The Hour Before Dawn

The air in the High Cave settled into a tense, suffocating silence after Theron’s departure. The snick-thud of the two Exile guards’ axes hitting the stone floor as they readjusted their posture was the only sound that pierced the darkness, a rhythmic, unforgiving clock counting down the hours until dawn.
Jerrick did not move. He knelt by the Queen, his hand still warm from her touch. He knew the command in her voice was genuine—Worry about the price they will try to exact from you. It wasn't about the Cold Forges. It was about the core of his identity, the Elder God Theron had so casually named, and the raw, untamed power that simmered beneath the surface of his professionalism.
He finally pulled back, rising to his full, imposing height. The flickering lantern flame stretched his shadow across the cave wall, making him look like the very monster Theron feared.
“Rest, my Queen,” Jerrick murmured, his voice now a flat, dangerous rumble. He had compartmentalized his own grief for Lyra, locking it away behind the granite wall of duty, but the Queen’s peril chipped constantly at his control. He settled on the stone floor at the Queen’s feet, drawing a long, obsidian blade from his hip sheath—a weapon of ancient Dragon-steel designed to absorb rather than reflect light. He began to run a dry cloth over its surface, polishing a mirror in the dark.
This was his anchor. This focused, mundane task was the only thing that kept the Elder God’s temper—the uncontrollable, instinctual power of his true lineage—from bursting forth and painting the High Cave red.

The Weight of the Living

Kael was where Jerrick had left him, huddled near the two sleeping children. The little girl, Elara, was tucked securely into his side, oblivious to the drama of the adults. The boy, Torvin, was curled up facing the wall, a slight tremor running through him—awake, but playing the part of a sleeper.
Jerrick kept polishing, but his focus shifted to Kael. The young Shadow Guard was breathing too quickly, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. The guilt had not purged; it had metastasized.
“Kael,” Jerrick called out, his voice sharp but quiet enough to stay within their corner.
Kael snapped his head up, eyes red-rimmed and fierce. “Captain, I—”
“Silence,” Jerrick cut him off. “You do not have the luxury of regret. You have the children. The Heartwood lives because you lived. Lyra gave you this watch.” Jerrick met his gaze, his eyes radiating cold, hard certainty. “If you break, you dishonor her choice. If you break, they will take the Cold Forges, and then they will take the children. Are you functional?”
Kael swallowed hard, the sharp edges of Jerrick’s command acting like a bracing draught. He took a ragged breath and looked down at the children. He shifted his position, turning his body so it completely shielded them. He gave a nod that was less broken than before. “I am functional, Captain.”
“Good. Torvin is awake. He hears everything. Tell him a story about the Shadow Guard. Tell him about Lyra. Make her a legend before the dawn comes to steal her from the light.”
Kael’s eyes widened slightly in understanding. This wasn't just about comforting the boy; it was about laying the foundation of loyalty and truth before the Exiles could seed their own narrative. It was the next stage of the Queen’s war. Kael leaned closer to the boy’s back and began to whisper.

The Unspoken Bargain

The polishing stopped. Jerrick sheathed the blade and rose, moving to stand exactly ten feet from the two Exile guards. He stood at ease, hands clasped behind his back, a statue of contained lethal force.
He spoke, not to the guards, but into the space between them. “Theron spoke of a verified debt. What is the Debt of the Shard?”
The guards remained silent, their eyes fixed forward. Jerrick waited, his patience a weapon.
A moment later, the guard on the left, a woman with deep scars tracing her lower jaw, finally broke protocol. Her voice was guttural, low, and laced with resentment. “An Exile Queen, three generations past. Atlas was choking the Wastes. Your Dragon-kin gave safe passage for her family and her people. They pledged a Shard of the Mountain—a knowledge too great to be measured in gold—if they ever needed safe passage again.”
“And the Shard is the Cold Forges,” Jerrick concluded.
“It is the key to it,” the guard corrected, her eyes flickering with defiance. “The method to tame the moon-steel. The only thing Atlas does not possess.”
“And you believe my Queen will simply hand it over for a night's worth of furs?” Jerrick pressed, his tone mild.
“We believe she is desperate,” the second guard rasped, shifting his weight. “The Debt is paid. The Queen will pay the price of protection above the Debt.”
Jerrick felt a cold certainty settle in his gut. Theron hadn't just been warning him about his temper; he was testing the waters. He was ensuring the Dragon Guard was aware of the steep price about to be demanded.
He turned and walked back toward the Queen, the low crackle of the lantern wick the only sound. He looked down at her—her face pale but fiercely composed.
“The price is not the Cold Forges, my Queen,” Jerrick stated quietly, confirming their silent understanding. “They want the knowledge, yes. But the price of our protection—the protection of the Dragon Guard—is The Elder God. They want to know how to control the very thing they fear.”
She reached up, took his hand, and squeezed it, her gaze utterly steady.
“And you will not give it to them, Jerrick,” the Queen whispered, pulling him down to her eye level. “But I will give them something better. I will give them a distraction.”

Jerrick pulled back, his mind already calculating the variables of an escape, a stand, and a complete, violent breakdown of the negotiation. Six hours until dawn. Theron would expect him to be predictable.
What would the distraction be?