Thicker Than Water

The song shifted.

Apricot blinked, sitting upright. He pulled his foreleg away from the tiny fire in Pollux’s hooves, letting his ward fade. “Pollux…?”

The little flame died as Pollux gazed into the trees, eyes narrowing. “I felt it too.”

“It sounded like an echo, or something…” Apricot closed his eyes, reaching out as he tried to catch that sensation again. “From deep down.”

“I think it’s time we returned to camp.” Pollux stood, dusting off his robes. “Fill the barrel from the stream, would you? I’ll carry it back for a little while.” He lit his horn, squinting into the darkness.

Apricot yanked off the barrel’s lid with magic, carefully stepping down the riverbank. Horn aglow, he dipped the barrel into the current, letting it fill with fresh streamwater. Watching it made him realize how thirsty he was. Dipping his head to take a quick lap from the river, he leaned out over the river’s edge.

A wall of magical sound hit him, so loud and massive that he lost his balance and nearly fell in. Like the dread-soaked groaning of a thousand cellos, the noise washed over him, freezing his blood. His head ripped up from the water as he scrambled away from the bank. But the sound wasn’t coming from the water, it was rising up all around him. The groan pulsed again, louder, and he clapped his hooves uselessly to his ears. A third roaring wail of ethereal strings burned away his thoughts, with a long, low groan. Slowly, insidiously, it faded, pulsing again more weakly before it faded into the background song of the forest.

A hoof shook his shoulder. “Apricot! Apricot, get up!” Dimly, he realized he was lying on the riverbank, curled into a ball and clutching his head. Pollux’s voice seemed faint and distant, even though he was shouting. “Apricot! We have to go!”

Dreamlike, he saw the barrel floating away on the river, filling with water and slowly sinking beneath the surface. “What… what was…”

“Hey!” Pollux gave his cheek a slap. “Snap out of it!”

Apricot blinked, shaking his head, as the sounds of reality rushed back in. Standing woozily, he stumbled back up from the riverbank. “S-sorry…”

Pollux lifted his head, horn blazing, and fired a blinding red light into the air. A magical flare streaked into the sky, leaving a trail of crimson sparks. He looked back down at Apricot, urgency in his eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I… I think so…”

“Whatever that was, it came from our campsite. We need to get back there, now. Are you able to walk?”

“Yeah…” Apricot held his forehead with a hoof, but nodded. “Yeah, I can walk.” The forest sounded all wrong now. The swarming melodies of the forest creatures had a new, frantic energy to them, racing through the trees in any direction away from whatever had made that hideous sound. It was hard to center himself in the deluge of panic. A flock of birds went screeching overhead, and he felt echoes of their terror.

“That’s not good,” breathed Pollux. “They shouldn’t even be awake right now. Get it together, Apricot, we need to go.”

The flapping of larger, more familiar wings came from above them. Apricot looked up, expecting his father, but the dark shape that descended from the night sky was brown, not red. Virgil landed beside the two unicorns, panting hard. “Pollux! Thanks for the flare. We’re in trouble. Castor sent me to bring you back to camp. There’s a wildfire—”

“A wildfire? Hell,” Pollux glanced up at the sky, his hood fluttering around him in a sudden warm breeze. “There hasn’t been much rain since we arrived… this whole place will go up like tinder.” His head snapped back to the griffon. “We can find our way back. There’s no time to waste, go!”

Virgil snapped him a salute. “Good luck. Stay safe.” His wings flared, and then he was gone.

Apricot danced nervously on his hooves. “A wildfire?” he echoed.

“If we get there soon enough, we might be able to stop it before it’s out of control. Let’s move.” Pollux took off at a full gallop into the trees, and Apricot followed.

Pollux’s bright red light lit the way, revealing tangled roots and treacherous rock edifices that the two bounded over with ease. Apricot’s heart pounded hard, and his legs even harder. They raced through the trees, battering branches and bushes aside with magic. Even without the barrel, this was a more arduous passage, but they were taking it far faster than their trip to the river. Apricot’s lungs were nearly bursting, but he found himself keeping pace with Pollux.

Remember your breathing, he thought, thinking of that last run to the bakery with his father. The trees flashed past them with every hoofbeat. They passed foxes, birds, groundhogs, and creatures he didn’t know the names of, all scampering in the opposite direction. And ahead of them, a growing tremor in the magic.

The light began to change. Pollux’s crimson hornlight slowly melted into a diffuse orange, as the air around them started to glow. Ahead, light filtered through the trees, hazy and flickering. Soon the light was followed by heat, and the air grew thicker, harder to breath. Pollux slowed to a hesitant trot, before coming to a complete stop, and Apricot gratefully followed suit, coughing.

“We’re too late,” muttered Pollux, staring into the orange light. It was so bright now that Apricot could see every detail in stitching of the mage’s robes. “It’s already spread.”

Apricot looked past him and swallowed. The trees cast long shadows over them, lit from behind by the solid orange glow. The fire itself was still too distant to see, but he could hear it. And not just through the magic, he realized. His ears twitched, picking up a faint rumbling. “What do we do now?”

“I need to get in there and help however I can,” said Pollux, gritting his teeth. “And you need to get back to the river. Can you do that?”

“I—what? No!” Apricot looked at him in dismay. “I can help!”

“Not this time, kid. It’s too dangerous.”

Apricot waved an agitated hoof. “But—we were just practicing for this! My fire wards—”

“They’re good,” exhaled Pollux, shaking his head, “but a wildfire isn’t the place to test them. Not after just a few hours of practice. Listen, every second we waste arguing, that fire spreads further. Go back north to the river and cross it, if you can find the ford. It might act as a firebreak if we can’t get this under control. Once you’re there, send up a flare every few minutes. Here, I’ll teach you the spell.”

His horn lit and Apricot felt a new song. Another blazing mote of light leaped from Pollux’s horn, arcing into the air. “Got that?”

“Sure, but—”

“Show me!”

Apricot grimaced and mimicked the song, sending a rosy flare of his own soaring up into the night. Pollux nodded. “That’s it. Now, go!” He gave the glowing forest another anxious glance. “And don’t stop for anything!” Pollux raced into the trees, quickly disappearing into the smoky haze.

As Apricot stood motionless, his heart thudded painfully. Coughing again, he waved smoke out of his eyes. His mom and dad were in there. If things were this bad out here, how terrible was it at the camp? Were they hurt? Was Kaduat, or Beatriz?

He stood locked in place. Part of him wanted to listen to Pollux and flee. Let the adults sort it out, while he retreated to safety. But he couldn’t stop thinking about that sound he’d felt in the magic. This wasn’t just some accidental fire. Something wanted them all gone. Something old and deep. The forest itself seethed with anger as much as heat. It wanted to hurt his family, his friends. He couldn’t just abandon them when he might be able to do something in there.

But I could die, he realized. No one else would save him if he went into that light. Not Kaduat, not Pollux, not his parents.

As the distant rumbling grew louder, sweat clung to his skin. Apricot stared into the ever-brightening glow of the fire, wanting to move, but paralyzed between flight or forging on. While he wrestled with himself, the fireglow crept closer. The thunderous sound vibrated in his chest like a foreign heartbeat. The smoke thickened as sparks sailed past on turbulent air. It was getting difficult to breathe.

And then suddenly, he could see it. The fire was bursting forth through the trees before him. Flames streaked across the canopy, sending streams of fire racing down aspen trunks as they passed. Incendiary gouts of black and red blossomed in the light, consuming leaves and grass, burning so blindingly bright that even the rocks seemed to disappear inside it. Waves of sparks swept across the forest floor like the tides, ebbing and flowing with the heat-soaked air. The fire was fast, barreling toward him like a living thing, hungry for any source of fuel it could find.

Apricot took a step back, watching as the flames crashed past an old, dead tree. The hollowed trunk glowed and then shattered in the sudden flash of heat and pressure. Fragments of burning wood scattered at his hooves. Angry orange light blazed all around, unable to escape the thick smoke, turning night to day as the forest became an oven. Deep red tongues of flame towered into the sky as whole trees became kindling. Apricot wheezed, trying to breath, taking another step backward, as the wall of fire leaped toward him.

No escape, he thought in panic, stumbling back, realize that his delay had cost him too much time. There was no way he could outrun that ravenous flame. Instead, desperate, he plunged into the magic, grasping for the firesong. It was no gentle, warm arrangement; the music was chaotic, immense, almost impossible to comprehend, let alone control. It screamed in his head like the wailing of ten thousand voices, enraged, in pain, lashing out at everything and everyone in blind agony. He seized it nonetheless, following the energy, and shackled it to the wardsong. And then the wall of fire reached him at last.

Fire swept over him, and the roaring inferno was so deafeningly loud that all thought was burned away. Apricot screamed as the heat and light engulfed him, like he was plunging into the sun. Bending his head away, he flung up a hoof to shield himself, waiting in terror for the end—but it did not come. Squinting in the painful light, he blinked and slowly realized that he stood unharmed amongst the flames. The heat pricked his skin like needles, but he was alive. Rose light shimmered across his skin like an oil slick, whorls of magic spinning in formless patterns as it deflected the brunt of the fire’s fury.

Hesitantly lowering his hoof, he took a deep breath, and immediately doubled over as he choked on the thick smoke. Apricot covered his mouth and looked around, taking in the heart of the inferno. The forest floor was alive, writhing in the heat. Carpets of fire rolled across the ground, so hot that the very air bubbled and shook. The churning wildfire was motion incarnate, sweeping and swirling through any gaps it could find. Branches, already dead, hung from the canopy like fiery claws, bleeding sparks. The reddened smoke was so thick that he could barely see ten meters in any direction.

I have to get to Mom and Dad, he thought, clinging to that goal like a lifeline. The warding spell reverberated in his mind like a mantra. If he let it slip, even for an instant, he’d be cooked alive. The seething choir surged around him, but he stood his ground, and forced the nearest voices to match the beat of his wardsong. He maintained control, but he wasn’t sure how long he could keep it up.

Clenching his teeth, he began to trod forward. Forcing himself further into the fire was hard, and not merely from fright. Searing winds battered him as he pushed on, and the ground was slippery from ash as the trees disintegrated under the inferno’s relentless assault. Careful not to lose his footing, Apricot forged ahead into the savage flame, watching in amazement at the unleashed power of nature. Trees around him transformed into radiant pylons of light. The earth vanished beneath him in cascading sheets of white flame. Fiery branches clawed at the air as they turned brittle and snapped, raining sparks down onto his shield like glowing raindrops. Ash and soot fell like snow, billowing in the swirling air. His mouth was filled by the taste of carbonized wood.

As he pushed deeper, things grew only more hellish. The screeches and cracks of breaking trees sounded like death wails on the wind. Sweat boiled from his skin as soon as it appeared, doing nothing to cool him. Even through the ward, it felt like he was walking through an oven. He was getting dizzy from the lack of oxygen as the fire devoured it all. As the edges of his vision started to darken, he whispered a prayer to Celestia that he hadn’t passed the campsite in the impenetrable smoke and light.

A voice—a real one, not the spellsong shrieking of a dying tree—called out somewhere ahead, and relief washed over him. Apricot sprinted forward, hearing more cries of alarm from other voices, and reached a solid wall of fire. Summoning all his strength to the ward, he ran into the wall and burst through, galloping from the blazing treeline into the campsite glade.

The camp was unrecognizable. The outer ring of tents were reduced to ashes. The flaming ruins of several carts lay near the perimeter, half-collapsed into ash. The few that remained were clustered in the center of the glade, next to the charred husk of a fallen tree. Camels surrounded the carts, pouring water onto them as flames fell from the seething canopy of fire around them. Beatriz, covered in soot, was only recognizable by her glowing blue horns as she directed their efforts. Empty water barrels lay discarded around them; it looked like their supply was nearly out.

“Pollux!” came a yell from above. “South side, with me!” Castor swooped out of the smoke-filled sky, wings flapping in a blur. On the ground below, a crimson smear, so hazy in the shimmering air that Apricot could scarcely recognize it as Pollux, ran to join him. The brothers raced to the edge of the gale, where another blazing aspen had begun to topple inward over the perimeter.

“Ready!” shouted Castor, and then Apricot felt a sudden absence of air pressure. There was a BOOM as a tremendous wave of wind blasted through the clearing, popping Apricot’s ears and dragging ash and sparks in its wake. The flames recoiled from the weatherforged gale, followed by a crimson flash as Pollux slammed the collapsing tree away from the clearing with a telekinetic blast so powerful that Apricot could feel the spellsong ringing in his horn. It toppled with a crash, sending another plume of smoke and sparks into the canopy.

Shielding his eyes with a hoof, Apricot scanned the campsite, searching for pink or red, but to no avail. He ran toward the carts, tripping over debris, and shouted hoarsely, “Mom! Dad! I’m here!”

He wasn’t sure anyone would even hear him over the roaring wildfire. The camels spared him only a glance as he reached their ranks, but one pitch-black pony spotted him and dropped her bucket. “Apricot!”

Despite everything, the sound of his mother’s voice was a splash of comfort. “Mom!” He raced toward her, his hooves splashing on the sodden earth. The ground around the carts had turned to mud, softened by countless gallons of water that had been spilled upon it, mixing with the ash to create a sucking mire. It was no wonder everyone was coated in filth; Apricot was half-splattered himself by the time he reached her and flung himself into a hug.

She squeezed him so tightly that he thought his ribs might crack. “Apricot! Sisters, Apricot, I thought—what are you doing here?” Cranberry let him go and wiped her soiled face with a dirty hoof, revealing a smear of pink. “Pollux said you were waiting by the river!”

“There wasn’t enough time,” said Apricot, shaking his head as he looked around at the fire. “And I wanted to help.” At the edge of the clearing, another tree was beginning to crumble. The twins raced toward it with another furious gale, but even Apricot could tell their efforts would be futile in the end. It was a miracle they’d kept the fire out of the glade so far, but the smoke was growing so thick with flying sparks that it wouldn’t be long before the flames spread to the caravan. Even as he watched, the wreckage of the camping supply cart over by the perimeter ignited. “Where’s Dad?”

“Your father and grandfather are up top,” said Cranberry, casting a worried glance above. “They’re trying to make rain, but the heat’s driving out all the moisture—” She cringed as another tree collapsed and flaming shards of wood went flying. Some of the cinders rained down onto the nearest cart, scattering across the soot-stained wood siding. Apricot’s eyes widened as he read the crimson text emblazoned on the wood: DANGER - EXPLOSIVES.

“Form up, Alsafa, Alsafa!” shouted Kaduat, pointing her foot. The camels leaped into action, and Cranberry joined them, swiftly forming a chain from the water barrels to the cart. They filled buckets and passed them down the line, pouring water onto the newborn flames to smother them until the cart was extinguished.

“Hal-fared,” called Kaduat, as the fire died. “At ease,” she offered in Equestrian, giving Cranberry a grateful nod. The line broke apart, many of the camels sagging wearily. Swearing ceaselessly under her breath, Kaduat trotted over to the quartermaster. “Beatriz, how much water do we have left?”

“It’s not good,” said the antelope, wiping soot from her face. “We’re down to our last barrel, and it’s nearly empty.” She banged on the barrel’s side, and the hollow cavity rang like a drum.

“Apricot, listen to me,” panted Cranberry, placing a hoof on his shoulder. “If we don’t manage to—”

A shout of alarm interrupted her. Zaeneas, so covered with ash and mud that her stripes were hidden, pointed toward one of the carts. “There goes another one!” Red flames leaped from the roof, and a white-hot glow radiated from within.

“The armory! My tools!” cried Beatriz, running toward the blazing cart, but she was blocked by Kaduat’s outstretched foreleg.

“It’s done for!” yelled Kaduat, shaking her head. “Get it away from the others!”

Pwyll and Zaeneas ran forward with several of the camels and slammed their shoulders against the cart. The wheels, half-sunk in the mud, refused to turn. The flames burned brighter as the fire spread. Pwyll winced away as a tongue of fire licked his skin from between the wooden slats. “It’s stuck!”

Apricot broke away from his mother, ignoring her yelp of surprise, and splattered through the mud toward the cart. As his horn ignited, his eyes narrowed on the cart’s wheels, and he reached back into the magic. All around, the firesong wailed. He did his best to ignore it, seizing the first wheel with a magical grip. Gritting his teeth with the effort, he pulled as hard as he could. The wheel wrenched free of the mud with a disgusting plop, spinning wildly. The mercenaries continued to shove against the cart, but the other wheels sank deeper beneath the full weight of the arsenal within.

Apricot took hold of the next wheel, hauling on it with all his strength, but he could feel the levitation spell slipping. It was hard to concentrate,to even think in the raging choir of magic swirling around him. The trees screamed with wordless voices, filled with more pain and fury than one lifetime could comprehend. The mocking laughter of the leaves had turned to bitter spite. Apricot coughed, gasping for oxygen in the ash-choked air. More fire burst from within the armory cart, drawing hisses and cries from the mercenaries.

“Stand back!” A familiar voice pierced the cacophony, and Apricot’s heart lifted. He turned with sudden hope to see his father, wings stained black with soot, hovering above them. The camels sprang back from the burning cart, clearing the way, and Inger tucked his hooves in as he began a dive. His wings flared just above the ground and he darted forward. Twisting in midair, he brought his hind legs around to slam into the cart, bucking against it with all his momentum. The wood buckled under the blow, and the wheels yanked violently free. The mercenaries rushed back in, shoving the cart away. It careened toward the perimeter, completely consumed by fire.

Inger landed in the mud beside Apricot, wiping his snout with an ash-coated hoof. He turned, and Apricot could see the instant his father noticed him. Inger’s wings went stiff and his eyes shot wide. “What the—Junior, you’re not supposed to be here!”

Well, at least his parents agreed on something. Apricot opened his mouth to explain, but was interrupted by a bump to his shoulder as his mother rushed past him. Cranberry embraced her husband, exhaling in relief. Inger matched her sigh, hugging her back. “Cranberry. You’re still okay.”

She leaned close to his face, and for a moment looked as though she were about to kiss him. Instead, she closed her mouth and nodded. “I’m glad you’re not hurt. But—”

Another deafening woosh filled the air as one of Castor’s weatherforged windbursts swept past, forcing all three Sugars to brace against it. Their manes flew wildly for a moment, as the loud crash of a falling tree rang out. Cranberry shook her head. “I don’t think we can stop it, Inger. It’s only a matter of time before it catches the blackpowder stores, and then this whole clearing will be a crater.”

“It’s dry as a desert up there,” he said, with a worried glance back up. “We haven’t been able to get a single cloud together. My father suggested we fly you out one-by-one, but—”

“The water’s almost gone,” finished Cranberry, with grim understanding in her eyes. “We don’t have enough time to get everyone out. We’ve got minutes, honey.” She swallowed, looking back at their son. “Take Apricot and get out of here.”

“What, and leave you?”

She averted her eyes and stepped back. “Maybe it’s… what I deserve.”

“Cranberry…” Inger’s eyes creased with hurt and anger. “That’s not…”

“Bring word back to Canterlot. Warn the university not to send anyone else after us. And tell Windstreak and Rye that—” Her voice caught.

“You can’t be serious,” he said, aghast. “Cranberry, I would never abandon—”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice shrank to a whisper. “I hope you can forgive me someday.”

“No!” Apricot stomped a hoof in the mud. “If you’re staying, we’re staying!” How could his mother even suggest this?

Before his parents could respond, a blood-curdling scream drew everyone’s attention. Beatriz stood frozen with her hoof outstretched, pointing to the munitions cart. A branch, bearing burning leaves, had fallen atop it, and the bone-dry wood had finally caught fire. Lines of flame streaked across the cart, hungrily seeking their explosive apotheosis within. The camels scrambled to fill their buckets, but shouts rose as the barrel ran dry. Somewhere, Virgil’s voice rang out, screaming “Run! Run! It’s going up!”

The whole world seemed to slow. Apricot could feel his heart thump, each beat pumping adrenaline into his veins. Time divided into frames of motion, every element of the scene thrown into sharp relief: The flames, shooting across the red sigil of Katabasis Company. The camels, tossing their buckets aside and fleeing uselessly for cover. His father, streaking toward the cart like a feathery arrow. Kaduat, a strangely serene look on her face as she watched the cart burn like a fuse. And everywhere, roiling and shimmering, the blazing trees, seething with white-hot fury.

The first rule of fire is balance.

The answer came to him almost quietly, like a whisper in the night. Apricot reached out through the storm of song, gliding through the howling conflagration to find the flames consuming the cart. They were too wild, too strong, too fierce to be snuffed out. It would be pointless to even try. But there was nothing to stop him from pouring more fuel on the flames…

His horn flashed, and energy surged through his body. Matching the firesong with his own voice, he flooded the blaze with magic. The fire wreathing the cart turned a brilliant rose, so bright that it cast shadows across the caravan. Flames leaped into the air, shimmering and soaring into the sky. Inger’s charge faltered as he recoiled from the heat, someone screamed, and then with a titanic woosh the fire turned a searing white and a blast of heat passed over them all. Apricot turned his head, the light too bright even for him. There was a shuddering chill in the magic as the song faltered, as though one of the choir’s voices had suddenly fallen silent.

Blinking, Apricot turned back to see the cart. It was scorched and blackened, but no longer aflame. It was just as Pollux had said; just as Apricot had done on accident back in Canterlot. The fire, suddenly flush with energy, had raged so violently that the air around it had been sucked dry. With no oxygen left to burn, the flame had consumed itself.

“Ap… Apricot…” stammered Cranberry.

He turned to her as if in a dream, still entranced by his sudden understanding. “I think we can stop it, Mom,” he said, blinking. Then the sound and heat rushed back in, as reality returned. Apricot shook his head. “But I need everyone’s help.”

The wildfire was too loud for him to sing with, too chaotic for him to find the rhythm. Casting about for an answer, his eyes landed on the empty barrel beside Beatriz. “Here!” he exclaimed, running toward it. His hooves squelched in the mud as he reached the shell-shocked antelope. “Help me flip it over, please!”

Beatriz tore her eyes away from the cart, with a dazed nod. Together, they turned the empty barrel upside down, leaving the hollow cavity. Cranberry came up beside them. “Apricot, what are you—”

“Listen, I need you all to get the rest of the barrels and give me a beat.” Apricot thumped the top of the barrel, sending out a reverberating echo.

“A—a beat? I don’t unders…” Cranberry’s voice trailed off as she looked at the cart, shaking her head.

“Mom! Focus, please. I need a beat; a drumbeat. It’s the only way for me to catch the firesong.” He began pounded out a rhythm on the improvised drum. Dun dun dun DUN dun dun DUN dun-dun DUN dun dun DUN dun dun…

Another pair of hooves joined him. Beatriz followed his beat, meeting his eyes with a nod. She smiled hesitantly, then yelled “Kaduat! Get the other barrels!”

Apricot stepped back as Cranberry took his place at the barrel, hooves pounding on the wood. Hesitant at first, she fell into the rhythm and helped Beatriz keep it steady. “Good,” said Apricot, turning away. “Keep it going, no matter what happens!”

Not waiting for a response, he galloped away, heading for the absolute center of the clearing. He passed burning tents and the flaming wreckage of other carts, ignoring the clouds of swirling sparks. At the fiery edge of the glade, the twin brothers carried on their lonely battle. He heard another booming rush of wind as they cast a falling tree back into the furnace. The drumbeat grew behind him as the mercenaries turned over more barrels and joined Beatriz and his mother.

He reached the center, coming to a halt. All around, the wildfire surged, snapping and gnawing the edges of the campsite like a hungry beast, roaring as it consumed the forest. To catch the fire’s reins, he would have to open himself fully, the way he had when finding the forest’s song. You could lose yourself, Pollux had warned, but there was no choice.

I have to, he thought. For Mom and Dad and Pollux and Kaduat. Be brave. Like Dad. With a deep breath, he ignited his horn and flung himself open to the song.

It broke over him with the force of a tidal wave, drowning him in light and sound. The wildfire echoed around him like a choir lost in a canyon, howling grief and anger in a threnody of violent sorrow. It was the forest itself, wailing like a searing orchestra of the dead and dying, a thousand alien screeches and groans in a frenzy of pain. At the root of the song he could feel a suffering so deep that it brought him to his haunches, crushing him down into the ash. Tears ran down his cheeks as the howling anguish of the Elderwood crawled up from the roots and twisted inside him.

Breathe, he thought desperately, trying to center himself, trying to keep his own voice from being swallowed by the forest. He could feel echoes of the camels’ panic, of his mother’s guilt and fear, of the twins’ steely determination, of Beatriz’s total focus on hammering out the drumbeat. The drums! Apricot clung to them like a lifeline, letting their steady rhythm serve as a lighthouse in the stormy sea of magic. He sang the firesong, his horn gleaming in the hazy air.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but he felt as though he could see the music in the flames. Towering tongues of fire writhed to the beat, twitching on their own chaotic times. The wildfire’s energy passed through him, looping through his horn and back out into the forest. He took a deep breath, tasting ash, and exhaled. Some instinct made him raise his hooves, as if he could touch the song itself.

“You’re off-tempo,” he whispered. His hooves began to move.

He swayed them with the flames, nodding his head to the beat of the barrel-drums. His own rendition of the firesong followed the beat, and to his astonishment, many of the voices followed him. The fire flooded in, following the new path of least resistance, letting the spellsinger’s voice direct the fury of the choir. Some of the strands of energy resisted, burning fierce and independent. Apricot’s brow twitched, and he snapped his hoof toward the offending flames, raising his voice and focusing on the rhythm until they slowly fell in line.

One by one, he corralled the choir, until the whole glade—perhaps the entire forest—was singing with him. Incomprehensible energy coursed through his horn, like a vast river pouring through a breached dam. Apricot’s hooves never ceased, but he could feel the fire consuming him, even hotter than it had been when he’d stood inside it; burning up from his hooves into his chest, filling his lungs with searing smoke. It was igniting him from the inside out, melting him down until only an echo remained to sing with the forest choir.

And then he heard another voice, not the pale echo of something long gone, but a living, vibrant song. The golden, liquid warmth enwreathed his own music, and he felt a shining spark of hope. Pollux! The firesong, rendered in his teacher’s unmistakable, unshakable alto, shimmered radiantly through the magic. It separated from Apricot’s, diverting some of that overwhelming power away to pass through another conduit; yet it continued to follow Apricot’s beat with impeccable timing. A sensation radiated through the song, not quite telepathy, but an echo of emotion from teacher to student. It was a sensation he’d rarely felt from the adults, more precious than a thousand words of praise: Pollux trusted him.

One of the mercenaries yelled from behind. “Look! What’s happening to it?” All around, the bright orange color of the flames was becoming alloyed with rose and crimson light.

It was time to give the forest what it wanted. “Louder!” Apricot called to the drummers, not turning away from his fiery orchestra. His hooves paced the song, still swishing curtly through the air.

“You heard the kid,” yelled Kaduat. “Louder! Beswit-la!” The drumbeat grew as the mercenaries hurled themselves into the effort. “Whatever you’re doing, kid, keep it up!”

With the breathing room Pollux had given him, Apricot could do more than simply channel the wildfire. He pulled the loop of energy in his horn tighter and tighter, using the wildfire’s own power to concentrate and fuel the ring of fire around the clearing. Pollux followed his lead, and the two unicorns poured out their song like a torrent of oil onto the flames.

The wildfire grew deafeningly loud. The flames surged up, leaping forty meters above the ground, flickering like a watercolor of brilliant rose and rich crimson. The thrill rushing through his veins was like riding lightning. If they lost the song now, the overload would shatter their horns like glass. The fire, devouring the glut of magical energy, crashed against their music as it sought weakness, but the choir had fallen into his trap. With so many voices singing to Apricot’s tempo, they had become self-correcting. Lone trails of fire could not escape the pull of the rest. Eyes glinting, he recalled Pollux’s words. Skill beats power, every time.

As the crescendo reached its peak, Apricot’s hoof swept through the air. The fire followed, titanic tongues of flame whirling in a glowing arc of rosy light and heat. They swirled around the glade like a glowing tornado, drawing cries of terror from the mercenaries, but Apricot didn’t falter. He let the last of his strength pour into the inferno as it spun high around them. Lifting his hooves high, he brought the song to its climax. The rose-colored flame seared white, blindingly intense. His mane billowed wildly in the seething air, until he brought his hooves both slashing downward.

In the apex of its strength and hunger, the fire’s equilibrium collapsed. The wildfire screeched, gasping for air, lain bereft by its own rapacious fury, and sputtered away. Everywhere, the blazing flames fell suddenly low, extinguishing all at once in a choking cloud of ash and smoke. Apricot whirled his hoof in a gesture of finality. A deafening silence reigned.

Rose-colored cinders drifted gently through the haze like motes of glowing dust. The thundering noise of the fire had vanished in an instant, along with the heat and the light. Apricot could hear his own pulse, still pounding frantically. Behind him, the drums had stilled with the fire’s disappearance. In the magic, there was nothing; not even the sounds of forest life that had been so overwhelming earlier that day. It was the peace of a graveyard. Apricot recalled the flower-covered tombstone of his namesake, and shivered.

Cheers rose from behind him, shattering the silence. “You did it, kiddo!” hollered Kaduat hoarsely. He turned to see the mercenaries hugging and laughing with disbelief. An exhausted smile found its way to his lips, and he managed to lift a hoof in acknowledgment, but he was too tired to join them. He simply sat in the singed grass, letting his hooves and his horn rest. Right now he wasn’t sure he could even lift a pebble with magic. The echo of that immense power still ached in his horn.

Drained, he gazed around at the forest, taking in the ranks of blackened, skeletal trees. Their naked branches curled upwards like antlers, sharp and dark. It felt like they were watching him. He could sense nothing from them now, but that didn’t make him feel safe. This cold silence in the magic was even more disturbing than the wailing had been.

His ruminations were interrupted by his mother’s voice, breathless with relief. “Apricot! Apricot, you did it—” She rushed into another crushing hug, not caring about the mud smeared across her coat. Apricot hugged her back with as much strength as he could manage, with a tired yet happy sigh. Right now, all he wanted was sleep.

More hoofsteps drew Apricot’s attention. He lifted his head from Cranberry’s shoulder to see his father, staring around the burned-out glade in total amazement. Inger paced an unsteady circle around them, his head swinging back and forth as he gazed over the forest. “Unicorn stuff,” said Inger, deliriously. Apricot couldn’t help but laugh. Father and son locked eyes, blinking.

“Ha!” Inger let out a sudden whoop and hugged his family like a bear. “Incredible, Junior! You just—that was—that was incredible! You saved us, saved us all!” Even the dark circles under his eyes couldn’t lessen the pride shining in them.

The Sugars held the hug for a few moments before separating. Apricot sagged back on his haunches, rubbing his horn. Someone else cleared their throat, and Apricot perked up when he recognized Pollux’s voice. He turned his head to see the mage lifting a hoof to catch a rosy cinder. “Beautiful…” He examined the glowing mote, before shaking his hoof and casting it back into the breeze. “I knew you had a gift, but that…” Pollux turned to the family and bowed. “I am honored to be your teacher, Apricot Sugar.”

Apricot regained his footing, standing up and returning the bow. “It’s like you said. Fire is balance… I just helped it burn itself out.”

“Yes. But that was no ordinary fire.” Pollux stared at the blackened branches of the aspens. “We’re all lucky to be alive.” His contemplative frown cracked into a smile. “Although, with a cutie mark like that, should we expect any less?”

“Huh?” Apricot blinked. Pollux gave him a knowing nod.

Behind him, Inger inhaled sharply. “Junior! Look…”

“Wait, what?” His eyes shot wide. Suddenly, it felt like all his energy had returned. Whipping his head left and right, Apricot craned to get a look at his hindquarters. There, emblazoned on both flanks, was a slender silver rod enwreathed by a tongue of rose-tinted flame. “Oh my gods!”

“Language,” chided Cranberry, smiling. “Your brother’s bad enough, I don’t need you starting.”

“What is it?” he yelped, chasing his own tail in a circle twice before managing to stop himself. “A wand?”

“A conductor’s baton,” mused Pollux, dusting more soot from his robes. “No wonder you picked up spellsinging so quickly. A great many things are clear to me, now…” He glanced at Inger and Cranberry, his brow furrowing in confusion. “And a few, less so.”

Apricot’s eyes gleamed. All of it, everything, had been worth it. The weeks spent stuck in that cramped barrel, the boredom of fighting through Kemholtz’s dense paragraphs, taking that rock to the nose, even the terror of stepping into the fire. Now, the proof was there for all to see—he was meant to be a mage.

“Mom… Dad!” He spun around again. “Look at it!”

Inger grinned, despite the weary lines on his face. “You’ve earned it, Junior.”

“Oh, Apricot…” Cranberry’s eyes were misty.

“Pollux!” called Castor, as he flew past toward the remaining carts. “Come on, we’d better see what can be salvaged.”

The mage nodded, giving the Sugars another small bow before heading after his brother.

“All right,” said Inger, standing back up and groaning. He rolled his shoulder blade. “We’d better go with them.”

“Yes,” said Cranberry. “Apricot, honey, you should get some rest. I’m sure some of the tents survived, we can—”

“No way!” He bounced. “I have to show Kaduat my cutie mark!” Practically prancing, he trotted off after Pollux and Castor. “Come on, Dad!” Gleefully, he glanced back at the silver baton again. “I can’t wait till Strawberry sees this…”

* * *

As his son cantered away, Inger’s smile faded. The adrenaline rush was running out, and his limbs felt like iron weights. Looking over at his wife, his lips tightened.

Beneath her soot-stained golden curls, Cranberry looked as tired as he felt. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I managed not to get burned,” she said, looking around at the trees. “Somehow. Maybe all the mud helped.”

“Uh. Good.” Inger’s throat felt very dry. “Back there, right before the blackpowder cart caught fire… what you said…”

“Forget about it.” she deflected, not meeting his eyes. “I just wanted to keep Apricot safe. That’s all.”

Maybe it’s what I deserve, her words had been. “Cranberry. I never wanted to see you hurt.”

“And I didn’t want to hurt you. That’s why I never told you about… about what happened.” She shook her head. “And I wasn’t…” her voice caught, before she continued, “I wasn’t sure you could forgive me.”

She looked at him, and he saw tears making wet tracks through the ash on her cheeks. “Can you?” she whispered.

Of course I can, he thought instinctively, but all that made it past his lips was “Of… I…”

The dragon clenched around his heart, as the words from her journal flashed through his mind. Go ahead, you coward. Tell her it’s all forgiven, that everything’s fine. Pretend the jealousy isn’t still burning a hole in your chest. Pretend that you trust her again.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, turning away to hide his face.

“Oh,” she said, sounding small.

“Look, let’s talk more about this later, all right?” Inger exhaled, putting a hoof to the bridge of his snout. “Right now we should go help the others.”

“Okay,” she said, staring a thousand meters away. With a quiet sniffle, she stood, and walked listlessly toward the mercenaries, where Castor was issuing orders for the cleanup effort. After a moment, Inger followed, willing the damned dragon to be silent.

* * *

Picking up the pieces was a grim affair. By some miracle, no one had died in the wildfire, but it had taken a heavy toll on their supplies. Over a quarter of the tents, two thirds of their food stocks, the carts containing Cranberry’s books and all the digging equipment, and even Beatriz’s flute and Virgil’s fiddle had all been lost to the ravenous flames.

The most costly loss was the armory cart, which had burned so hot that even the steel within had warped. Half the spearheads were bent into useless hooks, and much of the armor had twisted beyond fit. They transferred what little remained usable into the cart that had held the tents, and left the rest in a pile of slag and metal.

Zaeneas’s alchemical stocks had survived, thanks to her cart’s small size and the slanted roof that had deflected most of the falling tinder away. The munitions cart, of course, was also still intact; but neither potions nor blackpowder would fill a grumbling belly. At least they had plenty of empty barrels to fill with water at the river, but the rescue mission looked more dire with every tallied loss.

In the faint moonlight, Inger stood over the ashes of the ruined armory cart. In an upturned hoof he held one of his armor plates, staring at his warped reflection in the ruined, golden metal. Even with a mirror so poor, he could tell how bad he looked. His eyes were sunken, dark pits, and his feathers were unkempt and disheveled. The still-hot air blew his matted orange mane about his head, leaving his visage even more bedraggled. If he saw one of his Firewings in such a sorry state, he’d tell them to go dunk their head in a barrel of water until they sobered up.

Something moved behind his reflection, and he heard soft hoofsteps in the ash. The cadence had become so familiar that he didn’t even need to turn. Still looking into the twisted metal, he sighed. “It takes almost two years for a recruit to earn their armor. It’s our most important ceremony. Once you’ve proven you’re worthy to wear the gold, the whole company helps you put it on for the first time; each of us buckling on a piece. When it’s done, when the whole raiment is assembled, the transformation is complete—and only then are you truly a sister or brother in the Firewings.”

Tybalt came to a stop beside him, glancing at the armor plate. Inger stared wistfully into it, shaking his head. “I’ve had bits and pieces replaced here and there over the years, but this pauldron was part of my original set. I went to Sleipnord wearing this. The Battle of Canterlot, the southern campaigns; it even survived the fight with Merys…” Mournfully, he tossed it back onto the pile of mangled metal.

“I’m sure it can be repaired,” offered his father hopefully. “Norharren smiths can work marvels.”

Inger shook his head. “It would be vanity to carry dead weight when we need every bit of space for food. With the damage from the wildfire, it could take us over a week to get back to Port Faeloch.”

“We aren’t returning to Faeloch,” said Tybalt firmly. “Not yet.”

“What?” Taken aback, Inger looked around at the devastated campsite. “You can’t intend to press on after—”

“We must. This mission is too important to turn back.”

“Even if we found Locke, we don’t have enough food left to—”

“This is bigger than Locke,” said Tybalt, forcefully. “We have to keep going.”

“Why?” Inger frowned.

“For…” Tybalt faltered, exhaling. “For Equestria’s sake. The elken knowledge that Locke found down there could save our nation.”

“I wasn’t aware it needed saving.”

“We’re stuck, Inger. The ponies aren’t withering away, but we aren’t growing, either. The rest of the world is passing us by.” Tybalt’s golden eyes burned with sudden passion. “It’s past time we ended this interminable stasis. We need to level the playing field.”

Inger’s stomach swam. He glanced back at the remains of the campsite, where Cranberry was still helping the mercenaries take stock. Apricot lay against the side of a cart, passed out and slumbering peacefully. “I need more than that if we’re going to keep walking into danger.”

“If Celerity Belle had shrunk from danger, then we’d all be speaking Gryphan right now.” Tybalt caught himself, sighing. “I’m sorry. I know I’m asking a great deal from you all. I don’t take that lightly.” His brow creased as he looked at his son. “But I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t worth it. Medicine, a transportation network, some unknown secret of the ancient elk; whatever it is that Locke discovered beneath this forest, he thought it could change everything. And I believe him. This could be our chance to build a better world, Inger. Together.” He held out a hoof. “Do you trust me?”

“I… don’t know.” Hesitantly, Inger regarded it. “I want to.”

Tybalt let his hoof rest. “Mm…” He bit his lip. “I understand. It can be hard to trust again after you’ve had yours broken.” They stood in silence for a few moments before Tybalt cleared his throat. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Inger’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Tybalt toyed with his locket. “You weren’t in camp when the fire started,” he said gently.

Scuffing the dirt with a hoof, Inger cleared his throat. “I was getting some air.”

“Inger…” his father sighed. “I heard you and Cranberry fighting. The yelling woke me up.”

There was nothing to say, so Inger looked back ahead at the twisted pile of steel and burned wood.

“If it’s your wish, I won’t pry further, but speaking from experience… keeping it bottled up just makes things worse.”

His mouth had gone dry. “She made a… mistake.”

“A mistake?” Tybalt closed his eyes, inhaling. “Oh, Inger.”

Inger bit his lip, holding his breath.

His father’s eyes opened again, full of weary resignation. “She’s been fucking the pegacorn.”

Dragonfire boiled in Inger’s veins. His face twisted with rage before he could control it. “No.” Imaginary images of his wife and his friend entwined together raced through his mind, like piercing arrows. The dragon clawed at his ribcage for release. “No. She… she only… kissed him.”

Only, hissed the dragon, as if that’s not bad enough. It sounded pathetic even to Inger’s ears.

“I’m so sorry, Inger.” Tybalt let the locket go, hanging his head. “Eurydice didn’t want to believe it, either. She made so many excuses for me… I think she even convinced herself, sometimes.” He surveyed the destroyed armory cart with melancholy. “Is it better or worse to know?”

Worse, the dragon snarled.

“It was just the one time,” said Inger, finding Cranberry’s weak excuses dripping from his own lips. “She… she still loves me,” he whispered.

“Yes.” At Inger’s raised eyebrow, his father nodded. “I believe that, truly,” said Tybalt, stroking the locket. “But… it’s possible for a pony to have more than one love. Would that it were not.”

“She wouldn’t do that. Neither would Rye.” The dragon writhed. Trying to convince him, or yourself? “They… it… it would destroy all of us. Windstreak, Tyria, me, the boys—” He clung to the last one like a piece of driftwood in the ocean. “Cranberry would never hurt Strawberry and Apricot like that.”

“Apricot…” Tybalt looked around at the wildfire-scarred forest. “Your son is a puzzle I’ve been considering for some time.”

“What?” Inger blinked, thrown off balance by the sudden change in subject.

“First the incident on the ship, and now all of this,” said Tybalt, sweeping a hoof at the dead trees. “The boy’s a prodigy. He’s got powerful magic in his blood. It must have come from somewhere. And it wasn’t from our line.”

Inger’s mind went blank. “Cranberry’s got unicorn blood.”

“Yes,” said Tybalt, turning to look into Inger’s eyes. His voice fell to a sibilant whisper that sounded eerily like the dragon’s. “But she doesn’t have a horn.”

There was no sound of leaves or birds in the dead forest air. Inger’s forehead throbbed. Wings trembling, he felt a red-hot lance of fury shiver through his spine. With a victorious howl, the dragon broke free at last, spewing fire as it burst from his chest.

His hoof slammed into his father’s face.

Tybalt fell backwards into the ash, clutching his snout in visible shock. Inger stood above him, shaking, his chest heaving. Growling, he slammed his hoof back to the ground.

As he wiped his snout, Tybalt stared at the blood on his hoof in disbelief. “You hit me.”

“And I’ll do it again if you say another gods-damned word.” The dragon roared, tugging at his hoof, but Inger fought it back. For a moment, he searched for something to say, but no words came. Snarling, he turned away and stormed off toward the edge of the glade.

That punch had felt good. Far too good. He’d just barely had the presence of mind to aim it at Tybalt’s snout instead of his chin, which would have broken bones for certain. And even now, all he wanted was to rush back and pummel out all this rage onto someone who deserved it for a change.

Deserved it? The dragon, luxuriating in its long-awaited release, draped itself across his shoulders. For what? Putting a voice to the thoughts you’d never dare to speak yourself? Maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s why your son has always felt so out of reach. Maybe it’s not your fault after all. Maybe it’s HERS.

Inger gritted his teeth. Shut up. SHUT UP. He paced along the perimeter of the ravaged glade, hoping to walk off this dangerous mood.

Violence was his job, and he was good at it. He’d promised himself long ago that no matter what happened, he would never bring work home. Until coming to the Elderwood, he’d kept that promise without fail; now, he’d broken it twice in less than twenty-four hours. First, nearly maiming Apricot with that rock while carelessly venting his anger, and now nearly shattering his father’s jaw. If he fell any further, if he gave in to the dragon’s darkest urges, if, in another outburst of rage, he hurt Cranberry, then he wasn’t sure he could live with himself.

As he walked and forced his breathing to slow, the haze of fury began to fade. The familiar exhaustion after a rush of adrenaline began to set in. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in over a week, and his body was starting to give out. But the bubbling anger and hurt beneath his temper were still there, stubbornly persisting. Diverting his course, he broke from the perimeter and stepped past the treeline.

Though all the aspens were scored black, white bark peeked out from beneath the soot. The antler-esque branches rose above his head, like blackened crowns atop their burned pillars. If he hadn’t seen the trees alive and flourishing mere hours ago, he could have mistaken them for structures of stone, dark and forbidding in the night. Astonishing, how quickly something green and beautiful could crumble to ash.

Finding a spot shielded from the glade, Inger sat beneath one of the towering burned obelisks. There, he tried to gather himself. His thoughts were still racing, a flood of images and feelings that he couldn’t seem to stem. He did his best to simply focus on breathing, letting his lungs fill with the sap-scented air of the incinerated forest.

Stretching out his right wing, he looked it over. The feathers were misaligned, ruffled, covered in splotches of soot. He stank of smoke. Taking another deep breath, he closed his eyes and pushed his snout into the soft, cherry-red down. He began to nudge the feathers back into place, preening them with the ease of long practice.

The ritual was comforting. With each brush of his cheek, feathers righted and fell neatly in line. Making order from chaos, even in something so small, soothed his turbulent emotions. Even the dragon calmed; not safely caged as before, but lulled back to quiescence. He could keep his temper in check. He was the captain of the Firewings, for Sisters’ sake. Bit by bit, feather by feather, he shored up the control that had been so badly shaken by the events of the last month.

Clean wings create a clear mind; page forty-six. He began the other wing with a wry smile. In his youth, he and the other cadets had made fun of Lieutenant Bergeron whenever he quoted from the Firewings training manual, but he found its words wiser and wiser with every passing year. The naked trees creaked as a faint breeze passed, and his musings turned outward.

If he let his own anger burn free like a wildfire, then he’d wind up as barren and scorched as the aspens. At least his outburst at Tybalt had done the same thing as Apricot had to the flames. The sudden violent surge had shocked him awake, had put out the fire—at least for now.

As he finished preening, he pulled his wings back close to his sides, calmly exhaling. Above, he heard a chirp. Looking up in amazement, he saw a woodpecker alighting on one of the blackened branches. Its head swiveled, before rapping against the bark. Rat-a-tata-tatatat-tat. Inger smiled. Despite all its terrible fury, the fire hadn’t damaged the forest beyond saving. This place could be green again, someday.

I want to forgive her, he thought to himself, nodding slowly.

Can you? asked the dragon, cautiously. A few words won’t make it stop hurting.

I don’t know. But trying is worth it. She’s worth it.

Dubiously, it rested its head to sleep. All right. But don’t get your hopes up.

Taking another deep breath, he stood, and strode back the way he’d come. As he picked his way through the burned and blasted trees, he wondered what he could say to her. Or to his father.

When he reached the campsite, he found many of the mercenaries sleeping rough on the ground. With so much of their shelter burned beyond repair, it was likely the new state of affairs until their return to civilization. Tybalt seemed to have retreated to one of the remaining tents, to Inger’s relief. He could deal with that mess tomorrow. Right now, his only concern was for the pair of pink ponies beside the water cart.

Apricot was still fast asleep as he approached. Cranberry, sitting beside their son, looked up as he reached them. She was visibly spent, but her eyes still sparked with the vibrant blue he’d come to know so well over the years. She gave him a guarded, yet hopeful look. “Inger?”

“Hey.” He sat heavily beside her, leaning his head back against the cart.

“Hey,” she echoed, looking off into the trees.

“Cranberry, I…” Inger sighed. Oh, to hell with it. He grabbed her gently, and pulled her chin sideways to plant a kiss right on her lips. Cranberry made a muffled murmur of surprise, before softening into it.

“Um…” she mumbled as they parted, “Wow. I, uh… thought you were still angry with me.”

“Maybe,” he said, shaking his head in confusion, “but that doesn’t mean—Cranberry, I still love you.”

A faint smile cracked the soot on her face. “I’m glad.”

“What you said during the fire… you’ve always been brave in danger,” he said quietly, “but never because you’ve had a death wish. I know things have been hard. But I’m not going to leave you, Cranberry.”

She bent and turned her head away for a moment, before wiping her eyes and looking back at him. “Thank you,” she said simply. “I don’t know if you’re ready to talk about it; but Inger, I am so, so sorry for what I did.” Cranberry’s eyes wavered as she took a shaky breath. “It’s been eating me up for days. The reason I never told you wasn’t to keep it secret, or because I still felt that way. It was because… because I was ashamed.”

The dragon hissed from his shoulder like a wounded animal. Who cares how she feels? You’re the one she hurt.

“I just need to know one thing,” he said. His wife nodded hesitantly. Inger swallowed. “That was the only time, right?”

“Yes,” she said, exhaling. “You have my word.”

“All right.” He closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

The two sat in silence by the cart, as the empty trees creaked in the wind around them. Cranberry reached to her right, where the young colt was curled up asleep, and ruffled his curly mane. “I still can hardly believe it… our little Apricot, doing all that. If Papa could see him now, he’d be bursting with pride.” She smiled. “It’s funny, you know. When he flipped that barrel over and ordered us all to start drumming, he sounded just like you, barking orders to recruits on the training field.”

“Heh.” Inger looked at his son, and the fiery rose sigil imprinted on his flank. Conflicted emotions swirled inside him. Pride, of course, but also a sense of loss: This pony was born to do magic, that mark proclaimed, a symbol that his son would always be part of a different world than his father. “I’m glad he got at least one thing from me.”

“More than you give yourself credit for,” said Cranberry, brushing his cheek with a hoof. “There’s no spell that can grant someone spirit, or courage.” She leaned over and gave him a hug. “Magic training isn’t what makes a good father.”

But having a horn might, said the dragon. Inger felt a cold pit in his stomach. He felt a sudden impulse to bring up his father’s suspicions, while they were clearing the air. “Cranberry—”

Her reply was a faint snore. Cranberry’s forelegs had gone slack around him, as the long day and frantic night took their toll at last. Her head rested on his shoulder as she slept, with a peace on her features that he hadn’t seen since they’d set hoof in the Elderwood. Inger couldn’t help but smile, pulling a few stray mane curls out of her face. Closing his eyes, he let his head rest against hers, and allowed himself to drift away.

No dreams troubled his sleep before morning.