Chapter 103: The Sky That Burns

Bai Yue did not stop screaming for the first hour.

Not the entire time. She couldn’t. Her voice gave out somewhere between the clouds and the first mountain peak, reduced to a raw, ragged whisper that still tried to form the same words over and over:

“Give her back. Give her back. Give her back.”

Han Shān held her. His arms were iron around her waist, the only thing keeping her from launching herself off Cāng Jì’s back and into the endless sky after the ancient dragon who had stolen her daughter.

His chest was pressed against her back, and she could feel his heart hammering, fast, terrified, nothing like the steady rhythm of the stoic Snow Leopard Alpha she knew.

“She’s alive,” he murmured against her hair. Over and over. “She’s alive. He caught her. She’s alive.”

“She’s GONE, Han Shān! She’s gone and he’s not—he’s not GIVING HER BACK!”

“I know. I know.” His arms tightened. “But she’s alive. We’ll get her back. We will.”

Zhāo Yàn was pacing on Cāng Jì’s back, which was impressive given they were on a moving dragon.

“That ancient, overgrown, baby-stealing LIZARD,” he hissed. “When I get my claws on him, I’ll—I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Yàn Shū’s voice was weak, trembling. He was still being held upright by Hóng Yè, who looked about two seconds away from fainting himself. “He’s the oldest dragon in existence. He’s probably forgotten more about fighting than we’ll ever learn. Our chances of—”

“NOT HELPING, FATHER.”

Ruì Xuě and Yòu Lín were huddled together near Cāng Jì’s neck, too frightened to speak, too confused to understand why Mama was screaming and the baby was gone and everything had gone so wrong so fast.

Gū Gū had her stick out, brandishing it at the distant form of Dà Jiāo Huǒ as if she could somehow reach him from here.

“You bring that baby BACK, you overgrown salamander! I’ll turn your scales into a RUG!”

Hán Bīng said nothing. She simply stared ahead, ice crystals forming and melting around her clenched fists, her expression carved from something colder than stone.

Wēn Jìng was, somehow, still calm. She had produced a small piece of dried fruit from somewhere and was offering it to anyone who looked like they might need it.

“Stress eating helps,” she said gently. “Really. It’s scientifically proven.”

No one took the fruit.

~

Cāng Jì flew.

He flew faster than he had ever flown in his life, his golden scales burning against the sky as he chased his father’s dark crimson form toward the Dragon Peaks. Behind him, Cāng Yáo and Léi Chen followed, the storm dragon’s white scales crackling with anxious energy.

“FATHER!” Cāng Jì roared for the hundredth time. “FATHER, WAIT!”

Dà Jiāo Huǒ did not wait.

He flew on, cradling the tiny bundle against his chest, and if he heard his son’s screams, he gave no sign

~

The first peak emerged from the clouds like a spear thrust through the heart of the sky.

Bai Yue’s breath caught.

She had seen mountains before. She had grown up with pictures of the Alps, the Himalayas, the great peaks of Earth that scraped the heavens.

She had never seen anything like this.

The Dragon Peaks did not rise from the earth. They fell from the sky.

Massive spires of black and gold stone, so tall that their bases were lost in clouds and their peaks pierced into realms of air so thin that even dragons might struggle to breathe. They hung suspended in the sky as if the laws of gravity had simply given up.

Waterfalls cascaded between them, but the water did not fall.

It rose, defying everything Bai Yue knew about physics, flowing upward from lower peaks to higher ones in rivers of liquid diamond.

Palaces grew from the mountainsides like crystals from stone. Spires of white jade and gold-leaf spiraled toward the sky, connected by bridges of spun light that shifted and shimmered with every passing cloud.

And the dragons.

They were everywhere.

Perched on peaks like living statues. Soaring between spires in lazy arcs. Coiled on platforms of polished obsidian, their scales catching the eternal light and throwing it back in rainbows.

They saw the approaching party.

They saw Dà Jiāo Huǒ first, impossible to miss, that dark crimson form that screamed ancient and powerful and do not approach.

They saw the tiny bundle in his claws.

And they stared.

Golden eyes. Silver eyes. Copper and bronze and brass. Eyes of every shade a dragon’s eyes could be, all fixed on the impossible sight of their king, their ancient, terrifying, emotionless king, carrying a baby.

A lowlander baby.

The sky went very, very quiet.

Dà Jiāo Huǒ landed on the largest peak, the central spire that rose above all others like a throne made of stone and sky.

His claws touched down on a platform of polished black jade, and he did not stumble, did not waver, did not do anything except settle his massive form and look down at the bundle in his claws.

Zhēn looked back.

She had not cried once during the entire flight. Not when the wind howled past them. Not when the temperature dropped to near-freezing. Not when they passed through clouds so thick they could have been swimming.

“You,” Dà Jiāo Huǒ murmured, “are very strange.”

Zhēn gurgled.

Dà Jiāo Huǒ’s eyes closed.

Just for a moment.

When they opened again, something had shifted.

“Take her,” he said quietly.

Bai Yue’s heart stopped. “What?”

“Take her.” He extended his massive claws, offering the tiny bundle toward her. “Before I change my mind.”

Bai Yue didn’t wait. She lunged forward, stumbling on exhausted legs, and scooped Zhēn into her arms. The baby protested immediately, a little sound of disappointment at losing her new dragon toy.

“Zhēn,” Bai Yue sobbed, pressing her daughter against her chest, breathing in her scent, feeling her warmth.

Zhēn fussed. Wiggled. Tried to turn back toward the dragon.

Dà Jiāo Huǒ watched.

And then….

He began to shift.

The great dragon form contracted, folded.

And where the Burning Sky had stood, a man now stood instead.

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