They left the Arcanum in a silence that felt heavier than anything the council had managed to produce.
No one spoke on the walk back. Lorenfell's noise flowed around them—vendors calling, wheels rattling, distant laughter—but it all seemed muted, like sound heard underwater.
The guest house door shut behind them with a soft thud.
Naera moved first.
Without a word, she set her staff against the wall, rolled up her sleeves, and went to one of the room's bare stretches of plaster. Her fingers traced quick, practiced shapes in the air; faint lines of light followed, hanging for a heartbeat before sinking into the stone.
"What are you doing?" Lysa asked—quiet, but edged.
"Ensuring," Naera said, not looking back, "that anything said in here stays in here."
She added another sigil, then another—small, interlocking wards arranged in a pattern around the room's perimeter. Each one dimmed as it settled, until nothing visible remained.
When she finished, she wiped her hands on her tunic and turned.
Garran had his arms crossed. Lysa stood with weight on one hip, eyes sharp. Trin remained by the table, calm on the surface.
"All right," Naera said. "Now we talk. *Properly*."
Lysa pointed a finger at Trin. "You saw the dragon. In our camp. Walking right past my watch. And you decided that was a detail to save for dramatic effect in front of two councils?"
Trin spread his hands slightly. "I decided," he said, "that learning of a dragon in human form is enough to upset them for one day. Learning that he was also…chatty…would have sent them in unhelpful directions."
Garran's jaw tightened. "Chatty," he repeated. "Explain."
Trin drew in a slow breath. "You already know," he said, "that I'm not…entirely ordinary."
"No kidding," Lysa muttered.
"The dragon recognized that," Trin continued. "Creatures of his age and power can *feel* when something doesn't fit the usual pattern. So instead of incinerating us from a distance or ignoring us entirely, he chose to…investigate."
Garran's eyes narrowed. "Meaning?"
"He came to our camp," Trin said. "Not just to walk through it. To talk. To see what I was."
Naera's fingers tightened on the back of a chair. "You spoke with him," she said quietly.
"Yes," Trin said.
"And you didn't tell us," Lysa snapped.
"If I had," Trin replied, "what would you have done? Gone back to stab him? Told the first officer you saw that an ancient dragon wanted a chat? Panicked? All of the above?"
Lysa opened her mouth, then shut it again with an annoyed click of her tongue.
"What did he say?" Garran asked, cutting through.
Trin met his gaze. "Very little that would comfort the council," he said. "Enough to matter to us."
"Such as?" Naera pressed.
"He confirmed," Trin said, "that he has no current intention of razing your towns or testing your armies. He is old, tired, and content to watch—for now."
Garran's brows drew together. "'For now' is doing a lot of work in that sentence."
"I know," Trin said. "Which is why I asked something of him."
Naera's eyes sharpened. "You bargained," she said.
"In a limited way," Trin said. "Not with oaths or promises I can't keep. But I did ask him to leave this region—your towns, your capital—alone unless directly provoked. To let your people write their own small disasters instead of adding his weight to them."
"And he agreed?" Lysa asked skeptically.
"As much as someone like him agrees to anything," Trin said. "He gave his word that he has no plans of slaughter for sport, and that he will not bring fire here unprovoked. He prefers to sleep, to dream on his hoard, to watch from a distance."
Garran exhaled slowly. "So we have a dragon's promise," he said. "Which is worth what, exactly?"
"More than you might think," Trin said. "Ancient beings don't lie casually. They twist. They omit. They interpret. But outright breaking their own word tends to…unravel things they care about."
Naera frowned. "You're speaking from experience."
Trin's mouth quirked faintly. "You could say that," he said. "I'm older than I look. I've seen more of their kind in more shapes than I'd like to count."
Lysa folded her arms. "Define 'older,'" she said. "Because so far we have: heals from arrows, talks to dragons, and keeps a very straight face around councils. If what the Archmagus said is true—" she flicked her hand "—ancient dragons like human forms. For all we know, *you're* one."
The room went still for a heartbeat.
Then Trin laughed.
Not loudly, not mockingly—just a genuine, surprised sound that eased some of the tension in his shoulders.
"I assure you," he said, "I am not a dragon."
Lysa squinted at him. "That's exactly what a dragon would say."
"If I were," Trin said, "do you think I'd spend my time mending your straps and arguing about stew quality? I have no scales to hide, no great wings to fold away, no secret hoard under your barracks."
"That we've *seen*," Lysa countered.
He shook his head, amused despite himself. "I am simply myself," he said. "No beast forms. No alternate bodies buried under mountains. Just a man who has been walking longer than most, and who has made more mistakes than he cares to admit."
Garran watched him carefully. "You didn't deny being…older," he noted.
"Because I am," Trin said. "Much older than I look. But age doesn't automatically equal dragon. There are other ways to accumulate years."
Naera studied him, eyes searching his face as if some hidden scale might suddenly show.
"If you're not a dragon," she said slowly, "what are you?"
He hesitated.
Not because he lacked an answer, but because the truest one was too large for this room, for this moment, for the fragile balance of trust they'd built.
"Someone who's seen what happens when the powerful grow careless," he said at last. "And who is trying very hard not to repeat that here."
Naera's gaze softened, even as questions flickered behind it.
Lysa huffed. "Well, that's vague," she said. "Comforting, but vague."
"You prefer 'secret dragon'?" Trin asked dryly.
She paused. "All right," she conceded. "Maybe not."
Garran leaned back against the wall, arms still crossed. "So," he said. "We have: an ancient dragon who's curious about you and has given a conditional promise to leave our people alone; a council that's now very aware of his existence but not of that conversation; and you, caught in the middle."
"That's an accurate summary," Trin said.
"And you chose not to tell them about his visit because…?" Garran prompted.
"Because the moment they knew he was willing to talk," Trin said, "half the Arcanum would start scheming how to lure him into a trap or a circle, and half the king's council would start drafting letters to send emissaries with…offers. Both options end badly. For them. For your people."
Naera nodded slowly. "You're not wrong," she said. "Once certain minds know a thing is reachable, they will not stop reaching."
"So we let them believe he's just…watching from a cave," Lysa said.
"For now," Trin said. "We watch them. We watch him. We try to keep the lines from crossing in the worst possible way."
Lysa clicked her tongue. "You're really good at making everything sound like walking on the edge of a knife."
"That's because we are," Trin said quietly.
Silence settled for a moment, the weight of it pressing against Naera's fresh wards.
Then Naera straightened.
"I don't think you're a dragon," she said.
All eyes turned to her.
She met Trin's gaze first. "When he's near," she said, "Therion feels like…pressure. A mountain leaning over a field. Old. Deep. When you work, when you move—" she lifted a shoulder "—you feel…different. Not smaller. Just…other. If you were the same kind of creature, I think I would sense it. Especially now."
Trin inclined his head. "Thank you," he said.
"And I don't think you're here to hurt Vaelion," Naera added. "Trouble follows you, maybe. Big trouble. But you've had chances to wield what you are like a hammer, and you haven't. You mend things. You…talk to dragons instead of provoking them. You argued down a room full of people without showing teeth."
Her hand tightened briefly on her staff. "I trust that," she said. "I trust *you*."
The words hung in the air, simple and heavy.
Garran exhaled through his nose. "You're staking a lot on a man we met half-dead under a tree," he said.
Naera didn't look away. "I know," she said. "But I'd rather build trust on what I've seen than suspicion on what I haven't."
Lysa shifted, arms still folded. "If you're wrong, you realize we're all very doomed," she said.
Naera managed a faint smile. "If I'm wrong," she said, "we were probably doomed anyway."
Garran studied Trin for a long moment.
"You bring odd things into our lives," he said. "Dragons. Councils that actually listen. I don't like half of it. But—" he jerked his chin at Naera "—she's a better judge of people than I am when she's not overthinking."
Lysa sighed. "Fine," she said. "If Naera says you're not a dragon and not planning to eat the city, I'll…tentatively agree. For now. With the right to say 'I told you so' if you suddenly sprout wings."
"I will give you that right," Trin said, straight-faced. "If that happens, we will have many more problems than your gloating."
A reluctant smile tugged at Lysa's mouth.
Garran uncrossed his arms. "All right," he said. "We proceed on the assumption that he is what he says: not a dragon, not out to ruin us, and unfortunately central to why an ancient monster has taken an interest in our corner of the world."
"Unfortunately?" Lysa echoed.
Garran shrugged. "I was hoping for a boring retirement," he said. "Doesn't seem likely now."
Naera's wards glowed faintly along the walls for a heartbeat, then dimmed again, holding the conversation tight within the room.
"Whatever you are," Naera said quietly to Trin, "we'll deal with it together. Same as we did the dragon, the bandits, the council. One step at a time."
He looked at her, at Garran, at Lysa.
"Then," Trin said, "let's make those steps count."
Outside, the city moved on in ignorance. Inside the warded guest house, the small group reached a fragile, honest accord—built on incomplete truths, earned trust, and the shared understanding that their world had just become much larger than the council chamber realized.