The clouds below churned like a restless sea, their surface shifting in slow, rolling waves that glowed faintly under the moonlight. Oberon sat astride Roselia’s neck, a position that had become strangely familiar in the past few days. Her scales were warm beneath him, smooth along the ridge of her spine, and he found himself settling into the curve of her shoulders with a comfort he never expected to feel atop a creature so massive.

  Roselia extended her wings, the membranes catching the pale light. The wind brushed over them in a soft, trembling ripple.

  “Are you steady back there?” she asked, her voice softer than usual — almost fragile.

  Oberon gave her a thumbs?up. “I’m set, my lady.”

  She hesitated — just a breath, just long enough for him to notice. Her wings twitched, betraying nerves she rarely showed.

  “I… don’t want to drop you,” she murmured.

  He blinked. “You won’t.”

  “I know,” she said quickly, “but still. You’re small. And fragile. And I’m… not.”

  Oberon smiled despite himself. “I trust you.”

  That seemed to settle her. She inhaled deeply, squared her shoulders, and leapt from the ridge.

  The wind roared past them as they descended, cold and sharp against Oberon’s cheeks. Roselia’s wings beat once, twice, then spread wide, catching the air in a smooth glide. Xiao and Tien glided ahead, their long eastern bodies weaving through the sky with effortless grace, their whiskers trailing faint sparks of light.

  The clouds grew thicker as they approached — shifting from mist to something almost solid. The air felt heavy, charged with static. Roselia slowed her descent, her claws reaching toward the cloud layer.

  When she touched down, the cloud didn’t break. It compressed beneath her weight like dense snow.

  Oberon slid off her back, boots sinking into the strange, buoyant surface. It felt like stepping onto water that refused to part — cool, soft, unstable yet firm. He crouched, pressing his hand into the cloud. It pushed back gently, like a living thing.

  “This is… unreal,” he whispered.

  Xiao’s whiskers twitched with amusement. “The air here is thick. Heavy. It holds shape if you know how to walk on it.”

  Tien nodded. “Our homeland had places like this. But storms carried us far from it.”

  Roselia folded her wings and sat, her tail curling around her legs. “So where do we find him?”

  Xiao and Tien exchanged a glance, then turned in opposite directions, scanning the horizon. The air hummed faintly around them, as though listening.

  “Give us a moment,” Xiao said.

  They dove into the cloud layer, tearing through it with spiraling force. The clouds twisted into a whirlpool, the air crackling with static. Oberon stepped back as the sky darkened above the vortex.

  A low rumble echoed through the clouds — not thunder, but something older, deeper.

  Roselia shifted closer to Oberon, her tail brushing his leg protectively.

  “Stay near me,” she murmured.

  He nodded, heart pounding.

  The whirlpool widened. Lightning flickered inside it, illuminating the swirling depths.

  Then a bolt struck the center.

  The clouds turned grey.

  And something enormous rose from the depths.

  The whirlpool of clouds widened until it resembled a great, spinning crater in the sky. Lightning flickered inside it, illuminating the swirling depths in jagged flashes. The air grew heavier, thick with static, and Oberon felt the hairs on his arms rise beneath his armor.

  A low rumble echoed through the cloud sea — not thunder, but something older, deeper, resonant enough to vibrate in his ribs. Roselia shifted closer, her tail curling protectively around his ankle. Her frills trembled, though she tried to hide it.

  “Stay near me,” she murmured again, softer this time.

  Oberon nodded, swallowing hard. He had seen Drakens of all shapes and sizes by now, but something about this moment felt different — like the sky itself was holding its breath.

  The whirlpool tightened.

  Lightning struck the center.

  The clouds turned a stormy grey.

  And something enormous rose from the depths.

  A serpentine body emerged first — vast, easily three or four times Roselia’s size. His scales were primarily deep, storm?blue, the color of a midnight ocean. But age had worn patches of them into a dull, faded pink, like coral bleached by centuries of storms. Along his spine and flanks, streaks of molten red shimmered whenever lightning struck, glowing like veins of magma beneath the surface. And scattered across his body were black, charred scales, cracked and storm?scarred, as though lightning had kissed him too many times to count.

  He looked ancient — not merely old, but weathered, like a titan carved from the sky itself.

  His whiskers trailed from his snout, glowing faintly with electricity, drifting like strands of lightning?infused silk. Each movement sent ripples through the cloud sea, as though the sky itself bowed to him.

  Then his eyes opened.

  Bright. Clear. Unsettlingly aware.

  Oberon felt the cloud beneath him tighten, gripping his legs like invisible hands. He gasped and instinctively tried to pull free, but the others remained calm, letting the storm wrap around them.

  A voice echoed in his mind.

  Who disturbs my slumber?

  The Draken’s mouth didn’t move. The lightning in the clouds pulsed with each word, vibrating through Oberon’s skull. It wasn’t painful — just overwhelming, like standing too close to a massive bell as it rang.

  Roselia leaned close, her breath warm against his cheek. “He speaks through the air. The electricity carries his thoughts.”

  Oberon nodded shakily, trying to steady his breathing.

  The great Draken blinked, his expression softening as he recognized the others.

  Ah. It is you three. Forgive me — I was dreaming.

  He coughed, a deep, rattling sound that shook the clouds beneath them. The static around Oberon loosened slightly, though not enough for him to move.

  And who is this small one?

  Roselia stepped forward before Oberon could speak. “This is Oberon. My friend. And my protector.”

  Oberon gave a small, awkward wave.

  The Draken’s eyes brightened with interest.

  A human in my skies. How curious. He straightened, his whiskers crackling with faint arcs of lightning. I am Synelion. You may call me Syn.

  He drifted closer, his massive body coiling through the clouds with surprising grace for something so large. The air hummed with each movement, as though the storm itself recognized him.

  Forgive my manner of speaking. My lungs are failing. Speaking aloud is… unpleasant.

  Oberon frowned. “You’re sick?”

  Dying, technically.

  He said it with the same tone one might use to comment on the weather.

  A few decades left, if I’m lucky. But that is not your concern. Why have you come?

  Roselia stepped forward, her posture respectful but tense. “We need help accessing Oberon’s memories. Something happened — something terrible. And we need to know who caused it.”

  Synelion’s whiskers twitched, sending sparks across the cloud surface.

  Normally I avoid human affairs. But you are friends of mine. And this concerns storms. Storms concern me.

  He dove into the clouds, disappearing beneath the surface. The air shifted instantly — colder, sharper, as though the sky itself braced for something.

  Oberon exhaled slowly. “He’s… intense.”

  Roselia’s frills fluttered. “He’s one of the oldest storm?born Drakens alive. He’s allowed to be intense.”

  Tien nodded. “He once swallowed a lightning bolt whole.”

  Xiao added, “And burped thunder for a week.”

  Oberon blinked. “Is that… true?”

  The twins exchanged a look.

  “…Probably,” Xiao said.

  “…Mostly,” Tien added.

  Before Oberon could question further, Synelion rose again — this time carrying a small pot of fire balanced delicately between his whiskers. The flames inside burned blue, swirling like liquid sky.

  Stay where you are. I will prepare the treatment.

  A smaller figure bounded through the clouds — warm lavender, her scales glowing softly like petals in moonlight. Leaf?like growths sprouted from her shoulders and tail, rustling gently with each excited step. She was small — slightly shorter than Oberon — and moved with a bouncy, airy gait.

  “Father! You called?”

  Synelion’s tone softened. Petal. I need you to watch over our guest. He will be unconscious. And possibly dying.

  “Dying?!” Oberon yelped.

  Petal gasped dramatically, her leaf?growths flaring with light. “A human?! Let me see!”

  She circled him, poking his armor, tapping his helmet, inspecting him like a rare artifact. “You’re so tiny! What’s your name?”

  “Oberon,” he managed.

  “Hi Oberon! I’m Petal!”

  Synelion cleared his throat, the clouds vibrating with the sound.

  Petal. Focus.

  “Right! Sorry!”

  Synelion lowered the pot of fire.

  Listen carefully, Oberon. You will inhale this smoke. It will stop your breathing. You will enter a trance. You will hear a sequence of sounds. When you reach the number of days you wish to recall, focus on the memory. If you fail to do so… you will die.

  Oberon stared at him. “That’s not comforting.”

  It is honest.

  He sighed. “Fine. Let’s do it.”

  Synelion lit the mixture with a spark of lightning. The smoke curled upward, thick and foul, smelling of burnt metal and rain?soaked earth.

  Oberon inhaled.

  The world snapped.

  Sound vanished first — not gradually, but all at once, like someone had slammed a door on reality. The clouds, the Drakens, the sky itself dissolved into a smear of color. Oberon’s lungs seized violently, his chest locking tight as though invisible hands were crushing him from the inside.

  He tried to inhale.

  Nothing.

  The smoke curled deeper into him, thick and metallic, burning down his throat like molten iron. His vision fractured into shards of blue, red, and white. The cloud beneath him melted into a spiraling void.

  Tick…

  A single sound echoed through the emptiness — sharp, metallic, impossibly loud.

  Tock…

  The second sound followed, slower, deeper, vibrating through his bones.

  Tick…

  The world twisted. Shapes stretched and collapsed. Colors bled into one another like wet paint.

  Tock…

  He felt weightless, suspended in a place without direction or gravity. His limbs drifted away from him, dissolving into streaks of light. His heartbeat slowed, each thud echoing like a distant drum.

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  Tick…

  A faint silhouette appeared — blurry, shifting, as though seen through rippling water.

  Tock…

  The silhouette sharpened.

  A Draken.

  But not like Roselia. Not like Xiao or Tien. Not like Synelion.

  This one was wrong.

  Its body was twisted, its flesh warped into unnatural angles. Its scales were stone?textured, cracked like ancient ruins. Its eyes were hollow pits of grey, swirling with dust and decay. The air around it pulsed with a sickly rhythm, like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to anything living.

  Oberon’s breath — or what remained of it — hitched.

  He had seen this creature before.

  In dreams. In nightmares. In the ruins of the destroyed village.

  The stone?eyed Draken turned its head slowly, as though sensing him. Its gaze locked onto him, and the world around Oberon convulsed. The void rippled outward in jagged waves, distorting the ticking into a warped, broken rhythm.

  Ti— —ck To— —ck

  The creature stepped forward, each movement cracking the air like shattering glass. Its presence felt heavy, suffocating, ancient in a way that made Synelion seem young.

  Oberon tried to move. He couldn’t.

  He tried to scream. No sound came.

  The stone?eyed Draken opened its mouth.

  A low, grinding noise spilled out — not a roar, not a voice, but the sound of boulders scraping together. Dust poured from its jaws, swirling into the shape of a hand reaching toward him.

  The ticking grew louder.

  Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

  The hand of dust reached for his chest.

  Oberon’s heart lurched.

  He forced his mind to focus — on the memory, on the day he needed, on the moment everything changed. He clung to it like a lifeline, pulling it toward him with every ounce of will he had left.

  The dust?hand shattered.

  The stone?eyed Draken recoiled, its form flickering like a dying flame.

  The ticking stopped.

  Silence swallowed everything.

  Then—

  A rush of air slammed into his lungs.

  Oberon’s body convulsed violently as breath returned in a painful, ragged gasp. His vision snapped back into focus — clouds, sky, Roselia’s frantic face hovering above him, Petal pressing her small claws against his chest, her leaf?growths glowing bright with panic.

  “Oberon! Oberon, breathe!” Petal cried.

  He coughed hard, choking on the last remnants of smoke. Roselia steadied him with her tail, her frills trembling so hard they rattled.

  “Are you alright?” she asked, voice cracking.

  Oberon dragged in another breath, then another, each one sharp and burning. “I… think so.”

  His head throbbed. His limbs felt heavy, distant. But he was alive.

  Barely.

  He pressed a hand to his forehead, still dizzy from the trance. “It’s always strange,” he murmured. “I can’t see anything awake, but in dreams… everything has shape. Color. Edges. Like my mind remembers a world my eyes don’t.”

  Roselia’s expression softened, her frills lowering. “Dream?sight comes from memory,” she said quietly. “Not vision.”

  Synelion drifted closer, his massive form casting a shadow across the cloud sea. His whiskers crackled with faint electricity.

  Dreams borrow from the soul, not the eyes. That is why you could see him.

  Oberon swallowed, the weight of the revelation settling heavily in his chest.

  Synelion’s whiskers glowed brighter.

  I saw what you saw. I have drawn it for you.

  He offered a scroll, the parchment sealed with a lightning?burned mark.

  Show it to those who need to know. And be careful. The one you seek is not ordinary.

  Oberon took the scroll with trembling hands.

  Synelion’s body began to sink back into the clouds.

  May the storms guide you. And may your memories serve you well.

  Petal waved enthusiastically. “Come visit again!”

  The clouds released their grip on Oberon’s limbs. The sky brightened. The storm calmed.

  Roselia stepped beside him, lowering her head. “We should go.”

  Oberon nodded, still shaken. “Yeah. Let’s… let’s go.”

  Oberon’s breathing steadied by degrees, each inhale less ragged than the last. The cloud beneath him softened again, no longer gripping his legs like a vice. Petal kept her small claws pressed to his chest until she felt his heartbeat settle, her leaf?growths dimming from bright panic to a gentle lavender glow.

  “You scared me,” she said, her voice trembling with sincerity. “Humans aren’t supposed to stop breathing. You’re too squishy for that.”

  Oberon let out a weak laugh. “I’ll… try not to make a habit of it.”

  Roselia hovered close, her massive form curled protectively around him. Her frills were still trembling, and she didn’t bother hiding it anymore. “You should have seen yourself,” she whispered. “You went still. Completely still. I thought—”

  Her voice cracked.

  Oberon reached out, resting a hand against her snout. “I’m here.”

  She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch for a moment longer than usual.

  Synelion watched them with an expression that was difficult to read — ancient, tired, but not unkind. His storm?blue scales flickered with faint light as the clouds shifted beneath him.

  Your soul is resilient, Oberon. Few could endure what you just faced. A pause. Fewer still could return.

  Oberon swallowed. “That thing… the Draken I saw. What was it?”

  Synelion’s whiskers dimmed, the static around him softening. A remnant. A corruption. A being shaped by forces older than your kingdoms. His voice deepened, the clouds vibrating with the weight of his words. It is not natural. And it is not alone.

  Roselia stiffened. “You mean there are more?”

  There are always more. Storms do not form from a single cloud.

  Oberon felt a chill crawl up his spine.

  Synelion lowered his massive head until his eyes were level with Oberon’s. But you saw it. That matters. Memory is a weapon. And you have reclaimed yours.

  He extended the scroll again, and Oberon accepted it with both hands.

  Show this to those who can help you. And be wary. The path ahead is not gentle.

  Petal bounced forward, her leaf?growths rustling. “Come back soon! I’ll make tea next time! Or— or cloud cakes! Or—”

  “Petal,” Synelion said gently.

  She froze. “Right. Sorry. But still! Come back!”

  Oberon smiled. “I will.”

  Synelion began to sink back into the cloud sea, his massive form dissolving into the storm. May the winds favor you. And may your heart remain steady.

  The clouds brightened as he vanished, the static fading from the air. The oppressive weight lifted, replaced by a cool, gentle breeze.

  Roselia exhaled shakily. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Oberon nodded. “Please.”

  She lowered herself, and he climbed onto her back with more effort than usual. His limbs still felt heavy, as though part of him hadn’t fully returned from the trance.

  Roselia spread her wings, careful and deliberate, as though afraid even the wind might jostle him. Xiao and Tien rose beside her, their long bodies weaving through the air with practiced ease.

  “Stay close,” Xiao said.

  Tien added, “Stormlands can cling to you if you leave too slowly.”

  Roselia didn’t need to be told twice. She leapt from the cloud sea, wings beating hard, carrying them upward through the thinning mist. The air grew warmer as they ascended, the static fading from Oberon’s skin.

  He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Roselia’s neck. Her scales were warm — warmer than usual — and he realized she was trembling.

  “You okay?” he murmured.

  “I should be asking you that,” she replied, her voice tight. “But yes. I’m… fine. Just… shaken.”

  He tightened his grip around her shoulders. “Me too.”

  The sky opened above them, revealing the distant lights of the settlement — warm, scattered embers glowing against the mountainside. Roselia angled her wings, descending in a slow, careful spiral.

  When they touched down on the outskirts, Oberon slid off her back, his boots sinking into the damp moss. He steadied himself, breathing deeply.

  Xiao and Tien landed beside them, their whiskers flickering with residual static.

  “You handled the ritual well,” Xiao said. “Most humans would have died.”

  Tien nodded. “Or screamed.”

  Oberon exhaled. “I nearly did both.”

  Roselia nudged his shoulder with her snout. “But you didn’t.”

  He touched the scroll tucked beneath his arm. “No. I didn’t.”

  They made their way toward the tavern, the night alive with distant voices and the clatter of dishes. The door swung open before they reached it, warm light spilling across the street. The scent of roasted meat and spiced drink drifted out, comforting after the cold, electric air of the Stormlands.

  Inside, the tavern was lively — adventurers laughing, Drakens curled around reinforced tables, the low hum of conversation filling the space. Roselia’s presence drew a few glances, but nothing like the scrutiny of the previous night. Tonight, the room felt… normal. Safe.

  Roselia made a beeline for the bar.

  “Are you sure you want to drink after all that?” Oberon asked.

  “I need to unwind,” she said, already signaling the bartender. “And I’m not letting the memory of that ritual sit in my chest without something warm to drown it.”

  He couldn’t argue with that.

  Roselia made a beeline for the bar the moment they stepped inside, her wings folding tightly against her sides to avoid brushing the rafters. The tavern was built to accommodate Drakens, but even so, Roselia’s presence filled the space with a quiet gravity. Conversations dipped for a moment — not out of fear, but out of recognition. She was becoming familiar here.

  Oberon followed her, though his steps were slower, heavier. The trance still clung to him like a second skin. His lungs felt raw, his limbs slightly numb, and the memory of the stone?eyed Draken lingered like a shadow behind his eyes.

  The bartender — a stout bronze?scaled Draken with a scar across his snout — slid a massive mug toward Roselia without her even asking.

  “Rough night?” he rumbled.

  “You have no idea,” Roselia muttered, grabbing the mug with both claws and drinking deeply. The liquid inside steamed faintly, smelling of honey and something sharp, like fermented citrus.

  Oberon took a seat at a nearby table. Xiao and Tien coiled around the legs of the chairs, their bodies forming elegant loops on the floor. They seemed relaxed, but their whiskers flickered with residual static — a sign they were still attuned to the Stormlands’ energy.

  A waitress approached — a young woman with auburn hair tied back in a ribbon, her eyes bright and curious. She carried herself with the ease of someone used to serving creatures twice her size.

  “Evening,” she said warmly. “I’m Cerise. What can I get you?”

  Oberon shook his head. “Nothing for me, thank you.”

  Cerise tilted her head. “You sure? You look like you’ve been through a thunderstorm and a half.”

  Tien snorted. “He has.”

  Xiao added, “Literally.”

  Cerise blinked. “Oh. Well… that explains the hair.”

  Oberon ran a hand through his hair. It was sticking up in odd directions, still charged with static. “Right. That tracks.”

  Cerise leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “If you ever need answers… the library’s open when things aren’t busy. Drakens bring back all sorts of strange records. You’d be surprised what’s tucked away in there.”

  Oberon nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She smiled and moved on to another table.

  Roselia finished her first mug and signaled for another. Her frills were still trembling faintly, though the drink seemed to help.

  “You’re drinking fast,” Oberon said.

  “I’m trying to forget the part where you stopped breathing,” she replied bluntly.

  He winced. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she said, softer this time. “Just… don’t do it again.”

  Xiao stretched his whiskers. “We should be going soon. If you need more help, ask.”

  Tien nodded. “We mean it.”

  Oberon looked at them, gratitude softening his expression. “Thank you. For everything.”

  The twins dipped their heads in unison, then slipped out the door, their long bodies weaving through the night like ribbons of moonlit silk.

  Roselia drained her second mug and set it down with a soft thud. “Alright,” she said, “I’m done.”

  “Feeling better?” Oberon asked.

  “A little.” She tapped her head. “Still sober enough to fly. Mostly.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Mostly?”

  She waved a claw dismissively. “I’m fine. And I have a place in mind. Somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet. But it’s far. We’ll need to rest along the way.”

  Oberon stood, steadying himself. “Then let’s go.”

  Roselia led the way outside, the cool night air washing over them. The rain had softened to a mist, the scent of wet earth and pine drifting through the settlement.

  She lowered herself to the ground, arching her neck.

  “Um… is there something you’re waiting for?” Oberon asked.

  She stared at him. “Yes. Aren’t you going to ride me?”

  He blinked. “Pardon?”

  Roselia facepalmed with her wing. “Are you going to travel on my back? It would take weeks for you to walk. And I can’t walk that far either. Besides…”

  Her voice softened.

  “It’s… nice. Having you there.”

  Oberon climbed onto her back, settling between her shoulders. Her scales here were smoother, almost soft, shaped like tiny hearts etched into her hide. He ran a hand along them, surprised by their warmth.

  “Careful,” she murmured. “It’s slippery. Hold onto my shoulders.”

  He did.

  Roselia inhaled, steadying herself. “Alright. Let’s go.”

  With a powerful sweep of her wings, she lifted them into the misty night, carrying them toward the distant place she had in mind — and toward whatever waited for them next.

  The misty night air wrapped around them as Roselia lifted off, her wings slicing through the fog with slow, deliberate strokes. She wasn’t flying fast — not tonight. Every movement was careful, measured, as though she feared the wind itself might knock Oberon loose.

  Oberon leaned forward, resting lightly against the curve of her neck. Her scales were warm beneath his palms, warmer than usual, and he realized she was still trembling. Not from the cold. Not from exertion.

  From fear.

  He tightened his grip gently. “Roselia… you don’t have to be this careful.”

  “Yes, I do,” she murmured, her voice carried back to him on the wind. “You stopped breathing. I watched you fall still. I thought—”

  She cut herself off, wings stiffening.

  Oberon exhaled softly. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Her frills fluttered, a small, involuntary shiver. “I know. But knowing doesn’t make it easier.”

  They flew in silence for a while, the world below them a patchwork of moonlit forest and winding rivers. The clouds thinned as they left the Stormlands behind, replaced by a clear sky scattered with stars. The moon hung low and heavy, casting Roselia’s wings in silver.

  Oberon let his gaze drift upward. “It’s beautiful tonight.”

  “It is,” she agreed. “But I’m not looking at the sky.”

  He blinked. “What are you looking at?”

  “You,” she said simply.

  Heat rose to his cheeks. “Roselia…”

  “I’m serious.” Her voice softened. “You scared me more than anything has in a long time.”

  He rested a hand against her neck again, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “I know.” She hesitated. “But I realized something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That I don’t want to lose you.”

  The words hung between them, fragile as glass.

  Oberon swallowed. “You won’t.”

  She didn’t answer, but her wings eased, her flight smoothing into a gentle glide. The tension in her muscles slowly unwound, replaced by something quieter — a kind of vulnerable calm.

  They flew lower, skimming just above the treetops. Fireflies drifted through the branches, glowing like tiny lanterns. The forest below whispered with night sounds — crickets, rustling leaves, distant water.

  Oberon closed his eyes for a moment, letting the rhythm of her wingbeats lull him. The trance had drained him more than he realized. His limbs felt heavy, his mind foggy, but Roselia’s warmth anchored him.

  “You can sleep,” she murmured. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  He opened his eyes halfway. “Are you sure?”

  “Always.”

  He shifted slightly, settling more comfortably against her. Her scales were smoother here, shaped like tiny hearts etched into her hide — a detail he hadn’t noticed until now. He traced one with his thumb.

  Roselia inhaled sharply. “That… tickles.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “It’s fine. Just… unexpected.”

  He smiled faintly and let his hand rest there.

  The wind grew softer as they flew deeper into the night. Roselia adjusted her wings, creating a pocket of warm air around him. Her body heat radiated upward, wrapping him like a blanket.

  Oberon’s eyes drifted shut.

  “Roselia?” he murmured.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  She hesitated — a long, quiet pause.

  “…You’re welcome.”

  His breathing slowed, deepened. Within moments, he was asleep, his head resting gently against her neck.

  Roselia glanced back at him, her eyes softening. She adjusted her posture, making sure he wouldn’t slip, and lowered her flight even more, gliding silently above the forest.

  “You’re safe,” she whispered, barely audible even to herself. “I won’t let anything take you from me.”

  The moonlight shimmered across her wings as she carried him through the night — toward the distant place she had in mind, and toward whatever waited for them next.

  The sanctuary valley breathed around them — soft, glowing, alive in a way that felt untouched by the world’s cruelty. Bioluminescent flowers pulsed gently along the hillsides, their light rising and falling like the slow heartbeat of the land itself. Mist curled around Oberon’s boots as he walked, drifting in delicate ribbons that glowed faintly blue.

  Roselia walked beside him, her steps slow and careful, as though she feared disturbing the peace of this place. Her wings were half?folded, trailing lightly against the grass. Every so often, she glanced at Oberon — not to check his footing, but to reassure herself he was still there.

  Oberon took in the valley with quiet awe. “How did you find this place?”

  Roselia hesitated. “I didn’t. My mother did.”

  He looked up at her.

  “She brought me here when I was young,” Roselia continued, her voice softening. “Whenever storms frightened me. Whenever I felt… overwhelmed.” She paused, her frills lowering. “Whenever I needed to breathe.”

  Oberon slowed his steps. “And you brought me here for the same reason.”

  Roselia didn’t answer immediately. She looked out over the glowing valley, her eyes reflecting the soft light.

  “You needed somewhere the world couldn’t reach you,” she said finally. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere the storm inside you could settle.”

  Oberon felt something tighten in his chest — not fear, not pain, but something gentler. Something warm.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Roselia’s frills fluttered, a faint blush of color rippling across them. “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen the best part.”

  She led him toward a cluster of tall, pale trees whose bark shimmered like moonlit marble. Their branches arched overhead, forming a natural canopy. Beneath them, the grass was soft and thick, glowing faintly with a cool blue hue.

  “This is where we rest,” Roselia said.

  Oberon lowered himself onto the grass. It felt warm, almost unnaturally so, like lying on a heated blanket. The tension in his muscles eased instantly.

  Roselia settled beside him, curling her tail around her legs. She kept a respectful distance — but not too much. Close enough that he could feel her warmth radiating through the air.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke.

  The valley hummed softly, the flowers pulsing in gentle waves. Fireflies drifted lazily through the air, their lights flickering like tiny stars.

  Oberon exhaled. “It’s peaceful.”

  Roselia nodded. “It’s the only place I know where the storms can’t follow.”

  He turned his head toward her. “Do you come here often?”

  “Not anymore,” she said quietly. “I didn’t have a reason to.”

  Their eyes met.

  Something unspoken lingered there — fragile, tentative, but real.

  Oberon looked away first, his cheeks warming. “I’m glad you brought me.”

  Roselia’s frills fluttered again. “Me too.”

  A breeze drifted through the valley, carrying the scent of night?orchids and damp earth. Oberon lay back, staring up at the canopy of glowing branches above.

  His eyelids grew heavy.

  Roselia watched him, her expression softening. “Sleep,” she murmured. “You’ve done enough for one night.”

  He didn’t argue.

  Within moments, his breathing slowed, deepened, and he drifted into a quiet, dreamless sleep.

  Roselia shifted closer — just a little — and lowered her head beside him. Her eyes remained open, scanning the valley with a protective vigilance.

  “You’re safe,” she whispered again. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  The valley glowed softly around them.

  The night held its breath.

  And far beyond the sanctuary — beyond the mountains, beyond the forests, beyond the reach of Roselia’s wings — the stone?eyed Draken lifted its head.

  It had felt the memory ritual. It had felt Oberon’s mind brush against its own. And it had followed the echo.

  A faint tremor rippled through the distant earth.

  The sanctuary did not feel it.

  But the world did.