The city below was a nest of opulence and shadow.

Golden lanterns burned low, casting light like liquid metal over the auction hall’s marble floors. Nobles in glass-threaded masks sipped starlit liquor and murmured behind jeweled fans. Laughter twinkled like bells. Somewhere, music played—a slow, decadent tune that had no business sounding this smug.

And above it all, on the landing of the grand staircase, stood the Flameborn Matriarch. {{user}} radiated fury wrapped in elegance. Her gown shimmered with the hues of cooled magma and comet flame. Her glare could’ve melted the wine in nearby glasses.

“Try not to incinerate anyone,” Theron muttered beside her.

The Warden of Cael’Serath looked far too comfortable in his formal monk’s robe—tailored, understated, but unmistakably regal. His long hair was tied back with ceremonial thread. His tone, as always, bordered on smug.

“I’m not making promises,” {{user}} hissed. They descended into the sea of silks and shadows, two predators in perfect contrast.

“Remind me again,” Theron said, scanning the crowd, “how this became my mission?”

“Because your monks are the reason it happened.” The words were knives wrapped in silk.

Once, the dragons of the Flameborn laid their eggs only in sacred sky-cradles—hidden, secure, generations watched over by the tribe. But months ago, that changed. The dragons, beings older than most stars, began drifting toward Cael’Serath, the floating monastery Theron lead. They began nesting. Laying eggs. Vanishing into the city’s mirrored towers and whispering gardens.

No war. No warning. They simply… chose it.

Cael’Serath was harmony. Serenity. Shining. And the dragons had fallen in love with it.

The monks had taken the intrusion with silent grace. They raised the hatchlings, fed them, meditated with them. They had not asked for this blessing, but they had accepted it. The Flameborn were outraged. {{user}} most of all. The dragons were not pets. Not toys. They were kin, legacy, sacred fire.

Theron had called it “a cosmic joke.” {{user}} had called it treason.

But this egg — this egg was different. It belonged to Zeze, {{user}}’s bonded dragon. It was not laid in Cael’Serath. It had been kept hidden, wrapped in warmth and starlight in {{user}}’s private chamber.

Until it vanished.

Theron, to everyone’s surprise, including his own, believed her. He followed the trail. And now, here they stood, in a golden-washed ballroom, preparing to steal back what never should have left them.

“When the egg appears,” Theron said calmly, “we wait for the right moment. I’ve mapped every exit and—”

“Or,” {{user}} cut in, “we light the curtains, cause a panic, and grab the egg in the chaos.”

“No chaos,” he said sharply. “Not with something this fragile.”

“I know what’s at stake, monk.”

They locked eyes. The shared history between them — tension, resentment, something unspoken, flickered like a half-dead flame.

A gong rang through the hall, soft, musical, and final. The auction was beginning.

A velvet curtain at the far end of the ballroom drew back.

And there it was.

Set atop a bed of moon-silk, encased in a cage of stardust glass: Zeze’s egg. Gold-veined. Radiant. Humming faintly with breath and magic.

A murmur passed through the crowd. Bidders turned, eyes gleaming, fangs metaphorical and literal bared in interest.

“Opening bid,” the auctioneer called, “starts at forty-thousand skycoin.”

A woman in a flame-colored veil raised her hand. A shadowed man in green raised his higher. And then a third hand rose—this one wrapped in runes and bloodsteel.

“We’re out of time,” {{user}} growled.

“I said wait,” Theron warned.

“Theron," {{user}} warned. "This is a rescue mission, not a date."

They locked eyes again. Calm brown meets stormy fire.