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2026-01-30 13:04:00
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Dawlya’s Dragon 148
148 The doors of the amphitheater did not creak. They boomed. Stone split against stone as the ancient seals were overridden, Dawlya glyphs flaring a harsh, authoritarian red. The sound cut through the lingering silence of the Conclave like a blade. Every Keeper turned at once. Avi felt it before she saw them.The Circle recoiled. Not in fear in fury. Seven figures strode through the doorway in perfect formation, their steps synchronized, their presence oppressive. Behind each walked two protectors, tattoos glowing with enforced restraint. And at the center of the formation unmistakable even without the markings stood the New Dawlya Council. They wore authority like armor. And behind them, walking slightly apart, was a woman Avi had never seen before. Her tattoo stopped Avi’s breath cold.Seven lines. Not a Keeper’s seven. A Council Seven a line that did not guide a Circle, but subjugated one. The Circle screamed. Not aloud but inside Avi’s chest, sharp and sudden, like a struck ne
Dawlya’s Dragon 147
147 The amphitheater did not erupt into chaos all at once. Instead, it fractured slowly like ice spreading across still water. Each Keeper rose in turn, as tradition demanded, and spoke their concerns into the Veil. The rules of the Conclave required it. The Circle listened whether it wished to or not, absorbing intention as much as words. Avi stood at the center and learned very quickly just how deeply fractured the Dawlya truly were. Keeper Sael of the Ninth Circle spoke first. Her voice was sharp, controlled, every syllable honed. “The balance of power has been violated. One Keeper now holds authority that eclipses the rest. History tells us this ends in domination or destruction. We cannot pretend otherwise.” Murmurs followed some agreement, some disdain. Keeper Vorrin rose next, barely waiting for Sael to sit. “Spare us the concern for balance,” he sneered. “Your Circle has siphoned from others for centuries. You fear Avi because she cannot be controlled, not because she is
Dawlya’s Dragon 146
146 The amphitheater had not held this many Circle Keepers since before the first Draynor Dawlya war fractured the Veil. Stone terraces curved upward like the ribs of some ancient beast, each tier carved with sigils that drank light rather than reflected it. The air itself felt dense—charged with layered magic, old grudges, restrained fear, and something far more dangerous: anticipation. One by one, the Keepers arrived. Each arrival followed the same ancient protocol. A Keeper stepped through the Veil-gate alone first unarmed, unmasked, their full tattoo visible. Only after they were acknowledged by the amphitheater itself did their protectors follow. Two protectors only. No more. And never more than two lines etched into their skin. Those lines glowed faintly now on every guardian present marks of limited authority, bound strength, and deliberate restraint. The council had insisted on it centuries ago, after one gathering ended with three Keepers dead and half the amphitheater co
Dawlya’s Dragon 145
145 The envoys had barely finished withdrawing to their assigned terraces when the air changed. It wasn’t dramatic. No thunder, no shimmer of power that would have sent Dawlya wards screaming. It was subtler than that thinning, as if the Veil itself took a careful breath. Althea felt it immediately. She straightened from the central stone, every instinct honed by centuries of survival tightening in her chest. The amphitheater had gone quiet in a way that had nothing to do with discipline. Even the mountain wind seemed to hesitate, unsure whether it was welcome. “Good,” Althea murmured. “They’re here.” Maerin frowned. “I don’t see anyone.” “Of course you don’t,” Althea replied calmly. “That’s the point.” The first ghost manifested not as a figure, but as an absence in an area where light bent wrong, where shadow didn’t quite obey. Then the shape resolved: tall, broad-shouldered, eyes like pale embers burning behind a half-smile that never reached them. Puc stepped fully into vi
Dawlya’s Dragon 144
144 Althea stood alone in the hollow of the ruined council hall, where char and melted stone still carried the memory of dragonfire. The Dawlya called this place a wound. Althea called it a warning. Above her, the ceiling was ripped open to the night like a mouth forced wide. Ash fell in slow drifts. The air tasted of scorched ink and old blood, and beneath it all, the faint metallic tang of magic that had been burned too hard, too fast. She lifted her hand and let a thread of power slide from her fingertips. The thread sank into the cracked floor, searching. Not for survivors there were none worth saving here. For echoes. The hall’s old wards, once designed to bind dissent and hide rituals, had been shattered. But magic was a stubborn thing. It left fingerprints. It was memorable. It whispered. A soft shimmer ran through the stone, and a ghost of the council’s seal flickered an outline of a circle, the old geometry meant to make Dawlya kneel without realizing they were kneeling.
Dawlya’s Dragon 143
143 The balcony doors to Avi’s chambers were open, letting the evening air drift in from the gardens below. Ashbarrie was quiet in that rare, fragile way that only came after decisions had been made but before consequences arrived. Avi stood at the railing, hands resting on the cool stone, staring out at the distant lights of the city. She could feel Sereth even now, an immense, restrained presence hovering above Malta like a held breath. The Circle was quiet, coiled inward, watching. She didn’t turn when Cain stepped into the room. She felt him before she heard him his weight, his heat, the way the mate-bond pulled tight the moment he crossed the threshold. “Avin,” he said softly. That tone alone made her chest ache. She turned, already bracing herself. “You’re quiet,” she said. “That’s never good.” Cain exhaled slowly and closed the distance between them, stopping just short of touching her. His eyes searched her face, memorizing, as if distance were already stealing her away.
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