Part 3: The Language of Dragons
Czyre had imagined dragons before.
He had imagined them from old paintings, faded legends, church ceiling carvings, and the kind of stories people told children when they wanted them to sleep while accidentally making sure they never slept again.
But imagining a dragon was very different from holding onto one while lightning tore open the sky.
Rhaevor flew like the storm belonged to him.
His wings cut through clouds that flashed purple and white. Rain struck Czyre’s face hard enough to sting. Wind clawed at his robes. Far below, the floating towers of Aurethia burned with golden shields while Dravorn riders circled them like dark sparks around a flame.
Czyre clung to the ridge of scales between Rhaevor’s horns and tried very hard not to think about how far away the ground was.
A hand grabbed the back of his robe.
A sharp voice barked behind him in the Dravorn tongue.
Czyre did not understand the words, but he understood the tone clearly enough.
Hold properly.
Czyre twisted just enough to see the Dravorn rider who had leaped onto Rhaevor before they escaped the tower. The rider’s red scarf had slipped below his chin, revealing a young man with sharp eyes, wind-burned skin, and the expression of someone who had not approved of anything since childhood.
“I am holding properly!” Czyre shouted in English.
The rider scowled, then spoke in rough, accented English — not natural to him, but learned, as if from old trade books and border arguments.
“You hold like falling sack.”
“I have never been a flying sack before!”
The rider muttered something in Dravorn and pulled Czyre backward until he was seated more securely behind the dragon’s crown of ridges.
Czyre swallowed. “Thank you.”
The rider did not look grateful to be thanked.
He pointed to one of the thick bronze-edged scales along Rhaevor’s neck. “Grip there.”
Czyre obeyed.
The rider snapped another correction in Dravorn and pointed again.
Czyre guessed the meaning. “Not there. There?”
The rider gave one sharp nod.
“This dragon has many theres!”
Rhaevor gave a low rumble beneath them.
Czyre froze.
The sound moved through his hands, through his chest, into the base of his throat. It was not a word, but it carried meaning all the same.
Annoyance.
Not at him.
At the rider.
Czyre blinked rain from his eyes. “He thinks you are impatient.”
The rider went still.
Slowly, he looked at Czyre. “What did you say?”
“You speak English?” Czyre asked.
The rider’s eyes narrowed. “A little. Old trader tongue. Learned from border books stolen from Aurethian scholars.”
“That is very specific.”
“You speak dragon?”
“I do not think so.”
“You just did.”
“I only guessed.”
Rhaevor rumbled again.
This time, Czyre felt the sound in his bones.
Danger.
Above them, golden chains of magic burst from an Aurethian tower, lashing toward Rhaevor’s wings.
The rider shouted in Dravorn, but the command needed no translation.
Down.
Rhaevor dropped.
Czyre’s stomach remained in the sky.
The chains snapped above them, cutting through cloud instead of scale. A second chain struck one of Rhaevor’s wing ridges and scattered into sparks. The dragon roared, not in pain, but fury.
Images flashed behind Czyre’s eyes.
Not memories of his own.
A younger dragon struggling beneath golden chains.
Mountains burning.
A bell ringing under the earth.
A tower shining too bright.
Then the vision vanished.
Czyre gasped.
The rider caught his shoulder. In rough English, he asked, “What did you see?”
Czyre stared at the back of Rhaevor’s head. “He remembers chains.”
The rider’s face changed.
Only a little.
But enough.
Below them, a burst of blue light swallowed the lower part of the Aurethian tower.
“Elai,” Czyre whispered.
He twisted around, searching through smoke and lightning.
The tower was already far behind them.
“Elai!”
The wind tore the name from his mouth.
Rhaevor banked west.
Toward the black mountains.
Toward Dravorn.
Czyre tried to stand.
The rider grabbed him immediately and snapped something in Dravorn.
The meaning was obvious.
Do you want to die?
“My brother is back there!” Czyre shouted.
The rider answered in rough English. “You cannot jump back to Aurethia from sky.”
“I was not going to jump.”
“You leaned.”
Czyre froze.
Then, despite the terror, despite the storm, despite the fact that he was on a dragon after being dragged into another world by a haunted bell, he almost laughed.
“Elai says that too.”
The rider did not ask who Elai was.
But his grip on Czyre’s robe tightened just enough to keep him from slipping.
Rhaevor rose into the western clouds.
Behind them, Aurethia disappeared behind stormlight.
Ahead, the mountains of Dravorn waited.
They were not beautiful like Aurethia.
Aurethia gleamed.
Dravorn endured.
Its peaks were black and jagged, crowned with fire vents and red watchlights. Bridges of iron and stone stretched from cliff to cliff. Villages clung to the mountainsides as if carved into the bones of the earth. Dragon caves opened along the cliffs, their mouths glowing with low amber heat.
When Rhaevor descended, other dragons rose to meet him.
Czyre stopped breathing.
There were dozens of them.
Some were smaller, swift and narrow-winged. Some were broad and heavy, with horns like twisted roots. Some had scales the color of ash. Others carried streaks of red, bronze, or deep green. Their eyes followed Czyre as Rhaevor landed on a wide stone platform halfway up the tallest mountain.
The platform shook beneath the dragon’s weight.
Dravorn warriors rushed forward.
Some carried spears.
Some carried bows.
Some carried nothing but fire cupped in their bare hands.
Every weapon pointed at Czyre.
He raised both hands.
“I am friendly,” he said.
No one lowered a weapon.
He looked at the rider. “This worked poorly the first time too.”
The rider slid down from Rhaevor’s neck and removed his scarf fully.
In rough English, he said, “Do not speak unless asked.”
“That is difficult for me during fear.”
“I noticed.”
“Do you have a name?”
The rider hesitated, as if names were not things he gave freely.
“Kael.”
“Kael,” Czyre repeated. “I am Fray Zacharias de San Andrés.”
Kael stared.
Czyre sighed. “Czyre is easier.”
One of the warriors tried the name in the Dravorn tongue.
“Zair?”
Czyre closed his eyes. “That may be my name in this world now.”
A woman with gray braids and a scar across her brow approached. The others moved aside for her at once. She wore armor made of dark leather and dragon-scale plates, and her cloak was clasped with a bronze wing.
Her gaze moved from Czyre to Rhaevor.
Then back to Czyre.
She spoke to Kael in Dravorn.
Kael answered in the same language.
The woman’s eyes sharpened.
She pointed to Czyre, then to Rhaevor, then said a word that made the surrounding warriors murmur.
Czyre leaned toward Kael. “Was that good or terrible?”
Kael did not look at him. “Both.”
“That is becoming a theme.”
The woman stepped closer.
Czyre felt the weight of every spear in the circle.
He straightened, though his knees wanted to resign.
The woman shifted into the same rough trader English Kael had used, each word chosen carefully.
“You touched Rhaevor.”
Czyre looked at the dragon.
Rhaevor had settled behind him, wings folding like night closing over a fire.
“Yes.”
“You live.”
“I am also surprised.”
No one laughed.
Czyre lowered his hands slowly. “I do not mean harm.”
The woman studied him. “Aurethian spy?”
“No.”
“Wizard?”
“No.”
“Soldier?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then what are you?”
Czyre swallowed.
Formal instinct came first, just as it had in the tower.
“I am Fray Zacharias de San Andrés.”
The woman frowned.
He placed one hand over his chest. “But you may call me Czyre.”
The woman repeated the name more clearly than Lyra had.
“Czyre.”
Relief almost made him smile.
Then she said, “If you lie, Rhaevor will know.”
The relief left.
“That is fair,” Czyre said, though nothing about the situation felt fair.
Kael gave him a strange look.
In rough English, he asked, “Do you always agree to terrifying things?”
“No. Sometimes I agree before I understand them.”
“That is worse.”
The warriors led him into the mountain.
Rhaevor followed.
That was the part that made everyone nervous.
Even in Dravorn, where dragons were clearly respected, Rhaevor was different. Warriors lowered their eyes when he passed. Children peered from doorways and were pulled back by anxious hands. Smaller dragons shifted aside as he moved through the cavern entrance.
Czyre looked at Kael. “Is he important?”
Kael glanced at Rhaevor. “He is the last of the elder-bonded.”
“That sounds important.”
“It is sacred.”
“That sounds more important.”
“It is dangerous.”
“There it is.”
They passed through tunnels carved into black stone. The walls glowed with veins of red crystal. Smoke drifted through high openings in the ceiling. Somewhere deep inside the mountain, hammers rang against metal. Somewhere else, dragons breathed in their sleep.
But what caught Czyre most were the people.
He had expected warriors.
He saw families.
Children carrying baskets of herbs. Old men repairing leather harnesses. Women sharpening tools beside cooking fires. Wounded riders with bandaged arms. A girl no older than twelve feeding strips of meat to a dragon hatchling with one damaged wing.
Dravorn was not only a war camp.
It was a home.
A wounded one.
That made everything worse.
Because homes could become cruel when they were afraid of losing themselves.
They entered a vast cavern lit by fire bowls and dragonlight. At its center stood a long table carved from dark stone. Behind it waited a man broad as a gate, with iron-gray hair, a scar down his jaw, and eyes like burned wood.
The cavern quieted when he stood.
Kael bowed his head.
He spoke the man’s title in Dravorn, then gave Czyre the nearest English meaning.
“Warlord Thane.”
Czyre’s mouth went dry.
Warlord Thane looked exactly like someone who had never once been impressed by an excuse.
Thane spoke to Kael first in Dravorn.
Kael answered shortly.
Then Thane looked at Czyre.
His English was harsher than Kael’s, but clear enough.
“You came from the bell.”
It was not a question.
Czyre felt a chill.
“I came from an archive,” he said. “Then the bell. Then the sky. Then the ruins. Then an attack. Then Aurethia. Then your dragon. It has been a very full day.”
Kael closed his eyes briefly.
Warlord Thane’s expression did not change.
“You speak strangely.”
“I hear that often.”
“You touched Rhaevor.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Czyre looked back at the dragon.
Rhaevor stood near the cavern mouth, silent and watchful. Firelight moved over his dark scales.
“He asked,” Czyre said.
The cavern stirred.
Thane’s eyes narrowed. “Dragons do not ask strangers.”
“That is what Elai said.”
“Who is Elai?”
Czyre’s chest tightened.
“My brother.”
“Blood?”
“No.”
“Then not brother.”
Czyre looked at him fully. “Still brother.”
For the first time, something in Warlord Thane’s expression moved.
Not softness.
Recognition.
“Where is he?”
Czyre looked toward the cavern entrance, though there was only stone beyond it. “Aurethia.”
The word passed through the cavern like a spark near dry grass.
Weapons shifted.
Faces hardened.
Czyre lifted both hands again. “He is not with them.”
“He stood in their tower,” Thane said.
“So did I. Briefly. Against my will. Very high tower. Unfriendly test.”
Kael spoke quietly to Thane in Dravorn. Thane listened.
Then Thane turned back to Czyre. “If your brother carries the voice of the veil, Aurethia will use him.”
Czyre’s stomach dropped.
“What does that mean?”
Before Thane could answer, Rhaevor moved.
The dragon stepped into the cavern center. Every torch bent away from him. His golden eye fixed on the far wall.
Czyre followed his gaze.
A long bone hung there.
At first, he thought it was carved stone.
Then he realized it was a rib.
A dragon rib, enormous and pale, mounted above the council table. Symbols had been etched into it from end to end — the same sharp, fire-shaped markings from the manuscript and the ruins.
Czyre stepped toward it without meaning to.
Kael caught his arm. “Do not touch that.”
Czyre stopped.
The symbols were not glowing.
But he felt them.
Not like words.
Like a song heard through a wall.
“Elai needs to see this,” he whispered.
Thane’s voice hardened. “The voice is in Aurethia.”
Czyre looked at him. “Then we need to get him out.”
A few warriors laughed darkly.
Kael did not.
Thane did not.
Rhaevor lowered his head and released a low rumble.
The entire cavern vibrated.
Czyre pressed a hand to his chest.
There it was again.
Meaning without words.
Not command.
Need.
Rhaevor did not only want Elai brought to Dravorn.
He needed him.
Before Czyre could speak, the mountain shook.
A horn sounded outside.
Then another.
Kael turned sharply.
Warriors rushed toward the cavern entrance.
Warlord Thane drew a blade from the table.
Czyre looked around. “What is happening?”
A scream echoed from the lower tunnels.
Not human.
Not dragon.
Something in between.
Kael’s face went pale.
He answered in Dravorn first, then forced the word into English.
“Shadows.”
Far away, beneath the mountain, something answered with a whisper.
Bell. Door. Blood.
Czyre’s skin went cold.
The shadows had followed.
Elai woke to the taste of dust and magic.
He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it.
The world above him was spinning. Blue light pulsed across cracked stone. The smell of smoke filled the air. Somewhere nearby, Lyra was swearing in Aurethian, and though Elai did not understand the words, he deeply respected the intensity.
He pushed himself up.
They were no longer in the tower chamber.
At least, not the same one.
They had landed in a lower corridor beneath Aurethia, where the walls were older, darker, and less polished. Broken blue stones lay scattered around a transport circle that looked as if it had been assembled by someone who believed safety was optional.
Lyra sat against the wall, one hand clamped over her wounded side.
Elai crawled toward her. “Lyra.”
She opened one eye and pointed at him sharply, saying something in Aurethian that sounded accusatory.
“I agree,” Elai said. “Whatever you said, I likely agree.”
She pointed upward.
A tremor passed through the ceiling.
Dust rained down.
The battle still raged above them.
Then she pointed west.
“Dravorn,” she said.
Elai’s heart clenched. “Czyre.”
Lyra nodded once.
Elai stood too quickly and nearly fell.
Lyra grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back down with surprising strength.
She shook her head.
“No,” she said.
It was one of the few words the old magic had already made clear between them.
Elai stared at her. “You know no?”
Lyra gave him a look that required no translation.
Everyone knew no.
She dragged herself upright and leaned heavily on her staff. Then she drew in the dust with the end of it.
A tower.
A dragon.
A small figure on the dragon.
Then mountains.
Dravorn.
Elai pointed to the figure. “Czyre.”
Lyra nodded.
Then she drew another figure beside herself.
Elai.
Then a line from them toward the mountains.
Elai understood.
“You know a way.”
Lyra nodded again.
Then she drew a third figure.
Merovan.
She drew a cage around the figure of Elai.
Elai’s mouth went dry.
“He wants to keep me.”
Lyra nodded.
Then she added several little lines around Merovan’s drawing, like light or flames.
Power.
Authority.
Danger.
Elai looked down the corridor. “Then we cannot stay here.”
Lyra gave him a pained smile, as if pleased he had reached the obvious conclusion.
They moved quickly, though Lyra’s wound slowed her. Elai wanted to stop and bind it properly, but every tremor above reminded them that the tower might decide to become rubble at any moment.
They passed through narrow halls lined with old script. Unlike the shining upper tower, this lower place felt neglected. Older. The walls were marked with symbols Aurethia had not polished away.
Elai stopped despite himself.
Lyra turned and made an impatient sound.
“These markings,” he said, touching one lightly. “They are not the same as the tower records.”
Lyra frowned.
He pointed upward. “Aurethia.”
Then to the wall. “Older.”
Lyra hesitated.
Then she nodded.
Elai studied the line of symbols.
Some were close to the manuscript.
Some were not.
Aurethia had copied the old language, but not perfectly.
That mattered.
He did not yet know why.
But it mattered.
A distant shout echoed from behind them.
Lyra stiffened.
Golden light appeared at the far end of the corridor.
Merovan’s people.
Lyra grabbed Elai and pulled him into a side passage.
They ran.
Or tried to.
Lyra stumbled after only a few steps.
Elai caught her. “You need to stop.”
She snapped something at him in Aurethian.
“I know,” he said. “Terrible timing.”
The golden light grew brighter behind them.
Elai looked around.
A service door stood half-open near a stairwell. Beyond it was a narrow chamber full of old scroll cases, cracked stone tablets, and a large mirror covered in dust.
Lyra’s eyes widened when she saw it.
She shoved him toward the mirror.
Elai looked at it. “That is not a door.”
Lyra wiped dust from its surface.
Symbols appeared around the frame.
Elai stared.
“I stand corrected.”
Lyra pressed her hand to one symbol.
Nothing happened.
She pressed again.
Still nothing.
The voices behind them drew closer.
Elai saw the problem. One line of symbols along the frame was broken. The old transport circle had lost part of its command.
He leaned in.
“Elai,” Lyra said, warning in her tone though she did not know enough English to make the rest useful.
He ignored her.
The symbols were old.
Very old.
He could not read all of them, but he recognized the shape of the phrase.
Gate.
Mountain.
Witness.
Blood.
No.
Not blood.
Breath.
The difference was small.
Terrifyingly small.
A wrong translation could change everything.
Elai touched the broken line and spoke softly.
“Porta ad montem.”
Gate to the mountain.
The mirror turned black.
Then silver.
Then deep red, like fire seen through smoke.
Lyra stared at him.
Elai looked back. “I am also concerned.”
Golden light flooded the hallway.
Lyra grabbed his hand and slammed her staff against the mirror frame.
The mirror opened.
They fell through.
Elai was beginning to hate falling in every language.
They landed in snow.
Cold struck him so hard he forgot how to be dignified.
Lyra landed beside him with a strangled sound.
For a moment, Elai could only lie there and stare at the sky.
It was dark now.
Stars burned above jagged black peaks.
Somewhere far below, horns were sounding.
Then came the roar.
Not one dragon.
Many.
Elai pushed himself up.
They had reached Dravorn.
And Dravorn was under attack.
The lower tunnels of the mountain filled with smoke.
Czyre ran with Kael, Warlord Thane, and a line of Dravorn warriors toward the screams. Rhaevor could not fit into the narrowest passage, but the dragon followed as far as the great cavern entrance, his growl rolling through the walls behind them.
Czyre had no weapon.
Someone shoved a short blade into his hand.
He stared at it.
Kael looked at him. “Can you use that?”
“No.”
Kael took it back.
“Thank you,” Czyre said. “That was wise.”
The first shadow beast came crawling across the ceiling.
A warrior threw a spear.
The spear passed through it and struck stone.
The shadow dropped onto the warrior.
Fire burst from another fighter’s hands, engulfing the creature. It screamed and dissolved.
For one heartbeat, Czyre hoped that would be enough.
Then the smoke pulled itself back together.
The creature rose again.
“Oh,” Czyre whispered. “I hate when they do that.”
Kael dragged him behind a stone pillar as the shadow lashed out.
In Dravorn, he snapped what clearly meant, “Stay back!”
“I am trying to discover where back is!”
More shadows poured from cracks near the tunnel floor.
They were smaller than the ones in the ruins, but faster. They moved like hunting dogs made of smoke and hatred. Their mouths opened and whispered words Czyre could feel more than hear.
Bell. Door. Heart of wings.
He flinched.
Kael noticed. “You hear them?”
“I wish I did not.”
The shadows turned toward him.
Every single one.
Kael cursed in Dravorn.
“That is bad,” Czyre said.
“Yes.”
“Do we have a plan?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
Kael pointed toward the main cavern and said in rough English, “Run toward the dragon.”
“That is not a plan. That is a direction.”
Kael grabbed his arm.
They ran.
Behind them, warriors shouted. Fire roared. Shadows screamed.
The tunnel opened into the main cavern.
Rhaevor was waiting.
The dragon lowered his head and breathed.
Not fire.
Sound.
A deep, ancient roar rolled through the cavern, so powerful it shook ash from the ceiling and sent every torch flame bending flat.
The shadows recoiled.
Czyre staggered.
The sound entered him like memory.
He saw flashes.
A battlefield beneath a broken moon.
A bell buried under black roots.
A hand changing words on a bone-white prophecy.
A face hidden behind silver light.
Then the vision broke.
Czyre gasped. “Someone changed it.”
Kael turned. “Changed what?”
“The prophecy.”
Warlord Thane heard him.
So did Rhaevor.
The dragon’s eye burned brighter.
Another shadow beast lunged.
This one did not attack Czyre.
It went for the wall.
For the dragon rib carved with prophecy.
“No!” Thane roared in Dravorn.
The creature struck the bone.
Black lines spread across the ancient carving.
Rhaevor surged forward, but the cavern was crowded. Warriors scattered. A smaller dragon snapped at the shadow, but its teeth closed on smoke.
Czyre did the only thing he could think of.
He ran toward the bone.
Kael shouted after him.
Thane shouted too.
Rhaevor roared.
Czyre ignored all of them, which he was beginning to realize was one of his spiritual weaknesses.
The shadow turned as he approached.
Its faceless head bent toward him.
The whispers filled his mouth.
Heart of wings. Open. Bleed. Wake.
Czyre lifted both hands.
“I do not understand most of that,” he said, voice shaking. “But I strongly object.”
The shadow lunged.
A burst of white light struck it from the side.
The creature flew backward.
Czyre turned.
At the cavern entrance, covered in snow, dust, and fury, stood Elai.
Lyra leaned beside him, pale but still holding her staff.
Elai’s eyes found Czyre.
For one second, everything else disappeared.
The shadows.
The warriors.
The dragons.
The war.
Czyre smiled weakly. “You found me.”
Elai crossed the cavern in long, furious steps.
Czyre braced himself for a lecture.
He got one.
“You were carried away by a dragon.”
“Technically, I was rescued.”
“You touched a dragon.”
“He asked.”
“You were in the sky.”
“So were you, earlier.”
“That is not the point.”
“I missed you too.”
Elai stopped.
The anger in his face cracked just enough for fear to show through.
Then he grabbed Czyre and pulled him into a hug so tight it nearly hurt.
Czyre froze.
Then he hugged him back.
The cavern around them remained full of danger, smoke, and armed strangers, but for one breath, they were only two friars who had fallen too far from home and found each other again.
Elai released him first, as if embarrassed by the urgency of it.
Then he gripped Czyre’s shoulders and looked him over. “Are you hurt?”
“Emotionally or structurally?”
“Czyre.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Good.”
A shadow screamed behind them.
Elai sighed. “We will continue this later.”
“Looking forward to the lecture.”
“It will be detailed.”
“I assumed.”
Warlord Thane stepped forward, blade raised. His gaze moved from Elai to Lyra.
The entire cavern tightened.
He said one word in Dravorn, and even Elai understood the accusation in it.
“Aurethian.”
Lyra lifted her chin, though she was barely standing.
Elai moved slightly between her and the nearest spear.
“She helped me.”
Thane’s eyes narrowed. He repeated himself in rough English this time. “She is Aurethian.”
“She helped me,” Elai repeated.
Kael spoke to Thane in Dravorn.
Thane answered sharply.
Lyra snapped back in Aurethian, apparently understanding enough of Kael’s meaning to be offended, though the two languages were not the same.
Czyre leaned toward Elai. “I think they all need a meeting.”
“They need several.”
The shadow beasts gathered again.
This time, they moved toward both friars.
Elai looked at the dragon rib on the wall, now stained with black lines.
He stepped closer.
Thane blocked him. “Do not touch that.”
Elai looked at him. “If you want to survive this, I need to read it.”
“You cannot read dragon bone.”
Elai lifted his scratched hand.
The symbols on the rib flickered gold.
The cavern went silent.
Czyre whispered, “He reads floors too.”
Elai shot him a look.
“I am helping your reputation.”
“You are not.”
Thane slowly stepped aside.
Elai approached the dragon rib.
The markings were old, older than the manuscript, older than Aurethia’s polished copies. They were not written like ordinary words. They curved with breath marks, pauses, pressure lines, and symbols that seemed meant to be heard as much as seen.
Elai touched one glowing line.
His expression changed.
“This is not the same prophecy.”
Thane’s jaw tightened. “It is the true one.”
“No,” Elai said carefully. “It is an old one. That does not mean it is complete.”
Several warriors growled.
Kael stepped forward. “Careful.”
“I am being careful,” Elai said. “That is why I am saying it.”
Lyra stared at the rib, then at Elai.
He traced the first line.
“Two shall come from the bell,” he translated slowly. “One shall bear the voice of the veil. One shall wake the heart of wings.”
Czyre looked at Rhaevor.
The dragon watched him.
Elai continued.
“When the foreign tongue speaks beneath the broken moon…”
His brow furrowed.
“What?” Czyre asked.
Elai touched another mark. “This part is damaged.”
Thane spoke in Dravorn first. The words carried the weight of something taught for generations. Then, in rough English, he gave the meaning.
“One kingdom must fall so the other may rise.”
Elai shook his head.
The cavern tightened again.
Thane’s voice lowered. “That is what it says.”
“No,” Elai said. “That is what someone taught you it says.”
A dangerous silence followed.
Then Lyra spoke.
Her voice was weak but clear. She first gave the Aurethian version in her own language. The words did not match Dravorn’s tongue, but the veil carried enough meaning for Elai to understand the wound beneath them.
Then she repeated the closest English she could manage.
“One crown must stand when the wing is broken.”
Kael spat something bitter in Dravorn.
Thane’s face darkened.
Elai looked from Lyra to Thane.
“Aurethia has a different version.”
“Lies,” Thane said.
“Possibly,” Elai said. “But yours is incomplete too.”
Czyre winced. “Elai.”
“I know.”
“That sounded very close to calling everyone wrong.”
“I am aware.”
“Maybe soften it?”
“There are shadow monsters.”
“Fair.”
The shadows screamed and rushed forward.
This time, they struck all at once.
Fire filled the cavern.
Dragons roared.
Warriors formed a line before the families gathered in the rear tunnels. Lyra raised a shaking staff and cast a blue shield that barely held. Kael fought beside her, cutting through smoke each time it thickened into claws.
But the shadows kept returning.
Elai looked at the rib.
The markings were pulsing.
Not with light.
With rhythm.
The prophecy had not been made only to be read.
It had been made to be spoken.
No.
Sung was not the right word.
Sounded.
“Elai!” Czyre shouted.
A shadow beast broke through the shield and lunged toward them.
Rhaevor roared.
The beast recoiled.
Elai understood.
“The dragon language,” he said.
Czyre turned. “What?”
“It is not only words. It is breath. Rhythm. Intention.”
“That sounds beautiful. How does it help us not die?”
Elai pointed to the rib. “These marks are not just letters. They are sound lines.”
Czyre looked at Rhaevor.
Rhaevor looked back.
Understanding moved between them.
Czyre swallowed. “You want me to ask him to roar in Latin?”
“No.”
“Good, because that felt unlikely.”
“I need the rhythm of his roar.”
“That is still a difficult request.”
“Czyre.”
“I know. Bad time.”
Elai placed both hands against the dragon rib.
The symbols flared gold.
Rhaevor lowered his head toward Czyre.
Czyre touched the dragon’s snout again.
The cavern seemed to hold its breath.
“Rhaevor,” Czyre whispered, though he did not know whether names mattered to dragons. “Please.”
The dragon inhaled.
The air changed.
Elai spoke the words he could understand, matching them to the pulse in the bone.
“Vox trans velum venit.”
The voice comes through the veil.
Rhaevor answered with a low roar.
The sound moved beneath Elai’s words, carrying them deeper.
The shadows froze.
Elai continued, louder.
“Cor alarum vigilat.”
The heart of wings awakens.
Czyre felt Rhaevor’s fear.
Not for himself.
For the mountain.
For the dragons.
For something sleeping below the battlefield.
He closed his eyes and spoke, not in Latin, not in Dravorn, not in Aurethian, but with the truth he could offer.
“We are not here to open the war.”
Rhaevor roared again.
This time, every dragon in the cavern answered.
The sound became enormous.
The mountain itself seemed to speak.
The shadows convulsed.
Their bodies stretched, tore, and thinned into black smoke.
Lyra lifted her staff and added blue light to the sound.
Kael shouted to the warriors in Dravorn.
Fire rose.
Not wild fire.
Controlled.
Rhythmic.
Beating with the dragon roar.
The shadows screamed one final time and shattered into ash.
Silence fell.
Then, very slowly, the ash moved.
It gathered in the center of the cavern, forming a mark on the floor.
A black spiral beneath a broken crown.
Lyra made a sound.
Elai turned to her.
She was staring at the mark with horror.
“You know this,” he said.
Lyra’s lips trembled.
She spoke one name.
“Maelcor.”
Warlord Thane’s face hardened.
Kael looked at him sharply.
The name passed through the cavern, not like a rumor, but like an old wound reopening.
Czyre looked from one face to another. “Who is Maelcor?”
No one answered at first.
Then Thane spoke in Dravorn. The veil carried the meaning roughly, with Kael’s tense expression confirming every word.
“A lord who speaks of peace in Aurethia.”
Lyra shook her head quickly. In Aurethian, she answered, but the old magic carried the meaning into the silence.
“Advisor. High council. Trusted.”
Kael’s hand tightened around his blade. In Dravorn, he spat one word that needed no careful translation.
“Snake.”
Elai looked at the black mark on the floor.
Aurethia trusted him.
Dravorn hated him.
The shadows carried his sign.
And the prophecy, in both kingdoms, had been broken.
Elai turned back to the dragon rib.
The black stain had burned away from one final line.
A line no one in Dravorn had seen clearly for generations.
He read it once in silence.
Then again, barely breathing.
Czyre stepped beside him. “Elai?”
Elai’s face had gone pale.
“This prophecy was not written to begin a war,” he said.
The cavern waited.
Elai looked at the dragon rib, then at Rhaevor, then at the people of Dravorn.
“It was written to stop one.”
Far beneath the mountain, the bell rang again.
Every dragon in Dravorn lifted its head.
Not in anger.
In warning.
And somewhere beyond the peaks, under the valley where two armies were still marching, something ancient began to wake.