Chapter 18: Should I Bring Snacks?

Getting to Velnareth should not have been difficult. In Lumara, travel was a matter of coin, not struggle, especially if one knew where to stand and whom to ask. Roads stretched far, but skies stretched farther, and no kingdom wove its airspace more tightly into the weave of daily life. Whether by airship or wing, routes existed. Paths had been drawn long ago in ledger and wind.

He could have chartered a sky-vessel from the docks or waited for a trade wagon bound east. But both would take time, and time was no longer something Axton could spend freely. The fastest, and simplest, course was the one Lumara had always offered—hire a gryphon. The Skyrend Courier Corps maintained outposts in every major city, each staffed with trained fliers whose names and reputations could be found inked on polished boards beside the feather-stamped charter ledgers. The only real obstacle was urgency—and coin.

Axton knew the system well enough. You paid your fare. You offered a token gift if the journey was long, a pouch of dried citrus, a few honeyed nuts, a sweet roll wrapped in waxed cloth. It wasn’t law, but tradition ran deeper than decree. And traditions mattered here, among people who took pride in their wings and the honor of the skies.

He didn’t mind. He liked those rituals. They gave structure to the unknown. Like tea ceremonies, like star charts, they made the chaos of the world seem briefly manageable.

But it had been some time since he’d stood at one of those rookeries. He hadn't needed to. Not with Pyretalon there. Especially not with Pyretalon.

The Skyrend Aerie was already awake with quiet motion, its vast interior bathed in the pale gold of morning light spilling through open archways high in the eastern wall. Built from pale stone veined with feather-shaped sediment, the floor sloped gently downward toward a broad central atrium where polished check-in perches curved like wings around a raised dais. Split-level counters lined the far edge—one low and straight for human scribes, the other a graceful arc of smooth stone shaped to suit talons and feathered haunches. Inkwells, ledgers, and charter tokens were neatly arranged in trays beneath the clerks' stations, everything ready, everything in place.

The walls echoed faintly with the clink of metal clasps, the dry flutter of parchment, and the occasional murmur of clerks conferring in low tones. Above, wide beams crisscrossed the ceiling, rigged with lines and slings for heavy courier loads. A few perches jutted from the upper level, some occupied, others vacant but still warm, feathers caught in the grain, faint signs of recent landings. The air smelled of parchment dust, well-oiled harness leather, roasted tea bark, and the clean salt of feathers still touched by wind.

No crowds. No chaos. Just steady rhythm, a hall that ran on order and oath.

Near the scheduling wall, several wooden panels displayed the current day’s loops and return estimates, their charts pinned in meticulous rows beside route maps etched in aged brass. Names marked each run, some penned fresh this morning, others worn into the wood from long use. Travelers lingered there, murmuring among themselves or waiting patiently for an opening to step forward. One courier clipped route tokens onto a board with slow, practiced motion. A second, older gryphon dipped his beak to sip from a bowl of heated water near a perch, steam rising gently in the dawn light.

No one loitered. Those not working moved with purpose. Those not moving, waited in dignified silence. Even the off-duty fliers wore the weight of their badges like breastplates, emblems of pride, not performance.

To his dismay it appeared as though none of the long-distance fliers were going that way today.

“That’s how it is I’m afraid.” The gryphon on the perch sighed, looking over a list of charts of all the various flight schedules. “Everyone out there is working. Now I can write you down for a booking if you want.”

Axton shifted his weight, gloved fingers tightening slightly on the strap of his satchel. “Oh. I… see,” he said, voice quiet, careful. “Is there… anything else you could do? Maybe something unscheduled? I—I wouldn’t take much space. And I could pay extra, if that helps?”

The gryphon blinked at him slowly, like she was debating whether he’d just asked her to flap the sun back into the sky. “Oh sure,” she said dryly, adjusting her perch with a rustle of feathers. “Let me just sprout a second set of wings, wake up my cousin from her day off, bribe the weather, and rearrange the entire sky schedule for one very polite wizard with nice feather embroidery.” She sighed, “Anything else, dear? A glass of enchanted wine? Perhaps the moon?”

“Ah… perhaps another time.” he murmured, voice softer now, more to himself than to her.

The gryphon clerk gave a lazy blink of acknowledgment, already turning back to her chart. “We’ll still be here, unfortunately.” she muttered, more to the ledger than to him.

With a slight nod, Axton stepped away from the counter, his boots quieter now on the stone.

The cool morning air met him like a slap when he stepped back outside, crisper than before, now that the adrenaline of false hope had faded. He paused just outside the Aerie’s archway, the light stretching longer now across the flagstones. Horses clattered somewhere down the road. Wings passed overhead.

He reached absently for the watch Nelneras had given him, the chain cool against his palm. His thumb traced the edge of it, the weight of it grounding him in a way he wasn’t prepared to admit aloud.

“Brilliant,” he whispered to himself, exhaling through his nose. “Now what in the hells am I supposed to do?”

“Hey! Axton! There you are!”

The shout came barreling through the flying district like a cheerful avalanche.

Axton barely had time to glance up before Roran skidded to a halt beside him, panting lightly, tail wagging in broad, happy arcs. His sleeveless tunic clung to his chest, shorts crooked from uneven jogging rhythm, and his fur ruffled with morning sweat.

“I almost didn’t recognize you!” he said, “All alone, staring off into the clouds like that... I thought you were a statue. Like a tragic wizard one. You, okay?”

“I’m fine.” Axton muttered, fingers twitching nervously around the chain of the watch.

Roran nodded slowly, then squinted at him. “Wait... are you meeting someone?”

Axton blinked. “What? No.”

 “Well, you look like you’re waiting for someone. Or maybe running away from someone. Either way, it’s got big romance energy.” He leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially. “I’m not judging. Forbidden sky love is a classic.”

“Forbidden sky—” Axton began, horrified.

 “I’ve seen a play about it.”  Roran nodded gravely. “Someone dies.”

Cheeks burned. Pyretalon had already been hard enough; Now he had to get rid of Roran? This was the part he hadn’t prepared for. Gods help him.

“So, uh... what brings you here?” Axton asked, forcing a casual tone as Roran jogged in place beside him, his massive arms bouncing slightly with each step.

“Always pass through here during the morning jogs.” Roran beamed. “You’d know that if you ever took me up on the offers.” He shot Axton with a cheeky grin, then gave him a once-over, head to toe, no shame. “Which, I gotta say...” he added, tail wagging, “considering your scrawny little noodle-arms, you really should. Running’s great for endurance. Builds stamina. Helps with spellcasting! You wouldn’t puff out so fast when you conjure that big ghost hand spell—what’s it called? Grabby claw?”

“Drahkoris’ Paw.” Axton muttered.

“Right! That.” Roran nodded, absolutely missing the flicker of shame in Axton’s face. “You’ve got the brains; you just need the biceps to match.”

Axton looked away. “Don’t you need to be somewhere else?”

“Not really!” the wolven said brightly. “It’s a relax day. Some running, maybe a bit of sparring later, time for a quick quest or two. Maybe help Old Merna find her goat again. She keeps losing it.”

Then, as if something suddenly occurred to him, Roran tilted his head, ears perked. “What about you? You, uh—out here waiting on something? Or just, like, staring at stuff dramatically?”

“Just, um… looking for a ride through the Skyrend Courier Corps,” Axton said, eyes fixed ahead.

Roran jogged lightly in place beside him, barely winded. “Going somewhere? Anywhere fun?”

“Just… visiting Valeros. I’m going to train with him for a while.”

 “Aren’t you an apprentice to the queen?” Roran raised an eyebrow. Can you even have two mentors?”

“Not officially,” Axton muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s more of a temporary leave. Her casting’s rigid. He offers… something different.”

“Wow. That’s fast. You barely know the guy.” Roran paused, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You gonna be okay?”

“What kind of question is that?” Axton stammered. “Of course I am. Why?”

“You stuttered.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

Axton turned from him, trying to walk without haste. Roran followed with no hesitation, tail wagging as if nothing were wrong.

“Everything fine? You can tell me.”

“It’s fine!” Axton blurted, sharper than intended. He winced. “Sorry. Just… rough morning. Pyretalon and I didn’t agree.”

Roran blinked, ears splaying wide. “Oh wow. No wonder you’re all twitchy and miserable. You two fought, huh?” He scratched his chin. “Never seen that happen before.”

“Yeah. It’s new.”

“Was it bad?” His voice softened.

The silence lingered after he nodded, the image of Pyretalon, slumped in enchanted sleep, drifted across his mind like smoke.

 “Well. There’s only one thing to do.” Roran sighed and set his hands on his hips.

Axton looked up warily. “What?”

The wolven grinned. “You clearly need a friend. Especially if you’re off training with some guy who probably smells like cedar and smugness.” He clapped Axton hard on the back, nearly knocking the air from him. “Don’t worry, bud—I’ll go with you. It’ll be an adventure! Know where we’re going?”

He blinked; the words settled like stone in his chest. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His throat moved, no sound. Of all the things he had prepared himself for—resistance, argument, disappointment—this hadn't been one of them.

“You what?” he finally managed. His voice was smaller than he expected.

“I mean…just the look of you, all nervous, jittery, you need a wingman. A packmate. You think I’d just let you go run off with some handsome gryphon? I mean, not handsome by wolven standards, but still.” He scoffed, waving a hand. “This will be just like how I did the same thing with Entis! Big, cool place. Sure, we warred with them, they had flying ships, and Arcturus was cool, so they couldn’t be all that bad. So hey, you need me? Let’s go.”

“Like... right now?” Axton pulled back, he couldn’t believe he was entertaining the enthusiastic wolven. Was he going mad?

“Well, not this moment.” Roran gestured over his shoulder. “I’m still in my running garb. I’ll need to return home, change, gather my things.”

How long would that take? Axton didn’t have time to be sidetracked. Pyretalon could be waking up at any moment. “Roran, I have to leave like—”

“Won’t take a breath of time!” Roran said proudly. “I keep my travel gear packed and ready. Always. A proper servant of Sartren must be prepared for sudden quests!”

He blinked. “You’re like... packed now? Why?”

“Adventure calls when you least expect it, friend!” Roran laughed, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Were I not ready, Sartren would surely frown upon me!”

That earned a reluctant smile. Somehow, as he always did, Roran had managed to drag him back toward the light, if only for a moment.

“Won’t your order be displeased you’ve just vanished?” Axton asked. “Don’t they send you on assignments?”

Roran gave a nonchalant wave. “Yes and no. It’s a loose arrangement. I’ve no formal duty at the moment. I simply need to inform my handler where I’m headed. I’ll tell them I’m setting out on a worthy path.”

“Hardly a quest,” Axton said. “We’re just going somewhere else.”

“And that,” Roran said, eyes gleaming, “is the start of every great tale.”

“It doesn’t sound particularly knight-like.”

“And what is knightlier than standing beside your pack?” Roran grinned. “Besides, I’m certain there’s precedent for long-distance escort missions. I once read about a fellowship who walked halfway across the continent to toss a cursed ring into a mountain.”

“So… you’re really coming with?” The words came out before he could stop them. Quiet. Uncertain. He didn’t mean to say it aloud. Roran had said it so easily. Like it cost nothing. Like it was just what you did when someone you cared about was hurting. Axton’s throat tightened. He’d prepared himself to be alone. Told himself it was the only way. But now this wall of fluff and stubborn goodness was standing in front of him, saying of course I’m coming.

He felt it then rising in his chest, sharp and sudden. Like a dam cracking. The ache of guilt, the pressure of the lie, the grief of leaving someone behind, and the stupid, wonderful relief of not being left in return.

“Of course I am,” Roran said again, gentle now. “What kind of packmate would I be if I let you go alone?  I mean, you can run solo if you want best buddy.”

That did it.

Axton surged forward before his mind could catch up, arms wrapping around Roran’s chest in a tight, breathless hug. He buried his face in thick fur, clinging with strength, desperate to not fall apart.

Roran went stiff. Then, slowly, his big arms came around him, enveloping Axton in a warm, slightly sweaty wall of muscle and loyalty. “Careful,” Roran muttered with a grin. “Last time you looked at me like that, I had to give you a size warning.”

Something between a laugh and a strangled whimper escaped his aching chest. His face was already burning from the hug, now glowing scarlet.

“Roran,” he groaned, pressing his forehead into the wolven’s chest. “Why would you bring that up now?”

The wolven only chuckled. “I speak plainly. Big heart. Big—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

But Axton was laughing. Genuinely laughing. And for the first time since the morning began, it didn’t feel like the sky was falling.

“Truly though—where are we going?” Roran gave him one more friendly squeeze, then stepped back with a grin that had no business being that warm. “And should I bring snacks?”