CHAPTER 73: DUKES

Jett returned to Skia, the Stormcloud Dukedom’s capital. He quietly parked his carriage in a secluded spot where commoners wouldn’t notice it and donned casual clothes before heading out for a stroll. Since he desired a bit of solitude, none of his maids accompanied him today.

He drifted through the battered capital alone, hood drawn low over a plain canvas coat.

Skia’s once‑perfect avenues now curved around heaps of shattered marble and blackened ironwork. Wind‑funnels—sleek copper towers that once tuned breezes into song—stood dented and mute.

Overhead, layers of puffy cumulus churned like fleece in a washtub, yet shafts of gold always found their way through, gilding the wreckage with stubborn warmth.

On the horizon, a lattice of windmills spun at uneven speeds. Some wore new turbine blades of turquoise‑veined copper, others clattered with broken spars wrapped in canvas patches. Azure motes popped around the gears where storm‑mages whispered repair sigils.

At the city’s navel yawned a chasm wide enough to swallow plazas whole. Melted cobbles dripped down its walls like candle wax, and thread‑thin waterfalls hissed where aqueducts had sheared in half.

Makeshift bridges of cedar and rune‑bound vine spanned the gap. Citizens, militias, and itinerant tinker‑priests crossed in single file, ferrying lumber, bread, and coilpacks toward the far bank.

Charcoal sketches of dragons—wings tattered, eyes haunted—covered a nearby notice board. Someone had scrawled beneath: We all lost kin.

Dragons bled that day too, Jett reminded himself, picturing scorched scales littering the battlefield beyond the walls. If peace is ever to take root, it must shelter every side.

The boulevard ahead filled with color as five noble carriages arrived in slow procession.

First came the Mist Cloud coach, its lacquer the hue of morning fog. Panels of clouded glass exhaled cool vapor that curled into delicate wisps around gauzy‑cloaked attendants. Their pale silk carried faint mirror‑polish runes that bent stray sunbeams into halos.

Next rolled the Rain Bead carriage, mahogany sides stitched with strings of crystalline drops. Each "raindrop" chimed when struck by light, weaving a lullaby of drizzle over the cobbles. Footmen wore oilskin jackets lined with quicksilver thread so fine it flowed when they bowed.

Gray Desert’s vehicle rumbled close behind on broad, powder‑dusted wheels. Sand gathered in corners like memories of distant dunes. Bronze shutters shielded passengers from glare, and riders obscured their faces with layered dune‑scarves and flash‑glass goggles that reflected the sky.

An icy hush followed Close Winter’s froststeel chariot. Hooves rang against the street like cracking lake‑ice while plumes of breath ghosted around white‑sable cloaks. Sapphire medallions at their throats pulsed with bottled blizzard magic.

Last thundered Thunder Crest’s dark‑iron coach, its flanks veined in copper filigree alive with glimmering static. Indigo capes edged in brass snapped behind guards whose pauldrons bore miniature lightning rods.

Bystanders stared—some hopeful, some wary—as envoys disembarked. Rumor spread that each dukedom had pledged craftsmen, food, or arc‑engineers to help mend Skia.

Stormcloud called, and the winds carried the message, Jett thought. Now we see whether pride can be set aside for survival.

He eased into an alley that overlooked the chasm. Below, engineers shaped pylons of living wood that flexed when the breeze shifted. Children balanced on unfinished planks, giggling as if the abyss were a shallow brook.

On the far rim, temple bells rang a slow cadence. Their bronze tongues had been recast from melted cannon, repurposed to summon hope instead of volley.

The scent of pine sawdust mingled with ozone and distant hearth‑fires. Steam from field kitchens rolled across the square where automatons—boxy, brass‑limbed constructs—poured soup into chipped bowls.

A hound barked at one automaton until a soot‑streaked boy scratched its ears and shared bread. The machine paused, optics twinkling, then stirred the soup faster.

Humans adapt, Jett mused, even when the sky itself breaks.

Yet echoes of draconic suffering lingered. A healer knelt by a cart bearing violet‑scaled hide, murmuring prayers for a wyrmling too small to defend itself when flames turned back on its brood.

Jett’s chest tightened. We can mourn on both sides and still rebuild.

He turned away as the sound of hooves approached—another envoy, perhaps, or simply the city’s pulse rediscovering its rhythm.

Overhead, a gust parted the clouds. Sunlight swept across stained‑glass mosaics of weather saints, across shattered statues awaiting repair, across the bridges trembling yet unbroken.

For a heartbeat, hope felt as solid as oak beneath his boots—and just as alive. Its radiant warmth chased lingering shadows between the broken flagstones below.

—

Jett slipped into the weather‑tower’s circular war‑room, its brass walls pulsing with flickers of static. Only storm‑light from the high skylight painted the map tables in molten gold.

The Duchess of Mist Cloud drifted like morning fog, her gossamer robes shifting with every breath. Opalescent gray waves of hair were pinned by crystal combs that exhaled chilled vapor.

Beside her stood the Lord of Rain Bead in a knee‑length coat of hardened water‑glass scales. Translucent braids threaded with aquamarine beads clicked softly whenever he nodded.

The Duke of Gray Desert towered within sun‑bleached robes cross‑hatched by rune‑stitched dune patterns. His shaved crown bore swirling henna sigils, and a silver beard gathered in twin bronze rings.

The Matriarch of Close Winter wrapped herself in double‑layer capes of snow‑white ermine. Tightly coiled hair, frosted pure white, spiraled toward a single ice‑crystal finial, and each breath fogged even indoors.

Last stood the Lord Marshal of Thunder Crest, leaning on an obsidian cane tipped with a lightning shard. A long iron‑gray braid bound in copper wire matched the crackle‑etched cuirass beneath his cloak.

They watched Jett with eyes tempered by years and tempests. He lowered his hood. "Evening, Your Graces. I am the Warden of this generation—Jett Talon."

The Lord Marshal’s lips twitched. "Stormcloud keeps curious company."

"Curious gets things fixed," Jett replied with a crooked grin.

The Duchess’s laughter drifted like mist over stone. "Then let us be curious together. Skia bleeds, and the sky mourns."

The Lord of Rain Bead inclined his head, beads chiming. "We arrive with artisans and stores, but we would know how dragons fare. Mercy must fly both ways, lest storms return."

"Dragons lost hatchlings and elders alike," Jett said gently. "I trust you’ll aid talks once the fires cool."

The Matriarch’s icy gaze thawed a fraction. "Rebuilding flesh and trust both require patience."

The Duke of Gray Desert folded his sun‑browned hands. "And water. Chasms crave bridges; hearts do too. But... there’s a matter we must resolve now, Lord Warden. You have ended the feud between dragons and humans and now seek a lasting bridge between our races. You won well on that bargain, yet your pact with the Dragon Empress cost heroes from my dukedom and the others. How will you recompense that?"

Of course they’d ask that. Do I even have to compensate you? Still, I’m quite sure they’re genuinely worried about the forces from the North. Even Noctlisa herself warned me about them, repeatedly before.

Jett coughed. "I, of course, have a plan—one to settle their worries quickly. I’ll travel north myself and check for any signs of war. If conflict erupts between North and South, every dukedom will get my full support. I believe I can persuade the dragons to stand with us as well, bringing our two races even closer toward lasting peace."

That assurance visibly calmed each and every duke present there in the chamber.

They’d come in person to make sure Duke Stormcloud didn’t hoard the greatest rewards, yet their own homelands still weighed heavily on their minds too.

They were also present so every notable figure across the Everlasting Continent could attend the upcoming banquet uniting humans and dragons in joyous.

That arrangement meant everyone would remain in Skia, while Jett himself journeyed north to invite their representatives—his own scheme for linking the two races in a more tangible, lasting way than words alone could.

Even so, Jett had no idea what challenges awaited him in the northern reaches of the continent upon arrival.

—

Night had fully settled.

Jett and his maids dined alone in a private hall reserved just for them, sharing their meal like a true family that night.

When Eleonora heard Jett would soon travel north, she clutched her head and nearly burst into tears; she’d never planned so far ahead.

The other maids just shook their heads, though each secretly wondered how she would act in Eleonora’s own situation.

Of course, Jett was now aware of Eleonora’s feelings and her pent‑up needs.

She longed to belong to the family and to feel truly like a woman.

If he bedded her right now, he might be drained for a day or two, considering just how desperately she needed him then.

That scenario didn’t fit his plans.

"But who cares if I’m off duty for a day or two?" Jett said aloud, drawing everyone’s attention right now.

He turned to the silver‑haired maid, said, "You sleep with me tonight."

Eleonora’s face lit up. "With pleasure, Master!"

...

Thanks for all the support! Leave comments behind!