby huffed, lifting a pair of heavy-duty tongs. “I brought the tools. Still not sure what kind of cake needs a three-pound iron grip.”
Vera reached for a carved wooden box and lifted the lid. Sylvie expected brilliance—something sparkling and legendary. Instead, it was a dull, matte-gray stone. Ordinary.
