The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 20 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 21: Grandeur
In the golden light of late afternoon, the dwarven farmlands buzzed with quiet life, terraced fields brimming with strange crops, stone irrigation channels whispering water, and the scent of earth thick in the air.
At one edge of the valley, Nekonata and Tarasque clashed in rhythm, blades flashing as they honed their swordsmanship under the watchful eyes of the mountains. The ring of steel blended with the breeze, a familiar song of discipline and strength.
Across the farmland, in an open patch of wind-swept grass, a different lesson was unfolding.
Amira, the small dragon with brilliant orange and violet scales, stood wide-eyed before a towering presence, Elqiana, the opal-white dragon whose wings seemed woven from clouds and starlight. The dragon’s eyes glimmered with patience and curiosity as she watched the younger one flutter her wings, unsure and unsteady.
‘Feel the wind,’ Elqiana rumbled softly, her voice like distant thunder. ‘Let it lift you, not fight you.’
Under her guidance, Amira took hesitant leaps, learning to ride the currents, to turn with grace rather than brute strength. Each attempt brought her higher, more fluid, more free.
Meanwhile, Santaya and Kristolia, the ever-loyal wolves, plodded through the farmland’s edges, noses to the ground, tails flicking as they inspected unfamiliar crops and curious dwarven tools. Their peaceful pacing brought balance to the intensity of training and the wonder of flight.
The sound of clashing blades rang out once more, sharp and clean against the peaceful hum of the dwarven farmlands. Tarasque lunged forward, her sword slicing through the air with precision, but once again, Nekonata twisted effortlessly away, deflecting her strike with a graceful, almost casual parry.
A frustrated growl escaped her lips as she reset her stance, shoulders tense.
"You're not even trying," she snapped, sweat trickling down her brow.
"I am," Nekonata replied calmly, circling her like a river winding around stone. "You're just letting frustration lead your blade."
Tarasque scowled. “I should have landed that one.”
“You will,” he said, pausing. “But not if you keep chasing the win instead of the moment. Breathe. Be still inside, even when everything outside is moving.”
Across the open fields, Amira let out a delighted trill as she spiraled through the air. Elqiana glided nearby, her enormous wings barely moving as she demonstrated another maneuver, a smooth, looping barrel roll that sliced through the sky like ribbon through water.
‘Now, try it,’ Elqiana called gently. ‘Feel the wind wrap around you. Let it guide your shape, not just your wings.’
Amira tilted and spun, wobbling at first, then righting herself with a flick of her tail. Her joy was radiant.
At the far end of the farmland, seated in the tall grass near a shaded grove, Elvina watched it all in silence. Her eyes followed the flight of the dragons, then the duel, a quiet intensity behind her stillness. She said nothing, but her gaze missed nothing.
Back at the training ground, the sun burned brighter, and the heat clung to every breath. Nekonata paused, tugging off his tunic and tossing it aside. His lithe, muscular form glistened in the light, honed and balanced like the very blade he carried.
Tarasque froze.
Just for a heartbeat, her breath caught in her throat, eyes trailing the curve of his shoulders, the flex of muscle as he lifted his blade again. She blinked, the moment slipping through her like sand.
Snap!
Nekonata’s fingers clicked in front of her face.
“Focus,” he said, utterly oblivious. “I’m not the only one who needs patience.”
Tarasque flushed, jaw tightening, not from anger this time, but something else entirely.
From her seat beneath the shade, Elvina's eyes narrowed with amusement. She caught the subtle hitch in Tarasque’s breath, the way her gaze lingered just a little too long on Nekonata’s now-bare torso. A smirk tugged at the corners of her lips.
“Oh dear,” Elvina murmured under her breath, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “This is going to get ridiculous.”
Beside her, the wolves Santaya and Kristolia exchanged a look, ears twitching in silent understanding, before padding over to sit by Elvina. They flopped down in the grass with practiced grace, one resting its head on her boot as if to say, we see it too.
Back on the training ground, Tarasque rolled her shoulders, blade in hand, but her focus was... well, not entirely on the swordplay.
“You know,” she said with a teasing lilt, circling Nekonata, “if your muscles were any more defined, I’d start to wonder if the sword is just an excuse to show off.”
Nekonata raised an eyebrow, turning just enough to deflect her next strike. “If compliments are your new strategy, you’ll have to try harder. I’ve heard better lines from dwarves half-drunk on berry mead.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Tarasque said with a wink, pressing in close for another strike, “I’m just warming up.”
Over by the grove, Elvina groaned softly and rubbed her temples. The wolves glanced up at her with mirrored expressions of mild exasperation.
“If this keeps going,” she muttered, “she’s going to flirt herself into a full-on tumble in the grass. And then I’m going to have to pretend I didn’t see it.”
With a resigned breath, Elvina stood, brushing stray blades of grass from her cloak. The wolves rose with her, flanking her sides as she began a slow, deliberate walk toward the sparring pair.
Meanwhile, above them all, the air shimmered with warm drafts. Amira circled clumsily in the sky, wobbling as she tried to hold her course. Elqiana flew alongside her, serene and majestic, her voice drifting on the wind.
‘Feel the pressure beneath your wings, little Goldie. The current is not your enemy, it’s your partner. Trust it.’
Amira banked right, catching a sudden updraft, and squealed with joy as it lifted her higher than before.
Below, the growing tension between sword strikes and stolen glances simmered, while the dragons danced through the sky and Elvina approached, already regretting her decision to get involved.
The blades danced once more, steel glinting in the sun, the sound of metal on metal cutting through the soft hum of the farmland. Tarasque pressed in, lips curled in a grin, her strikes quick but lacking the sharp focus from earlier.
“You know,” she said, ducking around a parry, “if you keep showing off those arms, I might forget we’re supposed to be fighting.”
Nekonata, calm as ever, flicked her blade aside with ease. “Then perhaps you should stop staring.”
“Oh, I’m not staring,” she quipped, sidestepping, “I’m planning.”
“Planning?” he echoed, blocking another strike.
“Mmhm. Thinking about how nice you’d look without the rest of those clothes on, preferably under me.”
A sharp clang as their blades locked. Nekonata’s expression remained unreadable, but his stance shifted, more grounded, more precise.
Still, Tarasque pushed further. “You know, when this sparring match is over, I wouldn’t mind taking you to bed. We could work on some... hand-to-hand techniques.”
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then Nekonata’s eyes flared, orange shot through with purple, like twin infernos suddenly kindled.
Before Tarasque could react, her blade was knocked clean from her hand with a sharp clang, and her legs swept out from under her. She hit the ground with a solid thud, breath catching—
—and Nekonata was on her, pinning her down with one arm pressed to her shoulder, the other braced beside her head.
His face was close. His voice was low, firm, and laced with something other than amusement.
“Comments like that,” he growled, “are not meant for the battlefield... or sparring.”
Tarasque blinked, breathless, not from the fall.
Before she could respond, a shadow fell across them.
“Elvina,” Nekonata said flatly, not moving.
Elvina stood at their side, arms crossed, brow slightly raised. She looked at Nekonata and nodded once, cool, composed.
Then she turned to Tarasque, still pinned beneath him.
“It’s time to get ready,” Elvina said, her tone clipped, “King Althor’s birthday waits for no one.”
Tarasque groaned softly. “Great timing.”
The wolves padded up behind Elvina, watching with vague interest, as if this entire scene had played out exactly how they expected.
Nekonata finally stood, offering no apology, just a hand. “Try not to let your mouth write checks your sword can’t cash.”
Tarasque smirked, taking his hand. “Oh, I can cash plenty, just not in front of royalty.”
Above them, Amira wheeled through the sky with a triumphant roar, Elqiana soaring beside her like a silver guardian. The winds had shifted, and so too had the tone of the day.
With a steady hand, Nekonata pulled Tarasque to her feet. His grip was firm, but his expression unreadable, eyes still glowing faintly from the moment before. As she dusted herself off with an exaggerated flourish, she turned without a word and strolled off toward Elvina, who was already walking toward the path back to her quarters.
Just before turning the corner, Tarasque glanced over her shoulder.
With a slow, sultry smile, she gave him a little wave, fingers wiggling teasingly as if to say, see you later, handsome.
Nekonata stood frozen, brows slightly raised, unsure whether to feel amused, confused, or entirely unarmed for whatever that was. His lips parted like he might say something, then closed again as he ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
“She’s... a storm,” he muttered to himself.
Not far ahead, Elvina nudged Tarasque with her shoulder as they walked.
“Careful,” she said, voice low but pointed. “Keep pushing like that, and one of these days, you’ll push too far.”
Tarasque only grinned wider. “Elvina, did you see him without a top on? That man is hot. Like... dangerously hot. Like 'burn-my-fingers-if-I-touch-him' hot.”
Elvina shot her a daggered look sharp enough to cut thread. “Yes, I have eyes. And restraint. You might want to borrow some.”
Tarasque let out a soft laugh but said nothing else as they reached the quarters.
Inside, the room was bathed in golden light from high-set windows. And waiting for them, elegant as ever, stood Serelise—the court tailor, tall and graceful, with silver hair bound in ribbons and eyes like polished marble.
“Ladies,” she said with a smile that held both warmth and precision. “Your dresses are ready.”
Two stunning gala gowns hung from sculpted wooden stands, one shimmering like deep emerald waters with silver embroidery, the other a rich burgundy velvet with black lace accents. Both were tailored to perfection, designed not just to impress but to command.
Tarasque and Elvina exchanged glances, one excited, the other steeling herself for the evening ahead.
Back in the Farmlands…
The wind danced across the sky as Amira soared in wide, playful loops, her small frame flickering like firelight against the sun. Below, Elqiana flew steadily, offering a regal calm that guided the young dragon’s wild joy.
From the field below, Nekonata closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, his thoughts sharp but warm.
"It’s time you take a rest, Amira. Don’t forget to thank Elqiana for training with you."
In the sky, Amira wobbled mid-turn, then let out a soft trill of acknowledgment.
With a final swoop, she glided down toward the field, the light fading behind her wings. Elqiana circled overhead once more, then began her own descent, graceful and slow, her opalescent form catching the fading sun like a prism.
The great hall of King Althor's keep was ablaze with golden light and laughter, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, sweet wines, and clove-dusted breads. Musicians strummed lutes and played flutes in a lilting harmony that filled the vaulted stone chamber, where nobles, warriors, and emissaries from distant clans mingled beneath banners of silk and gold.
The party was in full swing when the tall oak doors opened once more.
Nekonata entered with quiet power.
Freshly shaved, his angular features sharp and composed, he wore tailored black trousers and a dark purple tunic trimmed with vivid orange embroidery that shimmered in the torchlight. The colors mirrored the glint of fire and dusk, his new signature, understated but commanding. Flanking him were his ever-loyal wolves, Santaya and Kristolia, moving with silent, regal grace.
Amira had chosen to stay within the safety of King Althor’s private chambers, a wise decision, given her size and age. But her absence did not dull the weight of Neko’s presence, through their mind-link connection he told everything, describing everything, and giving her mental images of what he can see.
As he moved through the hall, conversations faltered, nobles shifted aside, and warriors stepped back. All eyes drifted toward the man who had earned both legend and fear. Even the music seemed too quiet, just for a beat.
High above on a wooden beam, Loki, the raven sulking, gave a dramatic squawk, announcing what the crowd already knew.
At the head of the grand feasting table, King Althor rose with a broad, beaming grin, his goblet raised in welcome. On his left sat Gabija, the stoic and beautiful Elf Chief of Clan Panther, clad in sleek ceremonial black. On Althor’s right, a seat remained conspicuously empty, until the king motioned grandly for Nekonata.
"Come," Althor called. "What is a birthday feast without you my friend?"
Nekonata bowed slightly, then moved to take the seat, wolves settling loyally behind him. Berry mead and honey mead flowed freely, filling goblets and loosening tongues.
And then—
The doors swung open.
Conversation halted again, but this time not for fear or reputation, for allure.
Tarasque stepped into the hall like she owned every stone beneath her heel. She wore a deep emerald gown embroidered with silver threads that curled like vines across the bodice and hips. The dress hugged her curves with dangerous precision, her pert cleavage leaving nothing to the imagination. Her long, curly red hair bounced with each confident step, catching the candlelight like copper flame.
Nekonata froze.
His breath caught mid-inhale, his gaze locked on her as though a spell had seized him. The sound around him blurred. For just a moment, Tarasque was the only thing in the room.
A flicker of a smile curled her lips when she caught him staring.
Then—
Thud. A firm slap on the back from Vivi, his mentor and guide, with a grin, snapped him back into the present.
“You look like a lad seeing a goddess for the first time,” Vivi teased, then passed him a goblet of berry mead with a wink. “Better drink before you forget how to talk.”
Just as Nekonata was about to retort, the doors parted again.
And in swept Elvina.
Tall and elegant, she carried herself with that ageless grace only an elf could possess. Her burgundy dress, edged in black lace, clung to her toned figure like a second skin. The thigh-high slit revealed the strength of her legs, and the plunging neckline left just enough mystery to keep all eyes lingering. Her long black hair cascaded down her chest, partially concealing what was intentionally revealed.
A hush rippled through the hall. They had arrived, one like flame, and the other one like shadow.
And somewhere, Loki let out another squawk, almost as if to say: This evening is only just beginning.
Vivi, with a knowing grin, stood and gave up his seat, allowing Tarasque to slide in beside Nekonata on his left. She sat with a swish of her emerald gown, the scent of wild rose and steel clinging to her like an aura. Elvina followed closely, settling elegantly to Tarasque’s left, her posture as poised as ever.
"You look… breathtaking," Nekonata murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear.
Tarasque blinked, momentarily stunned, colour blooming across her cheeks. “You clean up pretty well yourself,” she managed, before looking away quickly nervously..
Before another word could be said, King Althor stood with arms wide and a grin stretching beneath his red beard.
"Now that my esteemed guests have arrived," he boomed, "let the party begin!"
A cheer erupted across the hall, mead sloshed from goblets, and music sprang to life, a rowdy, infectious tune that sent dwarves stomping and clapping along.
Nekonata leaned back slightly, stealing a glance at Tarasque from the corner of his eye as she leaned in to say something to Elvina, both of them laughing softly. He smiled faintly, then turned his gaze across the hall.
The decorations were extravagant, even by royal standards, chandeliers of hammered gold and violet crystal, long banquet tables draped in velvet, walls covered in hand-stitched banners depicting dwarven victories and royal bloodlines. And yet, all of it felt warm, familiar.
He shared everything silently with Amira, mind to mind, thought to thought.
‘The walls glitter like your scales. There’s music, and laughter. Everyone is dressed like royalty… they’d love to meet you.’
Amira shifted in the king’s private quarters, curled against plush pillows. She squirmed in excitement, her voice echoing in his mind, ‘Could I be by your side when you present the king his birthday gift?’
Nekonata smiled.
‘Of course.’
As the gift-giving commenced, Gabija stood gracefully, her slender hands revealing a parchment roll. She presented a hand-drawn portrait of Althor as a young prince, regal, curious, eyes full of fire. “I remembered your face from the day we met,” she said softly. “And I remembered the kindness in your voice.”
Althor’s eyes softened with nostalgia. “You always did see too much, Gabija.”
Next, Vivi stood, lifting with both arms a heavy carved sculpture of a mountain goat mid-leap, crafted from a single block of smoky rosewood. “For the king who climbs every obstacle with stubborn pride.”
The hall laughed, and Althor clapped him heartily on the back. “You old bastard,” he chuckled, “you know me too well.”
Then all eyes turned to Nekonata.
He rose without a word, moving with that same fluid grace, his wolves trailing behind him. He stepped into the centre of the hall, and bowed low to the king.
The hall quieted.
The massive doors creaked open once more.
Amira stepped through.
Her claws clicked against the polished stone floor as she moved forward, eyes wide and glowing, her orange-purple scales gleaming like a living sunset. As she passed under the chandeliers, her scales caught the light and threw soft reflections across the hall, glowing motes of orange and violet dancing on walls, goblets, and armour.
The crowd gasped.
Gabija stood so fast her chair nearly toppled, her face frozen in shock. Her eyes shot to Nekonata, then to Althor, then to the young dragon again. She had known nothing of this.
"Nekonata... that’s your dragon?" she whispered to no one in particular.
He gave a slow nod, eyes fixed on the king.
Then he cleared his throat. “Please forgive me, Your Majesty. Everyone. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
A signal to the musicians, then the band began to play.
Soft at first. Then stronger.
Nekonata sang.
His voice, unsure at first, deepened and steadied with every word. He sang of joy, of loyalty, of companionship and sorrow, of how he met Althor long ago, and the days they laughed and fought side by side. He sang of Gabija, of the battles they'd faced, and of the unlikely friendships that grew from blood and fire.
The hall fell utterly silent. Even Loki quieted in his rafters, head cocked.
As the final note lingered in the air, Santaya and Kristolia barked joyfully, their tails thumping the floor.
Then something remarkable happened.
Amira, stirred by the depth of emotion, his memories, his voice, his heart, moved forward and bowed deeply. Her body shimmered like water.
And from Nekonata’s pocket, the garnet he had found not long ago rose into the air, hovering between them.
She touched it with her snout.
It pulsed, once. Twice.
Then burst into radiant light.
Orange and purple magic swirled through the hall like a slow-moving flame, wrapping around the garnet, reshaping it, transforming it into something ancient and sacred: the Dwarven Tree of Life, its branches outstretched in unity, its roots deep with legacy.
The hall gasped again, this time in reverence.
Nekonata, stunned, looked down at Amira with new eyes, full of awe, of wonder, of the knowledge that his bond with her was deeper than anything he’d understood before.
He stepped forward slowly, lifting the glowing Tree of Life with reverent hands. The gem hummed in his palms as he carried it to the high table.
He bowed, and held it out to King Althor.
“My king. From both of us.”
Althor looked at the gift, speechless for a long moment. Then his eyes misted.
“I have received gold, jewels, and weapons and armour in my time,” he said quietly, “but never has anyone given me something so meaningful. From a dragon. And from a friend.”
He stood and pulled Nekonata into a crushing embrace, wolves barking and the crowd erupting into applause.
Chapter 21: Grandeur
In the golden light of late afternoon, the dwarven farmlands buzzed with quiet life, terraced fields brimming with strange crops, stone irrigation channels whispering water, and the scent of earth thick in the air.
At one edge of the valley, Nekonata and Tarasque clashed in rhythm, blades flashing as they honed their swordsmanship under the watchful eyes of the mountains. The ring of steel blended with the breeze, a familiar song of discipline and strength.
Across the farmland, in an open patch of wind-swept grass, a different lesson was unfolding.
Amira, the small dragon with brilliant orange and violet scales, stood wide-eyed before a towering presence, Elqiana, the opal-white dragon whose wings seemed woven from clouds and starlight. The dragon’s eyes glimmered with patience and curiosity as she watched the younger one flutter her wings, unsure and unsteady.
‘Feel the wind,’ Elqiana rumbled softly, her voice like distant thunder. ‘Let it lift you, not fight you.’
Under her guidance, Amira took hesitant leaps, learning to ride the currents, to turn with grace rather than brute strength. Each attempt brought her higher, more fluid, more free.
Meanwhile, Santaya and Kristolia, the ever-loyal wolves, plodded through the farmland’s edges, noses to the ground, tails flicking as they inspected unfamiliar crops and curious dwarven tools. Their peaceful pacing brought balance to the intensity of training and the wonder of flight.
The sound of clashing blades rang out once more, sharp and clean against the peaceful hum of the dwarven farmlands. Tarasque lunged forward, her sword slicing through the air with precision, but once again, Nekonata twisted effortlessly away, deflecting her strike with a graceful, almost casual parry.
A frustrated growl escaped her lips as she reset her stance, shoulders tense.
"You're not even trying," she snapped, sweat trickling down her brow.
"I am," Nekonata replied calmly, circling her like a river winding around stone. "You're just letting frustration lead your blade."
Tarasque scowled. “I should have landed that one.”
“You will,” he said, pausing. “But not if you keep chasing the win instead of the moment. Breathe. Be still inside, even when everything outside is moving.”
Across the open fields, Amira let out a delighted trill as she spiraled through the air. Elqiana glided nearby, her enormous wings barely moving as she demonstrated another maneuver, a smooth, looping barrel roll that sliced through the sky like ribbon through water.
‘Now, try it,’ Elqiana called gently. ‘Feel the wind wrap around you. Let it guide your shape, not just your wings.’
Amira tilted and spun, wobbling at first, then righting herself with a flick of her tail. Her joy was radiant.
At the far end of the farmland, seated in the tall grass near a shaded grove, Elvina watched it all in silence. Her eyes followed the flight of the dragons, then the duel, a quiet intensity behind her stillness. She said nothing, but her gaze missed nothing.
Back at the training ground, the sun burned brighter, and the heat clung to every breath. Nekonata paused, tugging off his tunic and tossing it aside. His lithe, muscular form glistened in the light, honed and balanced like the very blade he carried.
Tarasque froze.
Just for a heartbeat, her breath caught in her throat, eyes trailing the curve of his shoulders, the flex of muscle as he lifted his blade again. She blinked, the moment slipping through her like sand.
Snap!
Nekonata’s fingers clicked in front of her face.
“Focus,” he said, utterly oblivious. “I’m not the only one who needs patience.”
Tarasque flushed, jaw tightening, not from anger this time, but something else entirely.
From her seat beneath the shade, Elvina's eyes narrowed with amusement. She caught the subtle hitch in Tarasque’s breath, the way her gaze lingered just a little too long on Nekonata’s now-bare torso. A smirk tugged at the corners of her lips.
“Oh dear,” Elvina murmured under her breath, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “This is going to get ridiculous.”
Beside her, the wolves Santaya and Kristolia exchanged a look, ears twitching in silent understanding, before padding over to sit by Elvina. They flopped down in the grass with practiced grace, one resting its head on her boot as if to say, we see it too.
Back on the training ground, Tarasque rolled her shoulders, blade in hand, but her focus was... well, not entirely on the swordplay.
“You know,” she said with a teasing lilt, circling Nekonata, “if your muscles were any more defined, I’d start to wonder if the sword is just an excuse to show off.”
Nekonata raised an eyebrow, turning just enough to deflect her next strike. “If compliments are your new strategy, you’ll have to try harder. I’ve heard better lines from dwarves half-drunk on berry mead.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Tarasque said with a wink, pressing in close for another strike, “I’m just warming up.”
Over by the grove, Elvina groaned softly and rubbed her temples. The wolves glanced up at her with mirrored expressions of mild exasperation.
“If this keeps going,” she muttered, “she’s going to flirt herself into a full-on tumble in the grass. And then I’m going to have to pretend I didn’t see it.”
With a resigned breath, Elvina stood, brushing stray blades of grass from her cloak. The wolves rose with her, flanking her sides as she began a slow, deliberate walk toward the sparring pair.
Meanwhile, above them all, the air shimmered with warm drafts. Amira circled clumsily in the sky, wobbling as she tried to hold her course. Elqiana flew alongside her, serene and majestic, her voice drifting on the wind.
‘Feel the pressure beneath your wings, little Goldie. The current is not your enemy, it’s your partner. Trust it.’
Amira banked right, catching a sudden updraft, and squealed with joy as it lifted her higher than before.
Below, the growing tension between sword strikes and stolen glances simmered, while the dragons danced through the sky and Elvina approached, already regretting her decision to get involved.
The blades danced once more, steel glinting in the sun, the sound of metal on metal cutting through the soft hum of the farmland. Tarasque pressed in, lips curled in a grin, her strikes quick but lacking the sharp focus from earlier.
“You know,” she said, ducking around a parry, “if you keep showing off those arms, I might forget we’re supposed to be fighting.”
Nekonata, calm as ever, flicked her blade aside with ease. “Then perhaps you should stop staring.”
“Oh, I’m not staring,” she quipped, sidestepping, “I’m planning.”
“Planning?” he echoed, blocking another strike.
“Mmhm. Thinking about how nice you’d look without the rest of those clothes on, preferably under me.”
A sharp clang as their blades locked. Nekonata’s expression remained unreadable, but his stance shifted, more grounded, more precise.
Still, Tarasque pushed further. “You know, when this sparring match is over, I wouldn’t mind taking you to bed. We could work on some... hand-to-hand techniques.”
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then Nekonata’s eyes flared, orange shot through with purple, like twin infernos suddenly kindled.
Before Tarasque could react, her blade was knocked clean from her hand with a sharp clang, and her legs swept out from under her. She hit the ground with a solid thud, breath catching—
—and Nekonata was on her, pinning her down with one arm pressed to her shoulder, the other braced beside her head.
His face was close. His voice was low, firm, and laced with something other than amusement.
“Comments like that,” he growled, “are not meant for the battlefield... or sparring.”
Tarasque blinked, breathless, not from the fall.
Before she could respond, a shadow fell across them.
“Elvina,” Nekonata said flatly, not moving.
Elvina stood at their side, arms crossed, brow slightly raised. She looked at Nekonata and nodded once, cool, composed.
Then she turned to Tarasque, still pinned beneath him.
“It’s time to get ready,” Elvina said, her tone clipped, “King Althor’s birthday waits for no one.”
Tarasque groaned softly. “Great timing.”
The wolves padded up behind Elvina, watching with vague interest, as if this entire scene had played out exactly how they expected.
Nekonata finally stood, offering no apology, just a hand. “Try not to let your mouth write checks your sword can’t cash.”
Tarasque smirked, taking his hand. “Oh, I can cash plenty, just not in front of royalty.”
Above them, Amira wheeled through the sky with a triumphant roar, Elqiana soaring beside her like a silver guardian. The winds had shifted, and so too had the tone of the day.
With a steady hand, Nekonata pulled Tarasque to her feet. His grip was firm, but his expression unreadable, eyes still glowing faintly from the moment before. As she dusted herself off with an exaggerated flourish, she turned without a word and strolled off toward Elvina, who was already walking toward the path back to her quarters.
Just before turning the corner, Tarasque glanced over her shoulder.
With a slow, sultry smile, she gave him a little wave, fingers wiggling teasingly as if to say, see you later, handsome.
Nekonata stood frozen, brows slightly raised, unsure whether to feel amused, confused, or entirely unarmed for whatever that was. His lips parted like he might say something, then closed again as he ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
“She’s... a storm,” he muttered to himself.
Not far ahead, Elvina nudged Tarasque with her shoulder as they walked.
“Careful,” she said, voice low but pointed. “Keep pushing like that, and one of these days, you’ll push too far.”
Tarasque only grinned wider. “Elvina, did you see him without a top on? That man is hot. Like... dangerously hot. Like 'burn-my-fingers-if-I-touch-him' hot.”
Elvina shot her a daggered look sharp enough to cut thread. “Yes, I have eyes. And restraint. You might want to borrow some.”
Tarasque let out a soft laugh but said nothing else as they reached the quarters.
Inside, the room was bathed in golden light from high-set windows. And waiting for them, elegant as ever, stood Serelise—the court tailor, tall and graceful, with silver hair bound in ribbons and eyes like polished marble.
“Ladies,” she said with a smile that held both warmth and precision. “Your dresses are ready.”
Two stunning gala gowns hung from sculpted wooden stands, one shimmering like deep emerald waters with silver embroidery, the other a rich burgundy velvet with black lace accents. Both were tailored to perfection, designed not just to impress but to command.
Tarasque and Elvina exchanged glances, one excited, the other steeling herself for the evening ahead.
Back in the Farmlands…
The wind danced across the sky as Amira soared in wide, playful loops, her small frame flickering like firelight against the sun. Below, Elqiana flew steadily, offering a regal calm that guided the young dragon’s wild joy.
From the field below, Nekonata closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, his thoughts sharp but warm.
"It’s time you take a rest, Amira. Don’t forget to thank Elqiana for training with you."
In the sky, Amira wobbled mid-turn, then let out a soft trill of acknowledgment.
With a final swoop, she glided down toward the field, the light fading behind her wings. Elqiana circled overhead once more, then began her own descent, graceful and slow, her opalescent form catching the fading sun like a prism.
The great hall of King Althor's keep was ablaze with golden light and laughter, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, sweet wines, and clove-dusted breads. Musicians strummed lutes and played flutes in a lilting harmony that filled the vaulted stone chamber, where nobles, warriors, and emissaries from distant clans mingled beneath banners of silk and gold.
The party was in full swing when the tall oak doors opened once more.
Nekonata entered with quiet power.
Freshly shaved, his angular features sharp and composed, he wore tailored black trousers and a dark purple tunic trimmed with vivid orange embroidery that shimmered in the torchlight. The colors mirrored the glint of fire and dusk, his new signature, understated but commanding. Flanking him were his ever-loyal wolves, Santaya and Kristolia, moving with silent, regal grace.
Amira had chosen to stay within the safety of King Althor’s private chambers, a wise decision, given her size and age. But her absence did not dull the weight of Neko’s presence, through their mind-link connection he told everything, describing everything, and giving her mental images of what he can see.
As he moved through the hall, conversations faltered, nobles shifted aside, and warriors stepped back. All eyes drifted toward the man who had earned both legend and fear. Even the music seemed too quiet, just for a beat.
High above on a wooden beam, Loki, the raven sulking, gave a dramatic squawk, announcing what the crowd already knew.
At the head of the grand feasting table, King Althor rose with a broad, beaming grin, his goblet raised in welcome. On his left sat Gabija, the stoic and beautiful Elf Chief of Clan Panther, clad in sleek ceremonial black. On Althor’s right, a seat remained conspicuously empty, until the king motioned grandly for Nekonata.
"Come," Althor called. "What is a birthday feast without you my friend?"
Nekonata bowed slightly, then moved to take the seat, wolves settling loyally behind him. Berry mead and honey mead flowed freely, filling goblets and loosening tongues.
And then—
The doors swung open.
Conversation halted again, but this time not for fear or reputation, for allure.
Tarasque stepped into the hall like she owned every stone beneath her heel. She wore a deep emerald gown embroidered with silver threads that curled like vines across the bodice and hips. The dress hugged her curves with dangerous precision, her pert cleavage leaving nothing to the imagination. Her long, curly red hair bounced with each confident step, catching the candlelight like copper flame.
Nekonata froze.
His breath caught mid-inhale, his gaze locked on her as though a spell had seized him. The sound around him blurred. For just a moment, Tarasque was the only thing in the room.
A flicker of a smile curled her lips when she caught him staring.
Then—
Thud. A firm slap on the back from Vivi, his mentor and guide, with a grin, snapped him back into the present.
“You look like a lad seeing a goddess for the first time,” Vivi teased, then passed him a goblet of berry mead with a wink. “Better drink before you forget how to talk.”
Just as Nekonata was about to retort, the doors parted again.
And in swept Elvina.
Tall and elegant, she carried herself with that ageless grace only an elf could possess. Her burgundy dress, edged in black lace, clung to her toned figure like a second skin. The thigh-high slit revealed the strength of her legs, and the plunging neckline left just enough mystery to keep all eyes lingering. Her long black hair cascaded down her chest, partially concealing what was intentionally revealed.
A hush rippled through the hall. They had arrived, one like flame, and the other one like shadow.
And somewhere, Loki let out another squawk, almost as if to say: This evening is only just beginning.
Vivi, with a knowing grin, stood and gave up his seat, allowing Tarasque to slide in beside Nekonata on his left. She sat with a swish of her emerald gown, the scent of wild rose and steel clinging to her like an aura. Elvina followed closely, settling elegantly to Tarasque’s left, her posture as poised as ever.
"You look… breathtaking," Nekonata murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear.
Tarasque blinked, momentarily stunned, colour blooming across her cheeks. “You clean up pretty well yourself,” she managed, before looking away quickly nervously..
Before another word could be said, King Althor stood with arms wide and a grin stretching beneath his red beard.
"Now that my esteemed guests have arrived," he boomed, "let the party begin!"
A cheer erupted across the hall, mead sloshed from goblets, and music sprang to life, a rowdy, infectious tune that sent dwarves stomping and clapping along.
Nekonata leaned back slightly, stealing a glance at Tarasque from the corner of his eye as she leaned in to say something to Elvina, both of them laughing softly. He smiled faintly, then turned his gaze across the hall.
The decorations were extravagant, even by royal standards, chandeliers of hammered gold and violet crystal, long banquet tables draped in velvet, walls covered in hand-stitched banners depicting dwarven victories and royal bloodlines. And yet, all of it felt warm, familiar.
He shared everything silently with Amira, mind to mind, thought to thought.
‘The walls glitter like your scales. There’s music, and laughter. Everyone is dressed like royalty… they’d love to meet you.’
Amira shifted in the king’s private quarters, curled against plush pillows. She squirmed in excitement, her voice echoing in his mind, ‘Could I be by your side when you present the king his birthday gift?’
Nekonata smiled.
‘Of course.’
As the gift-giving commenced, Gabija stood gracefully, her slender hands revealing a parchment roll. She presented a hand-drawn portrait of Althor as a young prince, regal, curious, eyes full of fire. “I remembered your face from the day we met,” she said softly. “And I remembered the kindness in your voice.”
Althor’s eyes softened with nostalgia. “You always did see too much, Gabija.”
Next, Vivi stood, lifting with both arms a heavy carved sculpture of a mountain goat mid-leap, crafted from a single block of smoky rosewood. “For the king who climbs every obstacle with stubborn pride.”
The hall laughed, and Althor clapped him heartily on the back. “You old bastard,” he chuckled, “you know me too well.”
Then all eyes turned to Nekonata.
He rose without a word, moving with that same fluid grace, his wolves trailing behind him. He stepped into the centre of the hall, and bowed low to the king.
The hall quieted.
The massive doors creaked open once more.
Amira stepped through.
Her claws clicked against the polished stone floor as she moved forward, eyes wide and glowing, her orange-purple scales gleaming like a living sunset. As she passed under the chandeliers, her scales caught the light and threw soft reflections across the hall, glowing motes of orange and violet dancing on walls, goblets, and armour.
The crowd gasped.
Gabija stood so fast her chair nearly toppled, her face frozen in shock. Her eyes shot to Nekonata, then to Althor, then to the young dragon again. She had known nothing of this.
"Nekonata... that’s your dragon?" she whispered to no one in particular.
He gave a slow nod, eyes fixed on the king.
Then he cleared his throat. “Please forgive me, Your Majesty. Everyone. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
A signal to the musicians, then the band began to play.
Soft at first. Then stronger.
Nekonata sang.
His voice, unsure at first, deepened and steadied with every word. He sang of joy, of loyalty, of companionship and sorrow, of how he met Althor long ago, and the days they laughed and fought side by side. He sang of Gabija, of the battles they'd faced, and of the unlikely friendships that grew from blood and fire.
The hall fell utterly silent. Even Loki quieted in his rafters, head cocked.
As the final note lingered in the air, Santaya and Kristolia barked joyfully, their tails thumping the floor.
Then something remarkable happened.
Amira, stirred by the depth of emotion, his memories, his voice, his heart, moved forward and bowed deeply. Her body shimmered like water.
And from Nekonata’s pocket, the garnet he had found not long ago rose into the air, hovering between them.
She touched it with her snout.
It pulsed, once. Twice.
Then burst into radiant light.
Orange and purple magic swirled through the hall like a slow-moving flame, wrapping around the garnet, reshaping it, transforming it into something ancient and sacred: the Dwarven Tree of Life, its branches outstretched in unity, its roots deep with legacy.
The hall gasped again, this time in reverence.
Nekonata, stunned, looked down at Amira with new eyes, full of awe, of wonder, of the knowledge that his bond with her was deeper than anything he’d understood before.
He stepped forward slowly, lifting the glowing Tree of Life with reverent hands. The gem hummed in his palms as he carried it to the high table.
He bowed, and held it out to King Althor.
“My king. From both of us.”
Althor looked at the gift, speechless for a long moment. Then his eyes misted.
“I have received gold, jewels, and weapons and armour in my time,” he said quietly, “but never has anyone given me something so meaningful. From a dragon. And from a friend.”
He stood and pulled Nekonata into a crushing embrace, wolves barking and the crowd erupting into applause.
Gabija going into shock for a moment .. hahha I liked it !