POV: Ravenna
I need air.
Not the stale palace air that smells like stone and politics. REAL air. Garden air. The kind that smells like volcanic ash and roses somehow growing in soil that should kill them.
"Walk with me," I tell Morgana and Saren.
They exchange glances. The kind that says they think I'm about to have a breakdown.
"Where?" Saren asks cautiously.
"The teaching gardens. Where Father used to make us learn history instead of letting us be children."
"Oh gods." Morgana groans. "Where that horrible tutor made us memorize every Fire Kingdom king going back two hundred years. And if we got one wrong, we had to recite it again. Standing in the sun."
"I liked those lessons," Saren says.
We both turn to stare at him.
"What?" He shrugs. "I was new to Cindravale. I needed to learn Fire Kingdom history."
"You were fourteen," Morgana says. "And you stood there like a tiny soldier taking notes while Rav and I tried to set the tutor's robes on fire with our minds."
"Successfully, once," I add. "When Solace sneezed and accidentally sent a spark—"
"And the tutor ran around screaming about 'undisciplined royal brats.'" Morgana's grinning. "Your father was so angry."
We reach the teaching gardens. They're empty now—used for storage of old statuary. But I remember when this place was alive.
The center fountain still works. Water bubbles between carved stone dragons—four of them. Red for Fire. Blue for Water. Brown for Earth. White for Air. All intertwined.
"The Unity Fountain," Saren says quietly. "Representing the Pact."
I sink onto the fountain's edge. "Tell it. The legend. Like you used to when we were kids."
"Rav—"
"Please." I look up at him. "I need to remember when things were simple."
He sits beside me. Morgana settles on my other side.
"The Age of Arrogance," Saren begins. "Humans and dragons lived separately. Humans possessed the four elements—gifts from the gods. Dragons were massive, ancient, powerful—but had no elemental magic."
"Then humans got stupid," Morgana interjects.
"Then humans hunted dragons," Saren corrects. "For bones. For scales. For eggs. So dragons fought back. The Dragon War lasted centuries. Both sides nearly destroyed each other."
"Until the Shaman proposed the Pact," I say.
"Humans wanted dragon strength. Dragon longevity. The ability to FLY." Saren traces the red dragon's wing. "Dragons wanted the elements humans possessed."
"So they merged," Morgana says softly. "Dragon souls with human bodies. Both sides giving up what they had. Both sides gaining what they needed."
"And dragon-shifters were born," I whisper.
We sit in silence. Three dragon-shifters by a fountain built to celebrate our species' creation.
"Your mother loved this garden," Morgana says suddenly. "My mother told me. Queen Elara used to come here when she was pregnant with you. Would sit right where you're sitting and talk to her belly about the Pact. About unity instead of destruction."
Something warm and painful unfolds in my chest. Mother came here carrying ME.
"She never got to bring me here herself," I say quietly. "She died the day after I was born."
"I know." Morgana squeezes my hand. "But maybe—maybe that's why you love this place. Some memory you can't quite reach."
Maybe.
"Tell me about when we met," I say. "When Father assigned you as my lady-in-waiting. What were we—seven?"
"Six." She grins. "You were six and horrible. You threw a tantrum because I didn't curtsy properly. Made me practice for an hour."
"I was teaching you protocol—"
"You were a tiny tyrant." But she's smiling. "But then you shifted into Solace for the first time in front of me. Your little silver dragon was so small. So different. And you looked at me and said—"
"'Don't tell anyone I'm different,'" I finish. "I was terrified Father would be disappointed."
"You told me I was wrong," I lean against her. "Said small dragons were special."
"I lied." She grins. "I had no idea. I just didn't want you to cry because you cried loudly."
I laugh. "You manipulative little—"
"It worked."
Saren is watching us with that soft expression.
"What about you?" I turn to him. "When did you arrive?"
"Fourteen. Assigned as your guard when you were ten. Fresh from Aetherwyn. Didn't know Fire Kingdom customs."
"You were SO serious," Morgana says. "All formal and stiff. Bowing to everything. Remember? You bowed to that statue thinking it was a person."
"It was dark—"
"It was stone. Made of stone." I'm laughing. "And Morgana convinced you that Cindravale protocol required bowing to ALL statues. You spent a week bowing to every piece of stone you passed."
"I hate both of you," Saren mutters. But he's grinning.
"You love us," Morgana corrects.
"You two were constantly causing trouble," Saren says. "That time you shifted to dragon form and tried to fly to the volcanic valleys—"
"We made it halfway," I protest.
"You crashed into the training yards and destroyed Master Veyron's favorite bench. He made me run laps for a week."
"Sorry," I say. Not sorry at all.
"No you're not."
"No I'm not."
We lapse into comfortable silence.
"Explain dragon colors again," I say suddenly. "Like you used to."
Saren sighs. "Dragon coloring indicates elemental alignment. Red spectrum dragons—all Fire Kingdom. Blue spectrum—all Water. Brown for Earth. White and pale silver for Air."
"And hybrids are ALWAYS white or silver," Morgana adds. "No matter which elements their parents carried."
"Why?" I ask. Even though I know.
"Because hybrids carry multiple elemental legacies," Saren says. "The dragon form can't show both colors simultaneously. So it shows something new. Something between. Something RARE."
"Silver for moonlight," Morgana murmurs. "White for clouds. Colors that bridge kingdoms."
"Exactly." Saren looks at me. "That's what you ARE, Rav. A bridge. Not diluted. A BRIDGE."
I swallow hard.
"What about the stripes?" I ask. "The golden ones on my chest. The black ones on yours."
"Status markers," Saren says. "Golden stripes indicate royal bloodlines. Appear on the chest from throat to belly. Glow faintly in moonlight—mark of the gods' blessing on ruling families."
"Black stripes are warriors," Morgana continues. "Earned through combat or granted by royal decree."
"And no stripes means common-born," I finish. "Not lesser. Just different paths."
"Most dragons have no stripes," Saren says. "It's not shameful."
"But hybrids with golden stripes are rarest of all," Morgana says quietly. "Royal bloodlines that crossed elemental boundaries. Like your mother and father. Creating you. Walking political statement. Living proof that kingdoms can unite."
"Living reminder of Mother's death," I mutter.
"Living proof of her choice." Saren's voice is firm. "She chose to marry across kingdoms. She chose to have you. That's not weakness. That's courage."
I want to argue. But sitting here between my two oldest friends—people who've known me since I was a nightmare child—I can't quite make myself believe the lie.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For this. For remembering with me."
"Where else would we be?" Morgana bumps my shoulder. "You're stuck with us, Rav."
"Still causing trouble," Saren adds.
"Better trouble," I say. Then pause. "Actually, no. worse trouble. Why are we like this?"
"Because you're a tiny tyrant who never learned to not cause problems," Morgana says cheerfully.
"Idiots who love you," Saren corrects.
"Same thing," I tell them.
But I'm smiling.
We sit by the Unity Fountain as the sun sets. Three dragon-shifters who grew up together. Who learned history in these gardens. Who became family.
And for just this moment—everything is simple again.
The way it was when we were kids.
Before competitions. Before politics. Before everything.