The cavern fell quiet.
The shaking stopped. No more stones fell. The sulfur smell in the air faded. The dragon-glass veins had turned into ordinary rock—dull gray, powdery, crumbling to dust at the slightest touch, just like the drained dragon bones deep under Harrenhal.
Limpick pushed himself up from the wall. His legs were numb. He leaned against the stone for a moment until the feeling returned. His robe was covered in gray dust, his hair full of rock chips, his face streaked black and white with ash and sweat. He walked over to Ember and ran his hand across its scales. Cool. Hard. Smooth. They used to have a faint warmth beneath the coolness. Now even that was gone—pure cold, like late-autumn river water, like winter frost, like the stones at the base of Riverrun's wall at dawn. But deep inside that cold something waited. Something quieter. Deeper. Like a sleeping volcano that could wake at any moment.
He moved to Plume and touched its scales. White. Cool. Even cooler than Ember's. Not freezing—just right, like water drawn from a well on a summer day, like the first snowflake melting in your palm. Plume lowered its head and gently brushed its snout against his face. Cool. So cool it made him shiver.
Limpick stood in the center of the cavern and looked around. A huge section of the vein had been completely drained—the entire pool, the surrounding walls, the crystals hanging from the ceiling. But deeper in—behind the stone, farther down where he couldn't see—there was still light. Weak dark-red glows, many of them, scattered like another underground starry sky. Those veins were too deep. Ember and Plume couldn't reach them. Yuan couldn't reach them either. They would have to dig. Blast. Carve open the whole mountain to get to them.
He touched the dragon bone against his chest. It had stopped pulsing. No longer burning hot. It lay quiet and warm, the same temperature as his own skin now. He gripped it tightly and tucked it back inside his robe.
"Let's go," he told Ember and Plume. "Dawn's coming. You need to get back into the sea before anyone sees you."
He led them back the way they had come. He walked in front, holding up an ordinary black rock he had picked up from the ground—no more magical light, just plain stone. Ember followed, its massive body scraping against the tunnel walls and striking sparks. Plume brought up the rear, wings tucked tight, moving in total silence.
When they stepped out of the tunnel, the sky was just beginning to lighten. A thin orange line glowed on the eastern horizon. Thin gray mist floated low over the sea. Ember and Plume stood outside the entrance, their black and white scales half-hidden in the morning fog.
Limpick stood in front of them and looked up. Ember had grown even larger since entering the cavern. Standing straight, it was taller than the castle towers. Its wings were folded against its sides, the tips dragging on the ground like two giant black scythes. Its eyes—pure black—watched him through the mist. Plume stood beside Ember, a head shorter but twice as large as when it had arrived. Its white scales shimmered faintly in the fog like a white lantern. Its pure white eyes watched him.
He reached up and touched Ember's snout—cool and smooth. Then he touched Plume's muzzle—cool and smooth.
"Go back into the sea," he said. "Swim far out. Don't let anyone see you. Wait for me."
Ember lowered its head and rubbed its snout against his face. Cool. Hard. He didn't pull away. Plume gently pecked his hair—not hard, but cool. Then they turned and headed for the cliffs. Ember walked in front, Plume beside it. Their steps were long and steady, tails dragging, kicking up dust. At the edge of the cliff Ember didn't stop. It stepped off into empty air, wings spreading. One beat. Two. Three. Its massive black body lifted off the cliff, circled once above the sea, then folded its wings and dove like a black meteor. The splash rose as high as the castle towers, raining down like a storm. Plume followed, launching off the cliff with almost no sound, its white wings translucent in the mist like two giant white petals. It circled once, then folded its wings and slipped silently into the sea with barely a ripple.
Two trails appeared on the surface—one wide, one narrow—stretching away from Dragonstone's eastern shore, growing fainter and fainter until they disappeared into the morning mist.
Limpick stood on the cliff top and watched the trails vanish. The sea looked ordinary again—only mist, gray and low over the water, and the distant orange glow of the coming sunrise.
He turned and started back down the stone steps. The climb felt longer this time. The morning mist had soaked his robe, making it cling cold to his skin. He touched the dragon bone in his robe—warm, quiet now. He touched the seven pieces of dragonglass—heavy, cool, all still there.
By the time he reached the castle, the sun was fully up. Smoke rose from the kitchen chimney. Guards were changing shifts in the courtyard, yawning and stretching. In the great hall, people were lighting candles, wiping the altar, preparing lamp oil and charcoal for morning prayers. Everything looked normal. No one knew what had happened in the mountain during the night. No one knew a huge section of the dragon-glass vein had been drained. No one knew a massive black dragon and a massive white dragon had just flown off the cliff and vanished into the sea.
Limpick walked into the great hall and stopped in front of the brazier. The fire hadn't been lit yet. The charcoal was cold, the ashes white. He crouched, struck his flint, and started the fire. Kindling caught, twigs caught, the larger pieces began to smoke and then burn. Orange flames danced in the iron bowl, pushing waves of heat against his face and chest.
He stood there, staring into the fire, thinking about Ember and Plume swimming through the sea, their black and white forms glowing like two enormous stars beneath the water.
He thought about the dragon glass. There was still so much more left in the mountain. What Ember and Plume had drained was only a small part. Deeper, farther away, more waited. The entire mountain was dragon glass. The entire island sat on dragon glass. From the crater down to the deep seabed, thick as tree roots, like veins in a body, like stars in the sky.
With that dragon glass he had raised three dragons—Ember, Plume, and Yuan. Yuan had laid dozens more eggs. When those hatched, there would be dozens of dragons. Not three. Not five. Dozens. They would grow. They would spread across the oceans. They would claim territories in the deep. They would glow in the darkness and roll in the waves.
Limpick reached into the flames with his bare hand. The orange fire licked his fingers. Warm, not burning—just like always. He watched his hand inside the fire—long fingers, sharp knuckles, ink stains still caught in the nail beds. This hand had hauled cargo in Riverrun, split wood in Harrenhal, written High Valyrian on Dragonstone. This hand had held a dagger, a quill, and dragon glass. This hand had touched three dragons—black, white, and purple-black. This hand would do many more things. It would hold more dragon glass. It would raise more dragons. It would see more futures in the flames.
He pulled his hand out of the fire. The fingers were completely unharmed. He lowered his arms and turned to face the empty hall. Behind him the brazier burned, casting his long, thin shadow on the wall like a single candle.
He touched the dragon bone inside his robe. Warm. Quiet.
Everything had changed too fast.