The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 17 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 18: Hatching
Deep beneath the roots of the mountain, where sunlight dares not tread and the walls hum with ancient magic, Nekonata sits cross-legged on the damp stone floor. Before him, nestled on a pedestal sits the orange dragon egg of Amira, her shell pulsating slowly with a rhythm. The cavern is vast, its ceiling lost in shadows, the lake's water as still as polished obsidian… until the wolves disturb it.
Santaya and Kristolia splash joyfully into the shallows, startling silvery fish that dart and shimmer in the low light. With practiced ease, the wolves snap up a pair of the larger ones, water streaming from their fur as they drag their catch ashore.
Loki, the oversized raven perched on a stalagmite near Nekonata, ruffles his feathers and lets out a rasping caw.
"This changes everything for you, Nekonata."
Across the cavern, the Dwarf King Althor stares at the egg in stunned silence, his red-bearded mouth agape.
"By the Stoneforge... A dragon egg? Here? Why is it here? How is it here?"
He trails off, eyes narrowing in confusion and fear.
Beside him, the younger dwarf Donal touches his axe nervously.
"I’ve heard tales… but never believed 'em. That the old magic still sleeps in the bones of the world."
King Althor turned sharply to Donal, the echo of his boots against wet stone filling the cavern. His voice was low but firm, laced with the burden of hard-earned authority.
"Hearsay and superstitions, that’s all it ever was. Tales to keep curious fools out of the abandoned tunnels, because they are unsafe. One mis-strike of a hammer in the wrong vein and this entire section of the mountain could come down like the wrath of the gods."
His words fell heavy, but they barely registered with Nekonata. He was still kneeling before the softly glowing dragon egg, the rest of the world hushed beneath the thrum of something older, something alive.
Then a voice stirred, not aloud, but within his mind, as intimate as a whisper against his ear.
‘The tide is rising, Nekonata,’ Amira said gently. ‘If you don’t move, you’ll find yourself waist-deep in water.’
Almost on cue, Loki flapped his great wings and let out a piercing squawk from his perch above.
"Water rising! Water rising!"
Startled, Donal backed away from the lake’s edge, noticing now how the water was creeping steadily higher, lapping at the stone with growing insistence. Kristolia growled softly, ears pinned, while Santaya whined and shook water from her fur.
Without hesitation, Nekonata stood, stripping off his travel-worn cloak. Wrapping the cloak gently around the egg, he cradled it with surprising ease for something that pulsed with such power.
He looked down at it, voice quiet but resolute.
"No longer will you be alone down here, Amira."
The egg glowed brighter for a moment, as if in response, and for the first time, the cavern felt less like a tomb and more like a cradle of something reborn.
Their footsteps echoed through the long-forgotten tunnels, crunching softly in the thick dust that blanketed the floors like a shroud. The air was heavy with the scent of stone and stillness. Faint traces of long-dead fires clung to the blackened hearths as they passed through the abandoned kitchens and silent workshops. Discarded tools lay where they had been left, untouched for decades.
Nekonata walked at the front of the group, one hand gently cradling the egg swaddled in his cloak. Above his shoulder hovered a pale orb of purple were-light, casting soft, flickering light into the gloom ahead. It gave just enough illumination to follow the trail of their own footprints back through the dust, weaving between forgotten forges and broken tables.
They reached the large chamber, the one whose walls glittered with threads of quartz and veins of raw gemstone. The were-light caught on the crystals, sending dim flashes of color dancing across the chamber’s breadth.
That’s when they heard it.
A low, shivering whimper. Weak, dwarf.
Nekonata froze mid-step. His breath caught.
"You hear that?" Donal whispered hoarsely, eyes darting toward the shadows.
Amira stirred in Nekonata’s mind. Her voice in Neko’s mind is barely more than a ripple.
‘Pain lingers here. Someone lost.’
The wolves were already on alert, ears high, bodies tense. Santaya took a step forward, nose twitching. Kristolia followed, silent as smoke, both of them honing in on the sound.
Then they saw her.
In the far corner of the chamber, half-buried in dust and shadow, a figure crouched in a fetal position. Her clothes were torn, her hair matted with grime and streaks of quartz dust. Her lips moved with rhythmic desperation, whispering over and over again:
“So dark… so lost… so dark… so lost…”
Donal staggered forward, his axe clattering to the stone.
"Mirabella?" he breathed. "It can’t be, Mirabella! My love, what are you doing here?"
But she didn’t respond, didn’t look up. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, staring into something none of them could see.
Donal cradled Mirabella in his arms, her frail form trembling as if caught in a fever dream. Her muttering had faded to soft sobs, her head resting against his shoulder. The dust clung to them both as he carried her, each step labored but unwavering. King Althor walked beside him, silent and grim, his hand occasionally resting on Donal’s shoulder, a gesture of unspoken support.
The group pressed on through the ancient corridors, the purple were-light dancing ahead, illuminating collapsed beams, rusted mining rails, and forgotten tools scattered like bones of the old world.
Then, without warning, Nekonata halted.
The were-light flickered once.
Amira’s voice whispered through his thoughts, crystal clear, soft as flame but heavy with meaning:
‘I choose you, little one. I choose you to be my rider.’
He stopped breathing for a moment. Shock rooted him in place.
King Althor and Donal turned to look at him, puzzled by his sudden stillness.
"What is it?" Althor asked, brow furrowed beneath his helm.
Nekonata’s voice was barely above a whisper, disbelieving:
"Almira just said... she chooses me. To be her rider."
For a heartbeat, silence fell over the tunnel. Then came the flapping of great wings.
Loki descended in a rush of dark feathers, perching heavily on an abandoned mine cart beside them. The oversized raven tilted his head, his beady eyes wide with something like astonishment.
Amira’s voice returned, curious, amused.
‘That bird… he is strange. There is something human in him.’
Still dazed, Nekonata glanced at Loki.
"Amira just said you're… strange. Human-like."
Loki squawked sharply, feathers bristling.
"Secrets my own, meddle will you not!" he snapped, wings flaring. Then, with a huff and a beat of his wings, he lifted off into the shadows of the cavern, disappearing with an indignant flutter.
The group was left in stunned silence, only Mirabella’s breathing and the echo of Loki’s fading wings breaking it.
Althor shook his head slowly.
"By the Deep Forge… dragon riders, talking birds, lost wives found in ruins. What else sleeps in these mountains?"
Nekonata didn't answer. His eyes were distant, staring down the path ahead.
They continued through the ancient tunnel, Mirabella still murmuring in Donal’s arms, and Loki long vanished into the dark. The only sound was the quiet shuffle of feet and the distant hum of water through the roots of the mountain.
Then, soft as a whisper, the travel-cloak slipped.
The dragon egg nestled in Nekonata’s arms shifted, and his fingertip brushed against the warm, smooth shell.
Crack.
A sharp, resonant sound echoed like a thunderclap. In the same instant, a blinding surge of orange light erupted from the egg, washing over the tunnel like dawn igniting the heart of the mountain. Everyone cried out, shielding their eyes.
Nekonata’s own purple aura flared wildly, no longer steady but pulsing, alive, as if reacting to the dragon’s awakening. The two lights collided, orange and purple, twisting and dancing in a vortex of radiant magic that spun around him like a storm caught in a bottle.
The others stumbled back as the swirling light thickened, forming into shapes that flickered like living flame. Donal stared, awestruck. King Althor raised a hand instinctively to shield his eyes from the bright coloured lights.
Then, like ink poured into water, a dark, serpentine shape began to slither across Nekonata’s skin, a living symbol winding around his arm. It raced from his shoulder down to his wrist, coiling in elegant, ancient lines.
And then, with a final pulse of purple and orange, it settled above his right wrist, a permanent mark, etched into his flesh in the shape of a coiling dragon.
The blinding lights slowly faded, shadows returning to the tunnel.
And there, in the space where the egg had been, stood a small dragon.
She blinked up at him, her eyes glowing with the same orange fire that had burst from the shell. Her scales shimmered in brilliant amber, but with every movement, every shift of light, a deep purple undertone revealed itself beneath, like midnight woven into flame.
Nekonata dropped to his knees, heart pounding.
The dragon chirped once, then pressed her warm head gently against his marked wrist.
Loki flew from out of the darkness and squawked, “Amira. Born. Chosen. Bound.”
King Althor whispered, as if afraid to break the moment:
"By the Forge… he didn’t just find a dragon."
Donal nodded slowly, still holding Mirabella.
"He hatched one."
Nekonata stayed on his knees, staring in awe. His chest rose and fell in staggered breaths as the tiny dragon stepped lightly around him, her delicate claws clicking softly on the stone floor. She tilted her head, her brilliant orange eyes, rimmed with that shifting hint of purple, locked onto his. Then she stepped closer and began sniffing him with fast, curious breaths, her nose brushing his cheek, his shoulder, the newly marked wrist.
"Amira..." Nekonata whispered, the name reverent on his tongue.
The small dragon paused, tail curling behind her.
Then, with perfect comedic timing, two loud, grumbling rumbles echoed through the cavern, one from Nekonata’s stomach… and one from hers.
He blinked.
“I’m hungry,” he muttered, a sheepish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
But before he could say anything else, Almira's voice filled his mind, not as a whisper now, but clear and familiar:
‘I'm hungry.’
The timing was perfect. They said it together, one aloud, one within, and both their eyes widened in shared confusion.
Then Nekonata burst out laughing.
The tension shattered. His laughter rang through the stone corridors, rich and free, echoing off quartz-veined walls. Donal, still carrying Mirabella, let out a surprised chuckle. Althor looked between them, shook his head, and started to laugh too, deep, booming laughter from the belly.
Even the air in the cavern seemed lighter now.
Santaya padded forward, ears pricked and tail wagging slightly. Kristolia followed close behind, head low, curious but cautious. The two wolves circled the small dragon carefully, sniffing her with practiced care, the way they might greet a new member of the pack.
Amira stood still at first, blinking at them.
Then, with a sudden playful motion, she flicked her tail toward Kristolia’s nose and chirped.
Kristolia sneezed.
Santaya gave a huffing sound that almost resembled a laugh.
Nekonata, still on his knees, looked around at the scene, his companions, the strange, glowing dragon beside him, and the laughter of those who had witnessed the impossible.
Nekonata reached for his travel cloak, still warm from where it had wrapped the dragon egg just moments before. He held it open and looked down at Amira, now watching him with those glowing amber eyes flecked with purple.
"Climb in here, Amira. We need to keep you hidden, for now."
The small dragon blinked once, then with graceful agility, leapt lightly into the cloak. She curled up inside it, coiling like flame resting on embers. Her scales shimmered in the folds of fabric, but the light dimmed quickly, almost instinctively, as if she understood the need to stay unseen.
Nekonata tied the cloak gently but securely, creating a sling across his chest to cradle her.
Then he turned to face the others, King Althor, Donal, and Loki, perched atop a broken beam, watching closely with sharp, unreadable eyes.
"This needs to be kept quiet," Nekonata said, his voice steady but serious. "News can’t go out. Not yet. Not now."
Althor gave a curt nod, his gaze lingering on the hidden bundle. “If word spreads... there’ll be more danger for you… and Amira, she needs chance to grow, you already seem to have a target on your back Neko, now it’s just got even bigger.”
Donal said nothing, but his hand gripped the strap of his satchel tightly, knuckles white. He understood.
Loki tilted his head, black feathers ruffling, but didn’t speak.
Nekonata looked down at the sling. He could feel the slow rise and fall of Amira’s tiny breath.
"I need to talk to Vivi," he said quietly. "I don’t know what to do from here. But she’ll know. He always knows."
He paused, then added, more to himself than anyone else:
"I need to speak to Tarasque… and Elqiana. With them being rider and dragon... they'll have a better grasp of what this means."
He turned, scanning each of their faces, searching for hesitation, doubt, anything.
But there was none.
Kristolia stood at his side, calm and alert. Santaya sat on her haunches, tail flicking slowly. Donal adjusted Mirabella gently in his arms. King Althor met his eyes and gave a slow, grave nod. Even Loki, after a long, unreadable pause, gave a single short caw that somehow carried agreement.
They understood.
The path ahead slowly grew brighter, the stagnant air of the deep tunnels giving way to the filtered warmth of torchlight and the faint scent of open air and stone ovens. After what felt like an eternity beneath the mountain, they finally stepped out from the abandoned passages into the main stronghold, where polished stone walls and the bustle of dwarven life felt both foreign and comforting.
But just beyond the exit, near the cracked threshold of the sealed tunnel, sat the remnants of a burnt-out fire, the ash cold and the stones darkened with smoke. A makeshift camp…
Donal stopped, his eyes falling on the blackened circle. He looked down at Mirabella, still asleep in his arms, her breathing steadier now.
“She waited here,” he murmured, voice tight. “Waited… and then came to try and find us.”
King Althor placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“Go, Donal. Take her to the healers. I’ll make sure Nekonata and his companions are kept safe, and unseen.”
Donal nodded, gratitude in his eyes. He turned and disappeared down a side corridor at a brisk pace, careful not to jostle his fragile burden.
Althor turned to Nekonata.
“This way,” he said quietly. “We’ll take a more… discreet route.”
They followed him through narrow service tunnels and seldom-used passages hidden behind stone columns and drapery, away from curious eyes and loose tongues. Kristolia and Santaya padded along silently at Nekonata’s side, their ears turning at every sound. Loki followed from above, gliding between arches and rafters like a shadow with wings.
Then, with perfect timing, a pair of soft stomach rumbles echoed, one from Nekonata, and one from within the sling where Amira lay hidden.
Althor chuckled, not unkindly.
“I’ll have some food brought up. You’ve all earned a meal... and then some.”
Minutes later, they arrived at the King’s private quarters, a high chamber nestled in the inner ring of the stronghold, quiet, comfortable, and secure. The door shut behind them with a soft click, and for the first time since the egg had cracked, they were truly alone.
Nekonata gently untied the cloak sling and lowered it to the stone floor.
“Come on out, Amira.”
The bundle stirred.
Then, with an eager chirp, the little orange-purple dragon tumbled out, blinking in the soft torchlight. She stretched her wings slightly and then bounded off, her tiny claws clicking as she raced around the room, sniffing at cushions, rugs, stone carvings, and the hearth. Her scales caught the light as she moved, shifting between fiery amber and purple shadow, a living ember with a streak of starlight.
Nekonata couldn’t help but smile, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
“She’s curious,” he said aloud, mostly to himself.
Althor walked back in, carrying a large tray full of food, setting it on the floor for the wolves and dragon to eat. He poured himself a small cup of dark ale and offered a second to Nekonata.
“She’s young,” the king replied. “And new to the world. Let her be curious while she still can.”
From across the room, Amira sneezed at a carved stone badger and made a chuffing sound, clearly unimpressed.
Nekonata laughed softly, watching her with wonder in his eyes.
"She's... perfect," he said quietly.
Chapter 18: Hatching
Deep beneath the roots of the mountain, where sunlight dares not tread and the walls hum with ancient magic, Nekonata sits cross-legged on the damp stone floor. Before him, nestled on a pedestal sits the orange dragon egg of Amira, her shell pulsating slowly with a rhythm. The cavern is vast, its ceiling lost in shadows, the lake's water as still as polished obsidian… until the wolves disturb it.
Santaya and Kristolia splash joyfully into the shallows, startling silvery fish that dart and shimmer in the low light. With practiced ease, the wolves snap up a pair of the larger ones, water streaming from their fur as they drag their catch ashore.
Loki, the oversized raven perched on a stalagmite near Nekonata, ruffles his feathers and lets out a rasping caw.
"This changes everything for you, Nekonata."
Across the cavern, the Dwarf King Althor stares at the egg in stunned silence, his red-bearded mouth agape.
"By the Stoneforge... A dragon egg? Here? Why is it here? How is it here?"
He trails off, eyes narrowing in confusion and fear.
Beside him, the younger dwarf Donal touches his axe nervously.
"I’ve heard tales… but never believed 'em. That the old magic still sleeps in the bones of the world."
King Althor turned sharply to Donal, the echo of his boots against wet stone filling the cavern. His voice was low but firm, laced with the burden of hard-earned authority.
"Hearsay and superstitions, that’s all it ever was. Tales to keep curious fools out of the abandoned tunnels, because they are unsafe. One mis-strike of a hammer in the wrong vein and this entire section of the mountain could come down like the wrath of the gods."
His words fell heavy, but they barely registered with Nekonata. He was still kneeling before the softly glowing dragon egg, the rest of the world hushed beneath the thrum of something older, something alive.
Then a voice stirred, not aloud, but within his mind, as intimate as a whisper against his ear.
‘The tide is rising, Nekonata,’ Amira said gently. ‘If you don’t move, you’ll find yourself waist-deep in water.’
Almost on cue, Loki flapped his great wings and let out a piercing squawk from his perch above.
"Water rising! Water rising!"
Startled, Donal backed away from the lake’s edge, noticing now how the water was creeping steadily higher, lapping at the stone with growing insistence. Kristolia growled softly, ears pinned, while Santaya whined and shook water from her fur.
Without hesitation, Nekonata stood, stripping off his travel-worn cloak. Wrapping the cloak gently around the egg, he cradled it with surprising ease for something that pulsed with such power.
He looked down at it, voice quiet but resolute.
"No longer will you be alone down here, Amira."
The egg glowed brighter for a moment, as if in response, and for the first time, the cavern felt less like a tomb and more like a cradle of something reborn.
Their footsteps echoed through the long-forgotten tunnels, crunching softly in the thick dust that blanketed the floors like a shroud. The air was heavy with the scent of stone and stillness. Faint traces of long-dead fires clung to the blackened hearths as they passed through the abandoned kitchens and silent workshops. Discarded tools lay where they had been left, untouched for decades.
Nekonata walked at the front of the group, one hand gently cradling the egg swaddled in his cloak. Above his shoulder hovered a pale orb of purple were-light, casting soft, flickering light into the gloom ahead. It gave just enough illumination to follow the trail of their own footprints back through the dust, weaving between forgotten forges and broken tables.
They reached the large chamber, the one whose walls glittered with threads of quartz and veins of raw gemstone. The were-light caught on the crystals, sending dim flashes of color dancing across the chamber’s breadth.
That’s when they heard it.
A low, shivering whimper. Weak, dwarf.
Nekonata froze mid-step. His breath caught.
"You hear that?" Donal whispered hoarsely, eyes darting toward the shadows.
Amira stirred in Nekonata’s mind. Her voice in Neko’s mind is barely more than a ripple.
‘Pain lingers here. Someone lost.’
The wolves were already on alert, ears high, bodies tense. Santaya took a step forward, nose twitching. Kristolia followed, silent as smoke, both of them honing in on the sound.
Then they saw her.
In the far corner of the chamber, half-buried in dust and shadow, a figure crouched in a fetal position. Her clothes were torn, her hair matted with grime and streaks of quartz dust. Her lips moved with rhythmic desperation, whispering over and over again:
“So dark… so lost… so dark… so lost…”
Donal staggered forward, his axe clattering to the stone.
"Mirabella?" he breathed. "It can’t be, Mirabella! My love, what are you doing here?"
But she didn’t respond, didn’t look up. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, staring into something none of them could see.
Donal cradled Mirabella in his arms, her frail form trembling as if caught in a fever dream. Her muttering had faded to soft sobs, her head resting against his shoulder. The dust clung to them both as he carried her, each step labored but unwavering. King Althor walked beside him, silent and grim, his hand occasionally resting on Donal’s shoulder, a gesture of unspoken support.
The group pressed on through the ancient corridors, the purple were-light dancing ahead, illuminating collapsed beams, rusted mining rails, and forgotten tools scattered like bones of the old world.
Then, without warning, Nekonata halted.
The were-light flickered once.
Amira’s voice whispered through his thoughts, crystal clear, soft as flame but heavy with meaning:
‘I choose you, little one. I choose you to be my rider.’
He stopped breathing for a moment. Shock rooted him in place.
King Althor and Donal turned to look at him, puzzled by his sudden stillness.
"What is it?" Althor asked, brow furrowed beneath his helm.
Nekonata’s voice was barely above a whisper, disbelieving:
"Almira just said... she chooses me. To be her rider."
For a heartbeat, silence fell over the tunnel. Then came the flapping of great wings.
Loki descended in a rush of dark feathers, perching heavily on an abandoned mine cart beside them. The oversized raven tilted his head, his beady eyes wide with something like astonishment.
Amira’s voice returned, curious, amused.
‘That bird… he is strange. There is something human in him.’
Still dazed, Nekonata glanced at Loki.
"Amira just said you're… strange. Human-like."
Loki squawked sharply, feathers bristling.
"Secrets my own, meddle will you not!" he snapped, wings flaring. Then, with a huff and a beat of his wings, he lifted off into the shadows of the cavern, disappearing with an indignant flutter.
The group was left in stunned silence, only Mirabella’s breathing and the echo of Loki’s fading wings breaking it.
Althor shook his head slowly.
"By the Deep Forge… dragon riders, talking birds, lost wives found in ruins. What else sleeps in these mountains?"
Nekonata didn't answer. His eyes were distant, staring down the path ahead.
They continued through the ancient tunnel, Mirabella still murmuring in Donal’s arms, and Loki long vanished into the dark. The only sound was the quiet shuffle of feet and the distant hum of water through the roots of the mountain.
Then, soft as a whisper, the travel-cloak slipped.
The dragon egg nestled in Nekonata’s arms shifted, and his fingertip brushed against the warm, smooth shell.
Crack.
A sharp, resonant sound echoed like a thunderclap. In the same instant, a blinding surge of orange light erupted from the egg, washing over the tunnel like dawn igniting the heart of the mountain. Everyone cried out, shielding their eyes.
Nekonata’s own purple aura flared wildly, no longer steady but pulsing, alive, as if reacting to the dragon’s awakening. The two lights collided, orange and purple, twisting and dancing in a vortex of radiant magic that spun around him like a storm caught in a bottle.
The others stumbled back as the swirling light thickened, forming into shapes that flickered like living flame. Donal stared, awestruck. King Althor raised a hand instinctively to shield his eyes from the bright coloured lights.
Then, like ink poured into water, a dark, serpentine shape began to slither across Nekonata’s skin, a living symbol winding around his arm. It raced from his shoulder down to his wrist, coiling in elegant, ancient lines.
And then, with a final pulse of purple and orange, it settled above his right wrist, a permanent mark, etched into his flesh in the shape of a coiling dragon.
The blinding lights slowly faded, shadows returning to the tunnel.
And there, in the space where the egg had been, stood a small dragon.
She blinked up at him, her eyes glowing with the same orange fire that had burst from the shell. Her scales shimmered in brilliant amber, but with every movement, every shift of light, a deep purple undertone revealed itself beneath, like midnight woven into flame.
Nekonata dropped to his knees, heart pounding.
The dragon chirped once, then pressed her warm head gently against his marked wrist.
Loki flew from out of the darkness and squawked, “Amira. Born. Chosen. Bound.”
King Althor whispered, as if afraid to break the moment:
"By the Forge… he didn’t just find a dragon."
Donal nodded slowly, still holding Mirabella.
"He hatched one."
Nekonata stayed on his knees, staring in awe. His chest rose and fell in staggered breaths as the tiny dragon stepped lightly around him, her delicate claws clicking softly on the stone floor. She tilted her head, her brilliant orange eyes, rimmed with that shifting hint of purple, locked onto his. Then she stepped closer and began sniffing him with fast, curious breaths, her nose brushing his cheek, his shoulder, the newly marked wrist.
"Amira..." Nekonata whispered, the name reverent on his tongue.
The small dragon paused, tail curling behind her.
Then, with perfect comedic timing, two loud, grumbling rumbles echoed through the cavern, one from Nekonata’s stomach… and one from hers.
He blinked.
“I’m hungry,” he muttered, a sheepish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
But before he could say anything else, Almira's voice filled his mind, not as a whisper now, but clear and familiar:
‘I'm hungry.’
The timing was perfect. They said it together, one aloud, one within, and both their eyes widened in shared confusion.
Then Nekonata burst out laughing.
The tension shattered. His laughter rang through the stone corridors, rich and free, echoing off quartz-veined walls. Donal, still carrying Mirabella, let out a surprised chuckle. Althor looked between them, shook his head, and started to laugh too, deep, booming laughter from the belly.
Even the air in the cavern seemed lighter now.
Santaya padded forward, ears pricked and tail wagging slightly. Kristolia followed close behind, head low, curious but cautious. The two wolves circled the small dragon carefully, sniffing her with practiced care, the way they might greet a new member of the pack.
Amira stood still at first, blinking at them.
Then, with a sudden playful motion, she flicked her tail toward Kristolia’s nose and chirped.
Kristolia sneezed.
Santaya gave a huffing sound that almost resembled a laugh.
Nekonata, still on his knees, looked around at the scene, his companions, the strange, glowing dragon beside him, and the laughter of those who had witnessed the impossible.
Nekonata reached for his travel cloak, still warm from where it had wrapped the dragon egg just moments before. He held it open and looked down at Amira, now watching him with those glowing amber eyes flecked with purple.
"Climb in here, Amira. We need to keep you hidden, for now."
The small dragon blinked once, then with graceful agility, leapt lightly into the cloak. She curled up inside it, coiling like flame resting on embers. Her scales shimmered in the folds of fabric, but the light dimmed quickly, almost instinctively, as if she understood the need to stay unseen.
Nekonata tied the cloak gently but securely, creating a sling across his chest to cradle her.
Then he turned to face the others, King Althor, Donal, and Loki, perched atop a broken beam, watching closely with sharp, unreadable eyes.
"This needs to be kept quiet," Nekonata said, his voice steady but serious. "News can’t go out. Not yet. Not now."
Althor gave a curt nod, his gaze lingering on the hidden bundle. “If word spreads... there’ll be more danger for you… and Amira, she needs chance to grow, you already seem to have a target on your back Neko, now it’s just got even bigger.”
Donal said nothing, but his hand gripped the strap of his satchel tightly, knuckles white. He understood.
Loki tilted his head, black feathers ruffling, but didn’t speak.
Nekonata looked down at the sling. He could feel the slow rise and fall of Amira’s tiny breath.
"I need to talk to Vivi," he said quietly. "I don’t know what to do from here. But she’ll know. He always knows."
He paused, then added, more to himself than anyone else:
"I need to speak to Tarasque… and Elqiana. With them being rider and dragon... they'll have a better grasp of what this means."
He turned, scanning each of their faces, searching for hesitation, doubt, anything.
But there was none.
Kristolia stood at his side, calm and alert. Santaya sat on her haunches, tail flicking slowly. Donal adjusted Mirabella gently in his arms. King Althor met his eyes and gave a slow, grave nod. Even Loki, after a long, unreadable pause, gave a single short caw that somehow carried agreement.
They understood.
The path ahead slowly grew brighter, the stagnant air of the deep tunnels giving way to the filtered warmth of torchlight and the faint scent of open air and stone ovens. After what felt like an eternity beneath the mountain, they finally stepped out from the abandoned passages into the main stronghold, where polished stone walls and the bustle of dwarven life felt both foreign and comforting.
But just beyond the exit, near the cracked threshold of the sealed tunnel, sat the remnants of a burnt-out fire, the ash cold and the stones darkened with smoke. A makeshift camp…
Donal stopped, his eyes falling on the blackened circle. He looked down at Mirabella, still asleep in his arms, her breathing steadier now.
“She waited here,” he murmured, voice tight. “Waited… and then came to try and find us.”
King Althor placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.
“Go, Donal. Take her to the healers. I’ll make sure Nekonata and his companions are kept safe, and unseen.”
Donal nodded, gratitude in his eyes. He turned and disappeared down a side corridor at a brisk pace, careful not to jostle his fragile burden.
Althor turned to Nekonata.
“This way,” he said quietly. “We’ll take a more… discreet route.”
They followed him through narrow service tunnels and seldom-used passages hidden behind stone columns and drapery, away from curious eyes and loose tongues. Kristolia and Santaya padded along silently at Nekonata’s side, their ears turning at every sound. Loki followed from above, gliding between arches and rafters like a shadow with wings.
Then, with perfect timing, a pair of soft stomach rumbles echoed, one from Nekonata, and one from within the sling where Amira lay hidden.
Althor chuckled, not unkindly.
“I’ll have some food brought up. You’ve all earned a meal... and then some.”
Minutes later, they arrived at the King’s private quarters, a high chamber nestled in the inner ring of the stronghold, quiet, comfortable, and secure. The door shut behind them with a soft click, and for the first time since the egg had cracked, they were truly alone.
Nekonata gently untied the cloak sling and lowered it to the stone floor.
“Come on out, Amira.”
The bundle stirred.
Then, with an eager chirp, the little orange-purple dragon tumbled out, blinking in the soft torchlight. She stretched her wings slightly and then bounded off, her tiny claws clicking as she raced around the room, sniffing at cushions, rugs, stone carvings, and the hearth. Her scales caught the light as she moved, shifting between fiery amber and purple shadow, a living ember with a streak of starlight.
Nekonata couldn’t help but smile, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
“She’s curious,” he said aloud, mostly to himself.
Althor walked back in, carrying a large tray full of food, setting it on the floor for the wolves and dragon to eat. He poured himself a small cup of dark ale and offered a second to Nekonata.
“She’s young,” the king replied. “And new to the world. Let her be curious while she still can.”
From across the room, Amira sneezed at a carved stone badger and made a chuffing sound, clearly unimpressed.
Nekonata laughed softly, watching her with wonder in his eyes.
"She's... perfect," he said quietly.