High above the Olympic Mountains, where even the birds knew better than to fly and the winds bit like wolves, the sky parted for a beast the world had no name for.
A dragon—vast and terrible, painted in molten ruby and gold—soared between snow-capped peaks with the grace of something born in flame and legend. His scales shimmered like polished garnets laced with golden lightning. His wings carved thunder into the air. Each beat sang a song of ancient wrath, victory, and unyielding power.
And on his back, riding him with the casual authority of someone who had once commanded legions and broken chains with a glance, was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen—now Daenerys Peverell, wife of the beast beneath her.
She didn't hold reins. She didn't need to.
The way she moved with him—hips rising with his wingbeats, silver-blonde hair trailing behind her like starlight—she might as well have been the storm.
Wrapped in deep red leathers with a fur-lined cloak billowing around her shoulders like twin wings of her own, Daenerys looked like sin made royalty. Her boots hugged her legs like a second skin. Her gloves were dragon-hide. And her eyes—violet and sharp—scanned the horizon like a queen checking in on a realm she'd long since conquered.
She leaned forward, lips brushing against the side of the dragon's neck, and whispered in High Valyrian with a smirk curving her mouth:
"Bisa isse sagon ziry. Drakari. Hae lentor." (This is freedom. Breathe fire. Like before.)
The dragon didn't roar. He laughed.
A deep, seismic rumble that shook pine trees below and sent avalanches tumbling off distant peaks. Then, he exhaled a stream of golden fire, spiraling up into the clouds like a comet breaking atmosphere.
Daenerys threw her head back and laughed. A true laugh. Loud. Joyous. Alive.
Gods, she hadn't felt like this since before Meereen. Since before betrayal and war and destiny had become a burden instead of a badge. Up here, riding her husband's Animagus form—her Hadrian, the man who had once been Harry Potter but had since become something… more—she felt like herself again. Like a dragon queen. Like the woman who had once walked into fire and come out new.
She leaned into his scales and whispered,
"Lanta. Skorion ao jemot nykeā va dāez." (Land. I think you owe me a clearing.)
The dragon banked right. No hesitation. No need to ask why.
Below them, enchanted wardstones hidden deep in the cliffs pulsed with ancient magic—Hadrian's handiwork. Runes so old they made the Elder Wand twitch in its holster. The air shimmered faintly, folding in on itself like silk. The wards blocked eyes, ears, even scents. No wizard, Muggle, vampire, or werewolf would know they were there.
To the world, they had vanished.
But to each other? They were everything.
—
The clearing wasn't anything special. Not at first glance. Just a ring of pine trees, snow-dusted and ancient, with a patch of earth where sunlight broke through the clouds in molten shafts. A sacred pocket of wilderness.
Hadrian descended in a slow spiral, wings spread wide like a god showing off.
He landed with a thunderous crunch, talons tearing into rock, steam curling from his nostrils. The trees bowed. Birds scattered. The wind seemed to still, holding its breath.
Daenerys dismounted with the fluid grace of someone who'd done this a hundred times—because she had. She slid down his flank, landed in a soft crunch of snow, and turned around just as the dragon began to shift.
Magic shimmered around him like heat off desert stone. The beast folded inward, compressed into skin, bone, and breathtaking beauty.
And there he stood—Hadrian Peverell—in the flesh. Bare-chested. Barefoot. Pants slung low on his hips. His hair was a wind-tossed mess of black curls. His eyes still glowed faintly gold from the transformation.
The man looked like he'd walked out of a forbidden painting in the Vatican. Too divine to be real. Too dangerous to be safe.
"Still prefer the view from the back?" he asked, his voice low, smug, that damned dimple showing on the right side of his mouth.
Daenerys tilted her head, lips quirking. "Are you fishing for compliments, or just bored of me staring at your ass every time you take off?"
"Not bored," he said, stepping closer, "just… wondering if it's time we updated the scenery."
She unfastened her cloak with a flick, letting it fall to the ground in one elegant movement. The cold air didn't seem to touch her either.
"I realized something while we were up there," she said, circling him slowly like a panther with a crown.
"Oh? That commanding your dragon-husband in Valyrian turns you on?"
She smiled. "That too. But no. I realized we've been vampires for eighteen years. Having truly depraved sex for eight of them—"
"—ten, if you count Paris."
"That was a mistake," she said with a grin. "But point is… in all that time, we've done it on a yacht off Monaco, in a tomb in Cairo, in a wardrobe in Berlin while avoiding Edward's history lesson…"
"Ah, closet quickies. Very wartime chic."
"But never…" she said, stepping out of her boots, "under the sky."
She began unfastening her trousers.
Slowly.
Hadrian's eyes darkened. "You're serious."
"I'm Dany," she whispered, stepping out of her leathers, her voice like honey and wildfire, "I'm always serious when I'm naked in a pine grove with a dragon who's also my husband."
Hadrian caught her trousers mid-toss. He looked at them, then at her. Then tossed them away with a grin. "You're aware this grove is magically warded to make sure no one hears us, sees us, or stumbles upon us, right?"
She pressed her bare body to his. "You're aware I've been thinking about this for the past fifty miles, right?"
His hands gripped her waist. Her fingers tangled in his hair. Their noses brushed.
"You sure we won't scar the forest for life?" he whispered.
"Let it watch," she whispered back. "It can take notes."
They kissed.
Hard. Deep. A kiss that spoke of centuries they hadn't yet lived. A kiss that lit up their magic like wildfire through dry grass.
The snow around them melted in a circle. Steam curled around their feet. Magic rippled through the clearing like a heartbeat.
And the trees, in their ancient, quiet wisdom—
Kept their secrets.
They would go to Scotland soon. Meet the Irish Coven. Build a home near the ruins of a forgotten castle in the Highlands.
But not yet.
Tonight was theirs.
And dragons, when they love, love with fire.
—
The forest was quiet now, save for the occasional groan of a snow-laden branch or the whisper of night wind weaving through pine. Magic still shimmered faintly in the air—like smoke that hadn't quite made up its mind whether to stay or go. The snow around them had melted into a warm basin of earth and moss, their bodies at its center like some ancient myth half-told.
Hadrian lay flat on his back, bare chest rising and falling in rhythm with a breath he didn't need but liked to keep up for the aesthetic. Daenerys—wild-haired, flushed, and entirely unapologetic—was draped over him like a goddess at rest. One of her legs was tossed over his, her fingers idly tracing the line of his collarbone, the curve of a muscle, the old scar from a war that didn't happen in this world.
Her head rested just below his shoulder, silver-blonde hair spilling like starlight over his skin. Her lips were curved in a lazy smirk. A cat who'd swallowed something far more dangerous than a canary.
"You know," she said, voice thick with amusement, "for a man who was raised in a cupboard, you've really leaned into this 'divine lover in the woods' persona."
Hadrian didn't open his eyes. Just grinned. "And for a dragon queen now living as a jazz-age dream, you've got quite the mouth."
"Compliments, darling," she purred, dragging a fingernail down his chest. "Try them sometime. Or do I need to make you purr again first?"
He cracked one eye open, emerald and gleaming. "Dany. We are surrounded by scorched earth and faintly traumatized wildlife. I think you made me purr enough for one evening."
Daenerys sighed contentedly and rolled onto her back beside him, eyes fixed on the stars above. "I'll take that as a challenge."
A beat passed.
"Scotland?" she asked, like she was commenting on the weather. "You said we're off to Scotland for our honeymoon?"
Hadrian blinked up at the stars, his breath visible in the cold night air. "You're asking me about travel plans now? We just turned a forest into a sauna."
"Which is exactly why I'm bringing it up," she replied, lips twitching. "We've melted the snow, offended the moon, and possibly frightened a yeti. Seems like a good time for logistics."
He laughed—warm, rumbling, amused—and turned his head to look at her. "You're unbelievable."
"That's what you said when I took my garter off with magic."
"That was five minutes ago."
"And you're still thinking about it."
"Obviously."
She grinned at him, radiant, unrepentant. "Scotland, then?"
He exhaled and nodded. "Carlisle made arrangements last week. The Irish Coven—Siobhan, Liam, and their newest fledgling Maggie—are expecting us. They're near Loch Arkaig now. Beautiful place. Thick with ancient magic and mist and more ghosts than a poet's diary."
"Maggie," Daenerys mused. "The one who can sense truth?"
"Mm-hmm. Should make things interesting."
"Does she do couples counseling?"
Hadrian raised a brow. "Are you implying we need it?"
"I'm implying she'd be entertained," Dany said sweetly. "Imagine the scandal if she reads my mind and finds out what I was thinking before we set that tree on fire."
"Dany. You bit the tree."
"Don't kink-shame me."
He rolled onto his side to face her. "You're impossible."
She reached out, threading her fingers through his hair. "You love me impossible."
He caught her wrist gently and brought it to his lips. "I do."
For a moment, everything went quiet again. The trees, the stars, even the wind seemed to lean in to listen.
Then, softly:
"Do you still feel it?" she asked, her voice suddenly serious. "Your old world. That… echo of it?"
He looked up at the sky. "Sometimes. In places. When the air smells right, or I hear someone laugh like Ron used to. Or when I dream… I see stone walls, high towers, floating candles. Hogwarts. The old magic."
She turned to face him, eyes bright and searching. "Do you miss it?"
He thought for a long moment. "I miss what it meant. The safety of it. The idea of it. Not the war. Not the prophecy. But the hope. The family I made there."
Daenerys leaned in, pressing a kiss to the center of his chest. "Then we'll build something better."
Hadrian raised an eyebrow. "You want to build a magical boarding school? In the Highlands? In 1936? We'll be the talk of the town. Right after Rasputin's ghost and the Loch Ness Monster."
"I want to build a home," she whispered. "Somewhere no one can touch us. No Volturi. No Council. No half-mad witches accusing me of witchcraft because I wear pants and ride dragons."
"You don't ride dragons in this world."
She gave him a look. "You sure about that, darling?"
He coughed. "Fair point."
She leaned up, propped on one elbow, golden hair wild and haloed in starlight. "I want a house. No, a manor. With firelight and oak floors and velvet curtains. And a bed—our bed—that looks like it belongs to a Roman emperor and his scandalous mistress."
"You want scandalous," he teased, "we could always buy that Venetian place with the marble bath that fits eight."
"Not practical," she sniffed. "Though it did echo wonderfully."
"I'm buying land at Loch Arkaig," Hadrian admitted. "Through shell companies and trusts. They think it's some eccentric Scottish lord with a fetish for cattle."
Daenerys snorted. "Darling. You are an eccentric Scottish lord with a fetish for dramatics."
"Says the woman who insisted our last home have a rooftop pool 'for starlit seductions.'"
"It was aesthetic, Hadrian. You looked good wet."
He grinned, teeth white and wolfish. "You looked better."
Her expression softened. "You're really going to do it, aren't you? The spells, the alchemy, the forged diamonds and invisible runes?"
"Magic built this world once," he murmured. "I just plan to bend it until it builds us something better."
Her gaze dropped to his lips. "And no one else gets in?"
"Just us," he said. "No siblings. No secret covens. No Edward peeking through the goddamn floorboards again."
"Good," she whispered, leaning down. "Then consider this our honeymoon."
He kissed her like she was the last fire on earth. "A century late."
"But worth it."
The stars moved slowly above, as if watching. Approving. Jealous, maybe.
After a moment, Daenerys whispered, "Can we add a tower?"
"Sure."
"And a hot spring?"
"Obviously."
"And a stable?"
He paused. "Are you expecting company?"
She grinned. "Maybe I've been keeping a few eggs warm."
He stared.
"I'm joking," she laughed.
"…You better be joking."
She kissed his cheek. "Scotland, then."
"Scotland," he agreed, wrapping an arm around her waist.
A pause.
"After that… Iceland?"
Hadrian smiled. "Anywhere with you."
—
Fifteen Days Later
The world blurred by in a medley of soot, snow, and steel.
From Forks to Seattle, Carlisle Cullen drove like a man with a death wish and a god complex—which, Hadrian supposed, was appropriate. After all, he was a doctor with a blood type preference and a heartbeat that hadn't ticked since the War of 1812. He gripped the wheel like it owed him something, eyes fixed on the winding road as though daring it to challenge him.
"Darling, you're going to make the car combust at this speed," Esme murmured, voice smooth as whiskey over honey. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, and she watched the clouds like a woman on a lazy picnic.
Carlisle didn't blink. "If the car combusts, I'll just simply have Hadrian rebuild it using magic. Better. Stronger. Faster."
"He's not Henry Ford, sweetheart. And your last idea for an invention exploded into a henhouse."
"That was one time."
"It was Tuesday."
In the backseat, Hadrian lounged like a king displaced by empire, boots up on the opposite bench, his long coat rumpled, and his hair a mess of wind and ancient bloodline. He was sketching something arcane into a small leather-bound book with a fountain pen that smelled faintly of nightshade.
Next to him, Daenerys was draped in red silk and dangerous intent. She wore it like armor, her blonde curls pinned artfully beneath a cloche hat, her lipstick a forbidden shade of ruby. Her head rested against Hadrian's shoulder, and her fingers played with the buttons of his coat.
"You know," she said idly, "if we crash, I expect you to catch me mid-air and make it look dashing."
"I was planning to use you as a landing cushion," Hadrian replied without looking up. "You're lighter."
"I'm deadlier."
"You're prettier."
She smirked. "Obviously."
They didn't talk much after that. They didn't need to. There was a current that ran between them—static, heat, something that hummed in the silence like a held breath.
Seattle blurred into a mist of shadows and train whistles. They boarded the Great Northern Railway under a veil of enchantment and pseudonyms: Mr. and Mrs. Ashcroft, honeymooners with haunted eyes. Their private car was draped in velvet and secrets. A stolen phonograph played jazz through the night, while moonlight spilled over Hadrian's notebooks and Daenerys's bare shoulders.
She curled up like a cat in the chaise lounge, a novel in one hand, the other drifting to touch the silver ring on Hadrian's finger. She never commented on it. She didn't need to.
They fed once—deep in the Montana wilderness, where the trees stood like silent sentinels and the moon hung low. The elk died without struggle. Hadrian held them still with old magic, his hands trembling until the thirst faded. Daenerys kissed the blood from his lips after, her mouth warm, her eyes brighter.
"For the record," she whispered, "I still prefer fresh peasants."
"Not many of those in Montana."
"A shame. I liked the ones who screamed poetry."
"Remind me to never take you to France again."
Chicago was steel and soot and sorrow. The skyline loomed like the bones of something old and angry. Spirits whispered in the corners of subway stations and beneath the bronze eaves of decaying skyscrapers.
"I hate it here," Hadrian muttered.
Daenerys stole a man's fedora and perched it on her curls. "You hate everywhere."
"I don't hate you."
"You'd better not." She leaned in and kissed him—right there, under flickering gas lamps and the eyes of the dead.
The RMS Queen Mary waited like a ghost wrapped in glamour. They boarded as Lord and Lady Blackthorne, gliding through the crowd like scandal in motion. A week at sea, drenched in fog and champagne. Daenerys haunted the ballroom in midnight silk, her laughter like sin, her heels clicking a siren's rhythm.
"I think that man proposed to you," Hadrian said after a waltz.
"He did."
"What did you say?"
"That I already have a husband. He's just prettier than me."
"Debatable."
She shoved him into a pillar and kissed him like it was the last night of the world.
Southampton greeted them with fog and the scent of wildflowers. Daenerys stood at the rail, wind catching her dress, her eyes on the shore.
"Feels like Avalon," she said.
Hadrian leaned against her back, arms wrapped around her waist. "Then let's hope the locals don't burn us at the stake."
She laughed, low and soft. "If they try, we'll burn brighter."
From there, it was a train to Glasgow—bleak hills and older songs humming in the heather. They stayed in an inn called The Severed Thistle, where the barkeep never blinked and the whisky tasted like old magic.
"Charmed it myself," Hadrian said as he handed Dany a glass.
She took a sip and let out a moan that could've started wars. "Marry me again."
They slipped into the night like legends in exile, moving at vampire speed across the moors. They fed by moonlight—two stags, a fox, clean and reverent. Afterward, Daenerys lay in the grass, flushed and wild.
"We're monsters," she said.
Hadrian licked his knuckle. "Only on weekends."
By dawn, they reached Loch Arkaig. The mist curled thick around the trees, the air alive with ancient breath. Magic whispered in the stones.
Three figures waited by the woods.
Siobhan, with her red curls pinned beneath a hood, cloak billowing like a queen from a saga long forgotten. Her brogue was thick, her gaze sharper than a blade. "Ye made good time."
Liam stood like a monolith at her side, voice low. "We watched ye come through the trees. Like ghosts, ye were."
Maggie peered at them, pale and eerie, eyes too old for her face. "They're in love. And vaguely murderous. I like them."
Daenerys grinned. "We brought blood-whiskey. It's magically fermented and illegal in five countries."
Siobhan raised a brow. "Then ye're more than welcome."
Hadrian stepped forward, slipping an arm around Dany's waist. "Truth-sense working properly, then?"
Maggie tilted her head. "Mostly. Except for that bit about the dragon eggs."
Daenerys gave a theatrical gasp. "You said you wouldn't tell!"
"I never promise anything."
They laughed. All five of them. The kind of laughter that only monsters and family can share.
They walked into the mist, toward firelight and hidden paths, toward sanctuary that smelled of heather and blood.
Behind them, the woods closed in again.
Silent.
And faintly scorched.
—
Early Morning, the Next Day
The mist rolled off the loch in long, curling fingers, the kind that whispered secrets and knew the taste of blood. It wove through the trees and clung to the damp earth like a lover who hadn't quite learned how to let go.
Dawn hadn't arrived so much as it had begun lurking—silver bleeding slowly into the bruised sky. The lake itself was caught between breath and memory, still and silent, like it was trying to remember the sound of music or children's laughter.
Hadrian walked with the careful ease of a man who'd carried too much weight for too many years. His coat flared behind him, the tailored wool swaying just enough to catch the frost-laced grass. Hands tucked into his pockets, hair tousled from wind and war, his jaw was set with something unreadable.
Next to him, Daenerys moved like a poem someone forgot to finish. Her crimson cloak, vintage velvet and lined in satin, hugged her figure and trailed behind her like spilled ink. Blonde curls framed her face, lips painted the kind of red that made rules irrelevant, and eyes that burned like they knew where all the matches were hidden.
She tilted her head, watching him out of the corner of her eye. "You're brooding again," she murmured, voice smooth and soft, but sharpened like a stiletto.
He arched a brow without turning. "Am not."
"Are too."
"I'm being reflective."
"That's what brooding people say to make it sound noble."
Hadrian cracked the faintest smile. "Fine. Maybe I'm brooding a little."
"There it is," she said, triumphant.
They reached the edge of a small rise, overlooking the lake. The world stretched out in quiet hues—blues, silvers, and pale green shadows. Hadrian stopped near a slender birch tree, its bark peeling like old parchment. He stared at the empty stretch of frostbitten earth ahead of them.
"This," he said, his voice barely a breath, "is where Hogsmeade used to be."
Daenerys followed his gaze. All she saw were trees, mist, and the stillness of a place forgotten by time. But she didn't interrupt.
"Right there," he pointed, "was the station. The Hogwarts Express would come barreling in all red and huffing, like some grand old dragon. You could smell it all—fresh bread from Honeydukes, the sugar from pumpkin pasties, a bit of mischief in the air. It smelled like being young and having a future."
She glanced at him, the sharp edge of his profile. There was an ache there, old and deep.
"You must've been adorable," she said.
He scoffed. "I was scrawny. Had glasses too big for my face and a scar everyone stared at."
"You had a scar and glasses? Saints preserve me," she gasped with theatrical horror. "You mean to tell me I almost missed out on Hogwarts' answer to a tragic Oliver Twist?"
Hadrian looked at her, something close to a laugh in his eyes. "I'll have you know, I was very popular."
"Oh, I'm sure. You reek of popularity. And heartbreak."
"Don't project, Targaryen."
"I'm not projecting, I'm complimenting," she said with a small grin, then leaned in as they stepped off the trail. "I like a man with a tortured past and excellent cheekbones."
"You only like me for my cheekbones?" he asked with mock offense.
"And the coat. And the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching."
He stopped. She didn't.
She turned, walking backward through the frost. "Hagrid brought you this way?"
Hadrian blinked, tugged back into the story. "Yeah. He was half-giant. Had a pink umbrella and a heart bigger than his dog."
"That's not hard to believe. You love people like that."
He gave her a sidelong glance. "What do you mean?"
Daenerys smiled without answering. She just tucked a loose curl behind her ear and stepped onto the old dock. The wood groaned under her boots, ancient and soft with moss. A small boat bobbed gently, its surface glazed with a skin of frost.
"Doesn't row itself," Hadrian muttered, untying it.
"Scandalous," she said, stepping in with the grace of a dancer. "They had self-rowing boats and you gave them up for me?"
He climbed in after her. "You're lucky I'm already dead."
The boat rocked as he pushed off. His hands were strong and sure on the oars, pulling them into the fog like a myth in motion.
They drifted.
After a while, he said, "It was right here. First time I saw it. The castle. There was mist, sure, but you could still see the towers. The lights in the windows. The lake was black glass and everything smelled like magic."
She didn't speak.
He stared ahead at the empty cliff. "I thought... maybe if I came back, it would be here. Waiting. Like some stubborn dream refusing to die."
She stood, crossed the small boat slowly, her balance perfect even as it swayed. She sank down in his lap, a whisper of silk and velvet, her arms looping around his neck.
Hadrian went completely still.
"Comfortable?" he asked, voice cracking ever so slightly.
"Very." She pressed her lips to the shell of his ear. "And warm, too."
"We're vampires. We don't feel warm."
She pulled back enough to grin at him. "I'm practicing."
He looked up at her, fingers brushing lightly over her waist. "You're dangerous."
"Obviously." Her nose brushed his. "But so are you."
"I'm tragic."
"And brooding."
"And cursed."
"And beautiful." Her hands cradled his jaw, thumbs grazing his cheekbones. "And mine."
He kissed her then—slow and reverent, like he was kissing a memory. She melted into him, fire and silk and the scent of wild roses, kissing him like she could rewrite every sad thing he'd ever known.
When they finally parted, she rested her forehead against his.
"I see it," she whispered. "Even if it's gone, I see it. I see all of it when you talk. I see you. And that makes it real."
He didn't answer at first. Just wrapped his arms tighter around her, like he was afraid she'd vanish too.
"I never left you," he whispered.
"I know," she said. "But I wanted to hear you say it."
The sun finally broke over the mountains, turning the loch to liquid gold. And for one perfect, impossible moment—
Loch Arkaig wasn't just a lake.
It was the Black Lake.
And the mist above it looked an awful lot like magic.
—
Meanwhile– Forks, Washington, 1936
Rain. So much rain.
Jane's boots clicked against the polished linoleum of Forks General Hospital, a sound too elegant and deliberate for this provincial hallway. She paused beneath a flickering gas sconce, her umbrella dripping a trail of disdain behind her.
"I can already feel my personality rusting," she said flatly. "Is this really America, or just some soggy purgatory where umbrellas come to die?"
Alec stood beside her, glancing around the corridor like it might try to eat him. "If this is the land of opportunity, I'd like to return the receipt."
A nurse passed by and blushed furiously under Jane's gaze—then tripped over her own feet as Alec's aura of unnatural calm rolled over her like chloroform.
They found Carlisle Cullen exactly where the file said he'd be: third floor, east wing, white coat immaculate, posture noble, expression mildly irritated by the scent of wet vampire drifting into his ward.
"Jane. Alec." Carlisle set down the surgical report he'd been reviewing. "Didn't expect the Volturi to drop in unannounced. Or at all."
"We're just here to chat," Jane said with a smile that could've curdled blood. "Not... execute."
"Yet," Alec added helpfully.
Carlisle gave a long-suffering sigh. "To what do I owe this honor?"
"We came to see Hadrian and Daenerys," Jane said simply, brushing imaginary dust off her velvet sleeve. "But alas... the lovebirds are nesting in Scotland, or so your nurse said. Honeymooning." Her lip curled. "How adorably human of them."
"They'll be back in three months," Carlisle said. "They're... difficult to reach. Remote location. Highlands."
Jane's eyes sparkled with faux sympathy. "How tragic. We braved three weeks of bad trains, worse food, and one truly existential conversation with a man who claimed his cow could predict rain. Only to find... puddles."
Alec stepped forward. "We won't waste time here. Tell them we'll meet in New York City. Manhattan. We'll be staying at the Waldorf Astoria. They're passing through on their way back, yes?"
Carlisle nodded slowly, his gold eyes narrowing with understanding. "I'll deliver the message."
"Oh, and Carlisle," Jane said, pausing in the doorway, "do let them know we're not here on Volturi business." Her smile turned shark-like. "Not entirely."
"Just a little friendly observation," Alec added. "Think of us as... quality control."
The two of them turned on their heels in perfect synchronicity, gliding out of the hospital and into the relentless Forks drizzle with all the theatrical flourish of departing royalty.
—
Two Days Later – Aboard the Empire Builder, Headed East
The train thundered across the American landscape, slicing through pine and prairie like a silver bullet fired from God's own revolver. Inside the first-class car, Jane sipped tea delicately from porcelain rimmed in gold while Alec played chess against himself, a small smirk ghosting his lips as he beat both sides.
"New York should be fun," Jane mused, watching the scenery blur past. "Do you think the Americans have figured out fashion yet, or are we still in the burlap era?"
"Hadrian will wear a coat and make it look like sin," Alec said. "Daenerys could drape herself in flames and walk through a bank vault without blinking."
Jane smiled, the rare kind that actually reached her eyes. "They do make quite the pair, don't they?"
"The kind of pair that makes the Volturi nervous."
"Good," she said, sipping again. "It's time someone did."
The train steamed eastward. New York loomed on the horizon. And far, far across the Atlantic, the dragon and the phoenix had no idea their myth was already rippling through the shadows of empire.
A game was beginning. And in three months— The twins would be waiting.
---
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