The Five Realms

Chapter 25: Steven V

Chapter 25: The Path Forward

The Jackson Manor was never silent—not truly. There had always been a background murmur: the creak of ancient floorboards, the whispered song of wind in the attic, the clatter of dishes in the far-off kitchen. But today, it was as if even the ghosts held their breath.

Steven Parker sat on the edge of a velvet sofa that had once belonged to a woman who dined with presidents, bouncing one leg restlessly as his dragon Ares dozed just outside. The manor's parlor was too clean, too deliberate—like a room waiting for a wake. He scanned the space, where heavy curtains blocked out most of the morning sun, and every painting on the wall seemed to look down with silent expectation.

Beanca leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her hair braided tightly back, but her eyes flicked to the clock every thirty seconds like it owed her answers. Chyna stood with her back to the windows, unreadable behind the cold gleam of her glasses. Joey had taken to pacing, the long hem of his coat swishing like a cat's tail—impatient, twitching.

And then there was Fate.

She sat nearest the fireplace, legs tucked beneath her, hands folded in her lap like she didn't know where to place them. Her dragon, Goldenia, curled protectively behind her outside the window, casting a golden light through the crack in the curtains. Fate's gaze drifted toward her lap, unfocused.

Steven leaned slightly toward her. "Hey," he said, his voice pitched low, almost conspiratorial. "Still thinking about that glamour spell you botched and turned your pillow into a pineapple?"

Fate blinked, then looked at him in surprise. She didn't laugh, exactly—but the ghost of a smile touched her lips. "That pillow had it coming," she whispered back.

"That's the spirit." Steven gave her a quick thumbs-up, then pretended to stretch, throwing his arm dramatically over the back of the couch. "You ready for this?"

"No," she said truthfully. But then, "Yes. Kind of." Her fingers clenched tightly together. "I just... don't want to be the one who breaks the prophecy or whatever."

He leaned a little closer. "Then we'll break it together."

Across the room, Joey halted mid-pace. "They're late."

"They're elves," Chyna replied without looking up from her phone. "Timelines are... relative."

"No such thing as relative when you've got a dragon itching to fly," Joey muttered.

Beanca's eyes narrowed toward the front of the house. "Something's coming."

And just like that, the air shifted. The old silence shattered—not loudly, but absolutely. Like a spell breaking.

Heavy footsteps on stone.

Then a knock. Just once.

Steven exhaled. "Guess it's showtime."

A second, softer knock echoed through the silent room—then heavy footsteps on the marble foyer. The door opened.

They appeared.

Arya stood framed in the light—tall, regal, framed by tangled braids of silver and midnight. Even in the muted glow of dawn, her presence was unmistakable: myth come to flesh. Beside her stood Murtagh Morzansson—no longer the reserved professor, but the warrior he truly was, his eyes as sharp and dark as obsidian.

Steven's heart skipped. He opened his mouth to say something—"Are you...?"—but it never formed. Instead, he just stared, dumbstruck.

Joey stepped forward to greet them with a stiff nod, his usual swagger gone quiet. Fate's breath caught in her throat. Even Beanca straightened, suddenly aware of how small the living room seemed.