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"We’ll need more moss," Zephyr decided aloud, mind shifting to logistics. "And fresh water. And charfruit—maybe lure a char-vine to the edge of camp. Star can keep it hot enough to fruit early."
Fenna smiled weakly at his practicality. "Same old Zep."
He shrugged. "Someone’s got to think about breakfast."
She laughed.. quiet but real.
Zephyr clapped his hands together, rallying himself. "First, I’ll reinforce Star’s nest so Emberling can stay warm. Then I’ll start on the food. Meanwhile, you rest, Fen."
Fenna shook her head. "I don’t want to sleep. But I’ll sit by her."
"Fair." He squeezed her shoulder. "We’ll talk more after we settle her. The world out there isn’t going to stop for us, but we’ll face it on our own time."
She held his gaze. "Thank you."
"Welcome, You’re everything to me," he said, and meant it.
They walked back to Star’s nest. The drake cracked one eye, chin lifting in curiosity. Zephyr knelt, stroking his scales. "Good guard work, buddy."
Star purred.
Fenna placed her palm on Emberling’s sleeping back. The chick stirred but did not wake.
Zephyr looked at Fenna, at the flickering mark on her wrist, at the way sunlight gilded her ember-streaked hair. Something rose in his chest—hope, fierce and bright.
He didn’t know what challenges lay between here and Ayan’s looming duel. Or what havoc a young phoenix might wreak in a forest full of dry leaves. But in that moment, none of it mattered.
They were together again..And that, for now, was enough for him. Now the forest felt different in the wake of Fenna’s return. Morning sunlight, filtered through ember-tipped foliage, bathed the clearing in amber and rose. Smoke from last night’s cook-fire drifted upward like thin ribbons, caught in lazy spirals by a soft eastern breeze.
A few moments later...
Zephyr breathed in the scent—burned pine, faint sulfur, and something warmer: hope. But tangling behind that hope was urgency. Only seven days remained before they had to break camp, descend the basalt hills, and return to Emberfall city. Seven days before Zephyr stood beneath Forge-Arena bleachers. Fight against Ayan Vaelor’s shadow leopard, who will be stalking across obsidian sand. Seven days—no more—to sharpen every edge they possessed.
Basic drills were finished. Footwork patterns. Strength lifts. Flame-control exercises. Those had forged foundations. Now they needed the whetstone of real threat: moving targets, unpredictable terrain, and the chaos of life-or-death pressure.
But first they need more supplies.
Fenna crouched beside the nest, feeding Emberling a spoonful of steaming charfruit slurry. The thick orange pulp hissed softly in the air, its scent rich with burnt sugar and tangy spice. The chick gulped it, bright orange paste smearing her beak like a child with jam. She chirped, eyes still rimmed in lingering sadness, yet steadier than before. Her tiny wings quivered slightly with each breath, the faint warmth of the nest beneath her calming her twitchy talons. Fenna gently wiped Emberling’s mouth with a cloth corner, whispering nonsense comfort like one might to a feverish child.
Across the clearing, Star stretched, jaw cracking in a wide yawn that exposed rows of pearl white teeth. His wings flared halfway, catching the early sunlight. Scales along his spine shimmered from coal-black to ember-red in a slow, hypnotic wave, then dimmed back to matte darkness as he prowled a half-circle around the camp’s perimeter—an instinctive patrol pattern drilled into him by a week of training. He sniffed the air, tail flicking low to brush a layer of dry ash from the ferns lining the clearing’s edge. Occasionally, he paused and tilted his head as if listening to things only dragons could hear.
Zephyr finished scribbling on a birch-bark sheet: a supply map drawn in rough charcoal lines. The edges of the bark curled from heat, still slightly warm from where it had been pressed in the morning coals. When Fenna approached, he tapped three charcoal circles on the crude sketch, the soot leaving faint prints on his fingers.
"Water." He pointed at the first. "Stream runs steep through sulfur flats; we can fill all the water skin."
"Moss," Fenna said, tapping the second mark. "That ravine with black-glass ferns. The moss clings to the shady side." Her finger lingered a moment on the spot, memories flickering—of slippery rock and the scent of mineral-rich air. She saw it on her way back.
"And char-vine fruit." Zephyr slid his finger to a third circle farther east. "If Star warms them then the vines... they’ll fruit early."
Fenna nodded slowly, tightening the sling around her shoulder. The silk fabric was hand-dyed in muted crimson and lined with dried beast-fur inside. It was soft enough for Emberling’s skin. She adjusted the knot under her arm, ensuring no pressure pinched against her side. Her gaze flicked toward the nest again. "She should stay close to the heat while we forage."
Zephyr nodded. "Star’s nest will hold warmth until midday. We’ll be back before the fire fades." He glanced at the soft layer of ash, charred twigs, and sun-baked leaves Star had instinctively layered to trap heat. A good nest. A safe one.
Star trotted over, tilting his head as Zephyr shouldered a coil of rope, a hatchet, and three empty water skin bags. The drake grunted and nudged a bag with his nose—he’d carry it. A silent agreement formed between them, the kind built from trust earned in fire and field. The weight didn’t matter to Star. Carrying something meant helping. It meant being part of the task.
"Three hours out," Zephyr said. "In, gather, out."
Fenna raised an eyebrow. "When have our plans ever stayed simple?" Her voice was soft, but tinged with a wry knowing the danger-worn humor shared between two who’d had too many plans turned sideways.
"Trying optimism today." He flashed a grin, quick and boyish, though a little weary at the edges.
She managed one in return—small but real, her lips twitching before settling into something sincere. Behind her, Emberling stirred in the nest and let out a soft, rumbling coo that sounded suspiciously like a sleepy laugh.