A piercing scream shattered the stillness of the recovery room.
The young attendant stood frozen in the doorway; her wooden tray rattled as the pitcher of water sloshed near the edge. Her gaze remained on the bed. Crispin sat upright, cradling a sleek, translucent wyvern against his chest. The creature's golden eyes caught the morning light, shimmering with intelligence that felt far older than the morning.
"Sorry, ma'am," Crispin said, his voice still thick with the remnants of a deep sleep. "He is safe. He is my bonded tame."
The woman clutched her chest, her breath coming in shallow gasps before she let out a soft, relieved chuckle. She adjusted her pale linen robes and stepped further into the room.
"Well met, Tamer," she said, her heartbeat slowing. "They just sent me to check on your mending. You gave me quite a fright; one does not expect to find a dragonling in the recovery ward."
Crispin set Regulus on the silk sheets. The wyvern rippled, his glass-like wings tucking against his sides as the attendant approached. She worked with practiced efficiency, peeling back the linen strips to inspect the knit of his skin. The jagged gash on his thigh had closed into a thin, pink line; the scorched ruin of his shoulder was now a patch of tender, new flesh. She smiled at the progress.
"Tamer," she began, her tone shifting to one of gentle concern. "If I may… these clothes. They could affect your healing. You should only wear clean garments against your skin while it remains this tender."
She touched the edge of the bandages on his shoulder. Crispin looked down, realizing for the first time that he was shirtless with a stranger. A hot flush climbed from his neck to his cheeks. The attendant caught the look and chuckled, stepping back with a respectful nod.
"I shall leave you to your privacy." She exited the room, leaving the door ajar. Crispin turned to Regulus, who was sniffing at the discarded bandages. He reached for his old satchel, noting the fresh puncture marks where the wyvern's new claws had snagged the leather.
"We need to get a new satchel today as well," Crispin whispered. "If you are going to continue riding in there, these claws will shred the leather in an hour."
He thought of his own tender flesh still healing beneath the bandages and cringed at the thought of those talons digging into his shoulder. Regulus let out a soft, vibrating huff and pouted, his golden eyes narrowing, but he nudged into the bag. Crispin dressed, pulling on his travel-worn tunic with a grimace of discomfort.
At the front desk, sunlight spilled across the polished marble. The head healer looked up as he approached.
"I need an excellent tailor and an armory," Crispin said, bowing his head. "What would you suggest?"
The woman smiled. "That would be the Silver Thread. It sits on the main plaza. They should have something to suit your frame, Tamer."
Crispin thanked her and stepped out into the city. He did not quite understand what she meant about his frame, but he focused on navigating the winding white streets of Mirandir.
The city felt different in the morning light. It was a vertical masterpiece of limestone and marble. Terraced gardens overflowed with sea-lavender and blue-bells, their perfume mixing with the sharp, salty tang of the docks below. He passed a bakery where smelling honeyed yeast and toasted nuts drifted into the street. Beside it, a flower stall displayed blooms that looked like spun glass, glowing in the shade.
Half-elves and humans milled through the thoroughfares. Merchants yelled out to passersby, offering strings of pearls, enchanted fishing hooks, and jars of iridescent sea salt. Crispin realized he was smiling.
Regulus rode halfway out of the satchel, looking at the city. Crispin smiled and stroked his head. The heavy, suffocating silence of the upper tiers was absent. People nodded at him. Some offered a polite "Good morning, Tamer," as they moved about their errands. Not one person sneered; the haughty arrogance of the guards felt like a distant memory.
He found the Silver Thread nestled between a jeweler and a cartographer. The sign was a simple piece of slate with a needle etched in silver leaf. He ducked inside; the bell above the door chimed.
The interior smelled of cedar, expensive silk, and lavender water. An older elvish woman stood behind a mahogany counter; her long white hair braided with silver thread that matched the shop's name. Crispin cringed, bracing for the inevitable comment about his heritage or a demand that he leave.
Instead, she looked over her spectacles with care and examined him like someone looking at her grandson.
"My word, Tamer!" she exclaimed, her voice bright and melodic. "You look a sight! How can I help you?"
Crispin flushed a brilliant red, his hands twisting the strap of his satchel. "Sorry, ma'am. I got into a fight with some river wyverns. The healers referred to you as the best tailor in town. I wanted to get some better clothes... or padded armor."
The woman, whose name tag identified her as Seya, eyed him. She noted the rounded curve of his ears and the height of his brow. She didn't scowl; she shook her finger as if she had the perfect solution already in mind.
"River wyverns, at your age? You are a brave one," Seya said.
She disappeared into the racks, moving with a grace that belied her years. With her, she brought a large quantity of fabric—a new purple shirt that fastened at the front, black seroual pants made for agility, and a matching set of boots and gloves crafted from pliable, dark leather. She gestured toward a curtained alcove.
"Try those on."
Crispin did as he was told. The fabric felt cool and expensive against his skin. When he stepped out, the fit was perfect; the pants allowed for the wide stances of his staff fighting, and the shirt did not rub against his healing shoulder.
"They look nice," Seya noted, nodding in approval. "Two bronze and thirty copper for the set."
Crispin accepted. As he reached for his coin pouch, he noticed the weight of his satchel had vanished. Regulus had escaped. The translucent wyvern was darting between mannequins, sniffing at a bolt of emerald velvet.
"Regy, come back here!" Crispin hissed, lunging to scoop the creature up.
Seya froze. She watched the slime-wyvern settle into Crispin's arms, its golden eyes blinking at her.
"Is that an emperor slime, Tamer?" she whispered, her voice trembling with a sudden, deep emotion.
Crispin nodded. "He is."
"It has been so long since I have been in our homeland," she said, her gaze lingering on Regulus's shimmering core.
Crispin stayed quiet. He did not correct her. He did not tell her he was not from the Silver Spires or that he had never seen the elvish capital.
Seya retreated into the back rooms and emerged minutes later carrying a heavy garment. It was a padded gambeson of deep black, reinforced with layers of linen and cotton. Colorful threading in the intricate elvish style ran along the shoulders and chest, depicting stylized vines and stars.
"Try this," she said.
Crispin slipped it on. The gambeson offered a layer of protection his tunic never could, yet it remained light enough for agility. He looked at his reflection in a tall, silver mirror. The black and purple made his pale hair stand out; the cut of the shoulders made him look broader, more like the aristocrats he had grown up envying. He blushed and looked down at the floor.
"What is wrong, Tamer?" Seya asked. "It looks great on you. Look at you—a proper, dashing Aldyr young man."
"It makes my elvish features too pronounced," Crispin whispered. He undid the clasps with trembling fingers. "I look like… one of them."
Seya reached out and swatted his hand away from the buttons. "Come sit with me," she said, gesturing to a velvet bench.
Crispin sat, his head bowed.
She pushed her fingers against his shoulder-blade until he straightened. "There is nothing wrong with being Aldyr, young man," Seya said. "Why would you say such things?"
"Because I am often mistreated because of it," he admitted. "The guards… the nobles… they see a failure. They see someone who doesn't belong."
Seya took a deep breath. "I am an elf. Full-blooded. Do you know what I see when I look at you? I see a beautiful young man. Aldyr, yes, but we should not feel cowed by what others think of our heritage. It is how we see our heritage that matters. Do you understand me?"
Crispin looked up into her kind, aged eyes. For the first time since leaving his grandfather's side, he felt a flicker of genuine pride.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good," she smiled, patting his knee. "So, a single bronze for the gambeson?"
Crispin's eyes widened. The piece was worth far more, but he saw the determination in her expression. He smiled, a real, bright smile that reached his eyes.
"Yes. Thank you."
Crispin stepped out of the Silver Thread with a new weight on his shoulder and a different rhythm to his stride. The dark leather pauldron felt secure, providing a stable perch for Regulus. The slime-wyvern seemed to enjoy the height, his golden eyes scanning the rooftops as if marking the city for future hunts.
Crispin navigated the bustling market, his mind on the lessons learned in the cavern. Pain was a cruel teacher, but a thorough one. He found an apothecary tucked into a corner of the plaza; the windows, filled with tinted glass jars and bundles of drying sage. Within minutes, he had spent some of his remaining coin on a small kit—three vials of numbing salve, a roll of sterile linen, and a handful of dried sun-thistle to keep his energy from flagging on long treks.
The copper clinked in his pouch—a lighter sound now. He had enough left for a few decent meals, but the urgency to find more work sat heavy in his gut.
He turned toward the main thoroughfare that led back to the lower tiers. The crowd parted for him now, though he couldn't tell if it was the elegant cut of his black gambeson or the shimmering creature on his shoulder that drew their gaze.
The squad of Elvish guards from the crossroads stood near a marble fountain. Their silver armor gleamed with a cold, superior light. The commander, the one with the lavender scent and the razor-thin smile, was leaning against a pillar, watching the "lesser" citizens with bored contempt.
Crispin felt the old instinct to duck his head and stare at the paving stones. His hand tightened on his staff. He felt a slight pressure on his shoulder. Regulus shifted, his translucent wings unfurling just an inch, his golden eyes fixing on the commander with a steady, unblinking intensity.
Crispin did not look down. He kept his chin level and walked straight toward them.
The commander noticed him. He pushed off the pillar, his eyes narrowing as they swept over Crispin's new attire. The sneer formed on his pale lips, but it died the moment his gaze shifted to the pauldron.
The guard's pupils dilated. He saw the shimmering heart within the translucent wyvern. He saw the golden eyes that held more fire than a sun crystal. The other guards went silent, their hands hovering near their hilts—not out of aggression, but out of a sudden, instinctive caution.
"False-born," the commander began, though the word lacked its previous venom. It sounded more like a question.
Crispin did not stop. He met the elf's gaze, his own blue eyes hard and clear. As he passed, the wind caught his white hair, and the colorful elvish threading on his gambeson seemed to glow in the afternoon light.
He breathed out, and his spine straightened. Seya's kindness and her straightening his shoulders sprang to mind. Thorne did not shrink when others mocked, nor had his grandfather…
"Tamer," Crispin corrected. "Lord Captain."
He didn't wait for a response. Leaving smelling lavender and salt behind him, he walked past the squad. He didn't look back to see the confusion on their faces. He knew they were staring. For the first time, he wasn't the boy who didn't belong.