The sun rose over the Iron-Wood City, casting long golden shadows across a civilization that had transford overnight.
Where there had once been only wild forest and fear, there were now stone houses with chimneys puffing out white smoke.
There were paved roads. There were irrigation channels diverting water from the river to feed rows of crops, strange, green vegetables that Roxy had insisted were edible, and which had miraculously kept the population fed through the dry season.
But the biggest change wasn’t the architecture; it was the people.
Females walked the streets without cowering. They carried baskets of woven reed, chatting with one another, their bellies swollen with life.
For the first ti in centuries, the Beast World wasn’t just surviving; it was birthing. The infant mortality rate had plumted, not because of magic, but because of the simple, radical changes Roxy had implented before she vanished.
Boiled water. Sanitized birthing huts. A diet that wasn’t just raw at.
Her legacy was everywhere. In the sll of baking bread. In the laughter of children. In the way the Wolf Pack guarded the periter not as tyrants, but as protectors.
But inside the main house, In the grand living room, the furniture had been pushed back to create a play area that looked more like a combat training zone.
Syris was currently coiled on the floor, holding a very fussy, very scaly baby.
Tanith, the basilisk hybrid, was going through a growth spurt. Her skin was shedding, revealing iridescent erald scales underneath, and she had been cranky for three days straight.
"Co on, little monster," Syris coaxed, holding up a piece of dried venison. "Open up. Uncle Syris needs to see the gums."
Tanith hissed. She swatted the at away with a chubby hand.
"She is refusing to eat," Syris announced.
Torian looked up from where he was arm-wrestling with Axel and Onyx (and losing, because the wolf twins cheated). He grabbed a silver spoon and waved it.
"Look, Tanith!" Torian roared softly. "Shiny! Kill the shiny!"
Tanith’s vertical-slit eyes widened. She lunged for the spoon, her mouth opening wide in a predatory strike.
A sharp, distinct sound echoed as her mouth clamped down on the tal.
Syris froze. He stared at the spoon. He stared at the baby.
Then, with a shout of pure, unadulterated triumph, Syris yanked Tanith high into the air, holding her up like Simba on Pride Rock.
"FANGS!" Syris bellowed, his face splitting into a rare, genuine grin. "WE HAVE FANGS! Look at them! They are retractable! They are magnificent!"
"Let see!" Torian scrambled over, knocking over a chair.
"Careful with her head," Kaelen barked from the kitchen doorway, though he wiped his wet hands on a rag and walked over quickly, his tail wagging slightly.
The three Kings huddled around the baby. Tanith, delighted by the sudden elevation and attention, opened her mouth again and let out a squeaky roar trying to imitate her wolf brothers, displaying two needle-sharp, pearly white fangs descending from her upper gum.
"Deadly," Kaelen assessed with pride, touching the tip of one fang. "She will be able to inject poison by next week."
"She’s a killer," Torian grinned. "Roxy would be so... well, she’d probably be terrified, but she’d be proud too."
The ntion of her na sucked the air out of the room.
The smiles faltered. Syris lowered Tanith slowly, clutching her to his chest. Torian looked at the floor. Kaelen looked out the window toward the river.
They were functioning. They were ruling. They were raising the children, determined to be the perfect fathers for when she returned.
But the house felt empty without her. And cold.
On the roof of the manor, Zarek sat.
He was not gaunt or weak. If anything, the Dragon King looked more terrifying than he ever had before.
His physical form seed to be fluctuating, unable to fully contain the volatile magic roiling inside him.
Massive, black wings sprouted from his back, casting a shadow over the balcony. He sat perfectly still, like a gargoyle carved from rage and grief.
His golden eyes were locked on the horizon. Specifically, on the river. The winding, treacherous stretch of water that had swallowed his wife.
This was the second ti he had lost her, and he was losing his mind.
He wasn’t crying. Dragons didn’t cry.
Inside, Zarek was a ghost of himself.
But the man who had laughed with Roxy, the man who had laid his head in her lap and let her scratch behind his ears, was gone. In his place was a weapon of mass destruction waiting for a target.
A small sound broke his concentration.
It was the sound of small claws on slate.
Zarek didn’t turn. His instincts told him it wasn’t a threat. If it were a threat, it would already be ash.
"Daddy?"
The voice was small, tentative, but brave.
Zarek’s shoulders stiffened. He closed his eyes for a second, fighting back the wave of dragon-instinct that wanted to lash out at any disturbance. He forced his scales to recede slightly, softening the edges of his aura.
He turned his head.
Iris stood near the chimney.
Her ears twitched nervously atop her head, and her tail was wrapped around her legs for comfort.
She was holding a ragged stuffed rabbit that Roxy had sewn for her.
"It is cold up here, Little Flower," Zarek said, his voice rough like grinding stones. "Go back down."
Iris didn’t leave. She took a step forward. Then another.
She wasn’t afraid of the wings. She sat down next to him, her small legs dangling over the gutter.
Zarek looked at her. She was so small. So breakable. Just like her mother.
Without a word, Zarek extended his left wing. The massive mbrane unfurled and wrapped around the little girl, creating a warm, wind-proof cocoon that shielded her from the biting breeze.
Iris leaned her head against Zarek’s arm. She sighed, snuggling into the heat of his dragon blood.
They sat there for a long ti, watching the river flow.
"Daddy Zarek?" Iris whispered.
"Yes?"
Iris squeezed the rabbit’s ear. She looked at the river, her dark eyes filled with a sadness that no child should know.
"Is Mummy ever going to co back?"
Zarek stopped breathing.
The question hung in the air, sharp and painful. It was the question they were all thinking, the question that kept them awake at night.
Zarek looked at the child. He saw the fear in her eyes. He saw the need for a lie, or a truth, or just sothing to hold onto.
She was there. Sowhere.
Zarek pressed his lips into a thin line. He leaned down and kissed the top of Iris’s head, inhaling the scent of her hair which still slled faintly of the shampoo Roxy used to use.
"She is a Queen, Iris," Zarek said, his voice fierce and absolute. "And Queens always return to their kingdom."
He tightened his wing around her, staring at the river with burning determination.
"Mommy is going to be back," Zarek promised, making a vow to the child and to the universe. "And she will be back with lots of goodies."
Iris looked up at him. "Like cake?"
Zarek managed a small, crooked laugh, the first one in weeks.
"Yes, Little Flower. Like cake. And maybe a few dead fish."
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