Bracken steps away from the outer post again, just as before, face grim and one claw still pointing into the dark bend. The ward behind Erma holds steady, but the green-white light tightens, as if listening.

The words land hard in the tunnel. The pale eggs in the alcove seem to gleam back from memory, not innocence now, but promise, a future the dark has already noticed.

The ward line pulses brighter, a warning answering a warning. Behind Erma, the newborn presses close. Ahead, the bend stays swallowed in shadow, waiting for kin that should never have been called first.

Erma lifts his head and sings the blessing into the warded air. The note goes out green and low, then rises until the tunnel seems to hum with it.

The light threads through the alcove, over the pale eggs, over the hatchling curled against his flank. Their shells answer with a soft, steady glow.

Bracken stills at the outer edge, then bows his head as the ward line brightens around the bend. The distant scraping sound falters, as if it has met a door it cannot cross.

The newborn dragon looks up at Erma with wide, awe-struck eyes, then settles deeper into the warmth. The ward settles into a firmer glow, and the tunnel holds.