They fell asleep on the rooftop without meaning to.
All three of them had climbed up after the feast. The tiles were still warm from the day. The city was quiet. Wind moved across the beams and the moon sat high and gentle. They lay on their backs and counted stars and talked about nothing.
Kael pointed at a crooked cluster. "That one looks like Ryn's nose."
"My nose is straight," Ryn said, offended.
Jarek didn't look up from the sky. "It points slightly east. Like his sense of direction."
Ryn groaned. "I hate both of you."
They kept talking until the words slowed. The night pressed in, soft and safe. Kael stared at the stars and thought they looked like tiny campfires. He blinked once. Then twice. He didn't remember closing his eyes.
They woke with the first light.
The sun touched the city's roofs with thin gold, like someone had painted the edges. Dew sat on the tiles. Kael's neck hurt. Ryn's hair was stuck up like a frightened hedgehog. Jarek had a leaf stuck to his cheek.
Ryn sat up and squinted. "Did we… sleep up here?"
Jarek rubbed his face and peeled off the leaf. "We were looking at the sky. The stars. We didn't notice."
Kael stretched until his back popped. "That's because we're romantics."
"You're an idiot," Ryn said, but he was smiling.
They climbed down the ladder single file and slipped through the quiet house. The hearth was cold ash. The air smelled like last night's meat and smoke. In the kitchen, someone had left a covered plate on the table.
Draven's voice came from the doorway. "Eat. Then gear up."
He stood with arms crossed, a gray cloak over his shoulders, scars clear in the morning light. His hair was tied back with a leather cord. He looked like a cliff.
Kael lifted the cover. Bread, dried meat, a small pot of jam, three boiled eggs. "You love us," he said.
Draven grunted. "I tolerate you."
They ate fast. Ryn swallowed half his bread in two bites. Jarek chewed slow and neat. Kael put jam on everything and stole one of Jarek's eggs when he wasn't looking.
"Kael," Jarek said without looking up, "give it back."
Kael popped the whole egg in his mouth and spoke around it. "Wha egg?"
Draven set a pack on the table and started laying things out. "Listen. The dungeon is not a cave. It is a place. A pocket world. It has rules. Sometimes those rules change." He pointed at a bundle of tied sticks. "Flares. Break and throw if you need me. I'll be near the gate, but not inside."
Ryn nodded, suddenly serious. "We stick together."
"Always," Jarek said.
Draven's eyes moved to Kael and stayed there. "And you—don't call that crimson skill unless there is no other choice."
Kael knew he should joke. He didn't. He met Draven's gaze and nodded. "Got it."
Draven eased. "Good. Eat, check straps, check blades, then go. And remember: the dungeon watches back."
They geared up in the front room. Leather straps pulled tight. Greaves buckled. Cloaks tied high so they wouldn't snag. Ryn stood by the door and cracked his knuckles. Jarek tied his hair with a plain string. Kael spun his weapon once and let it settle to a simple, balanced spear.
"Why not the sword?" Ryn asked.
Kael flipped the spear and caught it. "Because I'm trying to be good."
"You won't last an hour," Ryn said.
"We'll see," Kael said.
They stepped into the street. The city was already moving. Shopkeepers dragged out crates. A cart rolled by with clinking bottles. A black cat crossed their path, stopped, considered them, and decided they weren't interesting.
Ironhaven's dungeon sat in a cut of land at the city's edge, where the stone fell into a long, misty canyon. The path down was well-worn and lined with old rope and wooden stakes. The air grew colder as they descended. Voices carried strangely. The canyon walls rose up on either side, the sky narrowing to a ribbon.
The gate itself wasn't a gate. It was a wound in the world—an arch of black rock with a space inside that didn't match what you saw through it. On the right side, a guild post with a desk and a slate board. A few adventurers sat, checking packs. Two guild soldiers leaned on spears and watched the arch like it might blink.
The clerk at the board looked up when they came. She was young, hair braided back, ink on her fingers. "Group or solo?"
"Group," Jarek said.
"First dive?" she asked.
"First official," Ryn said.
Her eyes flicked to their badges. "You passed the trials yesterday."
Kael put an elbow on the desk and leaned in with a smile. "We did. Did you hear the part where I—"
Jarek put a hand on Kael's shoulder and pulled him back. "We're here to register, not flirt."
The clerk hid a smile behind her quill. "Names."
"Kael," Kael said.
"Ryn."
"Jarek."
She wrote them down in neat strokes. "Dungeon classification today is B-rank, unstable field. Expect terrain shifts. Expect mixed ecology." She tapped the slate. "Reminder: in these dungeons, you may meet beasts who can partly assume human form. Those are beastfolk. Many are friendly. You may also meet monsters that mimic humans. Those are not friendly. Rule of thumb: beastfolk speak first. Monsters try to mirror. If you're unsure, keep weapons up and ask a question only a person would answer."
Ryn frowned. "Like what?"
"What did you eat for breakfast," Jarek said. "A monster will say 'food.' A person will say 'cold bread with too much salt and I hate it.'"
Kael nodded. "Good rule."
The clerk slid a chalk token across. "Return this when you exit. If you are late by more than three days, we send a team. Don't be late."
Kael took the token and winked. "We'll be early."
She raised one eyebrow. "Don't be dead."
They turned to the arch. The black rock drank the light. Mist pooled under it like breath. Kael felt his skin prickle. Ryn's hand went to his hammer's haft. Jarek drew a slow breath.
"Together," Jarek said.
"Always," Ryn answered.
They stepped through.
Sound changed.
The air pressed in, thicker, like walking under a waterfall without the water. Kael's stomach fell for half a heartbeat and then settled. The light shifted. The ground under his boots felt springy, moss-soft. He blinked once.
A sky stretched over them.
Not the city's sky. This one was too clean, too even, as if painted fresh that morning. The sun hung lower and whiter, a flat coin above rolling hills. In the distance, a mountain spine climbed and then fell away into clouds. A river cut the plain, clear and cold, with smooth stones lining its bed. A forest stood to their left, tall trees with pale trunks and leaves that flashed green-blue when the wind touched them.
"This is… inside?" Ryn whispered.
Jarek looked around with wide eyes. "A pocket world."
Kael tilted his head back and squinted at the white sun. "Feels like a dream trying to be real."
"Stay sharp," Jarek said, but his voice was soft, like he didn't want to disturb it.
They moved off the entry ridge and onto a narrow path that ran along the river. Birds called from the trees—notes that sounded almost right and then a little wrong, like a song learned from memory. A deer lifted its head and watched them. Its eyes were too bright. Antlers branched and then blossomed with tiny leaves. It flicked an ear, decided they were not a problem, and went back to drinking.
They were not alone. Far down the bank, two figures walked with a slow, even stride, each pushing a small cart with a basket of river shells. Their ears were long and furred. Their hands had short claws. Their faces were human and not human, with whisker marks on their cheeks.
They waved. Jarek lifted a hand back. The nearer one called, "Travel well." The mouth moved a little too wide on the word well, but the warmth was real.
"Beastfolk," Ryn murmured. "Friendly."
Kael grinned. "Buy anything?"
"We're not shopping," Jarek said.
They walked. The path changed as if it made up its mind. Stones gave way to roots. The air cooled when they stepped under the first tall boughs. Sunlight broke on the leaves and fell in soft squares. After a time—the kind you count by footfalls, not minutes—shadows moved ahead. There were six of them. Low to the ground. Silent.
"Wolves," Ryn whispered.
They were not wolves. Not the kind from outside, at least. Their coats were dark and seemed to drink light, and the edges of their bodies blurred like smoke. When they lifted their heads, their eyes were dull gold, with pupils like a cat.
The pack fanned, silent and neat. One slid left. Two moved right. Three came straight on.
Ryn stepped up, weapon shifting in his grip. Axe to hammer. Hammer to long-handled mace. Iron banding sliding and locking with a low clack. "Left."
"I've got right," Jarek said, hands already glowing with calm light.
"I'll take the center," Kael said, twirling the spear once and settling.
The wolves flowed forward.
Ryn met his with force, the mace singing in a clean, heavy arc that smashed the first wolf off its feet. The second leaped. Ryn caught it with the haft and shoved, boots digging into moss.
On the right, Jarek moved like a dancer. He raised one hand and threads of light spooled out between his fingers like silk. They crossed and tightened into a shining net. Two wolves hit it and snapped and writhed, snarling as the light burned their smoke-fur. Jarek flicked his wrist and the net cinched, then whipped, sending them crashing into a tree.
The center came fast and silent. Kael slid forward and then back, spear tip flashing. He didn't show off. He didn't change the weapon. He kept it simple—thrust, knock aside, step, thrust. The first wolf overreached and he clipped its leg. The second took the opening and lunged. Kael let it come. He turned the haft, caught the jaw, and shoved it down into the dirt.
A third moved for his flank. "Ryn," Kael said without looking.
"I see it."
Iron met smoke with a deep thud. The last wolf staggered. It shook its head and hissed, the noise wrong in a wolf's mouth. Then the pack leader barked once. They pulled back, as one, and melted into the trees.
Jarek let the light threads fade. Ryn let out a breath and rolled his shoulders. "That was clean."
"Too clean," Jarek said. His eyes swept the undergrowth. "They were testing."
Kael planted the butt of his spear in the soft ground and leaned on it. "Let them test. We study too."
They kept moving. The forest thinned and then thickened. The river curved and curved again. Once, a man stepped onto the path ahead and raised a hand for help. He wore a travel cloak and a worried face. His eyes were the wrong kind of bright.
"What did you eat for breakfast?" Jarek asked.
The "man" smiled with too many teeth. "Food," it said.
Ryn's mace answered.
The thing broke like a rotten log. Under the cloak there was no body, only a bundle of pale sticks and a sack of dry leaves. The face shriveled in a blink, like paper in flame.
"Hollow mimic," Jarek said quietly. "No blood. No breath. Only echo."
Kael looked at the empty cloak. "I hate those."
They walked for a long time. No streets. No signs. Only the sound of water, the hard call of a bird, their own feet. Sometimes the trees fell away and the view opened on a valley that shouldn't fit inside a city. Sometimes the sky dimmed without clouds. Sometimes the wind carried a smell like rain but there were no clouds at all.
They were not lost. They followed the river. It fed into a wide pool, then narrowed again, then ran through a notch of rock. When they passed through the notch, the sound changed again—another sound under the water's song, low and broken. It was a creature's breath. Short and pained.
They moved quiet and low. Ryn went first, body crouched, mace held back. Kael followed with the spear down and the blade concealed. Jarek's hands glowed the way stars glow in a reflected river—soft, ready.
The path opened into a small clearing tucked under a rock shelf. Ferns grew in tight curls. The pool here was deeper and dark. On the far side, a small creature lay half-curled against a stone. It was no bigger than a house cat. Its body was a mix of glossy feathers and scales, like a bird that had half-decided to be a dragon. Two horn nubs poked out above clear eyes. Tiny claws tucked into itself. A thin whistle came with each breath.
Between the creature and the water stood a hulking shape with gray hide and arms like logs. It had a club made of stone and root. Its mouth was wide and full of broken, flat teeth. Drool stringed from its lip. It lifted the club and brought it down. The little creature jerked and squeaked.
Ryn's teeth ground. "Stonehide ravager," he breathed. "B-rank."
Jarek's jaw set. "We can't leave it."
The ravager raised the club again.
Kael didn't think. He moved.
"Go left," he snapped, already running. "Jarek, bind his legs!"
Ryn sprinted and hit the ravager's knee with the head of his mace. The strike was like a bell tolling. The ravager howled and turned, the club swinging low. Ryn ducked under and slammed another shot into the opposite knee. The monster staggered, enraged.
Threads of light snapped over its ankles. Jarek stood with both hands out, fingers spread, eyes narrowed. The light twisted and bit, tightening around gray hide like wire.
Kael slid in from the front. He didn't draw the sword. He didn't need to. He angled the spear and thrust for the tendon in the elbow as the club came down. Steel bit. Not deep, but enough. The club veered. It smashed into stone with a crack. Chips flew. The tiny creature flinched.
"Back," Kael said gently, eyes flicking to the little thing just once. "It's okay."
The ravager roared, hot spit hitting Kael's cheek. It jerked its leg and the light threads strained. Jarek swore and pulled, sweat starting at his hairline. Ryn drove his shoulder into the monster's hip and tried to topple it. He might as well have tried to push a wall.
The ravager grabbed the spear shaft with one giant hand.
Kael held on. He felt the strength in that grip. It was like his weapon had been stuck in a tree during a storm. The ravager wrenched. Kael let the spear go instead of losing his arm.
"Ryn!" he yelled.
"On it!"
Ryn's weapon shifted in his hands. Mace to hook-axe. He swung low and caught the ravager behind the ankle. He pulled. The monster's foot slid. It stumbled. Jarek yanked. The light sang tight. The ravager fell to one knee and smashed a fist down where Kael had been a moment before.
Kael moved fast, faster than he liked to admit. He reached for the spear, then stopped. The ravager was rising again. Ryn had no more room to swing. Jarek's light shook.
This is what Draven warned you about, a small voice said. Don't use it unless—
Kael slid a breath in. He let half of it out. "Fine," he muttered. "Half a step."
His weapon trembled in his palm and changed—simple, smooth, familiar—into the sword. Not the full crimson. Just steel. He brought it up, low and close, both hands tight. The ravager's arm came down. Kael stepped in and cut the inside of the forearm, clean, right on the line where the muscle bit. The blade opened hide and a ribbon of gray blood.
The monster screamed and flung its arm back. The blow missed. Its weight shifted forward. Ryn read it, growled, and hit the other knee again. Jarek's threads cinched his ankles hard, flared, and snapped.
The ravager hit the ground on both knees. Its club fell from its fingers and thudded into moss.
"Now!" Jarek shouted.
Kael didn't think of the trials or the crowd or the clerk at the board or Draven's fist in his gut. He didn't think of fire or Varak. He thought of a small thing trying to breathe.
He swung once. Straight. No excess. The blade cut under the jaw and through tendons and windpipe. The ravager fell on its side and didn't rise. The light threads dissolved.
Silence came fast, like the clearing itself took a breath.
Ryn lowered his weapon. Jarek sagged and put his hands on his knees. Kael stood still for a moment, blade down, shoulders set.
Then he turned and knelt by the small creature.
It lay very still. Its sides moved in quick, shallow breaths. One wing—no, not a wing. A crest of long, soft feathers that ran from head to shoulder—was torn and matted. Claw marks raked its side.
Kael set the sword down and held his hands where the little one could see them. "It's okay," he said. "We're here. We're here."
The creature blinked big glassy eyes. It tried to pull back and made a small sound that wasn't a squeak and wasn't a chirp. Something in between. It hurt to hear.
"Jarek," Kael said, voice low.
Jarek crouched beside him. Light gathered in his palm, but this time it was softer than in a fight. It didn't shine, it glowed, like a lamp under cloth.
"Lumen Thread: Mend," Jarek whispered.
Strands of light unspooled from his fingers and laid themselves over the torn flesh. They did not stitch like a seamstress. They lay across the cuts and tugged the edges together, slow and careful. The bleeding slowed. The small chest kept rising and falling.
Ryn dropped to one knee opposite them. He pulled a small clay jar from his belt. "Mountain balm," he said. "From Draven's stores. Smells like old socks but it seals well." He dipped two fingers and dabbed the salve at the edges of the worst cut, careful, gentle for hands that could break a log.
The little creature made the not-squeak again and licked Ryn's wrist with a quick, rough tongue.
Ryn didn't smile often when things hurt. He did now, just a tiny bit. "Hey, little one."
Kael held out a hand, palm up. The creature sniffed. It shivered once, then pressed its head into his fingers. Its scales were warm. The feathers were softer than they looked.
"You're safe," Kael said, and it was not a line. It was a promise.
They worked for a long time in the simple way work is done—breath, hands, care. When Jarek let the last thread of light fade, the little creature was breathing deeper. It closed its eyes and opened them again, as if surprised it could. It stretched its tiny claws and then tucked them back.
Ryn sat back on his heels. "What is it?"
Jarek tilted his head. "Drakeling. Not pure dragon. Something close. See the feather crest? Skylark strain. I've read about them. Rare."
Kael stroked the top of the tiny head with one finger. The drakeling leaned into it without thinking.
Ryn looked from the creature to Kael. "You know what I'm going to say."
Kael didn't look up. "Yes. I know."
"You get attached fast," Ryn added.
"Faster than you get lost in a city with two streets," Kael said.
Jarek cleared his throat. "We can do more than patch and leave. There's an old bonding sigil in Draven's notes. Simple oath. Safe if the partner accepts." He met Kael's eyes. "It would make this little one ours. Not a pet. A partner."
Kael's hand slowed on the soft crest. "And if it doesn't accept?"
"It won't bind," Jarek said. "You'll just look silly with a finger full of blood."
Ryn snorted. "He always looks silly."
Kael took a breath. The air was clean here. He could smell ferns and stone and the faint salt of blood. "We ask."
He put his hand on the ground where the drakeling could see it. "We're going to try something," he said softly. "You don't have to say yes. But we'll protect you either way."
The drakeling lifted its head. Those clear eyes watched his mouth like it understood the shape of words, if not the words themselves. It edged closer. Its tiny claws clicked on stone.
Jarek took a small piece of charcoal from his pouch. "Draw the sigil on its brow," he said. "Simple circle. Three lines through. Think 'home' and 'guard.' I will give light when you press your hand."
Kael nodded. He drew the shape slow, careful not to press too hard. The charcoal left a clean dark line over soft feather and small scale.
"Now," Jarek said quietly. "Your blood."
Kael pricked his thumb on the edge of his own blade. A bright drop welled up. He let it fall in the center of the circle. Then he pressed his hand over the little brow.
Jarek's light came up, not bright, just present. It held the shape of the circle steady. It felt like warmth on a cold day.
Kael closed his eyes. He remembered the rooftop. The stars. Ryn's bad hair. Jarek stealing the leaf from his face and pretending he hadn't fallen asleep first. He remembered the smell of Draven's hearth. The sound a wooden bowl makes on a stone table. He put all of that behind the words that were not words, only a push of meaning.
Home. Guard. Ours. Yours.
Something answered.
It was small. It was shy. It was honest. It came forward like a hand from under a blanket.
Kael's breath caught. He didn't push. He waited.
The circle warmed under his palm.
Then a voice, not with sound, but right where his heart sat and his thoughts rested:
…warm.
Kael's eyes opened.
Ryn's mouth was half open. "Did you hear—"
Jarek's eyes were wide. "Yes."
The little drakeling pressed its head harder into Kael's hand and made the soft, almost chirp sound again.
Warm. Safe. Hungry, the voice said, a little stronger now, a little curious. It was like a child's first words. Clean. Clear.
Kael laughed, and the sound spilled out without effort. "Hungry, huh? That I can fix."
Ryn pulled a strip of dried meat from his pouch and held it out. The drakeling sniffed and took it in delicate bites, chewing with quick, neat motions. After the third bite it paused, tilted its head, and peered up at Kael like it expected something else.
"What?" Kael asked.
Name, the small voice said, as if tasting the shape of it.
Jarek glanced at Kael. "You name him. Or her. Names matter."
Kael looked at the little creature. The feather crest lifted and settled like a tiny flag in wind. The eyes were bright and sharp but trusting. It had almost flown and almost died. It was light and fast and brave.
"Zeph," he said. "If you like it. Short for zephyr. Quick wind."
The drakeling blinked once. Twice. Then the soft voice filled with a sudden joy that felt like a spark in Kael's chest. Zeph, it said, and pressed its head into his fingers again. Zeph!
Something shifted. It wasn't just in Kael. The air moved. The circle he'd drawn glowed faintly and then faded. The feather crest brightened at the tips, as if dipped in pale gold. The little body grew—not much, a handful at most—but the shape of it settled, stronger, more sure. The tiny claws flexed with new confidence.
Jarek's eyebrows went up. "Naming surge. Growth acceleration. It's real."
Ryn laughed, surprised and delighted like a boy seeing a trick for the first time. "He got bigger from a name?"
"Some bonds work like that," Jarek said. "Names set a path."
Zeph finished the meat, sat up straight like a very small king, and then, without asking, hopped onto Kael's knee, climbed his chest with tiny, careful claws, and settled on his shoulder. It fit there like it had always belonged.
Kael froze, head tilted so he wouldn't bump the little horns. "Comfortable?"
Warm, Zeph said, and tucked its head under Kael's ear.
Ryn stared. "That's not fair. I want a shoulder dragon."
"Get your own," Kael said softly, and lifted a hand to steady Zeph's back with one finger.
Jarek looked on with a quiet smile and then schooled his face into fake stern. "We're not done. We need to move before more noise draws something big."
He was right. The ravager's roar had carried. The forest waited, too quiet.
They stood. Zeph clung with the ease of something that had been climbing trees since it could stand. Kael tried a few steps. It adjusted without claws digging into his skin.
Ryn nudged him with the back of his hand. "If he poops on your cloak, I'm not washing it."
"If he poops on my cloak, I'll name him after you," Kael said.
Zeph made a soft trill that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
They left the clearing and followed the river again. The world seemed smaller and bigger at once. Smaller because the little weight at Kael's shoulder made him very aware of where he placed his feet. Bigger because everything suddenly had two meanings—the path they walked and the path they would show to something learning what a path is.
They did not go deeper, not today. Not past the place where the river split and the pale birch trees bent toward each other like they were talking. The dungeon was new to them, and even with a new partner, they were not stupid.
They turned back while the white sun was still high and pale. The walk out felt different. The same birds sang the same wrong notes. The same wind moved through the same leaves. But now Zeph's small breath warmed Kael's cheek, and sometimes the tiny claws flexed when a shadow moved and sometimes the soft voice whispered small thoughts.
Water. Cold. Fish.
Leaves. Taste bad.
Ryn loud.
Ryn scowled when Kael translated. "I'm not loud."
"You are very loud," Jarek said.
"I can be quiet," Ryn said, and then stepped on a twig that snapped like a spear breaking.
They passed the place where the hollow mimic had tried to be a man. The cloak was gone. The leaves were scattered. They passed the place where the wolves had watched. Only prints remained, already softening.
Near the threshold, they saw beastfolk again—this time a tall woman with mothlike antennae and a shawl of fine fur. She carried a basket of mushrooms with caps like silver bells. She nodded to them and looked at Zeph. Her antennae bent forward.
"Good fortune," she said. Her voice had a hum under it, like a bow across a string. "The small one chose well."
"Thank you," Jarek said.
Ryn puffed a little. "We're very choosable."
Kael fixed his face. "Sorry about him. He's very loud."
The moth-woman smiled. "I hear."
They reached the arch where the world tore open. Kael looked back once. The white sun looked back, blank and patient. The river moved like it was late for something.
He touched Zeph's crest. "We'll come back," he said.
Home, Zeph whispered, as if testing the word in this direction too.
They stepped through.
Sound returned the way a room sounds when you open the door. The damp air of the canyon wrapped around them. The real sky—no, the outside sky—was higher and a little less perfect.
The clerk at the board sat with her quill and her ink. She glanced up. Her eyes landed on the tiny creature on Kael's shoulder and then on the blood on his sleeve and then on the clean, tired faces of the three boys who were men.
"You're back fast," she said.
"We found a partner," Jarek said.
Ryn leaned on the desk, proud. "C-rank. Skylark drakeling. Very cute. Bites well."
Zeph lifted his head and made the soft trill again.
The clerk's mouth twitched like she wanted to smile and wouldn't let herself. "Return token?"
Kael put the chalk token on the desk. "We'll need it again soon."
"Tomorrow?" she asked.
Ryn's mouth opened. Jarek's hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed. "We'll see."
They walked the path up out of the canyon. It felt longer going up. The city's sounds rolled down to meet them—smiths striking iron, a cart wheel squealing, a woman calling a child by name.
When they reached the house, the door was open. Draven sat at the table with a map spread under one hand and a knife stuck in the wood as a lazy paperweight. He looked up.
His eyes went from Kael to Ryn to Jarek to the small creature on Kael's shoulder. He said nothing for a long breath.
Then: "You brought a friend."
Kael lifted a hand for Zeph to sniff Draven's knuckles. "Partner."
Draven let the tiny tongue tap his scarred skin. "Name?"
"Zeph," Kael said.
Draven nodded once. "Good name." He leaned back in the chair and looked them over again with the kind of gaze that counted bruises that hadn't come up yet. "Any of you hurt?"
"No," Ryn said, and then tilted his head. "My pride, a little."
"That's chronic," Jarek said.
Kael put a hand over Zeph to steady him as he slid onto the bench. "We met beastfolk. We met a mimic. We fought a pack. We killed a ravager. We—" He stopped. He didn't want to make it a list. He didn't want to make it a story for a fire. He wanted to hold it as the thing it was: steps in a place that wasn't theirs, a promise kept to something small.
Draven studied him. "You used the sword."
Kael didn't lie. "Only steel. No red."
"Good," Draven said. He pushed a bowl across the table. "Feed the small one before it eats your ear."
Ryn made a wounded sound. "You never pushed me a bowl."
"You can get your own," Draven said.
Dinner was simple. Bread, stew, the last of the roast turned into something else with onions and herbs. Zeph ate slivers of meat with neat bites and then licked the bowl like it held secrets. Ryn tried to teach him to shake. Zeph put both tiny front claws on Ryn's big hand and stood there, very solemn. Ryn made a noise Kael had never heard from him before.
Jarek drew the bond sigil on a spare scrap of parchment and made notes on the lines, the order, the breath. He answered questions Kael didn't know he had until he asked them. Draven watched and said little. Sometimes he looked at Kael like he saw a different room behind him. Sometimes he glanced at Zeph like he was measuring time.
When the plates were clean and the light outside turned from gold to gray to blue, they climbed back to the roof, because that was theirs now. Zeph fit on Kael's shoulder like the idea had been waiting for the body. The night felt bigger with a fourth small breath among the three larger ones.
They didn't say much at first. It wasn't a silence that needed fixing. It was the kind that keeps you.
Ryn broke it, of course. "Tomorrow we go deeper."
"Maybe," Jarek said. "We mark a path first. We don't run. We learn the rules before we try to break them."
Ryn made a face. "You're no fun."
"You're alive because I'm no fun," Jarek said.
Kael watched the outside stars. They were dimmer than the ones inside, or maybe they were just farther. He touched the scar on his chest through his shirt. It didn't burn. He touched Zeph's crest with one finger. It warmed.
"We'll go deeper," he said. "But we don't rush. We build. We get strong. We keep each other. We keep him."
Ryn lay back and folded his arms behind his head. "We keep him," he agreed.
Jarek sighed, but it was the kind of sigh that had a small smile hidden in it. "We keep him."
Zeph lifted his head and looked at the stars like he was counting them for the first time. Many, he whispered.
"Too many to count," Kael said.
Try, Zeph answered, very serious.
Kael laughed under his breath. "Okay. One. Two. Three—"
A low tremor rolled under the city then, almost too soft to feel. The tiles shivered. The cups on the table below made a light, tapping sound against wood. Zeph's crest lifted. Jarek's head turned. Ryn sat up.
"What was that?" Ryn asked.
Jarek listened without moving for a second. "Not here."
Kael felt it too, now that he was listening: not thunder, not a cart, not wind. Something far below, like a door deep under the river had opened and closed again.
Draven's voice floated up from his room, flat and even. "Sleep," he called. "You'll need it."
Kael didn't ask how Draven knew what they felt. He didn't ask if the dungeon had moved or woken or frowned. He didn't ask anything.
He lay back. The roof was cool. Zeph tucked under his chin and fell asleep as if he had been there for years. Ryn grumbled about somebody's elbow and then stopped. Jarek breathed slow and steady.
Kael stared at the stars until they blurred. He let his eyes close.
Tomorrow, they would step into a world that was a world and not. They would walk rivers that flowed nowhere and everywhere. They would meet friends with fur and strangers with empty faces. They would learn the dungeon's rules. And, if the world allowed it, they would bend them.
They slept on the rooftop again.
This time, they knew when they fell asleep.