The little thing blinked up at them with eyes that still held the old cavern’s hunger, only dimmed into a hopeful spark. It curled a claw around the edge of Blade’s boot like a child claiming a lap.
“Give me a name,” it breathed, voice small and rough as if unused to gentleness. The request landed like a secret between the warm stones and the gathered faces.
Blade crouched, fingers splayed to the size of the creature. He felt the residue of the dark aura hum faintly at his palms, but now it moved not as hunger but as a leash that trembled with curiosity. Shira’s face pressed close—pupil bright, the catch of delight visible in the set of her whiskers. Kaira’s jaw softened in a way that was almost comical for a woman who wore discipline like armor.
“Cinder,” Blade said after a heartbeat. The name came flat and honest, like the ember that settles after a sparked fire. “You will be Cinder.”
Shira squealed, the sound high and delighted. “Cinder! Cinder, you’re mine!” She reached out before Blade could stop her, and Cinder—tiny dragon, still warm with the shadow of the deep—leaned into her hand as if it had been waiting for that touch all its life.
Kaira made a noise that might have been a laugh wrapped in a groan. “You named it before asking me,” she said to Blade, but her fingers betrayed her; she reached out and let her palm hover. The dragon sniffed, offered a tiny, unexpected head-butt, and Kaira’s hand landed flat on its scales for the briefest beat. “Idiot,” she muttered, which in her language meant something close to affection.
Cinder’s gift, however, was not merely company. The dragon exhaled once—only an instinctive, wavering breath—and the air around them shivered. A soft, luminous mist rolled through the gorge like a sigh. Where it passed, the cold blankness of the hollow thinned; small, stubborn tendrils of mana filtered back into the stone and air—enough for the Iron Strand’s Elara to weave a minor spark and Myrra to feel the hum at her fingers again.
“A release,” Elara said, wonder in her voice. “It’s giving us leeway.”
Myrra closed her eyes and cupped her hands. The faint glow answered like a returned note. “It’s not much,” she said, “but it’s enough for wards and healings.”
Merchants who had sat murmuring about loss and treasure straightened. The thought of rune-laced lamps and wards circling chests turned their faces eager. Doran and Harlan already moved to probe the tunnels, lanterns lit, steel at hand but curiosity burning brighter than fear. They found stairways cut deep into the stone, vault-rooms of dust and iron—cases of decayed leather, sheaves of brittle scrolls, and racks where weapons lay like sleeping things.
Shira cradled Cinder, rocking the little dragon as if it were a child learning the world. Blade watched them both and smiled a little, then reached into a pocket and drew out a narrow band of woven silver-thread—a small thing he had kept for reasons he could not name. He slid it over Shira’s wrist, the metal cool and weighted. “For you,” he said. “So you can hold onto him.”
Shira’s hand flew to the band as if it were a vow. “I’ll keep him safe,” she promised, and Cinder chirped in agreement, the sound like a soot-black bell.
They moved deeper. Treasure rooms opened like old mouths: crates of glittering trinkets, chests crusted in salt and age, and racks of weapons that had been tempered in an age when magic sang louder and steel remembered the feel of old wars. The ancient books—vellum, painted runes, and cramped scripts—lay boxed and stacked like dreams. The Iron Strand's eyes hungrily catalogued the weapons; the merchants saw coin; Shira simply pointed at every odd, pretty thing.
What none of them noticed—except Blade—was the way a certain pair of parchments caught the edge of his attention. He felt, as if a cold fingertip ran over his spine, the sensation of being observed in a way that was not casual. He looked up into the gorge’s maw and caught, in the glint of the air where no light should hang, a round screen of magic that had not been there when they entered.
Blade did something small and cunning. He unrolled two brittle books and, with a casual toss, sent them arc-lift into the air. They rose and hung, as if a wind had taken pity, and then a shimmer snatched them—like a hand closing cloth. For a breath the books disappeared upward through the screen, and in a cave two hundred paces away, a scholar’s eyes widened as the texts materialized on his round glass.
Zharu the sage—watching, always watching—felt the books fall into his hands with the impossible lack of effort. He stared down at the runes as they smoothed themselves like ink and realized he had been found. The surprise in his throat tasted like electricity. He had expected to watch; he had not expected the watched to reach out with a courtesy. For a moment the thought of interfering sparked—then cooled.
Not yet, he told himself. There was something to be learned in leaving Blade to his curiosities. If Blade moved too openly, it would burn the balance Zharu had spent two centuries shaping. He let the books rest in his palm, and a plan unfurled like map-lines across his mind. He would meet Blade—but later, and by choice.
Back in the corridor, Blade took stock. He had not seized the books out of generosity; he had done it to probe. His small test had revealed a screen, a watcher, and the fact someone with real reach had eyes on them. He did not like to be watched without invitation, but he also knew the value of patience. He replaced his hands in his pockets and looked to the others.
“Take what you must,” he said, voice easy. “But share what you find. Nothing leaves without a tally.”
Hands moved, catalogued, and the little dragon—Cinder—stayed close to Shira’s shoulder, riffling through leather cases and occasionally peering into a chest as if expecting a toy.
When the load seemed fair and the merchants’ faces had grown pleasantly greedy, Blade drew them into a small circle. He prepared a spell—one he had kept thin and private—and braided the faint remainder of Cinder’s mana with his void-touch. The ground unpinned itself for a second and then folded; the gorge around them blurred like a map creased too often. With a breath that felt like a word, they stepped and the stone closed like a lid.
When the world steadied, they were on the sand again: the western flank of the desert spread in heat and haze all around them. Horses stamped and shook the grit from their manes; merchants shook their heads like dogs from sleep; the Iron Strand checked their harnesses and grinned at bruised treasure.
“Road to Flarewood still calls,” Doran said, shouldering a pack with a smile that matched the sparkle of new coin.
Shira hugged Cinder close and looked to Blade with gratitude obvious as a sun bloom. Kaira kept her hands to her sword, fingers brushing the hilt as if comfort could be conjured from steel.
Blade glanced toward the ridge behind them—where a darkened cave might hide the gaze of a sage—and thought of the books in unknown hands. Zharu had chosen patience for the moment. Blade favored curiosity. Both men were learning the rules of a game that had more players than either guessed.
“Onward,” Blade said, lifting the whip of the reins. “To Flarewood. We have a road to keep and an evening to earn.”
Cinder chirped in agreement, and Shira laughed so full that it sent warmth along the caravan like a promise. Kaira finally let a small, reluctant smile break the discipline of her face.
Far away, in a cave hung with maps and dust, Zharu read a page and tightened his fingers. He had found a new variable. He would meet this one day—but he would come not with hunger but with a question dressed as courtesy. For now, the sage turned his screen away and took careful notes. The desert, as ever, held its breath.
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✦ To be continued...