Before the Door Breaks

“They’re getting closer,” Ewan whispers.

The cupboard won’t hide us forever.

“Shush.” Ithtal presses a hand to Ewan’s cheek, the other still clasped around his. “We’ll be fine. We will.”

He doesn’t know if he believes it, but the words come anyway.

Together they’ve outrun debt collectors, pirates, city guards, bounty hunters. It’s astonishing how many people will hunt you when you’re carrying a one-of-a-kind artefact worth more than most kingdoms.

Ewan’s gaze drops to the narrow floor between them. The cupboard gives them barely enough space to kneel face-to-face. Ithtal’s tail coiling awkwardly around his legs, the tip twitching with tension. His horns scrape softly against the wood whenever he shifts. Being half-dragon makes hiding difficult.

Ewan grips Ithtal’s wrist and presses his forehead into his palm. “I don’t think we’re both getting out of this one,” he whispers.

From inside his jacket, he pulls a small box. Shaped like a jeweller’s case, but reinforced like a vault. A combination dial glinting faintly in the dark.

“Take it,” Ewan says, shoving it into Ithtal’s hand. “Get it back to your father.”

“No.” Ithtal tightens his grip around both the box and Ewan’s fingers. “I won’t leave you.”

“It’s me they want.” Tears streak down Ewan’s face. “They won’t kill you. They’re not that stupid.”

“You don’t know that,” Ithtal whispers. “They’re after the ring. If I stand in their way, it won’t matter.”

Footsteps echo outside the door. Ithtal leans closer.

“We’ll get through this,” he says quietly. “Together.”

…

Ithtal had stared in open awe when he first stepped off the ship.

He had never seen the archipelago before. Never left the vast rainforests of his birth. Halfway through the voyage he’d grown used to the endless sea. The horizon that never ended, but this island was something else entirely.

Too few trees. Too much stone.

Man had tamed it. Nature carved into grey streets and regimented farms. His father would have snarled at the sight, lesser races overreaching, his normal line. But then, his father was born when humanity was still in chaos following the fall.

But Ithtal saw something different. Struggle. Ingenuity. Hope.

“Master Ithtal?” The voice cut through his thoughts. “Son of Nargrax!” the man added quickly, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the dock.

Ithtal suppressed a sigh. A devotee of Drakulithos. He dealt with enough of these at home. Worshippers of the god of dragons treat adracon’ari, or half-dragons, with uncomfortable reverence.

To Ithtal, they were little more than sycophants.

“How ever did you recognise me?” he asked lightly, glancing around the bustling harbour. Humans unloading crates, elves shouting orders, sailors swearing at gulls. Among them, a single half-dragon man, jaw slack.

The man blinked. “Sir?”

Ithtal rolled his eyes. “Never mind.”

“Brother Reece,” he said gesturing towards himself and rising stiffly. “We have arranged the exchange for tomorrow at dusk. Did you bring the… item?”

Ithtal began walking toward the city. Reece hurried to keep pace.

“My father advised I not discuss it in public,” Ithtal muttered from the corner of his mouth.

“Sir, the followers of Drakulithos are respected here. No one would dare—”

“We’ll speak inside.” He hated sounding like his father. But he hated disobeying him more.

They crossed the city beneath curious stares and reached the temple, all carved stone and dragon-iconography. Only once inside did Ithtal finally exhale.

He dropped his pack to the floor. An odd thump coming from the seemingly mundane pack.

“Knife,” he said, holding out a hand.

Reece scrambled to comply.

Ithtal slit the inner lining of the bag. From the false bottom, something gleamed even in the dim temple light.

Gasps filled the chamber.

He drew it out slowly.

A single bar of dragon-forged gold.

“My father’s gold,” Ithtal said. “That was their price.”

Reece’s eyes widened. “Y-yes, sir.”

Ithtal weighed the bar in his hand. “Then let’s be done with it,” he said. “And return the artefact to its rightful owner.”

…

Ithtal turns the dial slowly.

The code had been carved into his memory the moment the dealers spoke it. Repeated until it felt less like numbers and more like inheritance.

Still, since the disaster at the exchange, he hasn’t dared open it.

Ewan’s hand settles gently over Ithtal’s forearm.

“You should,” he whispers. “It belongs to your family.”

Ithtal’s jaw tightens. He keeps his eyes on the dial.

“That doesn’t mean it belongs on me,” he mutters. Thumb dragging idly over the cold metal. “The last person who wore it—”

“He was human,” Ewan cuts in softly. “Just human.”

Footsteps pass outside the cupboard.

Closer.

Ewan shifts nearer in the cramped space. His fingers slide up Ithtal’s arm, into his hair, brushing carefully along the base of one horn.

“You’re not,” Ewan breathes. “You’re dragon-blooded.”

Ithtal swallows.

“That’s exactly what worries me.”

Click.

He twists the dial carefully, each number deliberate. The mechanism turns with the faintest metallic whisper. Outside, boots scrape against wood. Someone mutters.

The final number aligns.

Click.

The lock releases. For a moment, neither of them moves.

Ewan’s breath warms Ithtal’s cheek.

“Open it,” he says, quieter now.

Ithtal lifts the lid. Inside, nestled in dark velvet, lies the ring.

Forged from a strange silver alloy. Not quite steel. Not quite anything forged this side of the fall. At its centre, set within curling filigree, is a dragon’s eye.

The moment light touches it, the iris contracts. Then widens. It focuses on Ithtal. Then shifts, scanning the cupboard frantically, as though waking from a long, furious sleep.

Ewan’s fingers tighten against him. “It’s alive,” his voice barely carries.

The eye snaps back to Ithtal and stills. Watching. Recognising.

Ithtal feels it in his blood. A low vibration beneath his ribs. A pressure building at the base of his skull.

This is the eye of his ancestor. Ripped from living flesh and forged in metal. A practice only the ancients could have achieved. One without empathy. Without morality. Fuelled by greed.

Ewan’s forehead presses against Ithtal’s temple.

“It matches your own,” Ewan says softly, brushing Ithtal’s hair from his eyes.

“This thing contains a piece of my ancestor’s soul,” Ithtal replies, his voice breaking as a tear slips free. The eye in the ring tracks it as it falls. “To put it on… to use it… would be to accept what they did. To accept that.”

“It could be the only way,” Ewan whispers, wiping the tear away with his thumb.

Outside, the footsteps stop. Right outside the door.

Ithtal’s gaze never leaves the ring.

“And if it kills me?” he asks quietly. The eye twitches, restless.

Ewan hesitates. No answer could ever sound convincing enough.

They lean into one another.

“Then we die together.”

…

Ewan lay on the grassy knoll, a spyglass pressed to his eye.

“What’s so special about this exchange anyway?” he muttered.

A boot drove into his ribs.

“That’s not for you to know. We get the goods, the don clears your debt.”

Ewan sucked in a breath and rolled onto his side. “Forgive me if I’m sceptical. This isn’t the first ‘last job’ I’ve done for you lot.”

“Enough of that lip, Garrett.” Riccardo grabbed his collar and hauled him up until they were eye to eye. “You were stupid enough to steal from the family. Your debt is paid when we say it’s paid.”

“Oh, it’s we now, is it, Riccardo? I thought you were just the grunt they sent to babysit me.”

The next kick wasn’t playful.

Riccardo crouched close. “Difference between us, Ewan? You’re a thief who thought he was clever. I’m smart enough to follow orders from men who could erase my family without blinking.”

“So, I’m ambitious,” Ewan wheezed, “and you’re a coward.”

Another kick.

“Damned, Riccardo,” Ewan coughed. “I think you winded me with that one.”

“Shut up and do the job.” Riccardo squinted toward the road. “They’re coming.”

Ewan raised the spyglass again and adjusted the dial. His expression shifted.

“You’re not serious,” he breathed. “Followers of Drakulithos? I’m not robbing a temple.”

“Dragons won’t miss a little gold,” Riccardo snapped, pulling a smoke bomb from his bag.

“By Sol…” Ewan focused harder. “That’s an adracon’ari. A forest one.” He lowered the glass slowly. “If it wasn’t bad enough we’re robbing a church, we’re robbing royalty. This is a spectacularly stupid idea.”

Down the road, a procession gathered, guild archaeologists by the look of them. Whatever they’d unearthed, it had drawn serious attention.

“And the don wants both the gold and the artefact?” Ewan asked.

“Just do your thing,” Riccardo said. “Then we never see each other again.”

Ewan didn’t answer. He lifted the spyglass once more. But this time, he didn’t look at the road or the archaeologists. He focused only on the adracon’ari.

…

“I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d gone through with it,” Ewan murmurs, lifting the ring from its velvet cradle. “If they’d really cleared my debt.”

The eye feels wrong in his hand. Smooth as glass, cold as a gem, but alive. As it rises, the iris jerks, fixing on his fingers, irritated by the movement.

“Ithtal—” His voice falters.

A tear slips down Ithtal’s cheek. “Ewan… I can’t.”

Voices shout outside. The cupboard door shudders under a heavy blow. The rope around the handle strains.

“We’re out of time,” Ewan says.

The door cracks. Light slices through the darkness.

Ewan takes Ithtal’s hand and lifts his ring finger.

“How can you be sure?” Ithtal asks, no longer whispering. “That it will work. That I can control it.”

Another crash. Wood splinters.

“I can’t,” Ewan breathes.

He slides the ring onto Ithtal’s finger.

The metal shifts like oil on water. The eye dilates, wide, locking onto Ithtal’s face.

The cupboard door bursts inward. A hand grabs Ewan’s shoulder.

He presses the ring fully into place.

Power slams through Ithtal’s body. The air trembles. The eye flares with molten light.

Through it all, Ithtal reaches for Ewan. Tears spill freely down his face. And as the world fractures around them, he whispers—

“I love you.”