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"Come up," Limpick said. His voice wasn't loud—the sea wind swallowed it—but he knew they could hear.
The sea moved. Not waves. The entire surface split open from right beneath the cliff, as if someone had sliced the water down the middle. A massive black shape rose in total silence, like an island breaking the surface. Water poured off its back in sheets, roaring like waterfalls. It was so enormous that Limpick, crouched on the rock, had to crane his neck and still couldn't see all of it—just sections of black scales, each one bigger than his palm, layered tight and seamless. The scales weren't pure black. In the starlight their edges glowed with a faint inner light, like dying embers, like fire that refused to go out.
Its eyes sat high on its head, two enormous orbs bigger than his fists. They were completely black—like polished obsidian catching starlight. Those eyes looked down at him, head tilted, exactly the same way they had the first time, under Riverrun's city wall. It blinked once.
It lowered its massive head—bigger than Limpick's whole body—and rested it on the rock in front of him. The black scales gleamed under the stars. It pushed its snout forward and exhaled. Hot breath, heavy with sulfur and a damp, earthy scent like soil after rain. Its tongue slid out—black, long, forked at the tip—and licked his face in one slow stroke, from chin to forehead. Wet. Warm.
Limpick reached out and touched the scales. Cool, hard, smooth—just like before. But the temperature beneath them had changed. No longer the warmth of fresh-baked stone. Now they were cold, like a late-autumn river, like winter frost, like the stones at the base of Riverrun's wall at dawn. Yet deep inside that cold burned a fire—in the bones, in the blood, in the soul.
A second white shadow rose from the sea on Ember's right, dozens of yards away. Smaller than Ember but far larger than the last time Limpick had seen it. Pure white scales—not gray-white, not milky, but brilliant white like fresh snow, like moonlight, like sea foam exploding against rocks. Its eyes were white too, entire orbs glowing softly like polished moonstones in the starlight. It spread its wings as it emerged, wet and glistening. The membranes were semi-transparent under the stars, revealing the delicate white bones inside like branches. It tilted its head and studied him with one white eye, then let out a call. No longer the silver-bell sound from its youth—this was deeper, richer, like a bronze bell, clear and bright, ringing long across the night sea.
Limpick stood up on the rock, one foot on each stone. He rested one hand on Ember's scales and reached the other toward Plume. It was too far, but Plume stretched its head forward anyway. The smooth white scaled head—larger than his own—gently pecked his palm. Not painful, but heavy, like being tapped by a thick wooden rod. Its mouth was no longer a bird's beak. It was shorter, thicker, edged with fine serrated teeth like a dragon's.
"Let's go," Limpick said. "Up. I'll take you somewhere."
He turned and started up the narrow path. Ember followed—but it was too big for the trail. It simply spread its wings and flew straight up the cliff. The wings blotted out half the sky, and the gust nearly pinned Limpick against the rock wall, flapping his robe wildly and forcing his eyes shut. When the wind passed, Ember was already crouched on the cliff top, wings folded tight, its black eyes watching him. Plume flew up too, light and silent as a giant white feather, landing beside Ember and folding its wings. Its white eyes gleamed softly in the darkness.
Limpick climbed to the top and led them toward the mountain. He walked in front. Ember followed. Plume walked at Ember's side. Three shadows moved across the island under the stars: a small human one, a huge black dragon one, and a medium-sized white dragon one.
They reached the hidden fissure—the one concealed by bushes, too narrow for Ember and Plume now. But Limpick knew another way. He followed the mountainside a little higher and stopped behind a massive black boulder. There was the entrance to an old tunnel—partially blocked by fallen rock, but the remaining gap was wide enough for Ember to squeeze through. He had discovered it while exploring the mountain long ago. It was an ancient passage dug by the Targaryens to reach the deepest parts of the dragon-glass vein. He had spent hours clearing the fallen stones by hand, moving them one by one until his hands bled. He hadn't known then why he was doing it. Now he understood. The dragon bone had known before his mind did.
The tunnel sloped downward steeply, the floor covered in loose rock and dust. Limpick led the way, holding up a piece of dragonglass for light. The dark-red glow illuminated the walls in shifting patterns of light and shadow. Ember followed, its massive body scraping against the stone sides, scales striking sparks. Plume brought up the rear, wings tucked tight, moving silently like a giant white bat gliding through the passage.
The tunnel grew wider, lower, and much hotter. The smell of sulfur grew thick enough to burn the throat. The air felt like a steam bath. Limpick's robe was soaked with sweat, stuck to his skin. Sweat poured down his forehead and stung his eyes, but he didn't stop. The dragon bone in his robe throbbed harder and hotter, burning against his chest. He clenched his teeth and pushed through the heat.
At the end of the passage lay the cavern—the heart of the mountain, the throat of the volcano, the core of the dragon-glass vein. The last time he had brought Yuan here, the cavern had seemed enormous. Now, with Ember and Plume inside, it felt much smaller. Ember's body and spread wings nearly touched both walls. Plume crouched beside it, filling what little space remained.
The dragon-glass pool in the center was unchanged. Black crystal spires rose from the pool like a forest of dark glass spears, taller than a man and thicker than trees, their tips razor sharp. Dragon-glass veins covered every surface—bursting from the walls, hanging from the ceiling, pushing up through the floor. Dark-red light pulsed through them slowly, like a heartbeat. The whole cavern breathed.
High above, the crater opening showed a sliver of sky. Dawn was approaching; the eastern horizon had turned pale gray.
Limpick stood at the entrance and pointed to the dragon-glass pool. "Go there. That's the heart of the vein. Take as much as you need. Take until you can't take any more."
Ember and Plume didn't move at first. They crouched at the entrance, staring at the pool, at the crystal spires, at the flowing red light. They could feel it—the same overwhelming hunger Yuan had felt the first time. Their bodies trembled with anticipation. But they waited for his signal.
Limpick stepped to the edge of the pool, back against the wall, and nodded. "Go."
Ember moved first. It walked down into the cavern, each step shaking the ground. It stopped at the edge of the pool, lowered its head among the tallest crystal spires, and opened its jaws. It bit down on the largest one—thicker than its own head. The entire cavern trembled. The spire didn't shatter. It melted. Black, sticky liquid dragon glass flowed from the tip straight into Ember's mouth—not swallowed, absorbed. It poured down its throat, into its body, into its bones and blood.
The red light in the veins flared brighter, rushing toward Ember like glowing snakes. The whole mountain seemed to pulse in time with it.