The Five Realms

Chapter 21: Steven III

Chapter 21: Summer Dust

Ares's wings stirred the marsh mist as he and Steven glided low over the bayou. The glamour spell shimmered softly on the dragon's crimson scales, keeping prying eyes from catching glimpses of his magitech brilliance. Dawn's glow etched patterns on the water—ghosting reflections of an old world that still whispered in his veins.

Steven's fingers curled into Rohan's scales tucked in his pack—but tonight, it was Ares's warmth beneath him that grounded everything. The dragon huffed, nostrils flaring.

"This place... smells like memory, right?" Steven murmured.

Too much. Like dust and dreams, Ares replied, thoughts thick as forge smoke in Steven's mind.

Ahead, the wooden façade of his grandfather's house creaked into view—paint peeling, porch sagging, and windows blinking in the early light. It felt both foreign and like returning home, as if every step had been drawn here by threads he hadn't known were attached.

"I'm back, Grandpa," Steven said, voice echoing across the marsh.

The door opened before they'd reached the porch. Mason Parker stepped out, framed in shadow, stitching a bottle-green flask in his hand. He wore denim and leather like armor, and his one good eye held a spark of both recognition and relief.

"Look at you," Mason said, voice gravel and pride. "And that thing—how big he is! Ares, huh?"

Ares rumbled softly around Steven's shoulders, letting the magic show spark faintly in his eyes.

Mason nodded slowly. "You did good. Come sit—tea's strong and stories are waiting."

Steven slid down to the porch step as Ares folded his wings behind him for cover. Below, the marsh exhaled—a sigh of something that had been hidden for too long.

Mason poured tea into chipped cups. He watched Steven with someone who's seen a boy grow in ways that break categories. And then he asked in the smallest of voices:

"So... what's the blood saying?"

Steven let that hang. Outside, a heron's cry cut through the mist.

Ares leaned in close, wings brushing Steven's back. He tasted of iron and fire—and home.

Steven warmed his hands around the chipped tea cup as Mason lifted an ancient tome from a sagging bookshelf. Its cover was embossed with dwarf runes he didn't fully recognize—and a central emblem of a hammer crossed with a dragon's wing.

"This," Mason said, running a finger over the symbol, "is your true inheritance—and mine. The Parkers of Metalliindra were ironbloods: dwarves bound to dragon magic and metal."

He led Steven inside, past relics and mementos. Maps of subterranean forges and city schematics lined the walls, each labeled in faded dwarvish script.

"They moved into other realms when the mines dried," Mason explained. "Through cross marriage and time, your people grew taller—look at you. These landwalkers. But the blood..." He tapped the sigil again. "It remembers the forge in your bones."

Ares shifted beside Steven, soft growls vibrating in his throat. His nose brushed that same sigil on the table—and for a moment, the watch on Steven's wrist pulsed. A flicker of rune light traced across the display.

Steven stared, heart pounding. Forgeblood. Dragon magic. Legacy and loss coiled around his pulse—and anchored it.

Ares's wings twitched, urging him forward.

Steven looked to Mason. "So this... is why I felt magitek so fast."

Mason nodded. "You were born with a spark. Now you're finding the flame."