The Five Realms

Chapter 45: Steven IX

Chapter 45: Landing at Rider's Cove

The wind off the sea didn't help the smell.

Steven leaned forward slightly on Ares's back, squinting into the horizon, trying to ignore the staleness clinging to his clothes. Five days without a proper shower. Three days of flying. One bottle of deodorant shared across five teens. The math didn't lie—their campsite had smelled like the locker room of a losing team.

Bi-daily river dunkings had done little more than relocate the dirt. At least the water had been cold and fresh enough to rinse the stickiness from behind his ears. Barely.

He shifted in his saddle. Ares snorted, tossing his head, catching the wind.

"At least you don't have to smell yourself," Steven muttered.

I smell you, Ares replied dryly. But I also smell Joey, so I suppose I should count my blessings.

Steven cracked a grin. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Thirty minutes earlier, they'd crossed the final stretch of sea between the mainland and Beirland Island. The sun was just beginning its late-morning climb, warming the silver-streaked ocean below them. Spray misted Steven's legs now and then as Ares glided low, dipping one wing for balance. Gulls shrieked in the distance.

Then he saw it.

A spike of brilliance rose from the northern curve of the island—soaring into the sky like some cosmic exclamation mark. From this distance, it looked almost like a twisted needle, carved from rainbow glass and lit from within. But as they drew closer, Steven could see fire spiraling up the structure. Real flame—controlled, magical, alive. The colors shifted with every breath: deep obsidian black, then a pulse of red like heartblood, then royal blue, and at last—white as moonfire.

He blinked. Then blinked again.

The tower was enormous. At least fifty meters high, maybe more. No way to be sure without flying up alongside it—and even then, he wasn't sure his brain would process it right.

"Is that it?" he called over the wind, craning his neck to see Arya. She was several dragonlengths ahead, riding Fírnen with that same royal composure she always had, like the air itself bowed out of her way.

"Yes," she called back, her voice clear even over the wind. "Welcome to Dragon City. Or as some of us still call it—New Vroengard."

Steven swallowed. The name hit differently when it was real. Not in a textbook, or whispered in a vision. Not part of some ancient prophecy he half-believed.

Just... there. Rising in front of them like a lighthouse made by gods.

The closer they flew, the more impossible the Watchtower looked. The color-shifting flame at its crown pulsed gently now—almost like it had a heartbeat of its own. Steven stared at it so long he forgot to blink, until the ocean spray hit him again and he wiped his eyes on his forearm.

Beneath the tower, the rest of the city began to take shape. He could make out sweeping bridges, glittering rooftops, and broad roads wide enough for dragons to land side by side. There were buildings that gleamed like glass, others that resembled dwarven fortresses, and some that spiraled like grown trees.

Ares banked slightly as their descent began.

You're quiet, the dragon observed.

"Just trying to take it all in," Steven murmured, eyes locked on the city below. "We actually made it."

We haven't landed yet.

"Let me have my moment."

He could feel it in his chest—that strange pressure. Like awe, but sharper. Like something enormous was waiting for them down there... and he had no idea if it would welcome them or swallow them whole.