Chapter Text
I watched him leave. Darkstalker’s shadow stretched long across the lamplight, broad wings brushing the drapes as he slipped out with that deliberate weight he carried into every doorway. He didn’t slam it behind him—he never does, not when it’s Turtle—but the sound of the latch was enough to mark a shift in the air.
He was going to Turtle, of course. Everyone knew. Turtle’s little “nesting habits” had been growing from endearing to concerning.
Stacks of folded blankets, fish smoked and salted like he was provisioning for a siege, scrolls about genealogy tucked beneath pillows. If Darkstalker was going to talk to him about wanting dragonets, well—better him than me.
That left the rest of us behind.
The room suddenly felt twice as large without Darkstalker there to fill it, and twice as quiet without Turtle’s anxious fussing.
Winter was perched stiffly on the cushion across from me, a half-eaten tray of iced fish in front of him. He hadn’t touched it in several minutes. His eyes flicked to the door Darkstalker had left through, then back down, then up again, restless as the wind outside.
Peril was still here too, of course. She had a clay dish balanced on a thick slab of stone they’d brought in especially for her—because “Peril-proofing” our sitting room had become its own kind of occupation—and she was staring into it like she could burn it apart with her eyes alone. Smoke curled where her talons brushed too close. She muttered something under her breath, probably about how boring it was to watch everyone else sit still.
I speared another piece of shrimp with my claws, though I wasn’t hungry. The taste turned flat in my mouth.
And Qibli—where was Qibli? He should have been here. He usually was. Joking, needling Winter, keeping Peril distracted, filling silence before it got heavy. But tonight the space beside me was empty.
I could pretend I didn’t notice. I could focus on my meal, or on Winter’s furrowed brow, or on Peril humming tunelessly as she prodded her dish with dangerous claws. But the absence gnawed louder than any of it.
We had no duties tonight. Nothing to chain us to this chamber. And yet…
I set my shrimp aside, folded my claws. “I might step out,” I said softly, though neither Winter nor Peril seemed to hear me at first. “Maybe find Qibli.”
Peril flicked her head up. “Good idea. He owes me a rematch.” She bared her teeth in a grin that promised something was going to catch fire. “Not that he’ll win. But it’s fun watching him try.”
Winter muttered, “He’ll just cheat again,” but his tone lacked heat. He was staring at the door still, his tail twitching in tiny, betraying movements.
I exhaled. Whatever conversation Darkstalker and Turtle were about to have—it wasn’t ours. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But Qibli’s absence? That was something I could fix.
I rose, brushing stray crumbs from my claws. “Don’t wait up,” I said, though it was mostly to Winter, since Peril was already poking her dish hard enough to make smoke rise again.
The hallway beyond beckoned, cooler and quieter than the chamber. Somewhere out there was my SandWing, being mysterious, being silly, being his impossible, brilliant self. And if I had to chase him down in this sprawling mountain just to sit beside him again—well, it wasn’t the worst way to spend a night.
I’d only taken a few steps when claws clicked softly behind me.
I didn’t need to turn. Winter had always moved like that—measured, deliberate, every sound trimmed down to something sharp and efficient. But still audible to me. Always audible.
I slowed a little, enough for him to catch up.
He didn’t say anything, of course. He didn’t need to. His eyes flicked toward me once, then away, the same way they always did when he was torn between holding himself back and—well, not.
I brushed my wingtip against his side anyway. Just for a heartbeat, a gentle sweep of warmth against frost. Brave against the cold, because he was worth braving it for.
Winter stiffened—because he always stiffened first—but he didn’t pull away. And when I glanced over, smiling faintly, his ears betrayed him with the slightest twitch.
Still flustered. After all this time.
Him and Qibli both, honestly. Endearing, ridiculous, wonderful.
I leaned closer, voice low and teasing. “You know, if you keep acting like my wing brushing against yours is some scandalous event, everyone in the mountain is going to know you’re secretly soft.”
That got his ears fully back. His breath came out in a sharp huff, visible in the cold. “I am not—”
“Soft?” I grinned, tilting my head, letting my larger frame loom just enough to make his composure wobble. “Mhm. Sure you’re not.”
Winter muttered something inaudible and glared forward, tail lashing once before resettling. Which, of course, only proved my point.
I bumped my shoulder lightly against his, letting the contact linger. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
He growled faintly, but I caught the flicker of relief in his eyes.
As for Qibli—well, where would he be? Not at the dining chamber. Not with Peril. Certainly not with Darkstalker.
Most likely our rooms. The ones Darkstalker had so dramatically “graciously” provided, back when he couldn’t resist ribbing us for needing separate quarters. Quarters that had since been fitted to our needs—curtains drawn back for Winter, sand scattered in neat trays for Qibli, a perch sturdy enough to take my weight.
Family, somehow. In spite of everything.
And if I knew Qibli, he’d either be sprawled across the bed pretending he wasn’t waiting for us, or half-buried in scrolls pretending he hadn’t fallen asleep over them.
The hall curved in quiet arcs, sconces breathing soft gold light against the stone, our talons the only sound breaking the stillness. Winter kept pace at my side, his posture impeccable as always, though I could feel his attention flick toward me every few strides, checking, measuring, as though I might evaporate if he didn’t.
We stopped at the carved archway that led to Qibli’s chambers. The doors were shut, faint drafts curling through the seams. Normally, even before we stepped inside, his mind would be spilling out like sun-warmed sand, racing and tumbling over itself in a thousand clever knots and jokes and observations. Qibli’s thoughts always moved fast, faster than I could track if I wasn’t careful. Like a whirlwind in the desert—bright, dizzying, alive.
But now? Silence. Stillness. An absence so obvious it made me tilt my head before I even reached for the door.
I exhaled softly, a smile tugging at my snout, and turned without a word. Our room, then. Of course. Where else would he be, if not waiting in the place we’d all learned to collapse into together?
Winter lifted an eye ridge at me when I shifted direction, a silent question poised on his face. He didn’t voice it, naturally. He rarely voiced things like that. But the corner of his mouth betrayed him, wobbled just slightly as if resisting the pull of a smirk. I brushed his shoulder with my wing as I passed, the kind of wordless reassurance that needed no explanation.
The door to our shared room yielded easily, warm air wrapping around me as I pushed it open.
And there he was.
Qibli, in a heap of golden scales and tangled limbs, wrapped up in the nest of blankets we’d left behind. The mound was shaped around him like he’d burrowed in on purpose, as though the fabric itself was a desert dune he’d claimed. His snout was buried in the folds, chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths, mouth parted just slightly in the surrender of sleep.
The sight made my heart ache in a way that was both sweet and unbearably tender. He looked so young like that, so unguarded—no clever grin, no teasing remark, no dazzling sparkle of amber eyes cutting through the room. Just Qibli, soft and asleep, curled around the lingering scent we’d left behind.
I padded closer, careful not to wake him, though part of me knew he’d forgive it if I did. The blankets had shifted just enough that I could see his talons clutching them tight, as though he’d fallen asleep holding on to us through fabric alone.
Behind me, Winter’s steps slowed. I heard the faint hitch of his breath before he caught it, the subtle twitch of scales as he fought the expression tugging at his face. When I glanced back, his snout was tilted ever so slightly downward, ears flicking back in that half-flustered, half-soft way he’d never admit to.
I smiled at him—because what else could I do, when my heart was this full—and then turned back to Qibli. To our bed. To the warmth that waited for us, waiting even in dreams.
Without a word, I slipped onto the edge of the nest, tucking my wing closer so as not to disturb him just yet. The chill of Winter’s scales radiated against my side a heartbeat later as he followed, settling stiffly at first, then softening by degrees the longer he stayed.
Together, we looked down at Qibli—our Qibli—buried in the blankets and breathing slowly, as if even in sleep he couldn’t help but anchor himself to us.
And for the first time all day, everything felt perfectly, quietly right.
Qibli stirred first with a twitch of his tail, the restless flick he always did in dreams when some thought had finally caught up to him. I blinked awake at the movement, breath still slow, the quiet dim of the room folding soft around us.
His eyes opened a crack—amber hazy, unfocused, eyelids sticking together as if even his body argued against waking. He always looked like that when sleep wore him down, the mask stripped off, the quicksilver grin nowhere to be seen. Just Qibli, plain and tired, his scales dulled with it.
He’d never tell anyone, not really. Not the other dragons at the academy, not the students who leaned on him, not the queens who liked him too much to stop summoning him. Only us. Only here. The truth was written in the sag of his shoulders, in the way his body curled as if he could sink back into sleep forever. Qibli’s favourite activity in the world? Nap time. Always nap time. And I got to see that truth in him.
“Mmnh,” he mumbled, blinking heavier, his voice caught between a groan and a sigh. His claws flexed against the blanket, then against me when his talons brushed my wing. “Moon?”
“I’m here,” I whispered, shifting closer. My snout brushed his temple as he slowly dragged himself awake. He smelled of warmth, of sun, of sand carried all the way from the desert.
A heavier warmth pressed on the other side of him—Winter, stiff as ever in his posture even half-asleep, but refusing to yield the space he’d claimed. His foreleg draped over Qibli’s side, claws resting lightly on his chest like an anchor. His breath gusted evenly against the back of Qibli’s neck, cold air threading through the heat of our little nest.
Qibli groaned again, but softer this time, a sound that melted somewhere into relief. His eyes fluttered shut once more, his whole body slackening into the tangle of our limbs. One of his wings slipped out of the blanket’s folds, brushing over my forearm, clumsy but deliberate, as though he needed the touch to confirm we were both real and here.
I smiled into his scales. Watching him like this, half-conscious and unguarded, felt like some private treasure. Qibli always made himself the clever one, the quick one, the dragon who never ran out of energy or words or jokes. But here, wrapped in us, he was allowed to be tired. He was allowed to rest.
Winter’s snout twitched in his sleep, as if he could sense the thought. His claws tightened just slightly on Qibli’s chest, a silent insistence: stay.
So he did. So we all did.
Our breathing found a rhythm, three different cadences pressed together until they blurred, the lamplight soft against the stone walls, the weight of exhaustion balanced by the warmth of knowing we belonged exactly here—tangled, unpolished, ours.
Qibli lasted about ten more minutes before the gears in his head started grinding audibly again—or at least they might as well have been, given how clearly I could hear them whirring.
Come on, Qibli, up. Big dragon. Responsible dragon. The clever one. Don’t waste daylight, don’t waste their time. If you just get up, everything will feel better. Probably. Maybe. Fine—no it won’t, but you’ll look better pretending it does.
He groaned, shoved his snout deeper into the pillow, then in the next instant started wriggling out of the blanket tangle with all the determination of a soldier scaling a fortress wall. Unfortunately, his battlefield was us.
“Where are you going?” I asked, my voice still soft with sleep, one talon pressing into the warm hollow of the blanket to stop him.
“Up,” he said, voice muffled. “Out. Moving. Being a productive member of society. You know—my tragic flaw.” He pried at my talons without success, eyes still half-shut.
Winter cracked an eye open, expression already sharp. “You are insufferable.” He didn’t even lift his head off Qibli’s shoulder, just reached his tail around and looped it firmly over Qibli’s hip.
“Winter,” Qibli whined, now trapped from both sides. “I have things to do.”
“Like what?” I asked gently.
“Important things,” he said, then paused. “Potentially. I haven’t decided yet.” His wings twitched in the blanket as he attempted another dramatic escape maneuver, only to find himself smacked in the snout by the end of Winter’s tail.
Winter smirked—actually smirked, I caught it this time—then buried his face back in Qibli’s neck like it had never happened.
I tried not to laugh. “You don’t have to get up yet.”
“You say that,” Qibli mumbled, “but if I stay here any longer I’ll turn into a slug. A very handsome slug, but still—”
“You already are one,” Winter interrupted, voice sharp but drowsy, each word pressed flat against Qibli’s scales.
Qibli gasped theatrically, clutching at his chest with his free talon. “You wound me. Utter betrayal. My beauty, my charm, dismissed so cruelly by the one IceWing who—Moon, did you hear that? He called me a slug.”
I pressed my snout against his cheek, grinning despite myself. “I did hear that.”
Qibli squirmed again, though far less convincingly now, his grin tugging up even as his eyes stayed droopy. He knew he wasn’t escaping. Not really. Not when Winter’s claws were still pressed steady against his chest and my wing had slid over his side, warm and stubborn.
He huffed, finally going limp, his tail thumping once against the bed. “Fine. You’ve bested me. Terrible way to treat your beloved.”
Winter didn’t even bother opening his eyes. “You’re not beloved. You’re tolerated.”
“You’re both impossible,” I said, laughing now, the sound bright in the room.
And in the middle of our ridiculous knot of limbs and warmth, Qibli muttered, “Yeah, but admit it—you love me anyway.”
Neither of us admitted it out loud. But Winter’s grip didn’t loosen, and I didn’t move my wing away, and Qibli’s smile was the soft, sleepy one he never wore in daylight.
It started innocently enough—Qibli sighing as though pinned under the weight of two immovable glaciers (in fairness, Winter does sleep like one). Then, without warning, he twisted, talons darting straight for Winter’s ribs.
The sound that came out of the IceWing was so undignified I almost bit my tongue trying not to laugh—half gasp, half strangled hiss, wings flaring in panic.
“You dare—!” Winter managed, but Qibli already had him, relentless, claws skimming down scales as Winter writhed like someone had poured boiling water over him.
“I knew it!” Qibli cackled, eyes blazing with triumph despite still looking half-asleep. “The great, brooding Winter of the Ice Kingdom… ticklish. Absolutely tragic weakness. I’ll be exploiting this for years.”
Winter thrashed, tail lashing wildly, his dignity disintegrating into startled laughter—real, sharp, helpless laughter. I clapped my talons over my snout, because the mental images Qibli was deliberately throwing at me—Winter tied up, Winter helpless under a merciless assault of claws, Winter’s frosty composure melted into sound and chaos—
“Qibli!” I choked, flushing so hot my wings twitched wide. “That’s— that’s not fair—!”
Which of course was exactly the distraction he needed. He shoved both of us back into the nest, bolted upright, and in one gloriously graceless bound escaped.
By the time Winter regained control of his wings and dignity (or the tatters of it), Qibli was already at the trunk by the wall, grinning, pulling out the newest ridiculous addition to his wardrobe: a loose sky-colored wrap that draped over his shoulders, half-cowl, half-shawl, something Darkstalker had dug out of the archives and promptly declared the height of fashion.
“Look at this,” Qibli said, swinging it around dramatically and then bundling it over his chest. “Practical, stylish, breathable—beats sunburn and makes me look mysterious. If I were you two, I’d get on board now, before the trend sweeps the continent.”
“You look like you’re being strangled by a curtain,” Winter muttered, still breathless, smoothing his scales with a glare that promised revenge.
I tilted my head, trying to fight the leftover embarrassment. “It’s… actually very sensible. For hot climates, anyway.”
“Thank you,” Qibli said, tugging the cowl over his head with a flourish. “Moon gets it. Not like you snow-statues who’ve never had to worry about frying alive in the desert.”
Winter sniffed. “We don’t need cloth to protect us. Our scales are sufficient.”
“Right, right,” Qibli said with a smirk, “your scales are perfect. Except, of course, when someone touches them.” He wiggled his talons menacingly, and Winter froze, wings snapping tight, eyes narrowing like sharpened blades.
I had to bury my face in my claws to keep from laughing again. Qibli stood there, victorious in his flowing wrap, the picture of smug satisfaction.
And suddenly the three of us were staring at a future where clothing might actually become a thing.
Qibli was halfway through cinching a crimson sash around Winter’s chest—Winter standing there stiff as a carved ice statue, every line of his body screaming humiliation—when I realized I was biting my lip.
Not because Qibli was being particularly smooth (he wasn’t; the sash was twisted, lopsided, and he was tugging it far too snugly around Winter’s ribs), but because he was being so utterly, ridiculously Qibli. Smirking, humming to himself, narrating his own fashion show while Winter glowered like a prisoner in a silk noose.
“You’re pulling too tight,” Winter hissed, writhing against the wrap.
“No, no, no,” Qibli said cheerfully, patting his side like he was a dressmaker’s dummy. “You’ve got the perfect build for this—tall, broad, tragic. A real desert warlord vibe. All we need is a curved sword strapped to your hip and half the continent would faint.”
Winter’s face went azure under his frost. He hated it. He leaned into it. Both at once.
And the whole time… I couldn’t stop staring.
Qibli in his sky-colored cowl, draped all rakish and loose, eyes bright and knowing.
Winter in blood-red silk, stiff-backed, jaw set, beautiful and furious.
My boys, dressed up like ancient princes, playing at fashion and war and intimacy, letting me watch.
I shifted, wings tucking closer, because they felt me staring. They both did. Qibli’s grin widened, sharp with mischief. Winter’s scales rippled uneasily, his breath shorter than it should have been.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Winter said, pointedly not looking at me.
“She is,” Qibli said, eyes flicking toward me like a spark catching tinder. “Moon’s eating us alive. Should we be worried?”
I swallowed, hard. “I… it’s just…” My voice cracked in ways that were not dignified. “You look—both of you—you look amazing. Like… like something out of a storyscroll. Or an old painting. I can’t stop staring.”
Winter bristled, which was his way of melting. Qibli, predictably, leaned into the heat like it was a feast. He adjusted his shawl with a theatrical flick, then stepped right into Winter’s space, looping the last dangling end of fabric under the IceWing’s chin.
“Careful, ice cube,” Qibli murmured, just loud enough for both of us to hear. “She’s going to devour us if we don’t keep these wraps on.”
Winter hissed, but his talons didn’t move. My pulse was loud in my ears. And suddenly the game had turned, and I was the one caught between laughter and breathlessness.
“Alright,” I said, interrupting Qibli’s monologue about whether Winter’s shawl should hang over the left or right wing. “You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my turn. We’re going out.”
Two pairs of eyes landed on me—one mischievous, one horrified.
“Out?” Winter barked, as if I’d suggested setting fire to the whole mountain.
“Yes, Winter. Out. The market’s already open. Fresh fruit, hot bread, sweet drinks—you love the bread, don’t deny it—”
“I don’t—”
“—and it’s not fair that I have to watch the two of you play dress-up without getting pampered myself.”
Qibli’s grin grew slow and wicked, like a sunbeam creeping across stone. “Hear that? Our girlfriend demands pampering. I volunteer you, Winter.”
Winter’s wings flared. “Excuse me?”
“You heard her. Pampering. And since I already did all the real work”—he gestured dramatically at the lopsided sash he’d tied around Winter—“you get to help me spoil her.”
Winter’s mouth opened. Closed. Reopened. I swear I could hear the gears grinding inside his skull.
“You want me,” he said finally, voice tight, “to… drape silks on her?”
“Exactly!” Qibli chirped. “You’ve got the height advantage—better reach. I’ll pick the colors, you wrap. Team effort.”
I tried not to laugh at the sight of Winter, dignified and icy, suddenly looking like a dragon presented with a live eel. Qibli, of course, took that as victory and immediately started rummaging through the folded stacks of fabric Darkstalker had been hoarding.
He held up something soft and pale, seafoam shot through with silver. “Perfect. Matches her scales, but doesn’t hide the glow. C’mon, soldier boy, make yourself useful.”
And just like that I was backed up against the bed, two boyfriends flanking me—one gleefully draping fabric over my shoulders, the other muttering furiously under his breath as he tried not to tremble while adjusting the fall of the shawl across my chest.
Qibli leaned close, his breath tickling my ear. “See? He’s blushing. Don’t move, or he’ll combust.”
“I am not blushing,” Winter snarled. His talons lingered an embarrassing second too long against my scales.
“Oh, you are,” I whispered back, delighted. “Both of you are.”
By the time they finished, I was swathed in flowing silk, a soft cowl framing my snout, and a sash knotted neatly at my side. Winter wouldn’t meet my eyes. Qibli was practically purring.
“Breakfast, then?” I asked sweetly.
Winter groaned.
Qibli looped his arm through mine. “Breakfast. Parade your boys through the market, Moon. Make the world jealous.”
It was honestly unfair how good they looked.
Qibli, lean and golden, his scales half-hidden beneath bright silks that caught the morning light like fire. He’d wrapped himself in a cowl and a long turquoise sash that made his obsidian eyes glint sharper than usual. His ears twitched with every movement, little giveaways he couldn’t control, even while he strutted like some desert noble who’d just conquered the whole market.
And Winter—Winter, of all dragons—standing taut and uncomfortable in deep crimson fabric that clung in ways he clearly hadn’t expected. He looked like a painted scroll come to life: tall, slim, rigidly poised, the red shawl drawn across his shoulders like he was about to walk into an imperial court. The color made his scales glow pale silver-blue, almost molten in the lamplight. He was pretending not to notice me staring, which only made it worse.
I couldn’t help it. They were mine. Both of them. And right now they looked like dream-versions of themselves, lit from within.
“You’re staring again,” Winter muttered, as if that would stop me.
“She’s supposed to stare,” Qibli countered, tugging the last knot in Winter’s sash far too smugly. “What’s the point of dressing up if our girlfriend doesn’t swoon a little? It’s practically law.”
I bit back a laugh, but my tail twitched. He wasn’t wrong. And maybe swooning wasn’t far off.
“Alright,” I said quickly, before my thoughts got too obvious. “If you’re both done drakehandling each other, how about we go to the market? Breakfast is better fresh.”
That stopped them both. Winter blinked, and Qibli’s grin sharpened instantly.
I was warm all over, and it wasn’t just the fabrics. They’d pampered me into layers of silk and drapery, and I couldn’t even pretend to protest. It felt… indulgent. Sweet. Like we were playing at royalty, like the market outside was a kingdom waiting for us to grace it.
“Now,” Qibli said, stepping back to admire us all. “Three overdressed dragons, one bustling market. Let’s make some heads turn.”
Winter muttered something about humiliation, but his tail flicked with a kind of nervous energy that betrayed him. And I? I couldn’t wait to walk between them, their shoulders brushing mine, the morning bright and alive, the scent of food curling through the streets while we pretended we weren’t already glowing just from being together.
Breakfast had never sounded so good.
The market was alive with noise and smells—spices sharp enough to sting my nose, bread so warm it made my stomach rumble, sizzling skewers of fish and meat and peppers that Qibli was already leaning dangerously close to.
But honestly? The food was secondary. Because Qibli had just caught on.
I saw it in the way his eyes narrowed, the faint tilt of his head as he studied Winter out of the corner of his eye. Winter, whose stride was stiffer than usual but whose thoughts were singing.
(Finally, finally they see me properly. It’s dignified. It’s—yes, I look good. I know I look good. If Qibli makes one more joke I’ll kill him, but—)
I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing outright. He’d never admit it, not in words, but the way the crimson fabric draped against his scales had him feeling like royalty.
Qibli knew. I felt it click in his head like a trap snapping shut. He glanced at me, quick and sly, one brow arched. The question was silent but clear: Is he really enjoying this?
I didn’t even have to say anything. I just looked back at him. A tiny smile. One beat of wings. And that was it—Qibli’s whole face split into the kind of grin that meant chaos was inevitable.
“Ohhhh,” he drawled, stretching the word like honey as he sauntered closer to Winter. “So that’s what this is.”
Winter scowled. “What what is?”
“This,” Qibli said, gesturing extravagantly at him, at the shawl, at the gleam of his scales like he’d just been polished by servants. “You don’t just tolerate being dressed up. You like it. Don’t you?”
Winter bristled instantly. “Ridiculous. I do not.”
(…I absolutely do. I look commanding. Elegant. Regal. If he says princess I will—)
“Oh,” Qibli said, eyes glinting, “you’re not just a prince. You’re a princess.”
I nearly tripped over my own claws, choking on laughter. Winter stopped dead in the middle of the street, wings flaring in outrage.
“A what?” he snapped.
“A princess,” Qibli repeated smugly, sidling up to me with a wiggle of his eyeridges. “Turns out I’ve been treating Moon like one this whole time, and now I find out we’ve got another. Two princesses for the price of one consort. How lucky am I?”
I was laughing helplessly now, earning looks from passing market-goers who clearly thought we were insane. Winter’s expression was priceless—half murderous fury, half mortified pride.
“I am not—” Winter began hotly.
“Sure you’re not,” Qibli cut in, winking at me. “Keep telling yourself that, Ice Princess.”
Winter’s tail lashed, but underneath the thunder in his thoughts was a flutter of something softer, traitorous: (…Princess. Hmph. It doesn’t sound entirely… bad.)
Which only made me laugh harder.
Qibli smirked, basking in the chaos he’d created, and held out a talon to me with exaggerated gallantry. “Come on, Princess Number One. Let’s get you something sweet for breakfast before Princess Number Two here freezes the whole marketplace out of embarrassment.”
Winter stomped forward, muttering furious, incoherent threats under his breath. Qibli just leaned closer to me and whispered, “I’m never letting him live this down.”
The market only grew more alive the closer we pressed into its heart. Stalls lined the street in a riot of color—bright awnings striped in reds, golds, and teals, each one promising something different: sizzling meat skewers crackling over coals, fruit piled high in baskets like scattered jewels, jars of spice glowing under the morning sun. The air itself felt saturated, thick with cumin and coriander, smoke and salt. My stomach rumbled loudly enough for Qibli to glance back with a wicked grin.
“This way, darlings,” he announced, as though leading a royal procession. His tail curled with smug familiarity as he cut through the crowd toward a bright orange stall draped with patterned fabrics. The SandWing tending it was older, scales faded to a pale buttery yellow, her eyeridges heavy with age but her smile sharp as a blade. The second she saw him, her whole face lit up.
“Qibli!” she exclaimed, in the same voice someone might use for a wayward grandson. “Back again, are you? Don’t tell me you’ve charmed more poor souls into following you around.”
“Not charmed,” he said smoothly, leaning an elbow on the counter like he owned the place. “Cultivated. I like to think of it as cultivating loyalty.” Then, with a flash of teeth, he gestured to us. “And what better way to cultivate loyalty than feeding your princesses, hmm?”
Winter went visibly rigid beside me. I heard his thoughts flare like the sun: (He wouldn’t. He dare not—)
“Oh, princesses, is it?” the old SandWing said, laughter bubbling in her throat. “I should have known. You always did have a talent for getting yourself into trouble, boy.”
Qibli only smirked and turned grandly toward the array of food. “For Princess Number One,” he declared, bowing in my direction, “something delicate but satisfying. A Rainforest favorite with a SandWing twist. Let’s say the roast river fowl with those lime-and-chili peppers you like to torture outsiders with, my dearest ‘ness. That’ll suit her.”
The woman cackled, already moving to prepare it. My heart warmed despite myself—he’d remembered exactly what I liked, without asking.
“And for Princess Number Two,” Qibli went on, savoring the title as if it were the finest jewel, “something fishy. Not raw,” he added quickly, holding up a talon before Winter could get a word in. “We live in a society, Your Iciness. We cook our food. Perhaps that smoked river bass with coriander and dates? It’s exotic, but still respectable. Perfect for a princess in denial.”
Winter’s tail slammed the ground. His thoughts were positively arctic—(If he calls me princess again I’ll—if Moon laughs at this I’ll—)—but his wings twitched in that tiny, traitorous way that told me he wasn’t as furious as he wanted to be.
“And for myself?” Qibli asked with exaggerated innocence, flicking his tail in a little flourish. “Ah, nothing says Sand Kingdom nostalgia quite like…”
The vendor handed him something long and spiny skewered neatly on a stick.
“…a cactus?” I said blankly.
Qibli beamed, crunching down on the thing without hesitation. “Perfection.”
Winter and I both stared at him. The cactus stick was bristling with fine hair-thin spines, and somehow he was just—eating it. Crunching through the flesh like it was nothing but juicy fruit. Green pulp dribbled down his chin as he chewed, looking positively delighted.
“You’re joking,” I said faintly.
“That’s disgusting,” Winter muttered flatly.
“Excuse you,” Qibli said around a mouthful of cactus, “this is culture. Generations of SandWings thriving in the desert on delicacies like this, and you two dare scoff?” He wiggled his eyeridges at me, green juice clinging to his teeth. “Don’t be jealous. It’s an acquired taste.”
Winter’s thoughts were howling: (He looks utterly ridiculous. Absolutely absurd. …It smells kind of sweet though. No. No, I refuse—)
I couldn’t stop myself from laughing, pressing a wing to my snout. Qibli, undeterred, broke off a chunk and offered it with mock solemnity toward Winter.
“Go on. Try a bite, Princess.”
The look Winter gave him could have frozen the whole market solid. But I heard the flicker of his traitorous thought anyway: (I might, later. When no one’s looking.)
Which, of course, made me laugh even harder.
By the time our food was finally served—my spiced river fowl steaming with citrus, Winter’s bass gleaming with herbs—Qibli had already polished off half his cactus. He sat back smugly, crunching happily while the vendor fussed over how handsome Winter looked in his shawl.
Winter was azure from snout to spikes on his back. And Qibli, the menace, leaned closer to me and whispered, “Told you. Two princesses. I’m going to have the most entertaining breakfast of my life.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Winter tries to look dignified with the faint smell of roasted fish still clinging to him, but I can hear the smug little whisper in his head every time his talons brush the folded paper parcel tucked neatly into his pouch. He keeps telling himself it’s practical, a ration for later, but he’s practically humming inside. It’s adorable. For a dragon who treats admitting joy like it’s a death sentence, he’s downright glowing.
I’m already thinking about when we can do this again. The Agate market doesn’t just feed your stomach—it feeds your soul. A place where SandWings barter with IceWings over desert-grown figs, where RainWings laugh while selling slabs of smoked crocodile, and where NightWings trade star maps for spices that make your nose burn. It feels alive, different every time, and the thought alone sends a thrill up my frill. In my totally objective and unbiased opinion? This might actually be the second-best thing Darkstalker’s ever done. (The first… well, that’s personal.)
Meanwhile Qibli is walking between us, swishing his shawl like a runway model and crunching through his actual breakfast: a bushel of candied scorpions. The way he chews them, wings flicking with every loud crrrrunch, makes the nearby vendors either recoil or grin approvingly. He even offers one to me with that toothy, devastating smile of his, like it’s a gift fit for a queen. “Dessert?” he chirps, holding one up like a jewel.
Winter narrows his eyes. Barbaric, he thinks, too sharp and cold for someone still hoarding fish in his neck pouch. Qibli immediately picks up on it and grins wider. “Come on, ice prince. Live a little. I bet it’s not the worst thing you’ve put in your mouth.”
Winter huffs, his ears burning a deep blue under the red shawl, and I nearly choke holding back a laugh. The way Qibli wiggles his eyeridges at me, daring me to join the teasing, is almost unfair. I don’t even have to say anything—just the way I bite back my smile makes Winter’s jaw tighten. He knows I’m enjoying this.
The mountain air was cooler out here, away from the stalls and smoke and laughter of the inner market. The walkways curved like ribbons up and around the stone, carved smooth and wide enough for dragons to stroll three abreast. Lanterns hung on iron hooks every so often, unlit now but ready for the night, and benches were tucked into alcoves with little bursts of greenery sprouting between cracks in the rock. It wasn’t Jade Mountain Academy, and it wasn’t the rainforest, but it had its own sort of charm—planned, deliberate, almost courtly in how it invited dragons to linger.
We lingered, too. Winter leaned against me, rigid at first, then easing when I wrapped my tail around his. Qibli had one wing stretched lazily across my back, his warmth seeping in as though it belonged there. It was quiet enough that the three of us could hear the distant chatter of the market behind us and the rush of wind through the higher ledges.
For a while, it was just… nice. Ordinary.
And then Winter ruined it in that way only Winter can—by speaking in his precise, too-calm voice. “I trust Darkstalker has addressed the… situation.”
I blinked up at him. “Situation?”
“Don’t pretend,” he said, silver eyes narrowing just slightly. “The nesting. His woeful failure at recognizing it. You were there yesterday.”
I felt my ears heat. Of course he meant Turtle’s nesting habits and Darkstalker’s cluelessness, which had been so endearingly painful to watch.
Qibli, on the other talon, froze mid-crunch, his jaw hanging open as he slowly turned toward us. “…Excuse me. Nesting fiasco?”
The pause that followed was deliciously dangerous.
Winter’s gaze sharpened.
Qibli threw up his talons, scandalized. “I miss one day—one—and apparently I miss Turtle… what, nesting with Darkstalker? How is that even—wait, was it intentional nesting or, like, instinctual nesting? Because that’s a massive difference, Moon, don’t look at me like that—”
I buried my face against Winter’s shoulder, my giggles muffled but shaking both of us.
Qibli leaned closer, eyes gleaming, already winding himself up like a SandWing set loose on gossip. “Moon. Moonshine. Sweetheart. You are telling me everything. Right now. From the top. With detail.”
Winter gave an offended growl. “We are not gossiping like RainWings.”
“Correction,” Qibli said smoothly, popping another scorpion into his mouth. “You aren’t. I, however, am an investigative journalist in the making. And this story? Front-page material.”
I wheezed into Winter’s wing, shoulders shaking, while he muttered something dire under his breath about “imbeciles.” But he didn’t move away. None of us did.
The stone was pleasantly warm beneath me, the kind of warmth that seeped into your scales and made it very hard to care about anything important. Breakfast sat heavy and happy in my stomach, and with both my boys pressed close, I could finally let my wings stretch out, claws flexing lazily against the edge of the bench. The air smelled of pine and faint smoke, cool enough that Qibli’s body heat felt especially nice against my side.
I half-listened, half-drifted, only really catching the rise and fall of their voices until Qibli’s tone sharpened into something suspiciously playful.
“C’mon,” he was saying, his grin audible. “One little kiss. For your favorite SandWing.”
Winter drew himself up like a soldier preparing for battle. “Absolutely not.”
I cracked an eye open. Oh, this was going to be good.
Qibli leaned in, smirk curling, his tail flicking with purpose. “Not even one? Just here?” He tapped his snout, far too smug.
Winter stretched away from him with all the grace of a cat determined not to be touched, neck and shoulders pulled taut, composure straining. “I said no.”
Qibli followed, utterly relentless, his tongue darting out to sneak a quick lick along Winter’s jaw.
Winter hissed, recoiling further, and I had to smother a laugh in my talons as Qibli advanced again, licking and nudging and chasing him inch by inch down the bench. Winter’s dignity was unraveling with every stretch of his neck, every twitch of his ears, every sputtered protest.
“Oh, come on,” Qibli crooned, licking again, “you can’t possibly resist me forever.”
I melted deeper into the stone, wings spread wide, watching through half-lidded eyes. Cozy, full, surrounded. Warmth in my belly, warmth and cool at my side, and the sight of Winter—frosty, imperious Winter—being reduced to helpless fluster while Qibli cackled and licked him senseless.
I was already giggling into my claws by the time Qibli got his fourth lick in. Winter had twisted so far away from him that his neck was practically bent into a question mark, jaw clenched tight, dignity stretched thinner than his patience. Qibli, of course, looked delighted with himself—eyes gleaming, tail swishing, smug in a way only he could manage.
“Admit it,” Qibli purred, leaning in for another swipe. “You like it.”
That was the moment Winter snapped.
One heartbeat he was recoiling, icy and disdainful; the next, his claws were cupping Qibli’s head with shocking force. Qibli froze, blinking up at him, startled, caught halfway between smug and confused.
“Wha—”
And then Winter attacked.
Not with claws, but with his mouth. He all but smashed his snout against Qibli’s, lips firm, eyes narrowed in a glare that somehow survived the collision. It wasn’t neat, wasn’t practiced—more a full-bodied declaration of enough than anything resembling tenderness—but it was a kiss, and a long, deliberate one at that.
Qibli made a muffled, startled noise, wings twitching wildly as he tried to register what was happening. For once, words failed him. His tail lashed, his claws scrambled for purchase—and then he gave in, leaning up into the ferocity, laughing breathlessly against Winter’s mouth.
I couldn’t breathe for how hard I was laughing, my wings shaking with it, warmth spilling out of me until I felt weightless.
When Winter finally released him, Qibli just blinked, dazed, his wind sail ramrod straight in complete shock.
“…Well,” he managed at last, voice rough. “If that was supposed to be revenge… you might need to work on your punishment tactics, Frostbite.”
Winter only huffed, smoothing his ruffled spikes back into place with deliberate dignity, as if the entire thing had been his idea all along.
Honestly, life didn’t get better than this.
And yet—late evening proved me wrong.
By the time we’d made our way back to the shared lounge, the mountain had quieted into that pleasant hush Agate always got when the vendors had packed up and the walkways were empty. The lamps along the walls burned low, casting the whole room in warm gold, softened further by the deep green tapestries Turtle had insisted on hanging. The couches were wide enough for three dragons to tangle together, and that’s exactly what we did—half a heap of wings and tails, pressed close around the low table scattered with cups and bowls.
Someone had found the blackberry mead again, which meant Qibli was flushed and sparkling, his words bubbling faster than usual. He’d already launched into a story about the Sand Kingdom, complete with exaggerated impressions of dragons Moon had never met, his claws waving for emphasis. Winter sat beside him, pretending to scoff, but his tail tip was wrapped firmly around Qibli’s, betraying him entirely.
I lay sprawled against them both, chin resting on Winter’s shoulder, the steady cold of his scales grounding me while Qibli’s laughter vibrated through the air like music. My wings stretched lazily over their laps, and every now and then one of them would absentmindedly stroke the edge of my membrane—Winter with cool precision, Qibli with distracted affection.
The laughter blurred into something softer after a while. We drank, we leaned, we kissed—quick touches at first, half-daring, half-teasing. Qibli stole one from me mid-sentence, his tongue sweet from candied scorpions. Winter glared, muttered something about “improper behavior,” then kissed me himself with a decisive fierceness that stole my breath.
It became a rhythm: laughing until our sides hurt, quieting into kisses, then laughter again. Even Winter loosened, enough to let his head drop against mine and Qibli’s, his scowl turned into something so much gentler, almost shy. I could feel his heartbeat where his chest pressed to mine, steady and sure.
The night stretched around us in warm candlelight, like the world had decided to hold still just for us. Qibli’s voice dipped lower, weaving jokes into murmurs. Winter didn’t even resist when Qibli nudged his snout closer, not this time. And me—I was full, and safe, and dizzy with the simple fact that I loved them both, that they loved me, that this was ours.
The evening dragged on, the twilight bleeding soft violet across stone and scales alike, shadows stretching long over the low couches. I’d melted into a nest of cushions, warm and content, my wings tucked close, Qibli and Winter on either side of me. Their claws found each other across my chest, resting lightly, so I felt the steady thrum of both heartbeats in tandem through me.
We were quiet now. Not quite asleep, not quite awake—just breathing together, limbs tangled in lazy comfort. The air smelled of spiced mead and charred fruit, the last remnants of dinner lingering.
Until—
The doors creaked open.
Darkstalker waddled in, broad shoulders sloping, eyes heavy, his expression an odd marriage of exhaustion and triumph. Without a word, he crossed the lounge, picked up the nearest bowl—supposed to be filled with ice, but now only sloshing with lukewarm water—and carried it with exaggerated purpose over to us.
He stopped right in front of our little pile. Pointedly stared at Winter. “Do you mind?”
Winter blinked. Bristled. Then, with all the regal composure he could muster while half-curled over Qibli and me, he leaned forward and let out the most controlled, precise stream of frostbreath I’d ever seen—like some dignified, white-scaled ice dispenser.
The water crackled, frosted instantly. Darkstalker inspected the bowl, gave a single approving nod. “Mm. Very good.”
Then, as if this were the most natural thing in the world, he sprawled in a corner with the bowl balanced squarely on his groin.
And that was when the smell hit me.
Too much like Turtle. And somehow, impossibly, also too much like a dragoness at once.
He groaned, long and theatrical, but the sound curled into a self-satisfied hum. Exhausted and smug, all at once.
Oh, by the moons.
Qibli made a choking noise against my shoulder. Winter’s claws twitched on my chest, like he was torn between storming out and burying his face in his talons. And me—me, I didn’t dare move, because if I did, I was going to start laughing, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to stop.