Dawn broke over the eastern horizon, casting long shadows through the forest as Rowen rolled her sleeping mat with practiced efficiency. The rising sun painted the sky in brilliant pinks and golds, reminiscent of the mornings she had spent watching sunrises from the hills around Borollai. But this wasn't Borollai, and they weren't safe. They were deep in human territory, following a dangerous path toward an uncertain confrontation.

  She watched as Illinca carefully packed her ritual components, the Mehrat's white fur catching the early morning light, giving her an almost ethereal appearance.

  "Eight days south by the main road," Illinca said, securing her pack with a tight knot. "Longer if we avoid the roads, which I think we should."

  Rowen nodded, adjusting the weight of her pack against her back. "Agreed. The fewer humans who see us, the better." The spear Mweya had given her was strapped alongside, its metal tip glinting in the dawn light. "Did the spice merchant mention any alternate routes?"

  Illinca shook her head, whiskers twitching thoughtfully. "Not specifically, but I know this region from my trading days. There are game trails and shepherds' paths that run parallel to the main road." She pointed southward. "If we keep the sun to our left in the morning and right in the afternoon, we'll maintain our heading."

  As they set off, Rowen found her thoughts returning to the human child she'd met yesterday—Eliza, with her curious eyes and dreams of exploration. The encounter had shifted something in her understanding, complicated the simple hatred she'd been nurturing.

  "Something on your mind?" Illinca asked, her keen eyes catching Rowen's pensive expression.

  "That human girl," Rowen admitted. "Eliza. She reminded me so much of myself at that age. That same restlessness, that hunger to see beyond the horizon." She shook her head slightly. "I never expected to find that in a human."

  "People are people," Illinca said gently, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch. "Across all species, there are commonalities—curiosity, kindness, cruelty, wisdom. No race has a monopoly on any virtue or vice."

  "I know that," Rowen said, a hint of defensiveness in her tone. "At least, I thought I did. But after Borollai..." She shook her head. "It's been easier to see them all as enemies, like the ones who attacked our village."

  "And now?"

  Rowen sighed, her shoulders dropping slightly. "Now I remember that we're fighting against specific humans—the ones who attacked our home, who took our people. Not humanity as a whole." She looked up, her expression clearing. "It helps, actually. Gives me clearer purpose."

  "A blade is most effective when properly aimed," Illinca said with a nod.

  They walked in silence for a time, moving through the forest with practiced stealth. The terrain was gentle but deceptive—rolling hills that seemed easy to traverse until you found yourself winded halfway up an unexpectedly steep slope. The forest was changing too, the ancient trees of the northern woods giving way to younger growth, with occasional clearings that showed signs of human activity—old campfires, cut stumps, broken branches.

  Around midday, they came to the edge of a small ravine. At the bottom, a stream flowed clear and cold, its quiet burbling a welcome sound after hours of silent travel. They descended carefully to refill their water skins and rest.

  As Rowen knelt by the water, movement on the opposite ridge caught her eye. She paused, her hand moving cautiously to her spear. Two human men moved along the ridgeline, bows in hand, eyes scanning the forest floor. Hunters.

  "Careful," she whispered to Illinca, who had already noticed the men and grown still. "Let's not draw their attention."

  The hunters paused, seeming to confer about something, then continued along the ridge, moving away from Rowen and Illinca's position. Only when they had disappeared from sight did Rowen relax her grip on the spear.

  "Not all humans would be hostile to us," Illinca said thoughtfully as they resumed gathering water. "But those carrying weapons and actively hunting? Better not to find out their attitudes toward non-humans."

  Rowen nodded, noticing that the ember in her chest had warmed slightly during the moment of danger, responding to her tension. The sensation had become familiar now—a signal of alert rather than a purely reactive force. She took a deep breath, feeling the heat subside as she calmed herself.

  "Let's move away from here," she suggested. "Find a more sheltered route."

  They altered their course, moving deeper into the forest to avoid the hunters' path. The day grew warmer as they walked, the late spring sun filtering through the canopy. Birds called from the trees, and occasionally small animals scurried through the underbrush, a sign that they were moving quietly enough not to disturb the forest's natural rhythm.

  Illinca led the way, her trader's instincts guiding them along faint trails that humans rarely used. They made good progress, putting several miles between themselves and the village by mid-afternoon.

  Then Illinca's sharp ears picked up something that Rowen couldn't yet hear. The Mehrat stopped abruptly, her ears swiveling as she tilted her head to listen.

  "What is it?" Rowen asked, instantly alert.

  "Mehrat," Illinca said softly, almost disbelievingly. "A caravan, I think." Her whiskers quivered, nose twitching as she sampled the air. "I can hear wheels and bells, smell spices and leather." She turned to Rowen, excitement brightening her eyes. "My people."

  Rowen studied her friend's face, seeing the conflict there—caution warring with longing. "Should we approach them?"

  Illinca hesitated, her practical nature struggling against the pull of connection. "It's risky," she admitted. "I don't know which caravan it is. Given what's happening in the borderlands, with the raids and captives being taken, some Mehrat caravans have become more cautious about other non-humans. They might avoid us simply to prevent drawing attention from imperial patrols."

  "Or they could have information about Aricia, about the raids," Rowen countered. "Maybe even supplies we could trade for."

  After a moment's consideration, Illinca nodded. "You're right. And not all Mehrat would avoid their own kind or their allies." Her expression grew determined. "Let's approach carefully. If anything seems wrong, we withdraw immediately."

  They moved through the forest with heightened caution, following the distant sounds that only Illinca's sensitive ears could detect. The forest gradually thinned, opening into a secluded clearing near what appeared to be a seldom-used track—not a proper road, but a trail wide enough for wagons.

  At the far end of the clearing, Rowen saw a small caravan had made camp. Five brightly painted wagons were arranged in a loose circle, their canvas tops decorated with intricate patterns in gold and red. Mehrat moved between them, setting up a temporary camp with the practiced efficiency of experienced travelers.

  Illinca drew in a sharp breath. "I recognize the patterns on the lead wagon," she whispered excitedly. "Blue spirals with silver accents. That's the Northern Star Trading Company, one of the largest Mehrat caravans. I traded with them often when I was with my family."

  "I know them," she whispered to Rowen. "They're trustworthy."

  Still, they approached with caution, staying within the tree line until they could be sure it was safe. Illinca's eyes scanned the camp, searching for familiar faces.

  Then she saw him—an older Mehrat with silver-streaked brown fur, directing the placement of goods with authoritative gestures. Varik, a caravan master she had known since childhood.

  Illinca stepped out of the forest, her hand raised in the traditional Mehrat greeting of peace. Rowen stayed close behind, her spear visible but not threatening.

  The reaction was immediate. Several Mehrat spun toward them, hands moving to weapons. But Varik held up a paw, his eyes narrowing as he studied the approaching figures.

  "Illinca?" his voice carried across the clearing, thick with disbelief. "Illinca of the Swift River Caravan?"

  "Yes, Varik," Illinca called back, relief evident in her voice.

  Varik hurried forward, grasping Illinca's shoulders as if to confirm she was real. "When we heard about the attack on Borollai, we feared the worst. Your caravan was visiting there, wasn't it?"

  "We were," Illinca confirmed solemnly. "Many were taken or killed, but some of us escaped. The survivors are sheltering in a hidden valley with the remaining Drakel from Borollai."

  Varik's gaze shifted to Rowen, taking in her red scales with interest. "And your companion?"

  "This is Rowen," Illinca said, gesturing her forward. "My friend and traveling companion. We're journeying south—to Aricia."

  Varik's eyebrows rose. "Aricia? That's not a safe destination these days, especially for non-humans. It's at least eight days south by the main road, even longer if you avoid human settlements." He glanced between them, his expression growing concerned. "But come, join us. Share our fire tonight. It seems we have much to discuss."

  The Mehrat camp came alive as night fell. Small fires were lit between the wagons, casting a warm glow over the clearing. The Mehrat moved with the easy familiarity of a close-knit community, preparing food, tending to animals, and setting up watch rotations without need for discussion.

  Rowen and Illinca sat by the central fire, sharing a simple but flavorful meal of roasted vegetables and spiced rice. Varik sat across from them, his expression thoughtful as they recounted their journey—an edited version that omitted any mention of the Nythari and Rowen's ember power.

  "So you seek your captured people in Aricia?" Varik asked, stroking his silver-streaked chin fur. "It is a dangerous quest, but not a hopeless one."

  "Have you been to Aricia recently?" Illinca asked. "Any information would help us greatly."

  Varik nodded, his expression growing serious. "We passed through three weeks ago. The city is... changing. Governor Gaius has always been ambitious, but lately, his behavior has become erratic. He's pouring resources into the arena, commissioning elaborate games and spectacles while neglecting other aspects of governance."

  A younger Mehrat named Nima leaned in from a nearby fire. Her fur was the color of cinnamon, with unusual white markings around her eyes. "The arena games have become more spectacular—and more brutal," she added. "Gaius has been importing 'exotic fighters' from all over the borderlands. There's a special tournament planned to celebrate the empire's anniversary."

  Rowen's heart quickened. "Exotic fighters from the borderlands?"

  Nima nodded, her expression grave. "That's the rumor. The posters we saw advertised 'never-before-seen combatants from the northern realms.' It's all anyone in Aricia talks about."

  Rowen and Illinca exchanged glances, the same thought crossing their minds. If Haath, Daani, and Bailon were indeed in Aricia, they would almost certainly be featured in such an event.

  "This tournament," Rowen said carefully, "do you know more about it? When exactly it begins, how long it lasts?"

  "Three days of combat," Varik replied. "Beginning with the new moon, sixteen days from now. Gaius always times his major spectacles with the lunar cycle—considers it auspicious, I'm told."

  Sixteen days. The knowledge settled in Rowen's chest like a stone. With Aricia still at least a week away, they had precious little time to reach the city, find their people, and formulate a rescue plan, all before the tournament began. Once the public spectacles started, it might be too late.

  "We can help you," Varik said unexpectedly, drawing surprised looks from some of the other Mehrat around the fire.

  "Caravan Master," one of them protested, "this isn't our concern. We risk much by—"

  Varik silenced them with a raised paw. "The Swift River Caravan has been our ally for three generations," he said firmly. "Illinca's family would do the same for any of us. We help our own."

  He turned back to Rowen and Illinca. "I can offer practical assistance. A map with guard schedules, merchant entrances to Aricia that avoid the main gates. Some tradeable goods that will help you blend in, should you need to enter the markets."

  Illinca bowed her head, clearly moved by the offer. "Thank you, Varik. Your kindness honors my family's memory."

  The conversation turned to logistics after that—the safest routes south, the patterns of guard patrols, the layout of Aricia itself. By the time the fires had burned low, Rowen felt better prepared than she had since leaving the Nythari village. They had direction now, and a timeline. The path ahead remained dangerous, but at least it was clearer.

  As the camp settled for the night, the Mehrat offering them a small tent of their own, Illinca stepped away from the circle of wagons. Rowen watched her friend move to the edge of the clearing, where moonlight bathed the ground in silver. Curious, she followed.

  Illinca knelt in the damp earth, her paws tracing subtle patterns in the soil. She had removed a small cloth bundle from her pack and was arranging its contents in a circle—herbs, polished stones, and small carved symbols Rowen recognized from the Nythari rituals.

  "A blessing?" Rowen asked softly, not wanting to disturb whatever Illinca was preparing.

  The Mehrat nodded without looking up. "For the caravan's safe travels. An old Mehrat custom, though I've added some techniques I learned from the Nythari shamans." She glanced up with a small smile. "The different magical traditions complement each other in unexpected ways."

  Rowen sat nearby, watching as Illinca began a quiet chant, her voice melodic but barely audible. The ritual was simple but beautiful—the soft words, the gentle movements of Illinca's paws over earth and stone, the way the moonlight seemed to gather around her as she worked.

  When it was complete, a faint blue glow emanated from the circle of stones for just a moment before fading back into ordinary moonlight. Illinca sat back on her heels with a satisfied sigh.

  "Will it work?" Rowen asked.

  "Magic isn't about guarantees," Illinca replied with a smile that reminded Rowen of their first meeting. "It's about intention and connection. I've connected this place to the deeper earth energies, asked them to watch over travelers who pass with peaceful intentions." She began gathering her ritual supplies. "It may not stop bandits, but it might guide the caravan around natural dangers—washouts, fallen trees, unstable ground."

  As they walked back to their tent, Rowen realized she was seeing yet another facet of her friend's abilities. Illinca was methodically expanding her magical knowledge, weaving together different traditions into something unique and powerful. The thought was comforting—they were both growing stronger in their own ways, better prepared for whatever awaited them in Aricia.

  Rowen woke in the pre-dawn darkness, instantly alert. The spot beside her was empty—Illinca was gone from their shared tent.

  Rising quietly, she checked that her spear was at hand before slipping outside. The camp was silent except for the soft breathing of sleeping Mehrat and the occasional stamp of a tethered horse. A half-moon hung in the sky, casting enough light to see by but leaving deep shadows between the wagons.

  A faint blue glow drew her attention to the far side of the clearing. Moving silently, Rowen approached, recognizing Illinca's silhouette against the strange light.

  The Mehrat knelt in a small circle of glowing runes, her paws pressed against the bare earth. The symbols were similar to those the Nythari shamans had used, but arranged differently, with additions Rowen didn't recognize. The blue light pulsed gently, following a rhythm that seemed to match the subtle vibrations she could feel through her feet—as if the earth itself were breathing.

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  Not wanting to disturb the ritual, Rowen stayed back, content to watch. The moonlight played across Illinca's white fur, turning it silver and ethereal. Her movements were graceful, deliberate, each gesture flowing into the next with practiced precision. There was beauty in the ritual, a kind of artistry that went beyond its practical purpose.

  The realization struck Rowen unexpectedly—she found Illinca beautiful. Not just her appearance, but the whole of her—her calm determination, her quick mind, her gentle strength. The thought warmed her in a way that had nothing to do with the ember in her chest.

  The ritual ended, the blue light fading as Illinca sat back with a deep exhale. She turned, unsurprised to find Rowen watching.

  "I didn't mean to wake you," she said softly.

  "You didn't," Rowen assured her, stepping closer. "What was that? Not the same as the blessing you performed earlier."

  "No," Illinca agreed, rising to her feet and brushing dirt from her knees. "That was for me—an attempt to strengthen my connection to surface earth energies. They feel different here than in the Nythari caverns. More chaotic, less concentrated."

  "Did it work?"

  Illinca flexed her paws thoughtfully. "I think so. It's about attunement more than anything else. The earth magic flows differently up here, following different patterns. I need to adapt."

  They were joined by a third figure—an older female Mehrat with silver-gray fur and sharp, attentive eyes. She carried a small wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  "Your technique is interesting," she said to Illinca. "Nythari influences, if I'm not mistaken. I've not seen their practices, but I've read descriptions."

  Illinca bowed respectfully. "Yes, Elder Sanna. I had the privilege of learning from their shamans."

  "You blend traditions well," the elder observed. "The earth responds to you." She held out the wooden box. "These may help your studies. Rare components I've gathered in my travels—crystallized cave moss, stone dust from the ancient mountains, sealed droplets of deep spring water."

  Illinca accepted the box with evident surprise and gratitude. "This is a generous gift, Elder."

  Sanna's whiskers twitched with amusement. "Knowledge shared is knowledge strengthened. Perhaps someday you will share what you've learned from blending these traditions."

  As the elder walked away, Illinca carefully opened the box, showing Rowen the contents—small vials and pouches, each labeled in flowing Mehrat script.

  "These are valuable," she explained, her voice hushed with respect. "Some of these components can only be gathered during specific lunar phases or in locations few can reach."

  "Will they help with your magic?" Rowen asked.

  Illinca nodded, her eyes bright with excitement. "Immensely. Ritual magic is about creating connections, and these will allow me to forge stronger ones." She closed the box carefully. "The Nythari taught me foundation, but this will help me build something new."

  They returned to their tent as the first hints of dawn lightened the eastern sky. Rowen found herself thinking about connections—between different magical traditions, between peoples, between herself and Illinca. In the midst of their dangerous journey, those connections felt increasingly important, like anchors in a storm.

  They parted from the Mehrat caravan the next morning. Varik provided them with a detailed map of the approaches to Aricia, marking guard posts and patrol schedules. He also gave them a small bundle of trade goods—exotic spices, thin silver wire, and small polished gemstones—that could be exchanged for supplies or information in the villages they might pass.

  "Follow the old shepherd's paths," he advised as they prepared to leave. "They run parallel to the main road but stay within the hills. Slower going, but fewer imperial patrols."

  Illinca embraced the caravan master, emotion evident in her voice as she thanked him. Rowen stood respectfully aside, understanding the significance of this connection to her friend's past.

  They set off southward as the caravan continued east, their paths diverging but their spirits lightened by the brief fellowship. The day was clear and warm, perfect for traveling, and they made good progress along the shepherd's trails Varik had recommended.

  By midday, they had reached a high ridge overlooking a broad valley. The landscape was changing noticeably—more open, with scattered copses of trees rather than deep forest. In the distance, they could see the glint of a river winding through the center of the valley.

  "We should reach that river by tomorrow," Illinca said, consulting the map. "From there, it's another two days to Aricia if we maintain this pace."

  Rowen nodded, scanning the valley below. Something caught her eye—a line of stones along the ridgeline, too regular to be natural. She moved closer, examining what appeared to be the remnants of an ancient path. The stones were worn and half-buried, but clearly arranged by intelligent hands.

  "Illinca," she called softly. "Look at this."

  The Mehrat joined her, crouching to inspect the stones. "Old," she observed. "Very old. And look—there are markings."

  Indeed, as Rowen looked more closely, she could see faint symbols carved into some of the larger stones. They were weathered almost to illegibility, but something about them stirred a strange recognition in her mind. The ember in her chest warmed at the sight, not painfully but noticeably.

  "I recognize elements of these markings," Illinca said with growing excitement. "They're similar to ancient dragon script I've seen in old texts. Traders in my caravan collected rubbings from ruins throughout the borderlands."

  "Dragon script?" Rowen echoed, the ember pulsing in response to the words. She traced one of the symbols with her finger, feeling the worn grooves in the stone. The connection was immediate and startling—a flash of recognition, as if the symbol were somehow familiar.

  "I think this is an ancient path," Illinca continued, her whiskers quivering with excitement. "Perhaps once used by dragons traveling between territories. The old stories say they maintained networks of trails marked with symbols only they could read."

  Rowen studied the faint line of stones stretching along the ridge and descending into the valley. "If this path was made by dragons, it might avoid human settlements," she reasoned. "It could be safer than the shepherd's trails."

  They agreed to follow the ancient path, curious about where it might lead and hoping it would provide a safer route south. As they descended into the valley, Rowen noticed that the symbols became more frequent and complex, sometimes accompanied by larger stone markers that had been toppled or half-buried by centuries of weather and earth movement.

  The ember in her chest grew steadily warmer as they followed the path, not warning of danger but responding to something else—recognition, perhaps, or connection. Rowen found herself increasingly able to spot the next marker before Illinca, as if some part of her knew where to look.

  By late afternoon, they had reached the valley floor. The ancient path led them to a cluster of weathered stones that might once have been a structure of some kind. Now they were little more than a jumble of massive blocks, overgrown with moss and lichen.

  Except for one element—a doorway carved directly into the hillside, its lintel stone engraved with more of the strange symbols. The doorway itself was partially blocked by fallen debris, but enough remained open to suggest a passage beyond.

  "It's some kind of structure," Illinca said, approaching cautiously. "Built into the hill itself."

  The ember pulsed strongly now, almost pulling Rowen toward the entrance. She felt drawn to it in a way she couldn't explain—not frightening, but compelling, as if something important waited within.

  "We should explore it," she said, already moving toward the doorway. "There might be information inside—about dragons, about this path."

  Illinca hesitated, then nodded. "Carefully," she cautioned. "Old places often have old dangers."

  They cleared enough debris to slip through the opening, Rowen leading with her spear at the ready. Inside, they found a narrow passage that sloped gently downward, its walls smooth and clearly artificial. The air was surprisingly fresh, suggesting ventilation shafts somewhere in the structure.

  The passage opened into a larger chamber, and Rowen stopped short, her breath catching in her throat. The walls were covered in elaborate carvings—symbols like those on the path stones, but preserved and far more complex. They seemed to tell a story, flowing around the circular chamber in a continuous narrative.

  At the center stood a basalt altar or table, its surface polished to a mirrorlike sheen. The ember in her chest pulsed strongly, its warmth spreading through her body as she approached the altar.

  "These carvings," Illinca said, her voice hushed with awe. "They're incredible. So much more detailed than anything I've seen in the fragments traders collected."

  Rowen barely heard her. She was drawn to the altar, compelled by an instinct she didn't understand. When her fingers touched the polished stone, the world around her dissolved.

  She was soaring above mountain peaks, massive wings spread to catch the thermal currents. Her body was enormous, powerful, covered in crimson scales that gleamed like burnished metal in the sunlight. The earth stretched far below, a tapestry of forests and rivers and ancient stone.

  Then darkness gathered on the horizon—not storm clouds but something else, something wrong. A seething mass of shadow that corrupted everything it touched. Rage filled her, but also fierce determination. This was an old enemy, a corruption that had threatened her kind before.

  She dove toward the darkness, jaws opening to release a torrent of flame that cut through the shadow like a blazing sword. Other dragons joined her—gold, blue, black, green—a coordinated attack against the spreading taint. But the darkness fought back, tendrils of cold energy lashing out to entangle her wings...

  Rowen gasped as the vision ended, stumbling back from the altar. Her heart pounded in her chest, the ember pulsing in time with its beats. She could still feel phantom wings at her back, the memory of flight and power.

  "Rowen!" Illinca was at her side, steadying her. "What happened? You touched the altar and went completely still."

  "A vision," Rowen managed, her voice rough. "But different from before. Not fragments or glimpses—it felt like a memory." She described what she'd seen—the flight, the darkness, the battle in the sky. "I was the dragon," she finished, still trying to process the experience. "I felt its emotions, its thoughts. It was fighting against something, a darkness that had threatened dragons before."

  Illinca's eyes widened. "The Elder Power?" she asked. "That matches what Auryndar warned about. And you say it felt like a memory?"

  Rowen nodded, turning back to the carvings on the walls. Suddenly, they made sense to her—not fully, but enough to grasp their meaning. "These tell the story," she said, moving around the chamber. "A great conflict between dragons and the Elder Power. The dragons united to drive it back, to seal it away."

  "You can read them?" Illinca asked, clearly astonished.

  "Not exactly," Rowen said, struggling to explain. "It's like... I know what they mean. They make sense to me." She pointed to a sequence of symbols. "This describes the Elder Power—a corruption from beyond the world, something that feeds on fear and pain."

  Illinca moved beside her, studying the symbols intently. She pulled out a small journal from her pack and began to sketch the most significant glyphs, her hands working quickly. "This is incredible," she murmured. "A direct connection to dragon knowledge."

  Rowen continued around the chamber, her fingers occasionally touching the carvings as she interpreted their meaning. "The dragons were guardians," she explained. "Protectors against threats like the Elder Power. And this..." She stopped at a panel showing smaller, drakel-like figures alongside the dragons. "This suggests a connection between dragons and drakel. As if we were... related somehow."

  "Your red scales," Illinca said thoughtfully. "Auryndar called you 'daughter of Vyrndal.' Maybe there's a bloodline connection—perhaps the drakel are descendants of dragons."

  The idea resonated with the ember in Rowen's chest, sending a pulse of warmth through her body. It felt right, felt true in a way she couldn't articulate. "That would explain why Auryndar could speak to me," she said slowly. "Why I can understand these symbols now."

  They spent an hour documenting as much as they could, Illinca sketching the most important glyphs while Rowen translated their meaning. The story that emerged was fragmentary but compelling—an ancient conflict, a dragon victory that was somehow incomplete, and warnings about the Elder Power's eventual return.

  "If the drakel are descended from dragons," Rowen said as they prepared to leave the chamber, "maybe that's what my power is—dragon heritage awakening."

  "It would explain much," Illinca agreed. "Your connection to Auryndar, these visions, your physical abilities when the ember activates." She closed her journal thoughtfully. "The question is, why now? Why you?"

  Rowen had no answer, but the question followed her as they exited the ancient structure and continued along the dragon path. The sun was lowering toward the western horizon, casting long shadows across the valley. They would need to find a place to camp soon.

  "Let's try something," she said suddenly, stopping in a small clearing. "The vision, the connection to the carvings—they've changed something. I want to see if I can access the power deliberately now."

  Illinca looked concerned. "Are you sure that's wise? The power has been unpredictable."

  "But it's responding differently now," Rowen insisted. "After the vision, it feels more... integrated. Like it's part of me rather than something separate."

  After a moment's hesitation, Illinca nodded. "Alright, but be careful. Remember Mweya's training—purpose, not force."

  Rowen set down her pack and spear, moving to the center of the clearing. She closed her eyes, focusing on the ember's warmth in her chest. In the past, it had flared in response to danger or strong emotion. Now she tried to coax it intentionally, reaching for the sensation she'd experienced during the fight with the tunnelers.

  At first, nothing happened. The ember remained a steady, warm presence, but nothing more. Frustration crept in, threatening to break her concentration. Then she remembered Mweya's teachings—emotions clouded purpose. She needed clarity.

  Rowen took a deep breath and shifted her approach. Instead of trying to force the power to manifest, she visualized it flowing through her, as natural as blood in her veins. She thought of the dragon in her vision, how its power had been an integral part of its being, not something separate to be commanded.

  Heat spread from her chest, flowing down her arms and legs. It wasn't the explosive surge she'd experienced in moments of crisis, but something more controlled, more focused. She opened her eyes, seeing the world with heightened clarity—colors more vivid, movements more precise.

  She took a step, then another, marveling at how fluid her body felt. When she broke into a run, the world seemed to slow around her, each moment distinct and crystal clear. She leaped over a fallen log, the jump carrying her higher and farther than should have been possible. For a handful of heartbeats, she moved with supernatural grace, her body responding to her will with perfect precision.

  Then the power faded, leaving her standing in the middle of the clearing, breathing hard but exhilarated. The ember in her chest receded to its usual warm glow, but she could still feel it, ready to be called upon again.

  Illinca approached, her expression a mixture of amazement and concern. "That was... remarkable," she said. "You moved like—"

  "Like a dragon in human form," Rowen finished, still catching her breath. "It worked, Illinca. I controlled it."

  "Briefly," Illinca cautioned. "And look at you—you're exhausted."

  Indeed, Rowen's limbs now felt heavy, a deep fatigue settling into her muscles. The exhilaration remained, but underneath it was a bone-deep weariness, as if she'd trained for hours instead of moments.

  "Worth it," she insisted, though she couldn't hide her fatigue as she moved to retrieve her pack. "Now I know I can call on it when needed, not just in moments of crisis."

  Illinca didn't argue, but her concern was evident as she helped Rowen find a suitable campsite as darkness fell. They settled in a small hollow sheltered by large boulders, building a tiny, smokeless fire for warmth.

  As Rowen sat beside the flames, recovering her strength, Illinca prepared a small ritual. She arranged stones in a circle around them, sprinkled herbs between them, and chanted softly in a language Rowen didn't recognize. When she finished, a faint green glow emanated from the circle for a moment before fading into the stones.

  "What was that?" Rowen asked.

  "A restorative ritual," Illinca explained, settling beside her. "We used it in the caravan after long days of travel.”

  Sure enough, Rowen could feel new energy flowing into her tired limbs, the fatigue receding faster than it should have. "It works," she said with surprise.

  Illinca smiled. "Our abilities complement each other," she observed. "Your power gives you physical strength and speed, while my ritual magic can support and enhance those abilities."

  The realization was encouraging—together, they were stronger than either would be alone. Whatever awaited them in Aricia, they would face it as partners, each contributing their unique strengths to their shared purpose.

  The next few days passed quickly as they followed the ancient dragon path southward. The landscape continued to change, becoming more cultivated and populated. Fields replaced forests, and in the distance, they occasionally spotted the smoke from village chimneys. They avoided these settlements, keeping to the ancient path that seemed deliberately to wind around human habitation rather than through it.

  Rowen practiced calling upon the ember power during quiet moments, gradually learning its limitations and capabilities. She could maintain the enhanced state for only brief periods before exhaustion set in, but each attempt lasted a little longer, felt a little more natural. Illinca supported these efforts with her rituals, helping Rowen recover and offering insights on focus and control.

  On the afternoon of the seventh day, they reached a high ridge that offered their first view of Aricia. The city sprawled across a broad plain where two rivers met, surrounded by cultivated fields and orchards. Stone walls encircled the central districts, and even from this distance, they could see the massive structure that dominated the skyline—the arena, its curved walls rising above everything else like a monument to spectacle and violence.

  "There it is," Illinca said softly, her whiskers twitching in the breeze. "Aricia."

  Rowen stared at the distant city, trying to imagine the captives held within its walls. Were her clutch siblings there? Were they being forced to train for combat, to fight for the entertainment of humans who saw them as nothing more than exotic beasts? The thought made her hands tighten around her spear, the ember in her chest pulsing with protective anger.

  "We need to get closer," she said grimly. "Find a place to observe the city, learn its patterns."

  They descended the ridge carefully, staying within the cover of scattered trees and brush. As they drew nearer to the city, they encountered more traffic—farmers bringing goods to market, travelers on the roads, imperial soldiers on patrol. Each time, they were forced to hide, to wait until the danger passed before continuing.

  Late in the afternoon, they reached a vantage point overlooking one of the main roads leading into Aricia. Hidden among dense bushes, they watched the flow of people in and out of the city gates. Most were ordinary travelers and merchants, but periodically, more heavily armed groups passed—imperial soldiers escorting wagons or important officials.

  One such convoy caught Rowen's attention. Three large wagons, their windows barred and wheels reinforced, rolled toward the city under heavy guard. Unlike merchant wagons, these had no colorful paintings or goods displayed. They were functional, prison-like, and the guards surrounding them were alert and well-armed.

  "Those wagons," Rowen whispered, a chill running down her spine. "They look like they're transporting prisoners."

  Illinca nodded grimly. "Captives for the arena, most likely. The tournament is less than two weeks away—they'll be gathering participants."

  Rowen's first instinct was to act immediately—to rush down, create a diversion, try to free whoever might be inside those wagons. The ember flared in her chest, responding to her surge of emotion. But she held herself back, remembering her training, remembering the stakes.

  "What if my clutch siblings are in those wagons right now?" she asked, her voice tight with controlled urgency.

  Illinca placed a hand on her arm, her touch gentle but firm. "And what if they're not? What if we act now without preparation and fail? We wouldn't be able to help anyone then."

  The logic was sound, but it did little to ease the ache in Rowen's chest. She watched helplessly as the wagons rumbled through the gates into Aricia, carrying their human cargo to whatever fate awaited them inside.

  "We need to be smarter than that," Illinca continued, her voice softening. "We have Varik's map, information about the city's layout. We know the tournament is coming, which means the captives will be kept somewhere secure but accessible for training. We can find them, Rowen. But we have to be careful—methodical."

  Rowen nodded reluctantly, the ember subsiding to its usual warmth. "You're right. We stick to the plan. Get close to the city, learn what we can, then find a way in that doesn't get us captured."

  As dusk fell, they retreated to a more secluded spot to make camp for the night. The city lights became visible as darkness spread, a scatter of golden points against the black landscape. Somewhere in that glittering web, Rowen's people were waiting. Perhaps scared, perhaps injured, but still alive—still fighting. She had to believe that.

  She reached into her pouch, drawing out Gallen's unfinished blade. In the dim light of their small fire, the metal seemed to glow with its own inner light, responding to her touch and to the ember's warmth. She traced its rough edges, feeling the marks of Gallen's hammer, the potential still waiting to be realized.

  "We're close," she whispered to the blade, to herself, to the ember that pulsed in time with her heart. "Soon."

  Illinca watched her silently from across the fire, her green eyes reflecting the flames. In that moment, a wordless understanding passed between them—a shared resolve, a promise. Whatever awaited them in Aricia, they would face it together.

  The blade in Rowen's hand caught the firelight and held it, gleaming with purpose. Tomorrow they would approach the city. Tomorrow the next phase of their journey would begin.

  And this time, they were ready.