The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 23 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 24; Answers
Nekonata stood near the stone wall, flanked by his loyal wolves, Santaya and Kristolia, their fur bristling as they watched the quiet gathering. Beside them, the dragon Amira, her orange-purple scales glinting like molten twilight, rested curled at the edge of the chamber, her serpentine eyes half-lidded, yet alert.
Around the central war table stood Tarasque, Elvina, Vivi, and King Althor, deep in discussion. Maps, aged scrolls, and glowing runes cluttered the table, a quiet hum of magic in the air.
The heavy oak doors creaked open.
Gabija stepped into the room, her cloak trailing like smoke, and on her shoulders sat Loki, the black-feathered raven. Her expression was solemn, her posture tense.
The room fell into silence.
Althor cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Gabija has asked me to gather you all here,” he said. “What she is about to say has been a closely guarded secret. Not of her own will, but someone else’s.”
Gabija nodded slightly, her voice soft but unwavering. “Many years ago, when the Elves were new to this land, we studied the Ancient Language, the first tongue. It was not a language of cultures or tribes, but the true language of the world itself. In it, no lie could exist. Only truth, command, and consequence.”
She paused, her gaze distant. The firelight flickered in her golden eyes.
“With it, we could twist, manipulate, and shape the elements, fire, water, earth, wind, and thunder, simply by willing it through the true words. But as with all great powers, there was a cost.”
The room listened intently, even Amira’s wings stilled.
“There was an elf who traveled with us in those early days,” Gabija continued. “His name was Matthaios. One of the oldest. A scholar. A warrior. A visionary… or so we believed.”
Kristolia and Santaya exchanged glances as Loki ruffled his feathers.
“But power,” Gabija said, “has a way of seeping into the cracks of even the strongest minds. Matthaios became consumed. He desired control over this land not just over people, but over dragons, over beasts, over the Ingmars, and over the very air we breathed. He sought to make slaves of all, and kings of none but himself.”
A tense silence followed. Gabija stepped forward, her voice dropping.
“He discovered a large white stone. He carved runes into it, distilling his aura into its core. His followers, out of terror rather than loyalty, did the same. That stone became a vessel of their combined essence, a nexus of corrupted power.”
Elvina’s brow furrowed. “The stone from the ruins of Seltor?”
Gabija nodded. “That’s the one.”
“He became known as The Corruptor,” she said. “And as his strength grew, so too did the fear. One brave elf stood against him, Tivor. A master of the true tongue. Tivor fought with everything he had. Somehow, though no record tells us how, he turned Matthaios’ own magic against him.”
Tarasque leaned forward, breath caught.
Gabija's voice grew quieter.
“The white stone shattered in a burst of unholy power. The magic reversed. A vortex opened and pulled Matthaios in. His body vanished. His corrupted soul was trapped. Somewhere. Unseen. A prison without walls.”
She turned slightly, her hand brushing Loki’s feathers.
“But Matthaios did not fall alone. His final act was to maim Tivor, burning half his body with black flame. The elven healers saved his life, but they could not heal the scars on his face or neck. True scars, burned not only in flesh but in spirit.”
The chamber was silent, breathless.
Loki fluttered from Gabija’s shoulder, landing lightly on the stone floor. His black feathers shimmered with an unnatural sheen, as though pulsing with hidden power. Then, in a burst of green smoke, his shape began to shift.
The raven twisted, stretched, and lengthened. Wings became arms. Feathers became a cloak of shadowed fabric. A tall, slender elf stood in Loki’s place, cloaked in black, his form angular and unnaturally graceful. On the left side of his face, his skin was twisted and burned, grotesque scarring reaching down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. One eye was clouded white, the other sharp and brown, piercing.
The transformation stunned the room. Even the dragon Amira lifted her head.
But the elf’s gaze was fixed on one person only.
Vivi.
His lips parted, and his voice, rough and weathered like stone over centuries, broke the silence.
“Brother.”
Vivi staggered back a step, eyes wide. “No... it can’t be.”
“It is,” the elf said, his voice low but steady. “I am Tivor.”
The air itself seemed to freeze. Tarasque muttered a curse under his breath. Nekonata narrowed his eyes, the wolves on either side of him tensing with barely restrained instinct.
Gabija stepped aside in silence, allowing the two elves to see each other clearly for the first time in decades.
“You died,” Vivi whispered, voice cracking. “You were gone. We searched the ruins for weeks—”
“I lived,” Tivor said. “But not as I was. Not as your brother.”
Vivi stepped forward, confused. “What do you mean? What happened to you?”
Tivor didn’t answer right away. He turned toward the others gathered, the fire-lit circle of wolves, the dragon Amira whose scales shimmered orange and violet, King Althor seated grimly, Elvina and Tarasque watching with narrowed eyes. Then finally, his gaze rested on Nekonata.
“I’ve been watching for a long time,” he said. “There were whispers, years ago, of a child, one without a name, touched by ancient magic. I heard that Vivi had taken him in, to guide him. When that child vanished, fell into sleep and then into shadow… I searched.”
He took a slow breath.
“And I found you.”
Nekonata frowned, unsure. “Me?”
Tivor nodded. “I followed you, Nekonata. From town to town, forest to mountain. Always at a distance, always there. But I helped, when I could. I moved signs into your path. Left the right trail open when the wrong ones closed. When you were alone… I was there.”
Nekonata stared at him, slowly piecing it together.
“…You were the raven,” he said at last. “Loki.”
Tivor gave a faint nod.
“I knew you as a bird. You sat on branches. You followed storms. You were always… just there.”
“I was never just a bird,” Tivor said. “But yes that’s all you ever saw.”
Nekonata stepped forward. “You guided me?”
“I watched over you,” Tivor replied. “Because I knew who you were before even you did. I knew what you might become.”
Nekonata’s fists clenched at his sides. “And you never told me?”
“It wasn’t time.”
Vivi broke the silence next, stepping closer to his brother, eyes glinting with emotion.
“Why now?” he asked. “After all this time, why reveal yourself now?”
Tivor’s eyes narrowed. “Because the shadow that once consumed Matthaios is moving again. And the boy with no name is no longer a child.”
A tense silence settled over the chamber.
Amira let out a slow breath of smoke. Santaya and Kristolia stood alert, their ears twitching. Even King Althor leaned forward in his chair, the weight of the moment settling on his shoulders.
“And because you have questions…” He glanced at Amira, everyone followed his gaze. Amira shifted her body weight as she looked up at the raven-like elf.
Tivor eased into the chair beside the fire, his scarred face half-lit by the flickering glow. Silence filled the room as all eyes fell on him, Nekonata, Amira, King Althor, Vivi, and the rest waiting for the truth they hadn’t known they were missing.
He looked first at Nekonata, then to the dragon coiled protectively behind him. His voice came low, but steady.
“Nekonata… you are half-human, yes. But the other half of you carries something far older. You descend directly from one of the oldest and most powerful Elven bloodlines ever recorded.”
A stunned silence followed. Nekonata blinked in disbelief, his voice caught in his throat.
Tivor continued, “You are a descendant of the High Houses those who first spoke the True Language. That magic lives in you still, sleeping beneath your skin. You don’t just wield magic… you resonate with it.”
Vivi stepped forward, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “That makes sense now. It’s why he feels magic before the rest of us see it. Why he moves with it, not through it.”
Tivor nodded, then turned his attention to Amira, her orange and purple scales glinting faintly in the firelight.
“As for you…” he said, addressing the dragon directly, “your presence defies everything we believed about dragons and time… I believe you are older than Zeindaryss the Swift, the first dragon ever recorded to bond with a rider.”
King Althor folded his arms. “Impossible. No dragon could live from the time of Zeindaryss. He bonded with his rider, Braiden, centuries ago. Even with magic, nothing lasts that long.”
Tivor’s eyes darkened. “No living creature, perhaps. But dragon eggs… they are not bound by the same rules as we are.”
He rose slightly from his seat, pacing as he spoke.
“Dragon eggs do not need magic to survive the centuries. They simply can. It is in their nature. A dragon egg can sleep for hundreds, even thousands of years, untouched by time. No special ritual. No enchantment. Just waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” Althor asked, his voice tight.
“For the one they are meant for,” Tivor answered.
He looked between Nekonata and Amira. “She was not born into this age, she was called into it. Your aura woke her, Nekonata. Your bloodline, your magic, your soul… all aligned with hers.”
Nekonata stared up at Amira, stunned. “All this time… she was waiting… for me?”
“Yes,” Tivor said quietly. “You didn’t just bond with her. You awakened her. Two ancient forces, both dormant, both drawn together by something deeper than chance. A new power, one neither dragonkind nor elvenkind has fully understood.”
He paused for a moment, as if recollecting his thoughts.
“The two of you are something new. A reverence of power not seen in any age. A new kind of magic, one even the ancient tongues do not yet have a word for.”
Amira exhaled slowly, smoke curling through her nostrils. Her eyes closed for a moment, as though feeling her place in the world shift.
Nekonata finally found his voice.
“What… what does that mean for us?”
Tivor looked up at him, his good eye full of quiet urgency.
“It means you are no longer just part of the story, boy.”
He stood.
“You are the storm that’s coming.”
After several long moments of stunned silence, Tarasque stepped forward, her voice, calm and measured, breaking the tension in the room.
“There are two riders now,” she said. “Myself and Elqiana… and now Neko and Amira. Things have certainly changed.”
Her words carried weight, a quiet recognition that the age of dragon riders was no longer legend, but unfolding reality.
The room held its breath, until Elvina, ever unpredictable, tilted her head and grinned. “Well, I’m just relieved I haven’t grown scales or suddenly found out I’m the lost heir to a volcano or something. I barely survived breakfast.”
A few soft laughs escaped around the room.
King Althor gave her a long-suffering look. “Somehow, Elvina, that might still be the least strange thing to happen today.”
Then, suddenly and loudly, a deep, echoing rumble broke the mood.
Grrrrrggggglll.
Everyone turned. Nekonata looked down at his stomach, face flushing. A second, even deeper growl followed, this time from Amira, her wings twitching slightly, and eyes wide with indignation.
Tivor arched his brow. “Well. If the ancient prophecies don't consume us, it sounds like hunger just might.”
Elvina burst out laughing. “I knew dragons could get hangry.”
Nekonata gave a sheepish shrug. “Guess destiny doesn’t come with snack breaks.”
Tarasque smirked, her expression softening. “Then let’s get some food in you both, before Amira starts roasting dinner herself.”
King Althor turned and gestured to the others. “Come. Let’s see the kitchens haven’t burned down while we’ve been solving ancient mysteries.”
Nekonata, Amira, his wolves Santaya and Kristolia, Elvina, and Gabija followed as the group began the long walk through the winding halls of the keep.
Before leaving, Gabija paused, glancing back toward Tivor and Vivi, her expression thoughtful. Tivor met her gaze and gave a small nod.
“Me and my brother have some catching up to do,” he said quietly.
Gabija held his eyes for a moment, then gave him a soft nod of understanding. Without a word, she turned and followed the others.
The walk was long and quiet, lit only by the flicker of torches on old stone walls. The distant sounds of the keep, clanking armor, murmured conversation, drifted like echoes from another world. When they finally turned the last corner, the scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and spices met them like a warm embrace.
Inside the kitchens, Mirabella and Donal bustled with graceful urgency. Pots clanged, herbs flew from hand to hand, and the firelight bathed everything in a golden glow.
Mirabella looked up from a pan of sizzling onions and smiled brightly. “Ah! The heroes arrive! Come in, come in, you all look like you’ve wrestled a thousand-year-old prophecy and forgot to eat afterward.”
She waved them toward the long prep table, and within moments was setting out an impressive spread of meats, stews, baked vegetables, soft cheeses, and still-warm loaves.
Donal, grinning, carried over a massive tray and gently lowered it to the floor in front of Amira and the wolves.
“There we are,” he said with a wink. “Roasted venison, honeyed roots, and a bit of boar sausage. Hope that’s to your liking, my lady dragon.”
Amira sniffed the tray, rumbled in approval, and lowered her head to eat delicately, a surprising grace for a creature her size. Santaya and Kristolia settled in beside her, tails swishing happily.
Elvina leaned back against a counter, tearing into a piece of bread. “Okay, this is the kind of ancient magic I can get behind.”
Nekonata chuckled as he sat, letting the warmth of food and fire slowly thaw the weight of everything they’d just learned.
Nekonata looked around the table at the others, Amira and the wolves quietly eating, Elvina chatting with Gabija, Althor sipping from a carved wooden mug, all of them finally relaxed after the weight of revelation. The scent of herbs and roasted meat lingered, warm and grounding.
He blinked slowly, then raised his eyebrows in mock bewilderment.
“So… I’ve been talking to a raven for the past however many years… and turns out he was an elf the whole time.” He pulled a comically confused face, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. “Yeah, that’s not weird at all.”
Gabija laughed gently, covering her mouth with her fingers. “Yes, I suppose it’s a lot to process. I’m sorry, Neko, Tivor asked me not to tell you. He’s… shy, in his own way.”
She glanced down at her mug, then looked back up, a small smile playing on her lips.
“He’s afraid of how people might look at him, because of the scars. But—” she raised a finger pointedly, “don’t tell him I told you that.”
Nekonata gave her a playful salute. “Secrets safe with me.”
Across the table, Althor leaned forward slightly, his expression softer than usual. “Are you alright though, Neko? I mean, discovering you’re half-elf, descended from one of the oldest Elven lines, finding out your talking bird friend is actually an ancient scarred elf—”
He gave a half-smile.
“That’s a lot to take in.”
Nekonata paused, looking down at his hands, then up again at his companions. “Yeah… it’s a lot. But weirdly, it kind of makes sense, you know?”
Amira, her head resting lazily near his side, gave a quiet, approving hum.
Nekonata speared a piece of meat from his plate, chatting idly with the others between bites. The warmth of the food, the laughter, the clinking of goblets, it all felt like a rare and welcome moment of peace.
Mirabella stopped at his side to refill his goblet.
“Mirabella,” he said warmly, “I’m glad to see you well, and back on your feet. You gave us quite a scare back in that abandoned tunnel.”
She smiled, though there was a flicker of shadow in her eyes. “Thank you, that’s kind of you to say. But you and your wolves found me, and Donal made sure I was cared for.” Her body shuddered for the briefest moment. “That darkness though… it was silent, foreboding. It rang in my head.” She exhaled and straightened, her tone lighter. “But I’m alright now.”
She nodded politely and moved away to tend to her work. Across the kitchen, Donal caught Nekonata’s eye, gave him a wink, and mouthed thank you.
Althor patted his stomach with a satisfied groan. “Great food, Bella, always the best.”
Mirabella gave a quick curtsy, her lips curling into a mischievous smile before disappearing back into the bustle.
Nekonata reached down to stroke Santaya and Kristolia, scratching behind their ears until their tails thumped lazily on the floor.
Then Amira’s head lifted suddenly, her gaze fixed high on the vaulted kitchen ceiling. Nekonata followed her line of sight, but before he could speak, his vision blurred.
His eyes burned with a sudden, unnatural glow: purple shot through with orange. Beside him, Amira’s eyes shone with the inverse, orange laced with purple.
Both of them went rigid.
In their minds, a single image formed: a caged elf. Her long white hair hung in tangled waves, her clothes torn and her face smeared with grime. A faint yellow aura radiated from her, flickering weakly like a dying ember.
Her head lifted, and though it was impossible, it felt as if her gaze locked directly on them.
“Help me… please,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
The vision fractured like shattered glass. Amira shook her head violently. Nekonata nearly pitched forward into his stew, but Gabija caught him just in time, steadying his shoulders before his face met the bowl.
“Neko!” Gabija’s voice was sharp with alarm as she kept him upright. “What in the name of the Ancients was that?”
He blinked hard, trying to clear the lingering haze from his vision. His breath came in short bursts, as if he’d been running. Amira’s nostrils flared, a faint curl of smoke escaping before she lowered her head beside him.
Althor shoved his chair back, eyes wide. “Both of you—your eyes… they were glowing.”
Elvina, halfway through a bite of bread, froze. “Not in a ‘pretty shimmer’ way, either. More in a ‘terrifying magic I’ve never seen before’ way.”
Nekonata dragged a hand down his face. “We… we saw someone. An elf. Locked in a cage.” He swallowed hard, his voice unsteady. “She… she looked right at us. Asked for help.”
“A vision?” Tarasque’s voice was low, but there was a dangerous edge to it. “Or something else entirely?”
“I don’t know.” He glanced at Amira, who shifted uncomfortably. “But it wasn’t a dream. I could feel her. Like she was there. Like…” His gaze dropped to the table. “Like she was calling to us directly.”
Santaya gave a low, uneasy growl. Kristolia’s ears flattened.
Gabija’s expression darkened. “Describe her.”
Nekonata’s voice grew quieter, the words coming slowly. “Long white hair… filthy, tangled. Clothes torn. She had this… yellow aura, but it was faint. Like she was fading.”
Amira let out a low rumble, her eyes narrowing.
“That’s impossible,” Althor muttered, but there was no conviction in his voice. “A call like that would mean she’s not only alive… but that her magic is strong enough to cross distances we can’t even imagine.”
The kitchen had gone utterly silent. Even the clatter of pans from the far end ceased, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
Nekonata finally lifted his head. “I don’t know who she is. But I know one thing, ” His eyes flashed faintly again, the colors just barely visible. “she’s in trouble. And she doesn’t have much time.”
Gabija’s gaze lingered on Amira for a long, thoughtful moment. Finally, she spoke, her voice low.
“Amira… do you still see her? The caged elf?”
Amira tilted her head, intrigued by the question, then gave a single slow nod.
“I’d like you to show me. Please.”
The dragoness’s eyes glimmered faintly. For the briefest heartbeat, Amira’s presence brushed against Gabija’s mind, warm, immense, and unyielding, before pressing the vision into place. The kitchen around Gabija faded, replaced by the image of the cage, the elf within.
Gabija’s breath caught. She stared through borrowed eyes, scrutinising every detail. The woman’s long white hair hung in tangled sheets. A small scar sat just above her left brow. Her eyes, soft, almost painfully kind, were a shade of pale blue. The faint yellow aura around her pulsed weakly, like the last embers of a dying fire.
Gabija’s eyes widened. Her lips parted.
“Oh… fuck…”
The vision shattered as Amira withdrew. The kitchen returned, sounds of quiet movement and clinking dishes creeping back in.
Gabija blinked hard, reached for her goblet, and drained it in one swallow. Then she looked at Tivor and Vivi, really looked at them, her expression heavy, haunted.
“She… is your mother.”
Chapter 24; Answers
Nekonata stood near the stone wall, flanked by his loyal wolves, Santaya and Kristolia, their fur bristling as they watched the quiet gathering. Beside them, the dragon Amira, her orange-purple scales glinting like molten twilight, rested curled at the edge of the chamber, her serpentine eyes half-lidded, yet alert.
Around the central war table stood Tarasque, Elvina, Vivi, and King Althor, deep in discussion. Maps, aged scrolls, and glowing runes cluttered the table, a quiet hum of magic in the air.
The heavy oak doors creaked open.
Gabija stepped into the room, her cloak trailing like smoke, and on her shoulders sat Loki, the black-feathered raven. Her expression was solemn, her posture tense.
The room fell into silence.
Althor cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Gabija has asked me to gather you all here,” he said. “What she is about to say has been a closely guarded secret. Not of her own will, but someone else’s.”
Gabija nodded slightly, her voice soft but unwavering. “Many years ago, when the Elves were new to this land, we studied the Ancient Language, the first tongue. It was not a language of cultures or tribes, but the true language of the world itself. In it, no lie could exist. Only truth, command, and consequence.”
She paused, her gaze distant. The firelight flickered in her golden eyes.
“With it, we could twist, manipulate, and shape the elements, fire, water, earth, wind, and thunder, simply by willing it through the true words. But as with all great powers, there was a cost.”
The room listened intently, even Amira’s wings stilled.
“There was an elf who traveled with us in those early days,” Gabija continued. “His name was Matthaios. One of the oldest. A scholar. A warrior. A visionary… or so we believed.”
Kristolia and Santaya exchanged glances as Loki ruffled his feathers.
“But power,” Gabija said, “has a way of seeping into the cracks of even the strongest minds. Matthaios became consumed. He desired control over this land not just over people, but over dragons, over beasts, over the Ingmars, and over the very air we breathed. He sought to make slaves of all, and kings of none but himself.”
A tense silence followed. Gabija stepped forward, her voice dropping.
“He discovered a large white stone. He carved runes into it, distilling his aura into its core. His followers, out of terror rather than loyalty, did the same. That stone became a vessel of their combined essence, a nexus of corrupted power.”
Elvina’s brow furrowed. “The stone from the ruins of Seltor?”
Gabija nodded. “That’s the one.”
“He became known as The Corruptor,” she said. “And as his strength grew, so too did the fear. One brave elf stood against him, Tivor. A master of the true tongue. Tivor fought with everything he had. Somehow, though no record tells us how, he turned Matthaios’ own magic against him.”
Tarasque leaned forward, breath caught.
Gabija's voice grew quieter.
“The white stone shattered in a burst of unholy power. The magic reversed. A vortex opened and pulled Matthaios in. His body vanished. His corrupted soul was trapped. Somewhere. Unseen. A prison without walls.”
She turned slightly, her hand brushing Loki’s feathers.
“But Matthaios did not fall alone. His final act was to maim Tivor, burning half his body with black flame. The elven healers saved his life, but they could not heal the scars on his face or neck. True scars, burned not only in flesh but in spirit.”
The chamber was silent, breathless.
Loki fluttered from Gabija’s shoulder, landing lightly on the stone floor. His black feathers shimmered with an unnatural sheen, as though pulsing with hidden power. Then, in a burst of green smoke, his shape began to shift.
The raven twisted, stretched, and lengthened. Wings became arms. Feathers became a cloak of shadowed fabric. A tall, slender elf stood in Loki’s place, cloaked in black, his form angular and unnaturally graceful. On the left side of his face, his skin was twisted and burned, grotesque scarring reaching down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. One eye was clouded white, the other sharp and brown, piercing.
The transformation stunned the room. Even the dragon Amira lifted her head.
But the elf’s gaze was fixed on one person only.
Vivi.
His lips parted, and his voice, rough and weathered like stone over centuries, broke the silence.
“Brother.”
Vivi staggered back a step, eyes wide. “No... it can’t be.”
“It is,” the elf said, his voice low but steady. “I am Tivor.”
The air itself seemed to freeze. Tarasque muttered a curse under his breath. Nekonata narrowed his eyes, the wolves on either side of him tensing with barely restrained instinct.
Gabija stepped aside in silence, allowing the two elves to see each other clearly for the first time in decades.
“You died,” Vivi whispered, voice cracking. “You were gone. We searched the ruins for weeks—”
“I lived,” Tivor said. “But not as I was. Not as your brother.”
Vivi stepped forward, confused. “What do you mean? What happened to you?”
Tivor didn’t answer right away. He turned toward the others gathered, the fire-lit circle of wolves, the dragon Amira whose scales shimmered orange and violet, King Althor seated grimly, Elvina and Tarasque watching with narrowed eyes. Then finally, his gaze rested on Nekonata.
“I’ve been watching for a long time,” he said. “There were whispers, years ago, of a child, one without a name, touched by ancient magic. I heard that Vivi had taken him in, to guide him. When that child vanished, fell into sleep and then into shadow… I searched.”
He took a slow breath.
“And I found you.”
Nekonata frowned, unsure. “Me?”
Tivor nodded. “I followed you, Nekonata. From town to town, forest to mountain. Always at a distance, always there. But I helped, when I could. I moved signs into your path. Left the right trail open when the wrong ones closed. When you were alone… I was there.”
Nekonata stared at him, slowly piecing it together.
“…You were the raven,” he said at last. “Loki.”
Tivor gave a faint nod.
“I knew you as a bird. You sat on branches. You followed storms. You were always… just there.”
“I was never just a bird,” Tivor said. “But yes that’s all you ever saw.”
Nekonata stepped forward. “You guided me?”
“I watched over you,” Tivor replied. “Because I knew who you were before even you did. I knew what you might become.”
Nekonata’s fists clenched at his sides. “And you never told me?”
“It wasn’t time.”
Vivi broke the silence next, stepping closer to his brother, eyes glinting with emotion.
“Why now?” he asked. “After all this time, why reveal yourself now?”
Tivor’s eyes narrowed. “Because the shadow that once consumed Matthaios is moving again. And the boy with no name is no longer a child.”
A tense silence settled over the chamber.
Amira let out a slow breath of smoke. Santaya and Kristolia stood alert, their ears twitching. Even King Althor leaned forward in his chair, the weight of the moment settling on his shoulders.
“And because you have questions…” He glanced at Amira, everyone followed his gaze. Amira shifted her body weight as she looked up at the raven-like elf.
Tivor eased into the chair beside the fire, his scarred face half-lit by the flickering glow. Silence filled the room as all eyes fell on him, Nekonata, Amira, King Althor, Vivi, and the rest waiting for the truth they hadn’t known they were missing.
He looked first at Nekonata, then to the dragon coiled protectively behind him. His voice came low, but steady.
“Nekonata… you are half-human, yes. But the other half of you carries something far older. You descend directly from one of the oldest and most powerful Elven bloodlines ever recorded.”
A stunned silence followed. Nekonata blinked in disbelief, his voice caught in his throat.
Tivor continued, “You are a descendant of the High Houses those who first spoke the True Language. That magic lives in you still, sleeping beneath your skin. You don’t just wield magic… you resonate with it.”
Vivi stepped forward, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “That makes sense now. It’s why he feels magic before the rest of us see it. Why he moves with it, not through it.”
Tivor nodded, then turned his attention to Amira, her orange and purple scales glinting faintly in the firelight.
“As for you…” he said, addressing the dragon directly, “your presence defies everything we believed about dragons and time… I believe you are older than Zeindaryss the Swift, the first dragon ever recorded to bond with a rider.”
King Althor folded his arms. “Impossible. No dragon could live from the time of Zeindaryss. He bonded with his rider, Braiden, centuries ago. Even with magic, nothing lasts that long.”
Tivor’s eyes darkened. “No living creature, perhaps. But dragon eggs… they are not bound by the same rules as we are.”
He rose slightly from his seat, pacing as he spoke.
“Dragon eggs do not need magic to survive the centuries. They simply can. It is in their nature. A dragon egg can sleep for hundreds, even thousands of years, untouched by time. No special ritual. No enchantment. Just waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” Althor asked, his voice tight.
“For the one they are meant for,” Tivor answered.
He looked between Nekonata and Amira. “She was not born into this age, she was called into it. Your aura woke her, Nekonata. Your bloodline, your magic, your soul… all aligned with hers.”
Nekonata stared up at Amira, stunned. “All this time… she was waiting… for me?”
“Yes,” Tivor said quietly. “You didn’t just bond with her. You awakened her. Two ancient forces, both dormant, both drawn together by something deeper than chance. A new power, one neither dragonkind nor elvenkind has fully understood.”
He paused for a moment, as if recollecting his thoughts.
“The two of you are something new. A reverence of power not seen in any age. A new kind of magic, one even the ancient tongues do not yet have a word for.”
Amira exhaled slowly, smoke curling through her nostrils. Her eyes closed for a moment, as though feeling her place in the world shift.
Nekonata finally found his voice.
“What… what does that mean for us?”
Tivor looked up at him, his good eye full of quiet urgency.
“It means you are no longer just part of the story, boy.”
He stood.
“You are the storm that’s coming.”
After several long moments of stunned silence, Tarasque stepped forward, her voice, calm and measured, breaking the tension in the room.
“There are two riders now,” she said. “Myself and Elqiana… and now Neko and Amira. Things have certainly changed.”
Her words carried weight, a quiet recognition that the age of dragon riders was no longer legend, but unfolding reality.
The room held its breath, until Elvina, ever unpredictable, tilted her head and grinned. “Well, I’m just relieved I haven’t grown scales or suddenly found out I’m the lost heir to a volcano or something. I barely survived breakfast.”
A few soft laughs escaped around the room.
King Althor gave her a long-suffering look. “Somehow, Elvina, that might still be the least strange thing to happen today.”
Then, suddenly and loudly, a deep, echoing rumble broke the mood.
Grrrrrggggglll.
Everyone turned. Nekonata looked down at his stomach, face flushing. A second, even deeper growl followed, this time from Amira, her wings twitching slightly, and eyes wide with indignation.
Tivor arched his brow. “Well. If the ancient prophecies don't consume us, it sounds like hunger just might.”
Elvina burst out laughing. “I knew dragons could get hangry.”
Nekonata gave a sheepish shrug. “Guess destiny doesn’t come with snack breaks.”
Tarasque smirked, her expression softening. “Then let’s get some food in you both, before Amira starts roasting dinner herself.”
King Althor turned and gestured to the others. “Come. Let’s see the kitchens haven’t burned down while we’ve been solving ancient mysteries.”
Nekonata, Amira, his wolves Santaya and Kristolia, Elvina, and Gabija followed as the group began the long walk through the winding halls of the keep.
Before leaving, Gabija paused, glancing back toward Tivor and Vivi, her expression thoughtful. Tivor met her gaze and gave a small nod.
“Me and my brother have some catching up to do,” he said quietly.
Gabija held his eyes for a moment, then gave him a soft nod of understanding. Without a word, she turned and followed the others.
The walk was long and quiet, lit only by the flicker of torches on old stone walls. The distant sounds of the keep, clanking armor, murmured conversation, drifted like echoes from another world. When they finally turned the last corner, the scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and spices met them like a warm embrace.
Inside the kitchens, Mirabella and Donal bustled with graceful urgency. Pots clanged, herbs flew from hand to hand, and the firelight bathed everything in a golden glow.
Mirabella looked up from a pan of sizzling onions and smiled brightly. “Ah! The heroes arrive! Come in, come in, you all look like you’ve wrestled a thousand-year-old prophecy and forgot to eat afterward.”
She waved them toward the long prep table, and within moments was setting out an impressive spread of meats, stews, baked vegetables, soft cheeses, and still-warm loaves.
Donal, grinning, carried over a massive tray and gently lowered it to the floor in front of Amira and the wolves.
“There we are,” he said with a wink. “Roasted venison, honeyed roots, and a bit of boar sausage. Hope that’s to your liking, my lady dragon.”
Amira sniffed the tray, rumbled in approval, and lowered her head to eat delicately, a surprising grace for a creature her size. Santaya and Kristolia settled in beside her, tails swishing happily.
Elvina leaned back against a counter, tearing into a piece of bread. “Okay, this is the kind of ancient magic I can get behind.”
Nekonata chuckled as he sat, letting the warmth of food and fire slowly thaw the weight of everything they’d just learned.
Nekonata looked around the table at the others, Amira and the wolves quietly eating, Elvina chatting with Gabija, Althor sipping from a carved wooden mug, all of them finally relaxed after the weight of revelation. The scent of herbs and roasted meat lingered, warm and grounding.
He blinked slowly, then raised his eyebrows in mock bewilderment.
“So… I’ve been talking to a raven for the past however many years… and turns out he was an elf the whole time.” He pulled a comically confused face, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. “Yeah, that’s not weird at all.”
Gabija laughed gently, covering her mouth with her fingers. “Yes, I suppose it’s a lot to process. I’m sorry, Neko, Tivor asked me not to tell you. He’s… shy, in his own way.”
She glanced down at her mug, then looked back up, a small smile playing on her lips.
“He’s afraid of how people might look at him, because of the scars. But—” she raised a finger pointedly, “don’t tell him I told you that.”
Nekonata gave her a playful salute. “Secrets safe with me.”
Across the table, Althor leaned forward slightly, his expression softer than usual. “Are you alright though, Neko? I mean, discovering you’re half-elf, descended from one of the oldest Elven lines, finding out your talking bird friend is actually an ancient scarred elf—”
He gave a half-smile.
“That’s a lot to take in.”
Nekonata paused, looking down at his hands, then up again at his companions. “Yeah… it’s a lot. But weirdly, it kind of makes sense, you know?”
Amira, her head resting lazily near his side, gave a quiet, approving hum.
Nekonata speared a piece of meat from his plate, chatting idly with the others between bites. The warmth of the food, the laughter, the clinking of goblets, it all felt like a rare and welcome moment of peace.
Mirabella stopped at his side to refill his goblet.
“Mirabella,” he said warmly, “I’m glad to see you well, and back on your feet. You gave us quite a scare back in that abandoned tunnel.”
She smiled, though there was a flicker of shadow in her eyes. “Thank you, that’s kind of you to say. But you and your wolves found me, and Donal made sure I was cared for.” Her body shuddered for the briefest moment. “That darkness though… it was silent, foreboding. It rang in my head.” She exhaled and straightened, her tone lighter. “But I’m alright now.”
She nodded politely and moved away to tend to her work. Across the kitchen, Donal caught Nekonata’s eye, gave him a wink, and mouthed thank you.
Althor patted his stomach with a satisfied groan. “Great food, Bella, always the best.”
Mirabella gave a quick curtsy, her lips curling into a mischievous smile before disappearing back into the bustle.
Nekonata reached down to stroke Santaya and Kristolia, scratching behind their ears until their tails thumped lazily on the floor.
Then Amira’s head lifted suddenly, her gaze fixed high on the vaulted kitchen ceiling. Nekonata followed her line of sight, but before he could speak, his vision blurred.
His eyes burned with a sudden, unnatural glow: purple shot through with orange. Beside him, Amira’s eyes shone with the inverse, orange laced with purple.
Both of them went rigid.
In their minds, a single image formed: a caged elf. Her long white hair hung in tangled waves, her clothes torn and her face smeared with grime. A faint yellow aura radiated from her, flickering weakly like a dying ember.
Her head lifted, and though it was impossible, it felt as if her gaze locked directly on them.
“Help me… please,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
The vision fractured like shattered glass. Amira shook her head violently. Nekonata nearly pitched forward into his stew, but Gabija caught him just in time, steadying his shoulders before his face met the bowl.
“Neko!” Gabija’s voice was sharp with alarm as she kept him upright. “What in the name of the Ancients was that?”
He blinked hard, trying to clear the lingering haze from his vision. His breath came in short bursts, as if he’d been running. Amira’s nostrils flared, a faint curl of smoke escaping before she lowered her head beside him.
Althor shoved his chair back, eyes wide. “Both of you—your eyes… they were glowing.”
Elvina, halfway through a bite of bread, froze. “Not in a ‘pretty shimmer’ way, either. More in a ‘terrifying magic I’ve never seen before’ way.”
Nekonata dragged a hand down his face. “We… we saw someone. An elf. Locked in a cage.” He swallowed hard, his voice unsteady. “She… she looked right at us. Asked for help.”
“A vision?” Tarasque’s voice was low, but there was a dangerous edge to it. “Or something else entirely?”
“I don’t know.” He glanced at Amira, who shifted uncomfortably. “But it wasn’t a dream. I could feel her. Like she was there. Like…” His gaze dropped to the table. “Like she was calling to us directly.”
Santaya gave a low, uneasy growl. Kristolia’s ears flattened.
Gabija’s expression darkened. “Describe her.”
Nekonata’s voice grew quieter, the words coming slowly. “Long white hair… filthy, tangled. Clothes torn. She had this… yellow aura, but it was faint. Like she was fading.”
Amira let out a low rumble, her eyes narrowing.
“That’s impossible,” Althor muttered, but there was no conviction in his voice. “A call like that would mean she’s not only alive… but that her magic is strong enough to cross distances we can’t even imagine.”
The kitchen had gone utterly silent. Even the clatter of pans from the far end ceased, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
Nekonata finally lifted his head. “I don’t know who she is. But I know one thing, ” His eyes flashed faintly again, the colors just barely visible. “she’s in trouble. And she doesn’t have much time.”
Gabija’s gaze lingered on Amira for a long, thoughtful moment. Finally, she spoke, her voice low.
“Amira… do you still see her? The caged elf?”
Amira tilted her head, intrigued by the question, then gave a single slow nod.
“I’d like you to show me. Please.”
The dragoness’s eyes glimmered faintly. For the briefest heartbeat, Amira’s presence brushed against Gabija’s mind, warm, immense, and unyielding, before pressing the vision into place. The kitchen around Gabija faded, replaced by the image of the cage, the elf within.
Gabija’s breath caught. She stared through borrowed eyes, scrutinising every detail. The woman’s long white hair hung in tangled sheets. A small scar sat just above her left brow. Her eyes, soft, almost painfully kind, were a shade of pale blue. The faint yellow aura around her pulsed weakly, like the last embers of a dying fire.
Gabija’s eyes widened. Her lips parted.
“Oh… fuck…”
The vision shattered as Amira withdrew. The kitchen returned, sounds of quiet movement and clinking dishes creeping back in.
Gabija blinked hard, reached for her goblet, and drained it in one swallow. Then she looked at Tivor and Vivi, really looked at them, her expression heavy, haunted.
“She… is your mother.”