“My dads told me drakes don’t mature until after a hundred and twenty-five years old. Some species take even longer than that.” Raven’s brow furrows, thoughts visibly churning behind her sapphire eyes. “Just because the man is an adult doesn’t mean the dragon is. We’ve been treating them as the same, but they’re not.”
She stops pacing and turns to face us; her gaze sharp as a blade.
“Are there any other species that have a different maturity age than their human counterparts?”
“Phoenixes.” The word leaves my mouth before I can consider whether to share this. I examine my nails for a moment—an old habit, a way to appear casual when discussing things that cut close to the bone. “Our shifts aren’t considered mature until after three hundred years old.”
Three hundred years of burning and being reborn, of dying in agony and waking in ash, before the phoenix within reaches its full potential. I’ve lived through that cycle more times than I can count, and each rebirth strips away another layer of who I was, replacing it with something harder, something forged in fire.
Out of all the species present, only the dragons and I have a different shift maturity. The knowledge sits heavily in the room, another piece of a puzzle we’re only beginning to see.
But who else knows this? Who has been cataloging our weaknesses, our vulnerabilities, our secrets? The mages? The council? Someone closer?
I look around the room at my family, my nest, and I hate myself for the suspicion that flickers through my mind. I know these people. I love these people.
“Does the maturity requirement extend to females, or just males?” Raven asks, and I watch the gears turning in her mind, watch her fitting pieces together with frightening speed.
“Just the drake. Bloodline is what’s important with the females.” Solaris answers from where he sits in the corner, his massive frame somehow made gentle by the tiny hatchling cradled in his arms. Nova’s scales catch the torchlight—obsidian and burnt orange mottled together like a calico cat, beautiful and strange. She makes a soft sound in her sleep, and Solaris adjusts his hold with practiced ease.
I crush the thought before it can take root. This is madness. This is exactly what our enemies want—for us to tear ourselves apart with suspicion, to see threats in every shadow until we trust no one and stand alone.
But the doubt remains, a splinter beneath my skin that I cannot dig out.
“So if what Mom told me is right, the mages and the council have been weakening dragons for generations.” Raven’s voice has gone cold, controlled, the voice of someone cataloging crimes and calculating punishments. “What species gains if we are weak or gone?”
“The fae, drow, manticore, and basically any of the dark dwellers.” I tick them off on my fingers, each name a potential enemy, a potential war. “Naga and others of the mixed-species or half-human persuasion would also benefit. Anyone who’sbeen pushed to the margins while dragons dominated—they all have reason to want us diminished.”
The list is long. The list is terrifying.
And it’s incomplete. It has to be. We’re only seeing the surface of something that goes far deeper than we can imagine.
“Let’s create a list of species that would benefit from dragons being weak or gone, then look at who’s at the school or a known threat.” Raven looks at me, and I see it in her eyes—she’s on the right track. The predator in her has scented blood, and she won’t stop until she’s run her quarry to ground.
But what if the quarry is closer than we think? What if we’re hunting in the wrong direction while the real threat watches from within our own walls?
“Sol, maybe go sit with my dads and figure out old bloodline feuds. See if any of those families still exist.” Raven crosses to Solaris and takes Nova from him, cradling her daughter against her chest. The hatchling snuggles closer, seeking warmth, and something in Raven’s fierce expression softens for just a moment.
“‘Tis a plan. I’m on it.” Solaris rises, his joints popping from sitting too long. He kisses Raven quickly—a brush of lips, a promise of return—then strides from the room, his footsteps fading down the corridor.
I watch him go, and I hate the part of me that wonders if he’ll actually go to Raven’s father’s or if he’ll stop somewhere else first. Send a message. Pass along information.
Stop it, I tell myself. This is Solaris. You know him.
But do I? Do any of us truly know anyone?
I watch Raven pace the room with Nova in her arms, her wings half-spread for balance, her movements restless as a caged flame. The hatchling sleeps on, oblivious to the dangers swirling around her, trusting her mother completely.
That trust is beautiful. It’s also terrifying. Because somewhere out there, someone is counting on us to trust the wrong person.
“Deep breath.” I keep my voice gentle, soothing—as much for myself as for her. “We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.”
The words feel hollow. How can I promise that when I don’t know who we’re fighting? When the enemy could be anyone—a teacher, a servant, a friend? When the face of our destruction might smile at us every day, and we’d never know until the knife slid between our ribs?
“I want to end it in the purge if possible. That is, if there are any teachers involved.” Raven’s eyes shift, her pupils elongating into vertical slits as her dragon rises close to the surface. The sapphire blue seems to glow from within, lit by an inner fire. “I want to face them on ground where I’m allowed to kill.”
“That’s dangerous.” Corvus pushes off from the wall where he’s been leaning, his scarred face tight with concern. “They can hunt you too. You’d be making yourself bait.”
“That’s the point.” Raven’s smile is sharp enough to cut. “If they hunt me, I know they’re involved. No innocents die. No guessing, no uncertainty—just predator and prey, and I intend to be the predator.”
