The Five Realms

Chapter 47: Beanca VIII

Chapter 47: First Day in Dragon City

The room smelled like cedarwood, soap, and something faintly wild—like the breath of trees before dawn.

Beanca sat up slowly, her fingers trailing across the rune-stitched sheets. They pulsed faintly beneath her touch, like heartbeat echoes caught in fabric. Everything in Dragon City was alive in some way—enchanted, aware, listening. Even the bed seemed to know when she stirred.

The air drifted in from the open window, cool and clean, scented with dragonhide oil and something sweet from the lower floors—sugar, maybe? Burnt caramel?

For the first time in weeks, she didn't wake in panic. No dream chase. No clawed fingers or phantom snarls. No warning from the earth. Just peace.

And—

Him.

Her hand rested loosely on her thigh as her mind tugged backward to the night before. The balcony. The wind. Joey.

He'd smiled at her. Not the brave smile he wore for others. Not the heavy one meant for command.

But a real one. Tired and a little scared. Honest.

And when she gave him that obsidian eye, something had passed between them that neither of them named.

Yet.

Beanca exhaled through her nose and pushed herself up, grabbing a hair tie from the end table. Her braid was loose and slept-on, but she didn't mind. She padded barefoot to the closet.

The wardrobe, of course, had prearranged everything. Outfits floated slightly off the racks, sorted by color and cut. She didn't bother analyzing. Her hand drifted to the forest-dark riding jacket stitched with a faint scale motif—her colors, Solin's shades. Worn brown cargo pants. Green-fitted tank. Black leather gloves. The sleeves felt like memory. Familiar.

"Sorry, cows," she muttered, tugging the gloves on. "Pretty sure I'm wearing three of you."

The jacket hugged her shoulders like it belonged.

She headed downstairs, her steps light but her thoughts still trailing.

Joey.

She didn't know if it was attraction or... resonance. Like something in him hummed at her frequency. Not flashy. Not overwhelming. Just... steady. Rooted.

He didn't know how to lead, and that was exactly why she trusted him to try.

The smell hit her before she turned the corner—batter, sugar, and chaos. Her stomach growled in instant betrayal.

The living area looked like someone had cast a summoning spell and accidentally conjured a bakery warzone.

Chyna sat cross-legged on the couch, cheeks stuffed with pancake, syrup streaking her chin like war paint.

"Morning, Bea," she mumbled. "You gotta try this stuff. It's like dessert and breakfast had a baby."

Beanca blinked. Joey stood at the stove—shirtless, apron tied loosely at the back, flipping pancakes like he was born to it. His hair was a mess. His arms were dusted with flour. The scar on his side caught the morning light like a quiet truth.

She looked away half a second too late.

Steven, meanwhile, was elbow-deep in batter, holding a spatula like a dagger as if defending his culinary honor. Flour dotted his cheeks and hair like snowfall.

Fate leaned over her cup of cider, cheeks warm with laughter. Her plate was already empty.

"You survived the shower of eternal joy, huh?" Steven called over his shoulder, flipping a pancake one-handed.