Ember's scales began to glow.
Not the old dark red. Gold. Bright, blinding gold that started at the edges of each scale and spread inward, lighting up one piece at a time like someone was striking matches across its body. The gold raced from its head down its neck, across its shoulders, along its back, over the roots of its wings, all the way to the tip of its tail. Its eyes changed too—the solid black orbs grew deeper, blacker, like twin black holes, like bottomless abysses, like a starless night sky. Something moved and burned inside that darkness.
It pulled its mouth away from the crystal spire, lifted its head, and let out a sound toward the cavern ceiling. Not a roar. A low, deep rumble that felt like it came from the roots of the mountain itself—the sound a volcano makes right before it erupts. The noise bounced around the cavern, shaking loose stones from the ceiling and making the crystal spires hum. Limpick's dragon bone throbbed in time with it, vibrating hard against his chest.
Plume moved next. It didn't land. It flew straight into the air above the dragon-glass pool and hovered there, wings spread wide. The white membranes turned faintly pink in the dark-red glow. It lowered its head, bit into a smaller spire, and the crystal melted the same way—black liquid pouring down its throat. Its scales began to glow too. Pure white. Moon-white. The kind of white that looks like fresh snow or untouched paper, so bright it hurt to look at. Its eyes changed as well—the solid white grew even brighter, like two points of cold white fire burning in its sockets.
It pulled back, lifted its head, and called out. Not Ember's deep volcanic rumble—this was higher, sharper, like ice cracking on the Gods Eye at dawn. Crisp. Clear. The sound rang through the cavern for a long time.
Then they started drinking the dragon glass for real.
Not one piece at a time. The entire pool, the walls, the whole mountain began feeding them. Light poured in from every direction—dark red, orange, gold, white, blue—rivers of glowing energy snaking through the air like luminous snakes and pouring into Ember and Plume. The cavern shook. The whole mountain shook. Stones rained down from the ceiling—fist-sized chunks, pebbles, dust—clattering off Ember's scales and stinging Limpick's shoulders. He yanked his robe over his head and crouched against the wall, making himself as small as possible. The ground trembled harder. He braced himself, arms wrapped around his knees, trying to stay upright.
He heard Ember's scales splitting open—not breaking, shedding. Old scales peeled back at the edges while new ones pushed through from underneath. Bigger. Thicker. Blacker. Black like the night sky, black like the deepest sea, black like the heart of the dragon-glass vein itself. Every time a new scale formed, the light in the cavern dimmed for a heartbeat, as if the mountain itself was being swallowed.
He heard Plume's wings stretching—bones creaking and lengthening, membranes pulling tight with soft, wet sounds. The wings grew wider, thinner, semi-transparent. Through them he could see white blood flowing like milk, like moonlight.
He heard their heartbeats. Two separate rhythms from opposite sides of the cavern, but perfectly in sync—thud… thud… thud—matching his own heartbeat, matching the dragon bone against his chest, matching the dozens of tiny heartbeats far below in the sea.
The light in the cavern began to die.
Not all at once. It was being drained. The dragon-glass veins faded from bright red to dull red, from dull red to gray, from gray to ordinary colorless stone. The crystal spires in the pool went dark from the base up, turning into dead, lifeless rock. The veins on the walls dried up like withered vines. Overhead crystals snapped and fell, shattering on the floor like ordinary glass.
The cavern grew darker and darker until only two lights remained—one black, one white.
The black light came from Ember. It didn't shine outward. It drank everything in. It swallowed every last scrap of light in the cavern, even the glow from the dragonglass in Limpick's hand, until the space was pitch black. Yet the black light itself was visible—an impossible, pure darkness glowing in the middle of the dark like a black sun.
The white light came from Plume. It did the opposite. It lit every corner, every crack in the stone, every grain of dust, bright as noon but colder, whiter, without heat.
Black and white hung in the cavern at the same time. They didn't fight. They didn't blend. They simply existed together—day and night sharing the same moment, fire and sea burning in the same space.
Limpick crouched in the corner with his arms over his eyes. The white light was too bright to look at directly. The black light was so dark that closing his eyes made the whole world disappear. He had no idea how long he stayed there—one hour, one day, longer. Time had no meaning in the cavern anymore. Only light and dark. Only heartbeats and shaking stone.
Then the lights began to pull back.
Not vanishing—receding. The white light flowed back into Plume from every corner of the cavern, shrinking inch by inch until it sank completely into its scales. Plume crouched beside the pool, wings folded tight. Its body was pure white now, brighter than fresh snow, brighter than untouched paper. Its eyes were solid white—two orbs of cold white fire burning in their sockets, staring straight at Limpick.
The black light didn't pull back. It sank. It poured down through Ember's scales, into its bones, into its blood. Ember stood in the center of the pool, legs planted, tail stretched behind it. Its scales were black like the night sky, black like the deepest ocean, black like absolute nothing. Its eyes were solid black—two orbs of pure darkness glowing in their sockets, staring straight at Limpick.
One black. One white.
The cavern fell silent except for the slow, steady heartbeat that now belonged to all three of them.