The Tower of Culture and Education rose from Eldoria’s western quarter, tall and narrow. Its walls were white stone, worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. Narrow windows lined the upper floors, each one a dark slit that let in carefully measured light. At the very top, a circular chamber opened to the air on all sides, offering a view of the entire city and the plains beyond.

  Deehia stood at one of the open arches, her hands resting on the stone ledge. The wind tugged at her hair, pulling loose strands across her face. She didn’t brush them away. Her gaze was fixed on the eastern horizon, where three dark shapes grew larger against the pale sky.

  Giant ravens, their wings beating in slow, powerful rhythm. They descended in formation, their shadows sliding across rooftops and cobblestone streets below.

  Deehia’s breath caught. “Zeeshoof.”

  The old elf sat at a desk behind her, surrounded by scrolls and books stacked in precarious towers. His white hair fell past his shoulders, thin as spider silk. His hands were liver-spotted, marked with ink stains that had never fully washed away. He didn’t look up from the manuscript he was reading.

  “I see them,” he said.

  “Three ravens. Coming from the south.” Deehia turned to face him. “Should I alert the guard?”

  “No need.” Zeeshoof set down the scroll carefully, his movements deliberate. “We’ve been expecting them.”

  Deehia’s brow furrowed. “Expecting them?”

  Zeeshoof rose slowly, his joints protesting with faint pops. He crossed to the window and stood beside her, his gaze following the ravens as they banked toward the central towers. “Your younger brother is returning. Leeonir. He went south to Itachi weeks ago. Now he comes home.”

  Deehia’s eyes widened. “Leeonir?”

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t wait for more. She turned and ran for the stairs, her boots echoing against stone as she descended in a rush.

  Zeeshoof watched her go, a faint smile touching his lips. Then he turned back to the window and watched the ravens descend toward the Tower of Leadership.

  ?

  From the sky, Eldoria spread below in careful patterns. The city’s streets radiated out from the central towers. Smoke rose from forges in the craftsmen’s quarter. Market squares bustled with movement, though less chaotic than Leeonir remembered. People moved with purpose. Guards stood at intersections, visible and organized.

  The streets looked calmer. Quieter. Under control.

  Leeonir sat astride Lua, the giant raven’s feathers warm beneath his legs. Saahag sat behind him, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders for balance. To his left, Joel rode his own raven, scarred wings beating steadily. To his right, Mirela kept pace, her smaller bird faster and more agile.

  Lua banked toward the Tower of Leadership, the tallest structure in Eldoria’s heart. Its peak was flat, designed as a landing platform for messengers and officials who traveled by raven. Torches burned at the corners despite the daylight, marking it clearly against the sky.

  Lua’s wings spread wide, catching air. Her talons reached forward. Contact. The landing was smooth, practiced. Leeonir’s knees absorbed the impact as Lua settled her weight.

  Joel landed beside him, his raven’s claws scraping stone. Mirela touched down a moment later, her bird barely making a sound.

  Leeonir swung his leg over Lua’s back and slid to the ground. His muscles protested, stiff from days of flying. Saahag dismounted behind him, her movements careful. Her ribs were still wrapped beneath her armor, the bindings tight.

  Joel stepped forward, stretching his shoulders. Blood had seeped through the bandage on his left arm, a dark stain spreading across the fabric. Mirela favored her right leg, her jaw tight.

  The door to the tower opened.

  Leelinor stepped onto the platform.

  He looked older than Leeonir remembered. The lines around his eyes had deepened. His hair, still white, was streaked with more gray. But his posture was straight, his gaze steady. He crossed the platform in long strides and pulled Leeonir into an embrace without hesitation.

  “Welcome home,” Leelinor said. His voice was rough.

  Leeonir returned the embrace, his arms tightening. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Leelinor stepped back, his hands gripping Leeonir’s shoulders.

  “I was hoping the mission in the South would be a success,” Leelinor said. His eyes searched his son’s face. “I see you made it back.”

  “We did.” Leeonir’s voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. “But we came expecting to find Eldoria under attack. You didn’t send any word after our first message. No ravens. No confirmation. Nothing.”

  Leelinor’s expression tightened. “I know. I’m sorry. We’re still searching for the traitor. We don’t know who to trust fully. Every message we send could be intercepted. Every raven could be followed.” He paused. “But your letter gave us direction. We called back the troops we’d sent south. They returned quietly. In small groups. As far as we can tell, no one outside our inner circle knows.”

  Leeonir nodded slowly. “The South is clear. Completely. The ogres left. All of them. They abandoned villages they’d held for months. They pulled back from positions they’d fortified.”

  Leelinor’s brow furrowed. “A retreat?”

  “No.” Leeonir’s jaw tightened. “It doesn’t feel like a retreat. It feels like the ocean pulling back before a wave. Like they’re gathering somewhere else. Preparing for something bigger.”

  Leelinor’s face was stone. His gaze drifted to Joel, then Mirela, then Saahag. “You’re all wounded.”

  Leeonir glanced down at himself. His armor was dented, scorched in places. Dried blood crusted the edges of a gash across his forearm. “We fought. We won. But it cost us.”

  “Come. All of you. The Central Infirmary will tend to your injuries.”

  Joel stepped forward. “Lord Leelinor, we need to report—”

  Leelinor raised a hand. “You will. But first, you rest. You’ve flown for days. You’ve bled for Eldoria. Let us care for you before we ask you to fight again.”

  Joel hesitated, then nodded.

  Leelinor turned toward the door. “Follow me.”

  They moved as a group, descending the tower’s spiraling stairs. Leeonir walked beside his father, Saahag close behind. Joel and Mirela followed, their steps careful.

  As they reached the main hall, footsteps echoed from the far corridor. Running. Fast.

  A figure burst into the hall, chest heaving, eyes wide.

  Deehia.

  She stopped abruptly, her gaze locking onto Leeonir. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then her eyes filled with tears.

  “Leeonir.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  She crossed the distance in a rush and threw her arms around him. Leeonir grunted as the impact jolted his ribs, but he didn’t pull away. His arms came up, holding her tightly.

  “I thought—” Deehia’s voice cracked. “When the ravens came and no one said anything, I thought something had happened. I thought you were—”

  “I’m here,” Leeonir said quietly. “I’m home.”

  Deehia pulled back, her hands gripping his arms. Her eyes scanned him, taking in the injuries, the exhaustion, the blood. “You’re hurt.”

  “We all are.”

  Her gaze shifted to Saahag, then Joel, then Mirela. Her jaw tightened. “What happened in the South?”

  “We freed Itachi,” Leeonir said. “We broke the nests. We killed the handlers. We sent the ogres running.” He paused. “But they’re not gone. They’re gathering somewhere else. And we don’t know where.”

  Deehia’s hands trembled. She looked at her father. “They need medical attention.”

  “I know,” Leelinor said. “We’re going to the Central Infirmary now. Will you come with us?”

  Deehia nodded immediately. She stepped to Leeonir’s side, her hand finding his. “I’m not leaving you.”

  Leeonir squeezed her hand once. “Good.”

  They moved through Eldoria’s halls together. Leelinor led the way, his presence commanding enough that guards stepped aside without question. Deehia walked beside Leeonir, her grip on his hand tight. Saahag followed close, her eyes scanning every shadow, every corner. Joel and Mirela brought up the rear, their exhaustion visible in every step.

  The Central Infirmary occupied a wide building near the heart of the city. Its doors were always open, its halls always staffed. Healers moved between beds, their hands steady, their voices calm.

  A healer approached as they entered, her gaze sweeping over the group. “Lord Leelinor. How can we help?”

  “These warriors need care,” Leelinor said. “Injuries from battle. Some fresh, some days old. Treat them well.”

  The healer nodded once. “Follow me.”

  She led them deeper into the infirmary, where beds lined the walls and sunlight filtered through high windows. The smell of herbs and clean linen filled the air.

  Leeonir sank onto one of the beds, his body finally acknowledging the weight of exhaustion. Saahag sat beside him, her ribs protesting as she lowered herself carefully. Joel and Mirela took beds across the room.

  Deehia stood beside Leeonir, her hand still holding his. “You’re going to be okay,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

  “I know,” Leeonir said.

  Leelinor stepped back, giving them space. He looked at his son, at his daughter, at the warriors who had bled for Eldoria. His face didn’t change.

  Then he turned and walked toward the door. There was much to do. Reports to hear. Decisions to make. A war to prepare for.

  But for now, his children were home. And that would have to be enough.

  ?

  The Central Infirmary’s main hall was quiet, save for the soft murmur of healers moving between beds and the occasional groan of pain from wounded soldiers. Sunlight filtered through high windows, casting warm light across clean linen and polished stone floors.

  Leeonir sat on the edge of a bed, his armor removed, his torso wrapped in fresh bandages. The healers had cleaned the gash on his forearm, stitched the deeper cuts, and applied salves that smelled of mint and something sharper. But now their attention had turned to his left hand.

  Two nurses stood before him. One was older, her gray hair pulled back in a tight bun. The other was younger, her hands steady as she unwound the leather wrappings Leeonir had used to conceal his hand during the flight.

  The wrappings fell away.

  Black scales covered his palm and fingers, gleaming in the sunlight. They overlapped like armor, each one edged in dark red. The transformation had spread. Scales climbed past his wrist, creeping up his forearm in jagged patterns that followed the lines of his veins.

  The younger nurse’s breath caught. The older one’s jaw tightened.

  “How long has it been like this?”

  Leeonir flexed his fingers slowly. The scales moved with his skin, seamless. “It all started after I was burned in the battle against the dragon on the Thomas River, where I was burned, months ago. But it is spreading.” He paused. “During the battles in the South, I felt it grow. Every time I used it every time I struck something with this hand the scales extended further.”

  The younger nurse leaned closer, her eyes tracing the edges where scale met flesh. “Does it hurt?”

  “No. It feels warm. Like there’s heat beneath the skin. And when I fight, it’s stronger. Harder than steel.”

  The older nurse straightened. “I need to call Tetus.”

  She turned and walked briskly toward the back of the infirmary, her footsteps echoing against stone. The younger nurse remained, her gaze fixed on Leeonir’s hand. She didn’t touch it, but her curiosity was obvious.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she murmured.

  “Neither have I,” Leeonir said quietly.

  Footsteps approached. Heavy, deliberate. A man entered the main hall, his presence commanding despite his modest robes. He was older, perhaps sixty, with a face lined by years of hard decisions. Unlike Zeeshoof, his white hair was cut short. His hands were scarred, marked with burns and cuts that had healed poorly. A healer who had seen war.

  Tetus, the chief healer.

  He crossed the hall and stopped in front of Leeonir. His gaze dropped immediately to the scaled hand. He studied it in silence. Then he looked up.

  “I am Tetus,” he said. His voice was deep, steady. “Chief healer of the Central Infirmary.”

  Leeonir inclined his head. “Leeonir.”

  Tetus’s mouth curved slightly. “I know who you are. And I know your brother. Luucner. I treated him after the battle of the Balsamic Forest. He’s a stubborn bastard. Refused to rest until every one of his men was tended to first.”

  Leeonir’s expression softened. “That sounds like him.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet his brother,” Tetus said. He paused, his gaze returning to the scaled hand. “Though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

  He gestured toward a door at the back of the infirmary. “Come with me. I have a room where we can examine this properly. More tools. More space. And privacy.”

  Leeonir stood, his legs still stiff. “Just me?”

  “Just you. This is unusual. I don’t want a crowd gawking while I work.”

  Leeonir followed Tetus through the door and down a narrow corridor. The air grew cooler here, the walls lined with shelves holding jars of herbs, vials of liquids, and instruments Leeonir didn’t recognize. At the end of the corridor, Tetus pushed open another door.

  The room beyond was larger than Leeonir expected. At its center stood a raised stone platform, smooth and polished, shaped as an altar. Runes were carved into its surface, glowing softly with blue light. Around the platform, tables held tools: scalpels, bowls, crystalline lenses, and devices that hummed with contained magic.

  Two assistants waited near the tables. Both were young, their robes marked with the sigil of the healers’ guild. They bowed their heads as Tetus entered.

  “Prepare the analysis tools,” Tetus said without preamble. “And bring the essence lenses.”

  The assistants moved immediately, gathering instruments and setting them on a tray beside the platform.

  Tetus gestured to the platform. “Lie down. On your back. This won’t hurt, but it will take time.”

  Leeonir approached the platform and climbed onto it. The stone was cool beneath his back, but the runes pulsed warmth that seeped into his skin. He rested his arms at his sides, his scaled hand laid flat.

  Tetus stepped beside him, his gaze focused. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Scales growing on living flesh, spreading across your arm but showing no signs of decay or infection.” He paused. “This is beyond normal healing.”

  Leeonir’s jaw tightened. “I’m confused too. I don’t know if this is a curse or something else.”

  Tetus picked up a small scalpel from the tray. “I’m going to take samples from the scaled area. Small pieces. Enough to test.” He looked at Leeonir. “It won’t hurt, but you’ll feel pressure.”

  Leeonir nodded.

  Tetus worked carefully, scraping a thin layer of scale from the edge where it met flesh. The material came away cleanly, black and hard. He placed it in a glass dish and handed it to one of the assistants. Then he took another sample, this time from deeper in the scaled area.

  “What are you testing for?” Leeonir asked.

  Tetus set down the scalpel and picked up a crystalline lens, holding it over the samples. “First, I need to know if this belongs to you. If your body is creating these scales, or if something foreign is growing on you. A parasite.”

  Leeonir’s stomach tightened. “A parasite?”

  “It’s possible. Dragon blood carries essence. If that essence bonded with your flesh, it could be attempting to transform you into something else. Or it could be trying to consume you from the inside.”

  The assistant holding the dish moved to a table and began adding liquids to the sample. The scales hissed, releasing thin wisps of steam.

  Tetus continued. “Second, I need to determine if this is magic or fusion. If it’s magic, we can potentially dispel it. If it’s fusion if your body is actually becoming part dragon then dispelling it could kill you.”

  Leeonir’s breath slowed. “And third?”

  Tetus’s expression was grim. “Third, I need to understand why your body is mimicking a dragon’s. Scales. Heat. Strength. These are traits dragons possess naturally. But you’re an elf. Your biology shouldn’t allow this.” He paused. “Unless something fundamental has changed.”

  Leeonir stared at the ceiling, his mind racing. “I need to know, Tetus. Is this a curse? Or a blessing? Can I use it? Control it? Or will it consume me?”

  Tetus set down the lens and looked at him directly. “I will do everything I can to find out. I’ll test the samples. I’ll search our records to see if Eldoria has ever treated something like this before. And I’ll monitor you closely.” His voice softened. “You’re not going to die on my watch, young elf. I didn’t save Luucner just to lose his brother.”

  Leeonir’s mouth curved slightly. “Thank you.”

  Tetus nodded once. “Rest. This will take time. My assistants will stay with you. If you feel anything change—pain, heat, cold, anything—tell them immediately.”

  He turned to the assistants. “Begin the essence analysis. I want results within the hour.”

  The assistants bowed and set to work, their hands moving with practiced precision. Tetus walked to the door, then paused and looked back at Leeonir.

  “Your brother survived the Balsamic Forest because he refused to give up. He fought when his body should have failed. He held the line when others broke.” Tetus’s gaze was steady. “You’re cut from the same cloth. Whatever this is, we’ll face it. Together.”

  He left, the door closing softly behind him.

  Leeonir lay on the platform, the runes glowing beneath him. His scaled hand rested at his side, warm and foreign. Around him, the assistants worked in silence, testing, analyzing, searching for answers. And deep beneath the scales, something pulsed. Steady. Patient. Waiting.