Ash and Aether
Told with a blend of Ivyra's quiet pain and Lyxra's raw, loyal soul.
---
The mountains of Dverhold rose like slumbering giants, their jagged crowns tinted crimson by the dusk sun. Hidden deep within their folds lay the dwarven settlement — carved from old earth and breath, and lit by veins of glowing crystal that ran like blood through the walls.
The group was quiet as they approached. The wind carried no songs now, only the groan of pulleys and the hiss of molten ore cooling in blacksmith pits.
Serren walked ahead with practiced ease, her cloak trailing behind her like shadow-smoke. She spoke to a guard at the tunnel gate in a dialect Ivyra didn't recognize — firm, but respectful. The dwarf, an old woman with iron-braided hair and a metal-tipped staff, gave a grunt and stepped aside.
They were let in.
Dverhold opened like a forgotten memory. Stone arches, luminous fungi blooming in corners, children darting around anvils, and the air — warm, metallic, heavy with the scent of forge-fire and bread scorched on rock.
Naia's eyes sparkled with wonder. Ivyra tried to match her pace but fell back, her boots dragging. Lyxra followed behind, silent and small in her starlit beastling form, the tip of her tail twitching.
They hadn't spoken since the village.
Since the blood.
Since the blame that hung unsaid.
---
They found a rest chamber carved into the side of a cliff — simple bedding, warm springs fed by underground rivers, and privacy offered by a curtain of beaded bones. The dwarves, despite their wary glances, were kind.
But Ivyra didn't rest.
Instead, she wandered toward the market, where the scent of dustroot and emberleaf pulled at her senses. A dwarven herbalist gestured her closer.
"You've eyes like ash," the woman muttered, handing her a bundle of wrapped root. "You come from ruins?"
"Don't we all," Ivyra replied, voice low.
The woman didn't press. But as Ivyra turned to leave, she added: "The sigils stir again. They whisper at night. Tell yours to listen."
Ivyra paused — but didn't look back.
---
Elsewhere, Naia stood before a mural painted on smoothed obsidian. It depicted celestial beasts — dragons with mouths full of stars, their wings etched with golden runes.
One dragon bore eyes like hers.
"I think they knew," Naia whispered.
Serren, standing beside her, didn't answer — but her hand drifted toward her own chest, where her locket pulsed faintly beneath her robes.
Lyxra sat curled near the edge of the mural chamber, watching. A dwarf child approached her with a skewer of roasted hare.
She sniffed it.
Turned away.
The child ran off, disappointed.
Lyxra didn't move.
A soft voice from behind her spoke. "He only wanted to share with the stars."
It was the dwarf child's mother, kneeling to gather the dropped food. She didn't scold Lyxra, just smiled and added, "Even beasts need time to heal."
Lyxra said nothing, but her ears twitched.
---
That night, beneath a sky blackened by cavern stone and lit only by the glow-threads of crystal veins, Ivyra walked to the edge of Dverhold.
She found the cliffside lake — water still as silence, rippling only when steam hissed from some vent beneath. Reflections danced like ghosts across its surface.
She stood at the edge, arms folded. Her reflection wavered, broken by each exhale.
"I never asked to be broken," she murmured. "You promised you wouldn't vanish."
She didn't turn.
But Lyxra was already there.
"I didn't vanish," the beast whispered, her voice stripped of playfulness. "You stopped letting me in."
Ivyra clenched her jaw.
"I was bleeding out, Lyxra."
"I felt it."
"Then why—?"
"Because you weren't calling me. You were calling someone else. Something else. You changed."
The words dropped like stone into water. Ivyra turned, her expression unreadable.
"I didn't want to become her," she said. "The slayer. The goddess. The flameborn. But she's clawing through my ribs every time I try to protect them."
Lyxra took a step closer. Her form shimmered — and in seconds, she stood tall again, celestial fur rippling like midnight tides.
"You are still you," Lyxra whispered. "But so am I. Let me fight beside you, Ivyra. Let me burn for you again."
A pause.
Then a breath. Shaking. Reluctant.
Ivyra stepped forward.
And pressed her forehead against Lyxra's chest.
Her hand found starlight fur. Warm. Familiar. Safe.
"I missed you," Ivyra whispered.
"I never left."
They stayed like that, beneath the carved arches and faint falling dust.
---
Later, they returned to the chamber. Naia was already curled beneath a fur pelt, the glow from the crystals casting her sleeping face in soft blue. Serren sat in meditation near the door, fingers tracing the edges of her locket as if it whispered secrets only she could hear.
Ivyra glanced at her companions and laid down beside Naia. Lyxra curled around both of them, her warmth radiating through the air.
Sleep came slowly — but it came.
---
The next morning, the group gathered at the heart of Dverhold. A forge square had been cleared for travelers — filled with passing traders, dwarves testing weapons, and children drawing chalk runes on the stone.
Naia ran her fingers over a vendor's wind flute. Serren bartered for maps. Ivyra stood at the edge, her gaze distant.
Then, Lyxra padded over, tail high. "You know," she said quietly, "you could smile once."
"I am smiling," Ivyra replied.
"That's a grimace."
A flicker of a smirk touched her lips.
They walked.
Together.
---
In the lower chambers of Dverhold, deeper than song reached and darker than any torch dared burn, a forgotten sigil pulsed against obsidian.
A child had wandered too far, chasing a pebble.
He reached out.
His fingers brushed ancient script.
The wall breathed.
And far away, something ancient stirred.
A Watcher opened one eye.
Its voice echoed into the depths.
Ash and aether. They rise again.
Find the flameborn.
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