They Say Threes a Crowd, What About Five?

Corin, with a long sigh that suggested he was already regretting his life choices, led them back to the inn.

“You can’t just leave a dragon egg sitting in a room for rent,” he grumbled, though his eyes kept flicking towards the satchel where Elysia now carefully carried her precious cargo. “Especially not that one.”

With the obsidian egg safely in their possession, they followed Corin through the city. It was even more breathtaking in the full light of day. Streets of smooth, grey river stone twisted around giant trees whose branches formed a sun peaking through canopy far above. Keito, accustomed to the wide streets of Rynhaven, nearly tripped over a root the size of his leg. Corin moved with grace, and Keitos eyes were constantly scanning, analyzing the city’s layout, its natural defenses, its serene beauty. Elysia was simply in awe, her head on a constant swivel, trying to drink in every impossible detail.

Corin led them away from the main city area, down a winding side path to a small, building nestled between the roots of two towering ironwood trees. It was old, its stone walls covered in moss, its round wooden door looking plain. It looked more like a hermit’s forgotten cottage than a place of importance.

“This is it?” Baro asked, skepticism in his voice.

Corin shot him an annoyed glare and pushed the door open. “Don’t judge a book by its cover, big guy.”

The interior was a single, dusty room. It was a library, but a small one, with shelves lining the circular walls, filled with perhaps a few hundred leather-bound books. The air smelled of old paper, and dried ink. In the very center of the room was a circle of silver on the wooden floor. Corin walked to the center, placed his hand on the silver, and murmured a single word in the same strange language he had used on the ship.

With a low whistle, the circular section of the floor descended, revealing the top of a vast, spiral staircase that plunged into the earth. The staircase, wide enough for ten men to walk together, corkscrewed down into a huge chamber that seemed to have no bottom. As far as the eye could see, levels of library stretched out, each one a ring of countless shelves, connected by elegantly carved bridges. Glowing crystals, embedded in the cavern walls, cast a soft, golden light on many many books.

“Whoa,” was all Baro could manage.

“The Aestilgard Archives,” Corin said, a flicker of pride in his voice. “The city above is new. This… this is old. Older than almost anything on Chthonia.”

He led them down the spiraling steps, their footsteps echoing in the silence. Elysia ran her hand along the cool stone of the railing, her mind reeling at the sheer scale of it all. They passed levels dedicated to cartography, with maps of places she didn’t know, levels for botany, filled with detailed sketches of new plants, levels for history, their shelves packed under the weight of it all. They descended for what felt like hours, the air growing cooler, the scent of old paper growing stronger. Finally, Corin stepped off the main staircase onto a level that seemed to specialize in cosmology and arcane lore. He moved quietly, his fingers tracing the spines of the ancient books.

“The Convergence isn’t a common topic,” he muttered, more to himself than to them. “After the last… event… most of the records were intentionally obscured. Became a fairy tale to scare children. But the First Scribes of Aestilgard forget nothing.” He stopped, pulling a heavy, dull looking book from a high shelf. It was bound in black, cracked leather, its cover bearing a single, faded silver sigil: a full moon with a dark, missing sliver. “Here we are. The Lament of the Lost Moon.”

He didn't open it. Instead, he tucked it under his arm and led them back up the seemingly endless stairs. When they emerged, blinking, into the natural sunlight, it felt like returning from another world.

“We can’t read this here,” Corin said. “Too many eyes. I know a place.”

He led them on another winding journey to the edge of the city, to a place where the nature gave way to the wilder, untamed forest. Hidden behind a curtain of weeping willow trees and a small waterfall was a secluded glade. A perfect circle of lush grass was ringed by moss-covered stones. Thousands of tiny, star-shaped white flowers blanketed the ground, their petals glowing with a soft luminescence. It was clearly Corin’s private refuge, and sharing it was a greater show of trust than any of them yet realized.

They sat on the soft grass, and Corin placed the heavy book in the center. He opened it, its pages brittle and yellowed with age. The script was archaic, the drawings faded, but the message was clear.

“When the sky weeps for its second child,” Keito read aloud, “and the Tear of Nyx vanishes from the celestial tapestry, the veil thins. The lock is broken. The gate to the Abyssal Realm, the world of demons, will swing wide. Thus begins the Convergence, a symphony of silence where one world ends and a hungrier one begins.”

The book went on to describe a time, centuries ago, when the ‘Tear of Nyx’, apparently one of Tara’s two moons, had indeed begun to fade. Portals of doom appeared across the world…. plagues, monstrous beasts, corruption that drove people to madness. A group of forgotten heroes had managed to halt the process, to somehow restore the fading moon and reinforce the veil, but the details of their victory were lost to time, the entire event dismissed as myth.

“A portal to the demon world,” Baro said, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “So that ooze monster… it was just the beginning.”

“It was a herald,” Keito corrected, his face grim. “A scout. To see if the world was ready to fall.” He looked at Elysia, his expression softening but his tone firm. “Which is why this is no longer a choice. Elysia, your power is unique. You saved us with it, but you have no control over it. You collapsed, you were unconscious for a full day. In a real fight against that… thing… we cannot afford to lose you like that. You need to learn how to actually use your abilities.”

Elysia looked down at her hands, the familiar feeling of inadequacy washing over her. She had never learned any of it, it just happened. “I don’t know how.”

“Then we’ll teach you,” Keito said, his voice leaving no room for argument. A new energy seemed to fill the glade.

“My own power is tied to the moons. My father was a moon spirit, my mother a knight. I inherited a fraction of his gift.” He held up his hand, and a soft, silver light pooled in his palm. “I can channel moonlight, enhancing my armor, my sword… or giving it form.” The light solidified, extending from his fist into a short, shimmering blade of pure light. “Since I made the contract with you, my connection to that power has grown a hundredfold. I can feel the ebb and flow of it now in a way I never could before.”

Baro snorted, though not unkindly. “Fancy light show. Me? I just tell things what to do.” He picked up a large, heavy stone from the edge of the glade. “My family calls it Enchant Magic. It’s simple.” He focused on the stone, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Enlarge.” The rock visibly swelled, growing to twice its size with a grinding sound. He then held up his long axe. “Split.” A perfect, shimmering duplicate of the axe appeared in his other hand. “It works on things that don’t have a will of their own. The bigger the thing, the more juice it takes. Easy. So, about this contract though? How do I get one ?”

Elysia laughed, “ I don’t know … it just happens.”

All eyes turned to Corin, who was examining his bow. He sighed, sensing their attention. “I conjure arrows,” he said flatly. He pulled on his string, drew it back, and the air itself seemed to coalesce between his fingers, forming an arrow of solid ice. He relaxed the string, and it dissipated into a cold mist. “Fire, ice, lightning, wind, stone… whatever the situation calls for.”

“Do you need the bow to do it?” Elysia asked, genuinely curious.

Corin’s face tightened for a second, a flicker of pain in his eyes. “No,” he said, his voice quiet. He ran a hand over the dark wood. “It was a gift. From my mother. Before she passed.” He didn't elaborate, the emotional wall around him slamming back into place.

“Then it’s settled,” Keito said, standing up. “We train. Until you can call the water without it draining you dry.”

And so began the training arc. The next few weeks fell into a rhythm. Their days were spent in the secluded glade, pushing Elysia to her limits. Keito, ever the disciplined knight, took charge of control. He had her draw water from the nearby stream and form it into small, stable orbs, forcing her to hold them steady for hours, a grueling exercise in focus and mental stamina.

Baro handled raw power. “Forget pretty water balls!” he would roar, pointing at a massive boulder. “Hit that! Harder! Put your back into it!” He’d force her to unleash powerful jets of water, to feel the surge of her magic not as a gentle stream, but as a roaring force.

Corin, surprisingly, was the most creative teacher. He became a living storm. He would launch flaming arrows that Elysia had to douse with shields of water, followed immediately by arrows of solid ice that she had to shatter with pressurized blasts. He forced her to adapt, to think, to use her water magic not as a single tool…. But as a versatile arsenal.

She failed, often. She grew frustrated, collapsing in exhaustion more than once. But with their relentless encouragement, she also grew stronger. The orbs became steadier, the jets of water more powerful, her reactions faster. She was learning to feel the water not only around her but inside her, an endless wellspring of power that was a part of her soul.

It was during a break in one of these sessions, about two weeks in, that the miracle happened. They were sitting by the stream, catching their breath, when the egg in Elysia’s lap began to vibrate. They all fell silent, watching as thin, hairline cracks, glowing with a soft purple light, spread across its smooth surface. With a final, delicate crack, a piece of the shell fell away. A small, draconic head, no bigger than Elysia’s fist, poked out. Its scales were the same as the egg, but its eyes were a familiar shade of purple. It let out a small, clumsy squawk, shook the rest of the shell off, and wobbled on unsteady legs. It was a perfect, miniature version of the Black Dragon. It looked around at the four of them, blinked its large, purple eyes, and then walked directly to Elysia, climbing into her lap and curling into a small, warm ball before promptly falling asleep. A wave of affection and protectiveness washed over her. He was back.

They named him Umbra.

The baby dragon became a constant presence in their training, often perched on Elysia’s shoulder, letting out encouraging chirps or little puffs of harmless purple smoke. Another week passed, and Elysia’s control had grown by leaps and bounds. They were a team now, their individual strengths weaving together into something formidable.

One evening, exhausted but happy with the day’s progress, they decided to return to Aestilgard for a proper meal. They walked back towards the city, Umbra now playfully chasing glowing moths around Elysia’s head. They were laughing, relaxed, their new dynamic as a group of five feeling as natural as breathing. They pushed open the familiar door of The Gnarled Root, ready for a hot meal and a cold drink.

WHOOSH! CRACK!

A heavy wooden chair flew through the air from the back of the crowded tavern, missing their heads by inches, and exploded against the wall right beside the doorway. The tavern, which had been buzzing with cheerful conversation, fell into a sudden, deathly silence.