The year since burning Fey’s game had passed in such a hazy blur it was almost frightening. Cynobria had undertaken a few tasks and let them consume her entirely, lest any lingering guilt pulled her into a despairing spiral.

  The easiest of the three was her linguistic study, which spoke more of the others’ difficulty than its own simplicity. While she had not abandoned Hayar—she kept practising daily lest her skills fell under a patina of disuse—having reached a satisfactory fluency in it, she focused on learning Varoan, one of the two major languages spoken in the far-north region of Var?thnir. The dragons of these faraway lands were said to be divided in two groups which rarely crossed due to their “history of hostility” which, Cynobria supposed, was little different to what the Cavrians were attempting in the southern part of the continent. The Var?thi were large, imposing dragons with scales that glimmered in the cold northern sun like ice and diamonds and snow. The Faniri had little in common with them save for the mostly white colouration and blue eyes. The books, oddly, described them as having fur instead of scales, like that of wolves or deer, but Cynobria found that hard to believe. They were said to live in houses and palaces made of ice, and to fiercely guard the snowy border of their lands.

  Dubious as some of those claims were, the language of the Var? refused to yield to her exploration. Few of the books she’d found provided sufficient insight into the northern speech, focusing more on history and culture, which made learning Varoan as rewarding as it was frustrating, and the lack of having a speaker nearby made practising proper pronunciation more guesswork than she would have liked.

  The second of the tasks most directly involved the contribution of others. Cynobria tried to mend the fractured bonds between herself and her friends in the aftermath of burning Fey’s game. Strangely, it was Fey who had first forgiven her, and who had helped repair the broken trust, though even then her relationship with Gevine, Oileau and Jartain was fraught in a way it hadn’t been before. They tried so hard to stay cheerful around her that at times the sweetness grew cloying and Cynobria found herself wanting to leave rather than stew in their fake pretence of having a good time. And Yselle…

  ‘It’s not about the stupid game!’ she had said one of the few times they had talked since the accident. ‘What if you burned Fey instead?’

  The words had hit Cynobria like a hammer to the head. She’d stared dumbly at Yselle, her ex-girlfriend’s eyes a picture of accusation and, underneath it, fear.

  Cynobria still wasn’t sure which of the two hurt more.

  She would not. She would never. She couldn’t bear the thought of hurting anyone with her fire—least of all one of her friends. She could—would—control it.

  It pained her to see her friends grow distant, but she squashed that hurt deep inside lest it boiled and overflowed and severed their tie completely. At times she became aware of the feeling stewing into a form of bitter resentment, which terrified and disgusted her both. She had not told anyone of it—not even Fey, whose presence brought a kind of solace Cynobria had taken for granted before, and which dissipated the lingering rot like smoke from a dying fire.

  Her angry outbursts had weakened—reforged into a dull ache of loss. Still at times the flame of rage stirred inside, but she did her best to keep them contained, doubly so in front of her friends, lest she made an encore of her stunt—or worse. At the thought alone hot shame ran thickly through her veins. What was wrong with her? No other dragons her age seemed to be struggling with their anger as much as she was. She was hardly some temperamental whelp anymore.

  The final task was, annoyingly, made harder by her dedication. In keeping herself focused with little time for rest—so that she might not dwindle too much on what hurt—she grew tired, and induced her parents’ worry. They knew, of course, what she had done, and tried to help as much as they could. She wasn’t sure how much to allow them in, as their doubled attention was an encumbrance to the mission of finding out more about Jagrav. She’d made a point to always step quietly around the house, and her growing sleep problems, while unwelcome, provided her with some snatched scraps of conversation when her parents thought her asleep. Of the three tasks this was the one in which she had made least progress in the past year.

  ‘Hm,’ said Fey. Cynobria’s heart was beating fast. It was the first time she’d shared her search for Jagrav with anyone aside from her parents, and even though she had no explicit prohibition from mentioning him to others—only from asking her parents about him—it still felt like a breach of some unspoken rule. ‘I’m not sure… I can’t say I know any Jagravs. Do you think he’s that significant?’

  Cynobria shrugged as the two of them flew above the city. Few other dragons were in the air above Afarge—the vast central city of Tarange set in a valley bordered by rather unimpressive hills. On the horizon loomed the snow-capped peaks of the Roche, while beneath the homes and shops and office buildings passed in frequent splotches of colour amidst the grey bricks and cobblestones. A little farther, beyond the city proper, sprawled a multitude of orchards and vineyards, the pride of Afargean produce.

  Learnéd Noteuf was blessedly absent, and as Krahan was their final class for the day they were let out early, letting Cynobria accompany Fey on her way back home. ‘My parents mention him sometimes, but when I press them they go quiet and refuse to answer. They say he’s a “colleague from work”, but it sounds like anything but.’

  Fey beat her wings with more force and shook her head, minty frills fluttering against the wind. ‘If they are so secretive about it, let them be. They must have a good reason.’

  Cynobria turned her head to the side. Fey was right. She wasn’t sure what else she’d expected, sharing the pursuit with her friend. And yet, it nagged at her. Some defiant part of her that didn’t succumb to the haze of the past year recoiled at the idea of abandoning the chase. Even as she acknowledged Fey’s advice as the proper thing to do, she knew she would not heed it.

  She said, ‘They probably do.’

  For a few wingbeats neither of them spoke.

  ‘You’ve been learning a new language, no? How’s it?’

  ‘Hm? Oh. Yes. Varoan. Going slow, but I’m making progress.’

  Fey frowned and a sad look crossed her snout. She composed herself. ‘Why Varoan? Wouldn’t Bacci be a more convenient choice for you?’

  ‘It would,’ said Cynobria, eager to continue, ‘but that wouldn’t be a challenge. I am fluent in Tarangean and, far as I know, Bacci is as similar to it as Krahan is to Svarish. I might try it later, but now I need something difficult.’

  ‘And something you will never use?’ teased Fey.

  ‘Ah, but you see.’ Cynobria grinned, turning back to her. ‘It’s not about being useful. It’s about being fun. About being a challenge. It keeps the gears here—’ she gently tapped her temple with a claw— ‘oiled and working. A workout of sorts. And I may yet visit Var?thnir. Or I may not. Either way, Varoan is difficult and unlike any language I can speak. And yet similar sometimes. Like most of the languages I know it genders each noun. But then it puts articles at the end of the nouns, instead of before them. And… What?’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ said Fey, a wide smile cracking her snout. ‘You’re just cute when you ramble. I have no idea why the others had a problem with it.’

  A wave of such conflicting emotions washed over Cynobria, she lost her balance mid-flight and had to beat her wings a tad frantically to regain it, earning herself a concerned glance from Fey. Fondness and warmth mingled with remembered pain, like balm applied on a too soon ripped off dressing.

  ‘Cyn?’ Fey flew closer to her, frowning. ‘You alright?’

  Cynobria breathed for a few moments, then nodded. ‘I… you really like them?’

  ‘Of course. Honestly, when you shut them off and turned so sombre after burning Fang and Claw, at first I thought you wanted pity. But you… It really hit you hard, no?’

  The ease with which Fey spoke of the accident threatened to send another wave of nausea through Cynobria, but she managed to steel herself. ‘Why aren’t you mad at me?’ The words came unbidden before she could think.

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, I was furious when you did it.’ Fey’s reassuring tone didn’t match the words she spoke. ‘But a year has passed. It was from my mother’s whelphood, yes, but in the end it was a thing. Replaceable. Unlike a friend.’

  Cynobria would have cringed at the words were they not close to bringing her to tears.

  ‘Hey, Cyn.’ Fey nudged her mid-flight. ‘I won’t say to just forgive yourself, or let it go, or cheer up. But I’m glad your rambles are back. I missed them.’

  How long it had been since she’d done it; she had almost gone out of practice in sharing her joys. Had she really sunken so deep in a pit of her own making?

  An ember of anger flared inside her, so sudden and unexpected it startled her enough to almost extinguish itself. Fey had seen Cynobria’s descent and had not pulled her out. Yet could she put any blame on Fey, when throughout all year she had been the brightest presence in Cynobria’s life?

  Doing her best to squash her ire she said in a remarkably level voice, ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  Fey beat her wings idly, turned her gaze ahead. The was a faraway look in her eyes. Then, shaking off whatever stupor had overcome her, she said, ‘I wanted to. At first, when I thought you were moping for attention, I wanted to shake you and tell you to stop. Then I saw it was real—regret, hurt—and I thought it best to stay at your side and help you process it at your own pace.’

  The honesty and tenderness in Fey’s voice dispelled the last of her anger. Cynobria marvelled at how easy it had been—all it took were a few words, though she had to admit it was already a dying ember and not a raging inferno.

  ‘Thank you,’ Cynobria said, and the words felt too small to carry the full weight of their meaning. However many languages she could speak, some feelings extended beyond words too big, too grand, a new, universal language of their own.

  Fey smiled. ‘Glad I could help. You’re strong, you’ll get through it. You just need time.’

  They dived down as they reached Fey’s home and, after an extended hug goodbye, parted ways.

  ‘Soar high!’ said Fey as she stepped into her home.

  ‘Soar high!’ echoed Cynobria as she took off again.

  It wasn't much farther, so she could only briefly ruminate on her conversation with Fey before she arrived at the door to her house. She considered catching a snack in the small hunting grounds in their backyard, but she was home earlier than usual, and didn’t feel hungry enough to care.

  She unlocked the door and walked in with a silent tread, as she’d done countless times before. A habit of little use, but—

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  Cynobria froze. Muffled sounds of conversation streamed from within the house. She couldn’t make out words, exactly, but the voices she recognised as belonging to her parents, and one she didn’t know. Her ears rose at attention. She closed the door as quietly as she could and padded soundlessly in the direction of the talking dragons.

  ‘...from the capital?’ Dad was asking.

  ‘None so far,’ said the new voice. Its owner sounded male and spoke the same plain Taragean Cynobria heard every day. ‘The Council is reluctant to let any information out, or, winds forbid, take action.’

  Council? Capital? Did he mean the National Council?

  Dad sighed and Mum filled the silence that followed. ‘Our paws are tied then?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said the stranger. ‘We can keep smaller jousts and jabs while we wait. I will keep working on obtaining something more concrete. We will want to put your expertise to good use.’

  He spoke the words at ease, though Cynobria could hear a tension in both her parents’ voices. There was something going on here, something big. All at once she had a sinking feeling she knew who this dragon was. Her tailtip twitched restlessly, equal parts excitement and dread.

  ‘That is all I wanted to relay for now,’ he said. ‘My apologies for visiting without notice. Now, if you will excuse me, I should—’

  Stepping into the room Cynobria said, ‘Are you Jagrav?’

  The three dragons present nearly jumped out of their scales. Mum and Dad turned to Cynobria with matching confused scowls, but she didn’t care. She trained her gaze on the Tarangean she believed to be the mysterious Jagrav.

  For all the secrecy he looked as unassuming as dragonly possible—a smidgeon larger than either of Cynobria’s parents, though his slender frame, typical for the Tarangeans and all their violet-eyed cousins, made him look less imposing than the more sturdy Ablyns, even with his moderately toned body. His scales were a purple so dark it was hard to tell from black even in the daylight, snaked all around with even lavender patterns. His frills were large, relaxed now, and the membranes in them matched his markings in colour. His wings were black as night, as were his curved horns, which glittered with thin silver chains. He bore into her with a calm, curious gaze of his nondescript purple eyes; there was an odd intensity to them, and even though nothing in his looks spoke of any significance, some odd glint in his eyes put Cynobria in a state of vague unease, and she had to force herself not to cower under his scrutiny.

  ‘Indeed I am,’ said Jagrav, sending Cynobria’s parents a pointed look that carried a message Cynobria couldn’t decipher. Three simple words, enough to send her world spinning. All these months of listening, of walking as quietly as she could, and he was here at last. ‘And you, I take it, are Cynobria?’ She nodded numbly and he responded in kind. ‘I see. Melodia and Rubin told me about you, though they were rather scant on the details. It’s an honour to meet you in the flesh.’

  He extended his paw in greeting and before Cynobria knew what she was doing she shook it. As her mind caught up with her body, she almost recoiled from his touch, but nothing unwelcome happened. A pawshake like any other, even if a little more firm than she would have expected from his thin frame. He moved with a sort of languid grace, but Cynobria got the impression it concealed some tightness underneath.

  ‘Who are you?’

  There he was—mystery made flesh before her. She hadn’t been prepared for this, but this was what her careful little espionage led her into. By the end of that day she would have got her answers.

  ‘Did I not tell you already? I am Jagrav. A colleague of your parents,’ he lied, so easily Cynobria almost believed it. But it was not the time for half-truths. ‘I am sure Melodia and Rubin—’

  ‘Who is Orielle?’

  He stopped short, his snout for the first time betraying an emotion other than contented control. Cynobria dared not smile—not yet—but a warm blossom of pride swelled inside her chest.

  Dad said, ‘Bree—’

  Jagrav cut him off with a wave of his paw. He looked to her parents, performing another silent exchange, before turning back to Cynobria. ‘She’s my daughter.’

  His expression smoothed back into his careful mask, but now the small curve of his smile felt sharper than any dragon's claws.

  Cynobria tapped her claws against the floor anxiously. ‘I know you are no mere colleague. Who are you?’

  Mum moved to step between her and Jagrav. ‘Bree, this doesn’t—’

  ‘Easy, Melodia,’ said Jagrav mildly to which Mum sent him a furious glare. He spoke the Svarish name in a much more flowy way than Cynobria was used to hearing. ‘While this meeting was unexpected, perhaps it is for the better. It is high time your daughter was introduced—’

  ‘It is too soon.’ Mum was between them now, fully shielding Cynobria from Jargav’s view, wings slightly unfurled. She spoke with the sort of finality she used on Cynobria when there was no room for argument. ‘And even if not, she is not going there.’

  Jagrav twisted his slender neck and managed to briefly catch eye contact with Cynobria. The plain purple of his eyes seemed to shine. ‘How old are you?’ he asked. Mum hissed.

  ‘I’m almost sixteen.’

  ‘Sixteen!’ repeated Jagrav as Mum’s throat rumbled with a low growl. ‘We have recruits younger than that. Surely—’

  ‘—not,’ Mum cut in.

  ‘Listen,’ said Dad, circling around Jagrav to where Mum and Cynobria were standing. ‘We have no obligation to tangle Bree into this. We’re in, and we won’t abandon the cause. But leave her out of it.’

  ‘Out of what?’ Cynobria asked, loud enough to push her words like a wedge into the adults’ argument. ‘I am sixteen—whatever this is, shouldn’t I be the one making the choice?’

  Mum turned on her. In a flash, as her wings shifted, Cynobria caught Jagrav’s smug look. ‘You don’t even know what this is!’

  ‘Then tell me!’ Cynobria flared her wings wide, and a small blue fire accompanied by a puff of smoke shot out. Mum didn’t budge, only winced slightly when the heat hit her, though as Ablyns their scales were naturally more resistant to it. Her resolve only fanned Cynobria’s ire, though she reigned her flames back. ‘I’m tired of these secrets! You refuse to let me know even as the dragon at the heart of it is standing right there!’ Cynobria pointed a claw at Jagrav.

  There came a silence, then a sigh, and Mum said, with reluctant resignation, ‘Tell her.’

  Cynobria’s heart beat faster.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Jagrav. Though she couldn’t see his snout, she heard the smile in his voice all the same. ‘But let us not stand like we are going to fight. Come. Let’s sit like civilised dragons and I will explain what is needed to our eager little dragon.’

  ‘Now,’ said Jagrav in a confidential tone, ‘can you keep a secret?’

  It was all Cynobria could do to not roll her eyes. More secrets. She nodded.

  They were all seated at the table in the dining room. As Jagrav’s stay got unexpectedly extended Cynobria’s parents offered him—probably for the second time—some food and drink which he politely declined.

  At her confirmation he smiled. ‘We want Cavria to lose.’

  Cynobria frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it might seem obvious. Who wouldn’t want that? Except for those light-blinded invaders themselves. But the National Council is hesitant to take action. They think the Lgihtbringers will satisfy themselves by “bringing light” over the forests of Vyl, mayhap the fiery lands of your kin. But surely they wouldn’t venture into the heart of darkness?’

  ‘That doesn’t make it right to sit by!’

  ‘The Council reasons the Cavrians won’t invade if we don’t show hostility. They want to play it safe, to spare these lands from war.’

  ‘But they won’t stop, will they?’ said Cynobria. ‘They will try to conquer us all.’

  Jagrav nodded. ‘That is what I think. And so, having a reasonably high position and experience I gathered a couple colleagues and we began to implement our own… direct solution to the problem.’

  Cynobria blinked, and wanted to ask for more when the pieces slotted into place. She said, quietly, ‘You are raising your own army against Cavria.’

  Jagrav’s smile grew wider, and he turned to her parents. ‘I knew she was smart.’

  Cynobria’s mind reeled. ‘But… that’s impossible. Cavria is an empire. How can you fight something as enormous with a self-made force?’

  ‘You would be surprised,’ said Jagrav, turning back to her. His frills twitched. There was much he was not telling her, secrets he wasn’t willing to part with. Not yet.

  Another realisation hit her with a force of a gale. ‘And Mum and Dad…’

  ‘Not everyone who belongs with us is a soldier,’ said Jagrav. ‘It would be a waste not to use the particular talents of each of our members.’ He let the sentence hang, and for a moment no one spoke.

  ‘How large is your force?’

  Jagrav tilted his head, regarding Cynobria curiously. He looked at her parents, then back to her. ‘Now, I must go—I have already extended my stay longer than I’d anticipated—but before that I would like to make you an offer, Cynobria.’

  ‘Me?’ she asked as both her parents tensed. Cynobria’s tail twitched excitedly.

  ‘You ask of our number. Would you like to see?’

  Mum was on her paws before the meaning of what he’d said sank in. ‘Jagrav…’ she said threateningly.

  ‘Easy, Melodia,’ he said, turning to her. ‘I am not recruiting her. I only want to show her what we are.’

  Mum’s glare was hard as stone. ‘She is not going there.’

  ‘Why not?’ Cynobria piped up, heart wild, eyes wide. She lay her paws flat against the table. ‘I want to!’

  Mum sent her a pained look. Dad shook his head.

  ‘Now, worry not, she will be alright,’ Jagrav said, his voice losing its playful edge, now all calm and soothing. ‘I think it’s only fair for her to see the cause her parents belong to. No one will force her to join.’

  Cynobria’s parents exchanged a look and then, with a defeated sort of finality, Mum said, ‘When?’

  ‘In a fortnight,’ said Jagrav. ‘I will make the necessary arrangements and we will be ready to receive Cynobria in two weeks’ time.’ He fixed his eyes on her again. ‘Do you still want to come?’

  Despite the storm inside her, Cynobria’s voice was even when she spoke. ‘Yes.’

  When Jagrav left the three dragons sat around the table in silence. Cynobria's head buzzed with the aftershocks of her decision, and all her body followed. She wondered if she would come to regret it. But things were in motion now, she had made the decision. Her mind roiled with so many things she wanted to say she couldn’t extract one of them to push through her throat. An unsanctioned army gathering against Cavria, with Jagrav as one of its initiators, and her parents a part of it.

  ‘Why—’

  ‘You shouldn’t have been here.’

  Mum’s voice didn’t bear the cutting edge she’d’ve expected it to, but was so heavy with fatigue the force of it weighed Cynobria’s wings down and clamped her snout shut. Dad sighed and sent her a brittle smile. ‘Why were you home so soon?’

  Cynobria blinked. Meeting Jagrav and hearing about his army shook her so much she had forgotten what had come before.

  ‘Learnéd Noteuf was absent. Our Krahan today was cancelled.’

  Such a little thing. Upon this hinged the discovery of the biggest secret of Cynobria’s life.

  Dad nodded wearily, tried to smile. Almost did. ‘What do you think?’

  Cynobria made to reply, but hesitated. What could she even say? Worry mingled with excitement, and underneath it simmered anger at her parents for keeping it hidden so long. And—Cynobria realised with sudden clarity—they had planned to keep it that way. Her discovery had been an accident. Had she not caught them with Jagrav would they ever have told her?

  So all she said was, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because—’ Mum said sharply, but Dad’s paw on her shoulder made her stop. He looked Cynobria in the eyes.

  ‘Do you know why we support Jagrav?’

  Cynobria frowned. ‘You want to see Cavria fail.’

  ‘Why?’

  She sent him a long look, but he appeared entirely serious. Speaking carefully she said, ‘Because they are evil. They have conquered most of Vyl, and are now turning their eyes on us. Some of the Ablay lands are already beginning to be swallowed by war. You want to see the world made right.’

  Dad smiled softly. ‘Of course, that too. That was the reason we joined, many years ago. But now, do you know what keeps us fighting?’

  Cynobria held his gaze, not volunteering any reply.

  Dad said, ‘You do.’ At her quizzical look he shook his head. ‘We left for a time when Melodia was with an egg. But when you hatched we knew that we would have to go back. We weren’t fighting for our own future anymore, nor for all the dragons whose lands the Lightbringers wished to conquer. We have to fight to build a future where you could live without fear of the Cavrians. We have to fight to build a safer world for you.’

  There was a hint of tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He wiped them quickly.

  ‘We fight so you don’t have to. And to see you now, eager to join in… That is exactly what we wanted you to be able to stay out of.’

  Why did you decide this for me?

  Fighting against a tightness in her throat, Cynobria said, ‘I want to see.’ Dad’s expression tightened, but before either of her parents could speak, she went on. ‘But that is all for now. I’ve waited too long for this. I want to see it with my own eyes. And then… I don’t know. But I won’t be joining right away.’

  Dad nodded, but a sad look passed across both his and Mum’s snouts. For now, though, there was little she could do. Things were set in motion, and any feelings she might have had on the matter were drowned out by excited anticipation.