A Storm Traited. Aidari Rainheart was a Storm Traited.

Everything she knew about Aidari was turned on its head. She had been telling the truth. In her mind, with her recollection of events she had killed the High Casters. 

Leaning over the bar, she set each page of Aidari’s grimoire spread out like a deck of cards, her Pulse providing a perfect copy with every new memory that came into her mind. But their differing thoughts were a mess of fragmented memories and crisscrossing details that refused to connect together in a coherent way. 

Nemera couldn’t help but pore over every hazy detail she had uncovered so far. 

Siara’s outright refusal to show her the crime scene. The Forewarn Cliffs underground laboratory. The alleged Stormspell apprentice slaves. The sigil Comet found. The claw marks against the walls of the Pressurehold. The Ashgrave’s daughter: Robin Whiteheart. All of it created more questions and the more Nemera delved into Aidari’s memories the less she understood. 

Why had Basra sent her here without telling Neridia of their Master’s passing or was Siara not told? Why had Aidari’s storm struck so much of Floodbound but she could not harness the Brink? Why had they sent Siara during a storm when they knew Sunspell elves were afraid of rain? Why couldn’t she visit the Forewarn Cliffs when they were the answer to everything?

A crater could give Nemera something to work with. Hell’s teeth, charred bodies or ashes would’ve at least confirmed their deaths but Neridia barely had a mortuary or mausoleum from what she’d heard. All she had was the incomplete memories of an uncertain murderer, a confirmed blackballing of visiting crime scenes and several elves that wanted Aidari dead. But despite all of that, the name Ashgrave would not leave her mind and how they died…was unmistakable.

Elliot Ashgrave and Kalia Goldheart had died from the Ashes of the Fallen. 

A winter chill blew through the Spirit Bar, sending the pages scattering to the winds and sending Nemera to her knees. Clutching her chest, the numbing cold left her breathless, a feeling she knew all too well but with every attempt to use her training, her Pulse faltered and her grip on the Spirit Bar flickered into nothingness.

Nemera couldn’t move.

The familiar warm lull of sleep became stiflingly hot as the overwhelming ache of her limbs forced Nemera to remain still despite the beating heart that surged to life. She had felt the weight of the Pulse plenty of times before but this…this felt like exhaustion that would never end.

“It seems like you’re finally awake, Deathkeeper.”

Nemera blinked, simply because that was all she could do. Glancing around, the cold, cramped, prison walls of the Pressurehold had been replaced with a warm hearth, the room now plushly decorated in cold colours of blues and silvers. She had been rescued. Somehow.

“Hypothermia, I ask you. Are you quite dense in the head?”

Nemera let out a wheezy laugh that was more of a cough than anything else, the bile that rose in her throat forcing her to double over, the fiery vengeance of a migraine threatening to knock her from consciousness. But the moment her soot-covered Inferno Trollian dove into her arms Nemera felt…complete. Her Agar, ever dutiful in his watch despite everything that had happened. Too sick to offer an apology to Comet, all Nemera could do was avoid throwing up on him.

“Ah, my apologies. The medicine we gave you might’ve been a tad strong. We’re not used to…Neridian plants.”

Her ears buzzed from the Pulse, muffling the strange twined voice as tears burned at the corner of her eyes but Comet’s natural positivity chased them away. Nuzzling furiously into her chest, she was soaked not with sweat from lack of sleep but the chilling, gnawing feeling of malnourishment. She had overdone it again.

“Oh, Commy. Comet I’m so sorry, I….I’ve been a shite partner, haven’t I? I shouldn’t have said the things I said to Siara. Siara…oh, hell’s teeth where is she? Did she send word to the Brigade? Did Aidari get out? Did you get out OK? Are you hurt?” Nemera croaked out, the rush of words and emotions threatened to overwhelm her despite the hoarseness of her voice.

“Come now. You’re a necromancer, are you not? Pick yourself up, girl.”

Nemera turned angrily towards her unexpected visitor, the neon purple dragon clashing with the cool calming blues and greens around her. Her hazy vision was warped by the sharp claws and poisonous fangs of the two headed, double mawed dragon. 

“Vipereye.”

Nemera’s voice sounded more like the strangled hiss of a demon but she felt it was appropriate. 

With a thought, her shadows responded, forming the familiar cold hilt of her scythe, a Trait weapon unique to her and only her. Just like every Traited who dared to look beyond the simple flame and shadow of their grimoire. She had helped shear crops for her family's business before the Mirewood had become cursed by demons. It was a shame her weapon was no longer used for farming but it was still…useful.

“Shadow Traited.” 

It hissed in unison, Nemera’s confused state over the strange back and forth of voices slotted together perfectly, the one dragon sharing two minds that fought for dominance. Nemera’s title wasn’t exactly common knowledge in Neridia but the reputation that dragons possessed was far more intimidating. Dragons were more common to Nemera than elves were in Neridia but this was no ordinary dragon.

The split seam of its dual jaw was respectfully closed, the gill-like flaps along its neck allowing it to breathe and distil the miasma into a gas it could use. The four pairs of eyes that were normally opaline in colour sported a single green, odorous eye: a reminder of the soured history of deceit and trickery that refused to leave them even in birth. 

“Honestly, Nemera. Cut my brother and I some slack. We both have the same bad blood in our history. There’s no need for biases here.”

The once hostile dragon relaxed back onto its haunches, a low, gravelly laugh escaping from one of its heads as the other clenched its jaw in silence. Nemera had never seen a Vipereye so close before. In reality, Vipereye dragon’s were a lot bigger but some had the innate ability to change size at will and this one was no different. 

The deep purple of the left head who had just spoken had flecks of blue within it while the left was more wine coloured. It was rare to find two headed dragons with the opposite gender but Nemera recognised the heterochromia within their shared vision. 

Comet hovered dangerously close, his floating appendages still clinging to her shoulder. But the fangs of the dragon made Nemera push the sentient bobble head behind her protectively. 

“Where am I? Where’s Aidari?” Nemera demanded, her rising irritation sending wayward shadows spiking along the walls.

If the Vipereye was concerned it didn’t show it. Its belly was low, submissive to the ground. With a flash of flame and shadow her scythe retreated to the void of her Pulse, the beating heart of her grimoire still trapped within her chest like a caged butterfly. Her Master had told her the stories of the Aaracosta Mountains and how hard her predecessors had to fight to save so many villages from their odorous poison. If it wanted her dead they could’ve just left her in the Pressurehold.

“Easy now, Deathkeeeper. You might be the Night Rider but even your Master had to rest.”

Nemera hadn’t noticed the intricately bound bandages around her arms, the scent of overwhelming herbs mingled with the migraine blurring her vision, the bruises along her side and scar on her hip was also treated to the best of their ability. The irony of a poison dragon becoming a healer wasn’t lost on her but with everything that had happened it was barely a surprise anymore. 

“You knew Master Midari?” Nemera asked, the guilt in her voice made her feel small, as if she had transformed into a child again.

The tightness in her chest threatened to overwhelm her for a second time, blinking away tears and berating herself despite knowing full well how grief could affect a person. It had been years since she had ever considered healing the burns from the Four Peaks war, the jagged scar still left over from the piece of arkalite that embedded itself in her side. The reminder of Moonshear’s trap forced her eyes shut, breathing deeply just to make sure she still could.

“We did. We were one of the first ones to…break the news of her passing. Neridia is still unaware of the impact but we dragon's remember. We always do.”

The soft, morose growl that escaped from the male dragon was far more emotive than the stoic persona he portrayed. The long shadow of the Vipereye dragon was cast in the light of a cracking furnace, trails of soot alluding to Comet’s sleeping area only tail lengths away from her bed. 

“And who is this we?” Nemera said cheekily, attempting to break the tension with an awkward attempt at humour.

Her hat lay precariously at the foot of it along with the tatters of a familiar purplish blue cloak that had been mixed up to be hers out of mere circumstance. Whether it was Siara’s way of an apology or a hidden message from Aidari, she didn’t know. Part of her didn’t want to find out.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. We never introduced ourselves! I’m Duxolia but please call me Duxo. Everyone does in the Colony.” Duxo said joyously, grasping the casual conversation like a hanging branch on a storm swept tree.

Her reddish purple head gleamed with the blush of embarrassment and excitement, one green eye and the other unfocused liquid amber eye glaring at her twin brother for not offering the same courtesy. 

“Kuzo. Her brother. Firstborn.” 

The indigo scaled dragon head refused to elaborate, his gruff tone a far cry from his excitable sister. But much like restraining a wild animal on a chain, his tail gently rested against the ridge of her neck to keep Duxo in check from bouncing onto a badly wounded patient.

“You’re Nemera, right? I wouldn’t worry about that Stormspell elf. Last I heard she was in the Waneward like you. Although she’s probably been discharged by now. She didn’t have the Pulse to wrangle with.” Duxo rambled inconsiderately, bounding up with her brother to the foot of the bed.

Shrinking on command, the once towering dragon that had barely crested their head inches away from hitting the ceiling now barely reached the foot of her bed. Nemera didn’t know much of Vipereye customs but the term Firstborn didn’t seem to fill Kuxo with any sort of joy or confidence. But Nemera could guess Duxo was a little too eager for any sort of reserved conversation.

“The Nightspell healers were quite confused on how to treat a Traited and even tried contacting the Mist Maiden’s for advice. That’s how dire your situation was. The High Sunstress was the one who contacted us instead..we’re from the Weedwatcher’s Alchemist guild.” Duxo continued, a slight grin peeking out a poisoned fang, flecks of green at the edge of her mouth disappearing without so much as a thought.

Nemera knew the signs of a terrible liar.

Pinching her nose, she tried to focus on her Master’s teachings about not antagonising dragon’s unless she had to but the inklings of a plan faltered under the weight of her sluggish mind. The throbbing ache of her Pulse seemed to settle over her temple, her furrowed brow not helping in the slightest even with the twitch in her eye.

“If Siara sent you then she’s even more clueless than I thought. The Weedwatcher guild disbanded years ago.”