I gestured at the papers. “Dragon magic is fading. You know that. Everyone knows that. But it’s happening faster than reports suggest. If you chart the decline per decade, the pattern is unmistakable. Birth rates—down. Viability—down. Our shielding fields are shrinking by literal inches every year. Two feet gone since my childhood.”
Two feet my father had insisted were inconsequential and dismissed as fearmongering. He trusted what he could see and break and fight. The rest he deemed unnecessary.
Hadrian’s brows pulled together like they used to when we solved riddles in the training cliffs as hatchlings.
“And you think this ties back to history?” he asked.
“I know it does.” I flipped a page, tracing the outline of my notes. “The drop begins around the same two-century window across all noble lines, when ours began to increase. Our decline starts much later, after a three-hundred-year gap in our family records.”
Hadrian nodded slowly. “Okay...”
“They’re entirely missing. Intentionally erased. And that window aligns perfectly with the earliest signs of magic fracture.”
Hadrian crossed his arms, looking thoughtful, and some of the tension in my chest eased. “What are you saying? That someone in our line… caused it?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But if they did, it means someone in our line can undo it. And that means I need answers.”
His gaze sharpened—not in suspicion, but in sympathy. “Arthur,” he said, “you’re doing everything you can. Truly. But you can’t carry all of this alone.”
There had always been something layered beneath Hadrian’s concern. Not cruelty or arrogance, but a quiet certainty that the burden of leadership might sit more comfortably on his shoulders than mine.
He had never said it outright. He didn’t need to—it was obvious in the way elders turned to him when discussions grew tense, and how easily he filled silence with decisive answers.
I opened my mouth to respond, but my phone buzzed on the desk, lighting up with an unfamiliar number. I stared at it, brain catching up one beat too slow. Phone. Right. Mortals used those to communicate.
The device still startled me when it demanded attention. My father had forbidden them, claimed they rotted vigilance and made dragons dependent on conveniences meant for lesser beings. Unfortunately, they worked.
On the other side of the room, Caliban cleared his throat. “Answer it, Arthur.”
“Oh. Yes.” I picked it up, swiped at the screen, then held it to my ear. “Hello?”
A soft voice rushed through the speaker, so bright and breathless that it sliced through my composure like a spark through dry tinder.
“Hi—this is Artemis. From Tarrytown library. I, um… I found your book.”
My heart—my actual, rarely moved heart—lurched in my chest.
“You did?” My tone was too relieved for someone trying to remain stoic. “You found it?”
“Yes. It was hidden in a back archive. I thought you’d want to know right away.”
She delivered the information like it mattered to her. A sense of trust surged through me before I couldargue with it.
Caliban’s eyebrows shot up. Hadrian’s mouth curved in a knowing smirk. Of course, he noticed the shift in my tone and the straightening of my posture.
I ignored them both.
“Thank you,” I said, pulse kicking. “I knew you’d find it. I’ll be there immediately.”
“Oh—okay. Great. Uh, see you soon,” she said.
I ended the call and met Caliban’s gaze. “She found it.”
“I heard,” he said, amused. “You lit up like a lantern.”
Grinning, Hadrian clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Well then, cousin. Go. Recover your relic. Save the world. And maybe try smiling at the nice woman helping you.”
I tried not to react to that, but I failed dismally.
