The silence wasn't heavy, it was taut. Like thread stretched between two sharp things. Not tension between them. Tension between them and everything else.
They passed the corner where someone had hung a charm above their door, a crooked bundle of sage and black string, scorched at the edge. Leftover fear disguised as tradition.
Lindarion's boots struck the frost in slow, even beats. His shoulders ached again. Not from fighting. From holding back.
Ren didn't look at him. Not directly. But she glanced just once, when they turned the path behind the inn, where the snow thinned and the outer rooms overlooked the slope of the woods.
But the air around him was different now. It pulsed once, then stilled. Heat on a leash.
They reached the stairs.
The upper level creaked under their boots, the sound climbing ahead of them.
Lindarion's hand hovered over the door.
He didn't open it yet.
There was a glow behind the wood.
Something darker. Blue-white at the edges. Like light trying to remember how to be heat.
Ashwing was crouched in the middle of the floor.
Not curled. Not asleep.
Steam drifted from the cracks between his teeth. The air bent around him, warped by the wrong kind of heat.
And in front of him, was what used to be the iron edge of Lindarion's travel pack.
Now it was half-melted.
Ashwing's eyes, usually a soft molten gold glowed brighter now. Sharper. Slitted pupils thinner. Not afraid.
Lindarion stepped inside.
Ashwing turned his head slowly. The muscles in his neck were more defined. There was a second ridge starting to form near the base of his spine, like something underneath the skin had remembered it was supposed to be more.
He let out a low sound.
Somewhere between mine and don't touch me.
"Ash," Lindarion said quietly. "What did you do?"
Something popped near his jaw. Lindarion saw it, new teeth. Sharper. Thinner. His old baby fangs were still there, but now they sat in front of something adult pressing from beneath. Double rows, like a creature between stages.
'He's molting. Evolving. Something.'
The air pulsed again.
And that's when it happened.
Ashwing let out a sound—somewhere between a yawn and a hiss and Lindarion reached forward on reflex, trying to steady him.
His hand touched the side of Ashwing's neck.
Like a star collapsing inside his chest.
The floor cracked beneath his boots. A spiderweb of thin, black veins spread out in an instant. Not destruction, displacement. Like the wood had decided to not be there anymore.
"The shell is breaking."
Selene's voice echoed in him.
Right next to his core.
Ashwing stared at the ground, steam rising in gentle tendrils from his nostrils.
Ren's voice reached him from the doorway.
The floor wasn't fixed.
Just refused to collapse.
Like the Void hadn't taken enough.
He pulled his hand back slowly.
The crackling stopped.
The veins of nothing didn't recede, they just stopped growing, frozen like ink that had run out of paper.
Ashwing blinked once, then slowly began to curl back in on himself, nostrils flaring, tail twitching with a rhythm that didn't match his breath. His wing joints flexed.
The skin between them shimmered for a moment, thin membranes veined with faint lines of gold.
Like the first hint of ore beneath stone.
Ren didn't step forward. She knew better. Her fingers hovered near the handle of her sword, but not like she meant to draw. Just… resting there. Like reassurance.
Behind her, a floorboard creaked.
Lindarion didn't turn.
He already knew who it was.
And then Lira stepped into view.
She moved like shadows followed her, not the other way around.
Her hood was still up. But her face was clear now, sharp cheekbones, pale gray skin with that faint obsidian undertone that only Tirnaeth blood carried. Her eyes cut straight to the center of the room.
Like a blade locking into place.
Ashwing met her gaze.
Lindarion saw it, how her fingers twitched toward the inside of her coat.
He raised a hand, palm up.
The only sound was the dragon's slow breath and the quiet whimper of wood under their feet, still groaning under the aftershock of displaced space.
"You're not hiding well."
She wasn't looking at Lindarion.
Her gaze was split, one part on Ashwing.
The other on the cracks in the floor.
Lindarion didn't answer right away.
Ashwing was still changing.
Not in size, well not yet.
The air bent around him like heat shimmered off stone. Not illusion. Not glamour. Just too much of something in one place.
Ren broke the silence next.
Still trying to sound amused.
Still trying to keep things light enough to carry.
But even she stepped back.
Lira finally turned her full gaze to Lindarion.
Her eyes, dark with that eerie flat sheen that never quite reflected light properly, met his without hesitation.
She didn't look angry.
Didn't look impressed.
She just looked like someone who had finally confirmed a suspicion.
"Another one," she said softly.
Lindarion's throat stayed tight.
His voice came out lower than usual.
Lira stepped forward, just once. The floor didn't make a sound beneath her boots.
She looked at Ashwing again. The dragon's wings twitched. The scales along his neck shimmered, catching faint glints of silver and deep violet under the light.
"He's growing," she said.
"Too hungry," she replied.
She didn't mean food.
"Well," she said, rubbing the back of her neck, "that's definitely not something the villagers are ready for."
"They won't see him," Lindarion said. "Not again. I'll keep him in."
Ren smiled. "Good luck with that."
Lira tilted her head slightly.
"You're changing, too."
Lindarion met her eyes.
Because he wasn't sure how much of him was still him.
Ashwing turned slowly, pressing his head against Lindarion's leg. The contact sent a pulse through his bones, warm this time. Not fire. Not void.
He reached down. Rested a hand between the dragon's horns.
The scales weren't smooth anymore.
They were starting to ridge.