Luck of the Card Master (TWoWCU Book 4)

 

PROLOGUE 

 

The mountains wore their winter best like a promise kept.

Snow blanketed the slopes in soft, unbroken white, and the air tasted sharp and clean. The troupe's wagons sat nestled in a clearing just below the tree line, their painted sides bright against the pale landscape. Smoke curled from a small fire where Forge tended a kettle, muttering about "unnecessary detours" and "frozen axles," but no one was listening.

The children were too busy shrieking with laughter.

Two small figures darted through the snow—one with hair like captured sunshine, the other with locks that shimmered like moonlight. The little girl's pigtails bounced as she packed a snowball with mittened hands, her brother already launching his own toward Lyric, who dodged with theatrical flair.

"Missed me!" Lyric called, grinning.

Lumina laughed from where she stood with Rosey, watching the chaos unfold.

The pocket dragons had other ideas about how snow should be used.

One tiny creature—scales glittering bronze in the winter light—burrowed headfirst into a snowdrift and emerged wearing a cap of white like a very dignified hat. Another stole a snowball mid-flight, clutching it possessively before it melted in its warm little claws. A third had somehow acquired a tiny scarf (stolen, no doubt, from someone's pocket) and wore it with immense pride while attempting to climb the half-built snowman.

"They took the carrot!" the boy shouted, pointing at a pocket dragon dragging the snowman's nose through the snow like treasure.

Felix stood nearby, his long coat dusted with snow, rhinestones catching the light. He watched the dragon with fond exasperation. "Of course they did."

Rev—Feren, though most still called him Rev—crouched to retrieve a stolen mitten from another pocket dragon. "At least it's not a doorknob this time," he muttered.

Wren laughed, tossing a snowball that somehow hit both Rev and Felix at once.

The children played until their cheeks were red and their mittens soaked through, until even the pocket dragons seemed tired of stealing things. Then, one by one, they trudged toward the wagons, boots crunching in the snow.

Inside, the wagon was warm and golden with lamplight. Rosey handed steaming mugs of cocoa to cold little hands. The children settled onto cushions, still giggling, while the pocket dragons curled into corners or perched on shoulders, occasionally snatching at shiny buttons.

Mender sat near the small stove, his hand holding his new silver pocket watch—a gift from Rosey after he'd given his old watch to Rev. It didn't speak, didn't hum with old magic, but it was warm and familiar and hers, and that was enough.

The little girl with pigtails looked up at Mender with wide, hopeful eyes. "Will you tell us a story?"

Her brother nodded eagerly. "You tell the best stories."

"Ooo! Ooo!" His sister said, bouncing up and down. "Tell us a story about Dragons!"

Mender smiled, the kind of smile that held warmth and memory and a little bit of sadness. He leaned forward, hands folded.

Let me tell you," he said softly, "about Felix, the pocket dragons, and a dream that would change lives."

The children settled in, cocoa warming their hands. Even the pocket dragons seemed to pause their mischief, as if they knew this story was important.

"Felix wasn't always the brilliant performer you know," Mender began, his voice gentle and steady. "Once, he was just a boy—alone, hungry, and convinced the world had no place for him. His family had left him behind in a dusty town, believing his chaotic luck was a curse they couldn't afford to carry."

The little girl's eyes went wide. "They left him?"

Mender nodded. "They did. And for a long time, Felix believed they were right—that he was cursed, that he'd never be anything more than a thief stealing scraps to survive." He paused, letting the weight of it settle. "But Felix had a dream. And sometimes, a dream is the most powerful magic of all."

The children leaned closer.

"It started," Mender said, "the day he saw the Card Master perform..."

 

THE CARD MASTER

 

The market square smelled like roasted chestnuts and desperation.

Felix crouched in the shadow of a baker's stall, his fingers working quickly to untie the knot on a coin purse some merchant had been careless enough to leave dangling. He was good at this—had to be. Stealing was survival, and survival was all he had left.

He was twelve years old and had been alone for three of them.

The coin purse came free with a soft snick, and Felix pocketed it without looking. He'd learned not to count his takings in the open. That's how you got caught. That's how you got—

"Ladies and gentlemen!" a voice called out, bright and commanding. "Gather 'round for a spectacle you won't soon forget!"

Felix froze.

The crowd shifted, people turning towards the voice like flowers toward the sun. Felix should have run—should have disappeared into the alleys with his stolen coins—but something made him stay.

Curiosity. Hunger. The desperate hope that maybe, just for a moment, he could watch something beautiful instead of stealing it.

He edged closer, slipping between bodies until he could see.

A man stood in the center of the square on a small wooden platform. He wore a deep blue coat that caught the light, and his hands moved with impossible grace. Cards appeared and disappeared between his fingers like living things—now you see them, now you don't, now they're fanned across his palm in a perfect arc.

Felix had never seen anything like it.

"The name's Captain," the man said, his smile easy and confident. "And I'm here to show you that luck, my friends, is just another kind of magic."

He flicked his wrist, and a card shot into the air, spinning end over end before landing perfectly between his fingers. The crowd gasped. Felix's breath caught.

Captain performed trick after trick—cards vanishing, reappearing, transforming. He made a woman's lost ring appear inside a sealed deck. He guessed a child's chosen card without looking. He shuffled and dealt with such precision that it looked like the cards themselves were dancing and alive.

And through it all, he smiled. Not the desperate, hungry smile Felix wore when he was trying to blend in. Not the cruel smile of the merchants who chased him off. This was the smile of someone who belonged exactly where he was—someone people gathered around because they wanted to, not because they had to.

Felix watched, transfixed, his stolen coins forgotten.

He wanted that. Wanted to be skilled, respected, in control. Wanted to be someone people looked at with wonder instead of suspicion. Wanted to stand in the light instead of hiding in the shadows.

When the performance ended and the crowd tossed coins into Captain's hat, Felix stayed rooted to the spot. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. His chest felt too full and too empty all at once.

I want to do that, he thought. I want to be that.

It was the first time in three years he'd wanted to be anything other than invisible.

 

Captain noticed him as the crowd dispersed.

The boy with the too-thin frame and the hungry eyes, standing at the edge of the square like he was afraid to get too close. Captain knew that look too well— he'd worn it on his own face, years ago, when he'd been someone else entirely.

"You liked the show?" Captain asked, packing his cards with careful hands.

Felix startled, then nodded. Words felt too big for his throat.

Captain studied him for a moment, then sat down on the edge of the platform, gesturing for Felix to come closer. "What's your name?"

"Felix," he said quietly.

"Well, Felix," Captain said, "you've got good taste. Cards are the finest art there is—better than painting, better than music. You know why?"

Felix shook his head.

"Because cards are about possibility." Captain fanned the deck in his hands, showing Felix the faces. "Every shuffle is a new story. Every deal is a new chance. And the best part?" He grinned. "You get to decide how it ends."

Felix stared at the cards, mesmerized.

Captain's expression softened. "You remind me of someone," he said quietly. "Me, a long time ago."

"You?" Felix couldn't imagine this confident, brilliant man ever being anything like him.

"My name's Captain," the man said. "Wasn't what I wanted to be, so I became the Card Master instead."

Felix blinked. "What do you mean?"

Captain leaned back, his gaze distant. "My father was a naval officer. Named me Captain because he wanted me to follow in his footsteps—command a ship, serve the fleet, be what he thought I should be." He tapped the deck against his palm. "But I didn't want that. I wanted this. So I left. Chose cards over cannons, performance over duty."

"And... he let you?" Felix asked, his voice small.

Captain laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "No. But I did it anyway. Because sometimes, Felix, you have to choose who you're going to be—even if it means disappointing the people who named you."

Felix felt something crack open in his chest. Hope, maybe. Or permission.

"You can become anything you want," Captain said, meeting his eyes. "Your starting point doesn't define your destination. Remember that."

Felix nodded, unable to speak.

Captain stood, shouldering his pack. "I've got to move on—next town's waiting. But you take care of yourself, Felix. And if you ever get your hands on a deck..." He smiled. "Practice. That's the only magic that matters."

Then, like a shadow on a cloudy day,  he was gone, disappearing into the crowd, leaving Felix standing alone in the square with a dream burning in his chest and tears he didn't understand stinging his eyes.

 

WHAT WAS TAKEN

 

Felix couldn't stop thinking about the cards.

Three days had passed since Captain's performance, and the dream still burned in his chest like a fever. He saw cards everywhere—in the way leaves fell from trees, in the pattern of cobblestones, in his own restless fingers that wouldn't stop moving.

He needed a deck. Needed to try.

But decks cost money, and Felix had already spent his stolen coins on bread that was gone too quickly. He could steal another purse, save up, wait—but waiting felt impossible when the dream was so close he could taste it.

That's when he saw Captain again.

The Card Master was performing in the next town over—Felix had followed at a distance, unable to help himself. He told himself he just wanted to watch one more time, to memorize the movements, to understand how the magic worked.

But when the performance ended and Captain packed up his things, Felix noticed something.

The deck. The beautiful, professional deck with its worn edges and perfect shuffle. Captain set it down on the edge of a tavern table while he counted his earnings, his attention elsewhere for just a moment.

Felix's heart hammered in his chest.

It would be so easy. Captain would turn away, and Felix could slip in, take the deck, disappear into the crowd. Captain would never know. Would never see him again.

Just this once, Felix thought. Just this one thing, and then I'll never steal again.

His feet moved before his mind could catch up.

Felix's fingers closed around the deck.

It was heavier than he expected—solid, real, valuable. The cards were smooth under his touch, perfectly kept, the kind of deck that only came from years of care and use.

Captain was still counting coins, his back turned.

Felix slipped the deck into his coat and walked away. Calm. Steady. Just another face in the crowd.

No one shouted. No one chased him.

He'd done it.

Felix ducked into an alley three streets over, his breath coming fast and sharp. He pulled out the deck with shaking hands and stared at it.

It was beautiful. The backs were deep blue with silver edges, the faces crisp and clean. This was a real deck—the kind a real card master would use.

Felix's chest swelled with something that felt like triumph.

He had it. He had the deck. He could learn now. Could practice. Could become—

And then the thought hit him like a fist to the gut.

'Captain is gone.'

Felix stood in the alley, the deck heavy in his hands, and the truth crashed over him in waves.

Captain had left town that morning. Felix had seen him pack up, heard him mention the next city on his route. He was gone. Miles away by now, maybe farther.

And he would never get this deck back.

Felix's stomach twisted.

This wasn't just a deck of cards. This was Captain's craft. His livelihood. The tool he used to perform, to earn money, to be the Card Master.

And Felix had stolen it.

He sank down against the alley wall, clutching the deck to his chest. The triumph was gone, replaced by something cold and sick.

Captain had been kind to him. Had shared his story, his hope, his belief that Felix could become something more. Had looked at a street thief and seen potential instead of a curse.

And Felix had repaid that kindness by stealing the one thing Captain needed most.

'What have I done?'

The deck felt like it was burning in his hands. He wanted to throw it away, wanted to run after Captain and give it back, wanted to undo the last ten minutes and make a different choice.

But Captain was gone. And Felix was alone in an alley with stolen cards and a heart full of shame.

He thought about Captain's words: You can become anything you want. Your starting point doesn't define your destination.

Felix had wanted to believe that. Had wanted to think he could be more than a thief.

But here he was. Still stealing. Still taking what wasn't his.

'I'm cursed,' he thought bitterly. 'My family was right.'

Felix sat in that alley until the sun started to set, the deck still clutched in his hands.

He couldn't give it back. Couldn't undo what he'd done.

But he could make a choice about what came next.

Slowly, carefully, Felix opened the deck and spread the cards across his lap. They gleamed in the fading light, beautiful and damning all at once.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty air, to Captain who would never hear him, to the Cards laid out before him. "I'm so sorry."

He couldn't fix this. Couldn't make it right.

But he could make sure it mattered.

Felix gathered the cards back into a neat stack, his hands steadier now. He would learn. Would practice until his fingers bled if he had to. Would become so good with these cards that Captain's loss wouldn't be for nothing.

And he would never steal something like this again.

Never take someone's dream. Never take their work, their heart, the thing that made them who they were.

This deck was his beginning—and his burden. He would carry both.

Felix stood, slipping the cards back into his coat. The weight of them felt different now. Heavier. More precious.

He didn't know if he could ever forgive himself.

But he could try to become the person Captain had believed he could be.

Even if it meant starting with stolen cards and a heart full of shame.

 THE STRUGGLE

Felix practiced in the places no one wanted to be.

Abandoned buildings. Back alleys. The spaces between market stalls after the vendors had gone home. Anywhere he could spread the cards without someone chasing him off or asking questions he didn't want to answer.

The deck was his most precious possession and his greatest secret. He kept it wrapped in a scrap of cloth, tucked inside his coat where no one could see.

And every day, he tried to make his hands do what Captain's had done.

It should have been simple. Shuffle. Cut. Deal. Basic moves that Captain had made look effortless.

But Felix's luck had other ideas.

The first time he tried a simple shuffle, the cards scattered across the ground like startled birds. He gathered them up with shaking hands, checked each one for damage, and tried again.

The second time, a gust of wind—appearing from nowhere on a perfectly still day—sent half the deck skittering into a puddle.

Felix spent an hour carefully drying each card, his heart in his throat, terrified he'd ruined them.

The third time, he managed three shuffles before his fingers slipped and the entire deck went flying. One card landed in a pile of horse manure.

Felix cleaned it with water from a public fountain, scrubbing until his fingers were raw, and tried not to cry.

Cursed, the voice in his head whispered. You're cursed, and you'll never be anything else.

But Felix kept trying.

 

Look at the street rat playing with cards."

Felix's hands stilled. He'd been practicing a simple cut in the shadow of a bakery, trying to get the motion smooth. He looked up to see three boys his age—well-fed, well-dressed, the kind who'd never had to steal to eat.

"Think you're gonna be a Card Master?" one of them sneered. "You can't even keep them in your hands."

Felix had dropped the deck twice in the last ten minutes. His cheeks burned.

"Leave me alone," he muttered, gathering the cards.

"Why? So you can keep embarrassing yourself?" Another boy laughed. "Face it—you're not cut out for this. You're just a thief."

The words hit harder than they should have. Because they were true, weren't they? He was a thief. He'd stolen these very cards.

"Go back to the gutters where you belong," the first boy said.

Felix didn't respond. Just tucked the deck away and left, their laughter following him down the street.

But their words stayed longer.

You're not cut out for this. You're just a thief. Go back where you belong.

They sounded too much like the voices already in his head. Too much like his family's words the day they'd left him behind.

'Cursed.' 'Unlucky.' 'More trouble than you're worth.'

Felix found a quiet corner and pulled out the deck again. His hands were shaking, but he forced them steady.

He would prove them wrong. All of them.

Even if it killed him.

 

It took Felix two weeks to master a basic shuffle without dropping the cards.

Two weeks of practicing in the cold, in the rain, with fingers that cramped and a stomach that growled. Two weeks of his luck sabotaging him at every turn—cards slipping, winds rising, distractions appearing exactly when he needed to focus.

But on the fifteenth day, he shuffled the deck three times in a row without a single card falling.

Felix stared at his hands, barely breathing.

He'd done it.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't smooth like Captain's had been. But it was progress.

Something fierce and bright bloomed in his chest.

'I can do this.'

He practiced the shuffle twenty more times that day, until his fingers ached and the motion was burned into his muscle memory. Then he moved on to the cut. Then to dealing.

Each trick took days. Sometimes weeks. His bad luck fought him every step of the way—cards sticking together, slipping from his grip, bending at the worst moments.

But Felix was stubborn.

More stubborn than his luck. More stubborn than the voices. More stubborn than the hunger and the cold and the loneliness that pressed in on all sides.

He would learn these cards. He would master them.

Because if he didn't, then Captain's loss meant nothing. The theft meant nothing. And Felix would be exactly what everyone said he was—cursed, worthless, a thief with no future.

So he practiced.

And slowly, painfully, impossibly—he got better.

 

Three months after stealing the deck, Felix performed his first real trick.

It was simple—a basic sleight of hand where a card seemed to vanish from one hand and reappear in the other. Captain had done it in the market square, making it look like magic.

Felix had been practicing it for weeks.

He stood in an empty alley, the deck in his hands, and took a deep breath.

'You can do this.'

He selected a card—the ace of hearts—and held it up. Then, with a flick of his wrist and a movement he'd practiced a thousand times, he made it disappear.

For one perfect, breathless moment, the card was gone.

Then it reappeared in his other hand, exactly where it was supposed to be.

Felix stared at it, his heart pounding.

He'd done it. A real trick. Clean. Smooth. Right.

A laugh bubbled up in his chest—half disbelief, half joy. He did it again. And again. Each time, the card vanished and reappeared, and each time, it felt like magic.

Not luck-weaving magic. Not the chaotic, uncontrollable power that had gotten him abandoned.

This was his magic. Earned through practice and stubbornness and refusing to give up.

Felix sank down against the alley wall, the deck clutched to his chest, and for the first time in months, he smiled.

'I can do this,' he thought. 'I really can.'

The voices were still there—the doubt, the shame, the weight of what he'd stolen.

But underneath them, quieter but growing stronger, was something else.

Hope.

 

SEEN

Felix had gotten better at not dropping the cards.

That was something, at least.

He stood on a corner near the market square—not in the square where the real performers worked, but close enough to catch the overflow crowd. Close enough to pretend he belonged.

He was fourteen now, taller but still too thin, his coat patched in three places and his boots held together with hope and stolen twine. The deck was tucked safely in his inner pocket, wrapped in its cloth like always.

Today, he was going to perform.

Really perform. Not just practice in alleys. Not just show tricks to himself. He was going to stand here and do what Captain had done—make people stop and watch and maybe, maybe, toss a coin or two his way.

His hands were shaking.

"Right," Felix muttered to himself. "You can do this. You've practiced. You know the tricks. Just... don't think about how many people are watching."

There were approximately zero people watching.

Felix cleared his throat. "Ladies and gentlemen!" His voice cracked halfway through. He winced. "Uh. Gather round for—for a display of—"

A woman walked past without looking at him.

"—incredible card mastery and—"

A man stepped around him like he was a puddle.

Felix's cheeks burned. This was humiliating.

But he'd come this far. He pulled out the deck, hands only shaking a little, and began to shuffle.

The cards stayed in his hands. Small miracle.

"I will now demonstrate," Felix announced to the approximately three people within earshot who were determinedly ignoring him, "the art of—"

A gust of wind sent his hat—the one he'd set out for coins—rolling down the street.

Felix watched it go, his eye twitching.

Of course.

 

Felix retrieved his hat, set it down again (this time weighted with a rock), and tried again.

"Pick a card," he said to a middle-aged merchant who'd stopped nearby to adjust his cart. "Any card."

The merchant looked at Felix like he'd suggested something illegal.

"It's free," Felix added quickly. "Just—just for fun. Please?"

The merchant sighed, clearly humoring him, and pulled a card from the fanned deck. He glanced at it, put it back.

Felix shuffled, his hands moving through the motions he'd practiced a thousand times. He could feel his luck stirring—that chaotic, uncontrollable thing that lived under his skin—and he tried to push it down, keep it quiet.

Not now. Please not now.

He cut the deck, pulled a card, held it up. "Is this your card?"

It wasn't.

The merchant snorted and turned back to his cart.

Felix's face burned. He'd been so sure—

The merchant's cart wheel, which had been wobbling dangerously, suddenly clicked into place. The merchant blinked, tested it with his foot, then shrugged and rolled away—whistling, his mood inexplicably improved.

Felix stared after him.

That was... that was his luck. Not the chaotic bad kind. The other kind. The kind that helped people who weren't him.

Great. Wonderful. He couldn't even get his own trick right, but at least some random merchant's cart was fixed.

 

Felix tried again.

This time, a young woman stopped to watch. She looked tired, like she'd been on her feet all day, but she smiled when Felix offered the deck.

"Pick a card," he said, trying to sound confident.

She did. Felix shuffled, focused, pulled a card—

Wrong again.

But as the woman walked away, she bent down and picked up a coin she hadn't noticed before. Her whole face lit up. "Oh! That's enough for bread!"

Felix watched her go, something tight and frustrated building in his chest.

He was helping people. Just... not in the way he wanted. Not in the way that would get him noticed, get him seen as anything other than a street kid playing with cards.

 

He's terrible," Forge muttered from across the street.

The troupe had stopped in town to restock supplies, and Forge had been the first to notice the boy on the corner—mostly because his luck-magic kept affecting people in Forge's line of sight, and it was distracting.

"He's not terrible," Lyric said, leaning against a post and watching with interest. "He's just... unpolished."

"He got the trick wrong twice," Forge pointed out.

"But did you see what happened after?" Lumina asked softly. Her lights flickered pale gold with curiosity. "The cart wheel. The coin. That's not coincidence."

Rosey had noticed too. She stood with her arms crossed, watching the boy fumble through another trick—and watching the small, quiet miracles that followed in his wake.

"He's got luck-weaving," she said. "But he doesn't know how to control it. Or maybe he does, but only for other people."

"Tha's useful," North said, appearing beside them with her ever-present notebook. "Chaotic, but useful."

"That's sad," Lyric corrected. "Look at him. He's trying so hard, and his own magic won't even help him."

Mender stood a little apart from the others, his hand resting over the pocket where Keeper lived. The watch was warm—not burning, but present. Aware.

Someone needs help, Keeper's voice rumbled in his mind, old and patient. A boy carrying shame like stones.

Mender's gaze sharpened on Felix. The boy was setting up another trick, his shoulders tense, his hands shaking just slightly. He looked like he was one failed trick away from giving up entirely.

"We should talk to him," Mender said quietly.

Forge groaned. "We are not collecting another stray."

"Why not?" Lyric grinned. "We're good at it."

 

Felix was packing up his cards—three coins richer and infinitely more humiliated—when a shadow fell over him.

He looked up to find a group of people standing there. Performers, by the look of them. Colorful clothes, confident postures, the kind of people who belonged in the light instead of hiding in alleys.

Felix's first instinct was to run.

"You're a card worker," the man in front said. He had kind eyes and a pocket watch chain glinting at his vest. Not an accusation. Just a statement.

Felix clutched the deck tighter. "I'm—I'm practicing."

"We noticed," a woman with a Southern accent said, but she was smiling. "Sugar, you've got potential. Rough edges, sure, but potential."

"You've also got luck-weaving," another woman added—this one with lights dancing around her fingertips like fireflies. "That's rare."

Felix's heart hammered. They saw it. Saw his magic. He waited for the judgment, the fear, the inevitable—

"It's beautiful," the light-woman said softly. "The way you help people without even meaning to."

Felix blinked. "I—what?"

"The cart wheel," a tall man with a musical lilt to his voice said. "The coin. The way that kid found his lost toy right after you walked past. That's you, isn't it?"

"I can't control it," Felix said quickly, defensive. "It just—it happens. And it never helps me, it only—"

"Helps others," the first man finished gently. "That's a gift, Felix."

Felix froze. "How do you know my name?"

The man smiled and tapped the side of his head. "Call it intuition. I'm Mender. This is Rosey, Lyric, Lumina, North, Forge, and Vigil." He gestured to each in turn.

A person with goat horns and horizontal pupils nodded solemnly. "Vigil sees potential."

Felix didn't know what to say. These people were looking at him like he was... like he was worth looking at.

And that made him suspicious.

"You've been practicing alone," Mender continued. "Teaching yourself. That's impressive. But you don't have to do it alone anymore."

"What do you mean?" Felix's voice came out smaller than he intended, but wary.

Rosey stepped forward, her expression warm. "We're a traveling performance troupe, dear. And we think you'd fit right in."

Felix's stomach dropped.

Here it comes, he thought. The catch.

"We can teach you," Lyric added. "Stage presence, timing, how to work a crowd. All the things you can't learn from practice alone."

"And maybe," Lumina said gently, "help you understand your magic. It's not a curse, Felix. It's just... unpolished. Like your card work."

Felix took a step back, his grip tightening on the deck. "Why?"

Mender tilted his head. "Why what?"

"Why would you help me?" The words came out sharper than he meant, edged with years of distrust. "You don't know me. I'm nobody. I'm just—" He gestured at himself, at his patched coat and worn boots. "What do you want?"

There had to be a catch. There was always a catch.

People didn't just help for no reason. They wanted something—labor, loyalty, someone to take the fall when things went wrong. His family had left him because keeping him cost too much. Why would strangers be any different?

Rosey's expression softened with understanding. "We don't want anything, sugar. Except maybe to see you reach your potential."

"That's not—" Felix shook his head. "People don't do that. There's always something."

"Not with us," Mender said quietly. His hand rested over his pocket, over that watch. "We're a family, Felix. We take care of each other. No strings. No cost."

"I don't believe you," Felix said, and hated how his voice shook.

"That's fair," Forge said gruffly. "Trust is earned, not given."

Felix looked at them—at their open faces, their easy kindness—and wanted desperately to believe them.

But wanting something didn't make it true.

"I should go," he said, backing up another step.

"Wait," Lyric said gently. "We're camped just outside town. If you change your mind—if you want to talk, or just watch a real performance—you're welcome. No pressure. No expectations."

"Just an open door," Rosey added. "Whenever you're ready to walk through it."

Mender met his eyes. "You don't have to decide now, Felix. But know this—you're not cursed. You're not broken. And you're not alone. Not anymore. Not if you don't want to be."

Felix's throat tightened. He wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't come.

So he just nodded—once, sharp—and turned away.

He made it three steps before Lumina called after him softly, "We'll be here for two more days. Just... in case."

Felix didn't look back.

But he didn't forget—north road, camped outside town—just in case.

 

THE CARNIVAL

The carnival was loud.

Felix had never seen so many people in one place—merchants hawking wares, children shrieking with laughter, musicians playing on every corner. The air smelled like roasted nuts and sugar and something frying that made his stomach growl.

Colorful banners snapped in the breeze. A juggler tossed flaming torches. Someone was selling ribbons that shimmered like captured rainbows.

Felix clutched his deck inside his coat and tried not to feel overwhelmed.

This is it, he told himself. New town. New crowd. New chance.

He'd been thinking about the Troupe for two days—their offer, their kindness, the way they'd looked at him like he was worth something. But he'd also been thinking about Captain, about the deck he'd stolen, about the fact that he didn't deserve kindness.

So he'd decided to prove himself first. Get good enough that when—if—he went to find them, he'd be worth their time.

The carnival seemed like the perfect place to practice. Lots of people. Lots of noise. Easy to blend in, easy to disappear if things went wrong.

Felix was weaving through the crowd, looking for a good spot to set up, when a hand caught his sleeve.

"You. Boy."

Felix spun to find an old woman sitting at a small table draped in deep purple cloth. Her cart was tucked between two larger stalls, easy to miss if you weren't paying attention. Candles flickered around her, and cards—not playing cards, something else—were spread across the table.

A fortune teller. Or trying to be.

"I don't have money," Felix said automatically, pulling his arm back.

"Didn't ask for money." The woman's eyes were sharp despite her age, and they studied Felix with an intensity that made him want to run. "Asked for a moment of your time."

"I'm busy."

"Doing what? Running from your fate?" She smiled, but it wasn't unkind. "Sit. Let me read your fortune."

Felix shook his head. "Last name's Chance, Lady. I don't believe in fate."

The woman laughed—a sound like wind chimes and crackling fire. "Chance, is it? How fitting." She reached beneath her table and pulled out a small candle, no bigger than Felix's palm. It was white with a wick that looked like it had never been lit.

"Then believe in wishes instead," she said, pressing the candle into his hand before he could refuse. "Tell it your dreams and blow out the flame when you're ready to make them real."

Felix stared at the candle. "That's not how wishes work."

"Isn't it?" The woman's smile widened. "You carry dreams like stones, boy. Heavy enough to weigh you down or strong enough to build something beautiful. The candle won't grant your wish—but it might remind you that you're the one with the power to make it come true."

Felix wanted to argue, wanted to hand the candle back and walk away.

But something about the way she looked at him—like she saw him, really saw him—made him tuck the candle into his pocket instead.

"Why?" he asked quietly.

"Because," the woman said, settling back into her chair, "everyone deserves a little magic. Even boys named Chance who don't believe in fate."

Felix didn't know what to say to that.

So he just nodded once and walked away, the candle a small weight in his pocket.

Felix found a spot near the edge of the main thoroughfare—not too prominent, but visible enough—and set down his hat. His hand brushed against the candle in his pocket, and for just a moment, he thought about lighting it.

'Tell it your dreams.'

But that felt too much like hoping. And hope was dangerous when you'd been disappointed as many times as Felix had.

He pulled out the deck instead and began to shuffle.

Twenty minutes later, Felix had earned exactly two coins and a pitying look from an old woman who'd clearly thought he was begging.

The tricks weren't bad. They just weren't... good.

He'd fumbled the reveal twice. Dropped a card once. And his grand finale—making a card appear behind someone's ear—had somehow resulted in the card appearing in a nearby puddle instead.

His luck-weaving had helped three people find lost items and one man win a ring-toss game, but none of them had even noticed Felix was there.

He was invisible. Again.

Felix packed up the cards with shaking hands, his chest tight with frustration.

'Why can't I do this?'

He'd practiced for years. He knew the moves. He knew the tricks. But something was always missing—the confidence, the presence, the magic that made people stop and watch.

Maybe his family had been right. Maybe he really was—

A roar of laughter erupted from somewhere deeper in the carnival.

Felix looked up.

A huge crowd had gathered near the center of the fairgrounds, people pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, all watching something Felix couldn't see. The laughter came again, followed by applause and delighted shouts.

Curiosity pulled him forward.

He slipped through the crowd, using his small frame to squeeze between bodies, until he could finally see—

And his breath caught.

It was them.

The Troupe had set up a proper stage—nothing fancy, just a wooden platform and some colorful drapes, but it looked professional. Official. Real.

Lyric stood at the front, his voice carrying over the crowd as he introduced the next act. He moved like he owned the stage, like he'd been born to stand in front of people and make them smile.

"And now," Lyric announced with a flourish, "prepare to be amazed by the one, the only—Lumina, Weaver of Light!"

Lumina stepped forward, and the crowd gasped.

Lights bloomed around her like flowers—soft pinks and golds and shimmering blues. They danced through the air, forming shapes: birds that flew in loops, stars that sparkled and spun, a dragon that swooped over the audience's heads.

Children squealed with delight. Adults stared, transfixed.

Felix had seen her lights before, but not like this. Not performed. Not with music (Lyric was playing something soft and magical on a flute) and timing and presence.

It was beautiful.

The act ended with Lumina creating a cascade of light that rained down over the crowd like gentle snow. People applauded wildly, tossing coins onto the stage.

Felix's chest ached.

That's what I want, he thought. That's what I've been trying to do.

But he was so, so far from it.

The performance continued.

Forge came out next—gruff, practical Forge—and somehow made carpentry entertaining. He built a small chair in under three minutes while Lyric narrated with increasingly ridiculous commentary ("Notice the precision! The craftsmanship! The way he's glaring at me like he's considering building a cage!").

The crowd loved it.

North appeared with maps that transformed into stories—she traced routes and suddenly the audience was following an adventure, a journey, a treasure hunt. Her Southern accent made everything sound warm and inviting.

Vigil brought out creatures—Felix didn't know what half of them were, but they were adorable. Tiny things with wings, something that looked like a cloud with eyes, and a pair of large striped animals that pulled the troupe's cart and apparently enjoyed performing tricks for treats.

"Vigil's friends are very talented," Vigil announced in third person, beaming with pride as one of the creatures did a little bow.

The crowd ate it up.

Even Rosey performed—telling fortunes with a warmth and humor that had people laughing and gasping in equal measure.

And Mender—

Mender stood at the edge of the stage, watching the crowd with those kind, knowing eyes. He didn't perform, exactly. But Felix saw him touch his pocket watch once, twice, and saw the way people in the audience relaxed, smiled, seemed to let go of whatever had been weighing on them.

Memory-Mending, Felix realized. Quiet and subtle and powerful.

They worked together like a well-oiled machine. Like a family.

Felix watched from the back of the crowd, his stolen deck heavy in his pocket, and felt the distance between what he was and what he wanted to be stretch into a canyon.

The performance ended with all of them on stage together, taking bows while the crowd roared its approval. Coins rained onto the platform. Children begged their parents to stay and watch again.

Felix slipped away before anyone could notice him.

He found a quiet spot behind a row of vendor stalls and sank down against a wall, his head in his hands.

He'd been so stupid. Thinking he could do this alone. Thinking practice was enough.

The Troupe had training, experience, each other. They had costumes and stages and confidence that came from knowing exactly who they were and what they could do.

Felix had a stolen deck and two years of fumbling in alleys.

He wasn't ready. Wasn't good enough. Wasn't—

The candle pressed against his ribs through his pocket.

'Tell it your dreams and blow out the flame when you're ready to make them real.'

Felix pulled it out and stared at it. Such a small thing. Probably worthless. Probably just a carnival trick to make desperate people feel better.

But his hands were shaking, and his chest hurt, and he was so tired of being alone.

"I want to be like them," he whispered to the candle, his voice cracking. "I want to be good enough. I want to belong somewhere. I want—"

His throat closed up. He couldn't finish.

But maybe the candle heard anyway.

Felix tucked it back into his pocket, unlit. He wasn't ready yet. Wasn't ready to hope that hard.

Not yet.

"There you are."

Felix's head snapped up.

Rosey stood a few feet away, her expression gentle. "We saw you in the crowd. Thought you might've slipped off."

"I was just—" Felix scrambled to his feet. "I wasn't following you, I swear. I came here to perform, I didn't know you'd be—"

"Felix." Rosey's voice was soft but firm. "Breathe."

He stopped, his chest heaving.

Rosey stepped closer. "You watched the whole show, didn't you?"

Felix nodded, unable to speak.

"And now you're thinking you'll never be that good. That you're too far behind. That maybe you should just give up."

His throat tightened. "I—"

"You're wrong," Rosey said simply. "Every single person on that stage started exactly where you are. Scared. Unsure. Convinced they weren't good enough."

"But they're—"

"They're practiced," Rosey interrupted. "They've had time, and teaching, and people who believed in them. That's the only difference, Felix. Not talent. Not worth. Just support."

Felix looked down at his hands—at the calluses from shuffling cards, at the scars from living on streets.

"I don't know if I can do it," he whispered.

"You can," Rosey said, "You've been doing it alone, and you've come so far. That takes incredible strength. But if you want—if you're ready—you don't have to carry it all by yourself anymore.."

She held out her hand.

"Come back with us. Watch. Learn. Practice with people who want to see you succeed. And when you're ready—when you decide you're ready—you'll step onto that stage and show everyone what we already see."

"What do you see?" Felix asked, his voice breaking.

Rosey smiled. "Someone brilliant. Someone brave. Someone who's been fighting his whole life to become exactly who he's meant to be."

Felix stared at her outstretched hand.

He thought about Captain's words: You can become anything you want.

He thought about the Troupe on stage, shining together.

He thought about the candle in his pocket and the wish he'd whispered to it.

He thought about the deck—stolen, shameful, precious—and the dream that had kept him alive for two years.

And slowly, carefully, Felix reached out and took Rosey's hand.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."

Rosey squeezed his hand gently. "Welcome home."

 

BECOMING

Felix had never worked so hard in his life.

The troupe didn't just hand him a spot on stage and call it done. They trained him.

Lyric taught him timing—how to read a crowd, when to pause for effect, how to build anticipation until the audience was leaning forward in their seats.

"It's not just about the trick," Lyric explained, demonstrating with an exaggerated flourish. "It's about the story you're telling. Every movement, every word, every breath—it all builds to the moment of magic."

Felix practiced his card reveals over and over, learning to make each one feel like a gift instead of just a trick.

North helped with organization—how to structure a performance, which tricks to open with, how to build to a finale that left people wanting more.

"You've got the skills, sugar," she said in her warm Southern drawl, tapping her notebook. "Now we just need to polish the presentation. Think of it like a map—you need to know where you're starting and where you're going, or your audience gets lost along the way."

Lumina worked with him on presence—how to stand, how to move, how to own the space he occupied.

"You make yourself small," she observed gently during one practice session. "Like you're apologizing for being there. But you belong on that stage, Felix. Stand like you know it."

It was harder than it sounded. Felix had spent years trying to be invisible. Being seen felt dangerous.

But Lumina was patient. She stood beside him, her lights glowing soft and encouraging, and showed him how to lift his chin, square his shoulders, take up space without fear.

"There," she said, smiling. "That's the Card Master."

Even Forge helped, in his gruff way—reinforcing Felix's card box so it wouldn't fall apart, building him a small folding table that was light enough to carry but sturdy enough to perform on.

"Can't have you dropping cards because your setup's garbage," Forge muttered, handing over the finished table.

Felix ran his hands over the smooth wood, his throat tight. "Thank you."

Forge grunted. "Just don't break it."

But there was warmth in his eyes.

And Mender—

Mender watched. Listened. And occasionally, when Felix's frustration threatened to overwhelm him, Mender would touch his pocket watch and Felix would feel the weight of his shame ease just enough to keep going.

"You're doing well," Mender said one evening after a particularly rough practice session.

Felix shook his head. "I messed up the finale three times."

"And you'll get it right the fourth time. Or the fifth. Or the hundredth." Mender's smile was gentle. "Perfection isn't the goal, Felix. Progress is. And you're making it every single day."

Felix wanted to believe him.

Some days, he almost did.

 

Three weeks after joining the troupe, Rosey called Felix to her wagon.

"Got something for you," she said, her eyes twinkling.

Felix stepped inside to find the others already there—Lyric grinning, Lumina's lights dancing pink and gold, even Forge looking almost... pleased?

"What's going on?" Felix asked warily.

Rosey pulled out a long coat from behind a trunk, and Felix's breath caught.

It was beautiful.

Deep blue—almost black—with rhinestones sewn along the edges that caught the light like stars. The cut was dramatic, meant to swirl and flow with movement. Professional. Real.

"Every performer needs a signature," Lyric said. "Something that makes them unmistakable."

"This is yours," Lumina added softly. "If you want it."

Felix stared at the coat, his hands shaking. "I can't—that's too much. I haven't even performed yet, I'm not—"

"You're ready," North interrupted firmly. "And you deserve this."

"We all have our thing," Lyric continued, gesturing to his own colorful vest. "Lumina has her lights. Forge has his tools. This—" He touched the coat's collar gently. "This is you. The Card Master."

Felix's vision blurred. He blinked hard, trying to keep the tears back.

"Try it on," Rosey urged gently.

With trembling hands, Felix took the coat. It was heavier than he expected—good fabric, well-made, expensive. The kind of thing he never could have afforded. Never would have dreamed of owning.

He slipped it on.

It fit perfectly.

The weight settled on his shoulders like armor. Like proof. Like a promise that he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Felix looked down at himself—at the rhinestones glittering, at the way the coat moved when he shifted—and something inside him clicked into place.

This is real, he thought. I'm really here. I'm really doing this.

"How do you feel?" Mender asked quietly.

Felix looked up, and for the first time in his life, he didn't have to think about the answer.

"Like the Card Master," he whispered.

Rosey beamed. "Then let's show the world."

 

The next town's market square was packed.

Felix stood backstage—which was really just behind a curtain Forge had rigged up—and tried to remember how to breathe.

His hands were shaking. His heart was hammering. The coat felt too heavy, too bright, too much.

'What if I mess up? What if my luck sabotages me? What if they laugh?'

"Felix."

He turned to find Mender standing there, pocket watch in hand.

"You're going to be brilliant," Mender said simply.

"You don't know that."

"I do." Mender's smile was warm and certain. "Because you've worked for this. Because you've earned it. And because you're not alone out there."

Felix looked past the curtain to where the others were already performing—Lumina's lights dancing, Lyric's music soaring, the crowd enraptured.

His family. His troupe.

His.

"You've got this, dear," Rosey said, appearing beside him. She squeezed his shoulder. "Just remember—they're going to love you."

Felix took a shaky breath. Touched the deck in his pocket—Captain's deck, stolen and precious and shameful and his.

And then Lyric's voice rang out over the crowd:

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for a master of chance, a weaver of wonder, a performer unlike any you've ever seen—Felix Chance, the Card Master!"

The crowd applauded.

Felix stepped through the curtain.

The lights were bright. The crowd was huge. His luck stirred under his skin, chaotic and unpredictable.

But he wore the coat. He'd practiced. And his family was watching from the wings, believing in him.

Felix lifted his chin. Squared his shoulders. Took up space.

"Good evening," he said, and his voice didn't shake. "My name is Felix. And I'm going to show you that luck—" He pulled out the deck with a flourish. "—is just another kind of magic."

The first trick went perfectly.

So did the second.

By the third, the crowd was leaning forward, transfixed.

Felix's hands moved with confidence he'd earned through years of practice. His timing was perfect—Lyric had taught him well. His presence filled the stage—Lumina had shown him how.

And when he reached the finale—a cascade of cards that seemed to appear from thin air, fanning out in a perfect arc before settling into his hands—the crowd roared.

Coins rained onto the stage. Children shouted for more. Adults applauded until their hands hurt.

Felix stood there, breathing hard, the deck clutched to his chest, and felt something break open inside him.

'I did it.'

Not perfectly. Not alone. But it was real.

He looked to the wings and saw his family—Rosey wiping her eyes, Lyric grinning like the sun, Lumina's lights flaring brilliant gold, even Forge nodding with grudging approval.

Mender met his eyes and smiled.

You did it, that smile said. You became exactly who you were meant to be.

Felix took his bow, the rhinestones on his coat catching the light like stars.

And for the first time in his life, he felt like he was home.

 

THE POCKET DRAGONS

Felix had been performing with the troupe for nearly a year when they found the dragons.

The market was like a dozen others they'd visited—crowded, loud, full of vendors hawking everything from fresh bread to dubious "magical" trinkets. The troupe had split up to gather supplies before their evening performance, and Felix was walking with Vigil, helping carry feed for the Trotters.

That's when he heard it.

"Cursed creatures! Bad luck beasts! Get rid of 'em cheap!"

Felix stopped mid-step.

The voice came from a cramped stall tucked between two larger vendors. The man behind the table looked as shady as his merchandise—greasy hair, shifty eyes, the kind of person who'd sell you a "healing potion" that was mostly ditch water.

But it wasn't the vendor that made Felix's chest tighten.

It was the cages.

Tiny, cramped wire cages lined the back of the stall, and inside each one was a small dragon.

They weren't like the grand, fearsome dragons from stories. These were barely bigger than Felix's hand—scaled bodies in jewel-bright colors, delicate wings folded tight against their sides, long tails curled around themselves for comfort. Their eyes were huge and luminous, watching the crowd with a mixture of fear and defiance.

"Vigil sees," Vigil murmured beside him, their goat eyes narrowing. "Vigil does not like."

Felix didn't like it either.

He moved closer, drawn by something he couldn't name.

"What are they?" he asked the vendor.

The man's face lit up with the desperate enthusiasm of someone trying to unload unwanted goods. "Pocket dragons! Rare creatures, these. Magical, too—bring good fortune to their owners!"

Felix looked at the dragons. One of them—bright copper with golden eyes—was trying to squeeze through the bars of its cage. Another, deep purple with silver markings, sat perfectly still, watching Felix with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

"If they bring good fortune," Felix said slowly, "why are you selling them?"

The vendor's smile faltered. "Well, they're... temperamental. Require special care. Not for everyone, you understand."

"Stone thinks this one lies," Vigil said flatly.

The vendor's expression soured. "Look, you want 'em or not? They're pests, truth be told. Steal anything shiny, cause nothing but trouble. I'm doing you a favor even offering—"

"They're thieves?" Felix interrupted.

"Compulsive," the vendor confirmed, clearly thinking this would discourage buyers. "Can't help themselves. See something shiny, they gotta take it. Drove my last three customers mad. That's why I'm selling 'em cheap—just want 'em gone."

Felix stared at the dragons.

Small. Unwanted. Called cursed because of something they couldn't control.

His throat tightened.

"How much?" he heard himself ask.

 

"Absolutely not," Forge said when Felix brought the troupe back to the stall twenty minutes later.

"They're thieves," North added, though her expression was more concerned than angry. "Sugar, they'll steal everythin' that ain't nailed down."

"They're in cages," Felix countered, his voice sharper than he meant. "Tiny cages. They can barely move."

"They're also magical creatures we know nothing about," Lyric pointed out gently. "We don't know how to care for them, what they eat, if they're even safe—"

"They're scared," Felix interrupted. He looked at the dragons—at their too-bright eyes and cramped wings and the way they pressed against the bars like they were trying to disappear. "They're scared and alone and everyone thinks they're cursed, and no one wants them, and—"

His voice cracked.

The Troupe went quiet.

Mender stepped forward, his hand resting over his pocket watch. He looked at Felix for a long moment, then at the dragons, then back at Felix.

"You see yourself in them," Mender said quietly. Not a question.

Felix swallowed hard. "They're not cursed. They're just... they just need someone to give them a chance."

Rosey's expression softened. "Oh, sweetheart."

"I know it's a lot to ask," Felix continued quickly. "I know they'll probably cause problems, and I'll take responsibility, I'll keep them away from everyone's things, I'll—"

"How much?" Mender asked the vendor.

The man blinked, clearly surprised. "For all six? Fifty silver."

"Flint thinks thirty," Vigil said, crossing their arms.

"Forty," the vendor countered.

"Thirty-five," North said firmly, "and you throw in information about their care."

The vendor hesitated, then sighed. "Fine. Deal."

Felix stared at them. "You're... you're really going to—"

"We're really going to," Rosey confirmed, smiling. "But you're in charge of them, sugar. They're your responsibility."

"And when they steal my tools," Forge added gruffly, "you're the one retrieving them."

"I will," Felix promised, his voice thick. "I will, I swear, I'll—"

"We know," Lumina said gently, her lights glowing warm gold. "That's why we're saying yes."

 

The vendor handed over the cages with obvious relief and a hastily scrawled list of care instructions ("Feed twice daily, keep warm, don't let them near anything valuable").

Felix carried all six cages himself, cradled carefully against his chest despite their awkward weight.

The dragons watched him with wary, intelligent eyes.

"It's okay," Felix murmured to them as the Troupe headed back to their camp. "You're safe now. No more cages. No more being called cursed. You're with us now. Or—or you can go. Wherever you want. You're free."

The copper dragon tilted its head, considering.

The purple one made a soft chirping sound.

Back at camp, Vigil was building. They had begun to set up a proper space for the dragons—a large, comfortable enclosure with soft bedding, perches, and room to actually move. Nothing like the cramped cages. Felix carried the cages to the edge of the clearing—away from the wagons, away from the enclosure.

"What are you going to do?" Lyric asked, confused.

"I'm letting them go," Felix said simply. "They should be free."

The troupe gathered to watch, quiet and respectful.

Felix knelt in the grass and carefully opened the first cage. He expected the small dragon to shoot out and fly away as fast as it's little wings would carry it.

The copper dragon crept to the opening, stretched its wings—really stretched them for the first time in who-knew-how-long—and Felix's chest ached at the sight.

"You can go," he whispered. "Fly away. Be free. You don't owe us anything."

The copper dragon looked at him with those huge golden eyes.

Then it hopped onto Felix's shoulder and curled up against his neck.

Felix froze.

The dragon chirped and tucked its head under its wing, apparently settling in for a nap.

One by one, Felix opened the other cages.

The purple dragon with silver markings flew a short loop around the clearing—testing its wings, tasting freedom—then landed on Felix's other shoulder.

A tiny green dragon investigated the camp, poked its nose into Vigil's feed bags, then decided Felix's coat pocket looked comfortable.

A blue one with iridescent scales did three victory laps in the air, then dive-bombed Lyric's hair and refused to leave.

The remaining two—one red, one pale gold—explored for a few minutes before returning to perch on the empty cages, watching the troupe with cautious curiosity.

"You're staying?" Felix asked the tiny creatures

The copper dragon on his shoulder made a sound that was unmistakably affirmative.

"But you could go anywhere. Do anything. You're free."

The purple dragon headbutted his cheek gently, as if to say: We know. We're choosing this.

Rosey's voice was soft behind him. "They know what it means to be unwanted. And they know what it means to be chosen. Just like you."

The dragons had chosen the troupe. Chosen him. Good or ill, chaos and theft and all—they were family now.

"Vigil will still build the enclosure," Vigil said practically, though their voice was warm. "For sleeping. For safety. But Guard thinks they will come and go as they please."

"Stone thinks they will steal everything," Forge muttered, but he was smiling slightly.

"Flint thinks it will be worth it," Vigil replied.

Felix looked down at the dragons—perched on his shoulders, nestled in his pocket, tangled in Lyric's hair, investigating the camp with bright, curious eyes.

Free to leave.

Choosing to stay.

 

It took exactly three hours for the first theft to occur.

Felix was practicing card tricks in his wagon when he realized his deck was missing.

"No, no, no—" He searched frantically, checking pockets, under blankets, everywhere.

A soft chirping sound came from the corner.

Felix turned to find all six pocket dragons huddled together in a nest they'd built from stolen items: his deck of cards, three of Forge's screws, one of North's map pins, two of Lyric's guitar picks, and what looked like a button from Rosey's coat.

The copper dragon sat on top of the pile like a tiny, triumphant guardian.

Felix stared at them.

The dragons stared back, unrepentant.

"You've got to be kidding me," Felix muttered.

The purple dragon chirped again and tucked one of the cards more securely under its wing.

Despite everything—the frustration, the inconvenience, the fact that he needed that deck for tonight's performance—Felix started laughing.

"Yeah," he said, carefully retrieving his cards while the dragons protested. "Yeah, okay. I deserved that."

From outside the wagon, he heard Forge's voice: "HAS ANYONE SEEN MY SCREWS?"

Felix winced.

This was going to be a long adjustment period.

But as he looked at the pocket dragons—free, safe, his—he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

Not even a little bit.

 

CHAOS AND RHINESTONES

Living with pocket dragons, Felix discovered, was like living with six tiny, winged tornadoes that had a particular fondness for shiny objects and absolutely no respect for personal property.

The first morning, Felix woke to find his entire deck of cards scattered across the wagon floor. The copper dragon—who Felix had started calling Ember, though he wasn't sure if the dragon approved—sat in the middle of the mess, looking enormously pleased with itself.

"We talked about this," Felix said, gathering the cards with a sigh. "These are for performing. Not for nesting."

Ember chirped and immediately stole the card Felix had just picked up.

"That's—give that back!"

The dragon launched into the air, card clutched in its tiny claws, and led Felix on a merry chase around the wagon that ended with Felix tripping over his own boots and crashing into the small table Forge had built for him.

The table didn't break.

The water pitcher on top of it, however, shattered spectacularly.

"Sorry!" Felix called toward Forge's wagon. "I'm sorry! I'll clean it up!"

A long-suffering sigh echoed from across the camp.

Three days later, Felix was mid-performance when disaster struck.

He'd just executed a perfect card fan—the audience was leaning forward, enraptured—when something small and purple dive-bombed his coat.

The dragon he'd mentally named Twilight grabbed a rhinestone from Felix's collar and yanked.

Hard.

"No, wait—" Felix lunged for the dragon without thinking.

His foot caught on the edge of the stage platform. He windmilled, trying to catch his balance, and his elbow connected with the decorative backdrop Forge had spent three hours setting up that morning.

The backdrop tipped.

Felix grabbed for it.

The backdrop fell anyway, taking Felix and a startled Twilight with it.

The audience gasped.

Felix lay in the wreckage, the rhinestone-thief dragon sitting on his chest looking absolutely unrepentant, and seriously considered his life choices.

Lyric's voice rang out, smooth as silk: "And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call an unexpected finale! Let's hear it for Felix, the Card Master!"

The crowd, bless them, applauded.

Felix dragged himself upright, took a bow, and avoided looking at Forge's face for the rest of the evening.

 

HAS ANYONE SEEN MY SCREWS?"

Felix winced. He knew that tone. That was Forge's "I'm trying very hard not to lose my temper" tone.

He poked his head out of his wagon to find Forge standing in front of his workbench, hands on hips, glaring at a conspicuously empty jar.

"Um," Felix said.

"Felix."

"I didn't take them!"

"I didn't say you did." Forge's eye twitched. "I'm asking if you've seen them. Or if perhaps your dragons have seen them."

Felix looked around the camp. Five of the six pocket dragons were visible—Ember sunning on a rock, Twilight tangled in Lyric's hair again, the green one (Moss) helping Vigil sort feed, the blue one (Shimmer) and red one (Spark) playing some kind of aerial tag game.

The gold one—the smallest, shyest one Felix had named Glimmer—was nowhere to be seen.

"I'll find them," Felix promised.

He found Glimmer ten minutes later in the back of Vigil's wagon, sitting on a nest made entirely of Forge's screws, North's map pins, Rosey's sewing needles, and what looked like three of Lumina's hair clips.

The dragon looked up at Felix with huge, innocent eyes.

"You can't keep doing this," Felix said, even though he knew it was pointless. "Forge needs those screws. North needs her pins. We can't just—"

Glimmer made a soft, plaintive sound and curled more tightly around the hoard.

Felix's resolve crumbled. "Okay. Okay, you can keep some of them. But we have to give most of it back, or Forge is going to build a dragon-proof cage, and nobody wants that."

He carefully extracted about half the screws, leaving enough that Glimmer's nest didn't look too devastated.

The dragon watched him with what Felix chose to interpret as gratitude.

"You're lucky you're cute," Felix muttered.

Returning stolen goods became a daily ritual.

Felix would make his rounds each morning, checking the dragons' favorite hiding spots and retrieving whatever treasures they'd accumulated overnight.

"Three guitar picks and a tuning peg," he announced, depositing them on Lyric's breakfast plate.

"My button!" Rosey exclaimed when Felix returned the shiny brass fastener she'd been missing for two days.

"Is this my compass?" North asked, bemused, as Felix handed over the small brass instrument.

"Probably?" Felix said. "I found it in Spark's nest. Along with this." He held up a spoon.

"That's mine," Mender said mildly. "I was wondering where that went."

"Sorry," Felix said for what felt like the hundredth time that week. "I'm really sorry. I'm trying to teach them not to steal, but—"

"But they're pocket dragons," Lumina finished gently, her lights glowing amused pink. "It's what they do."

"Still," Felix insisted. "I'll keep working on it. And I'll try not to break anything else while I'm chasing them."

"Appreciated," Forge said dryly, not looking up from the wagon wheel he was repairing—the one Felix had accidentally cracked yesterday while trying to catch Ember.

Two weeks into dragon ownership, Felix had what he considered a breakthrough.

He'd set up a practice session in a clear area of camp, well away from anything breakable. The dragons were fed, content, and theoretically less likely to cause chaos.

Felix pulled out his deck and began running through his routine.

The dragons watched with interest but didn't interfere.

Felix executed a perfect shuffle. A flawless cut. A card reveal that would have made Captain proud.

No thefts. No dive-bombing. No chaos.

"I think they're learning," Felix said, cautiously optimistic.

Ember tilted her head.

"See?" Felix continued. "We can coexist peacefully. You don't steal my cards, I don't have to chase you, nothing gets broken—"

A tremendous crash came from the direction of the wagons.

Felix spun around to find all six dragons had apparently coordinated a raid on Forge's tool chest while Felix was distracted. Tools were scattered everywhere. Shimmer was wearing a wrench like a very awkward necklace. Spark had somehow gotten tangled in a measuring tape.

And Glimmer—sweet, shy Glimmer—sat triumphantly atop a pile of nails, looking more pleased with herself than Felix had ever seen.

Forge stood in his wagon doorway, arms crossed, expression carefully neutral.

"I can explain," Felix started.

"Can you."

"They were... testing the structural integrity of your storage system?"

"Uh-huh."

"I'll put everything back. And I'll—I'll build you a new tool chest. A dragon-proof one. I'll ask Vigil to help, and—"

"Felix," Forge interrupted.

Felix braced himself.

"Just try not to break anything while you're cleaning up."

It was said without heat. Almost fondly, if Felix was reading it right.

Felix nodded, relieved. "I'll try. I really will."

"Flint knows you will," Vigil said, appearing beside Forge with their usual impeccable timing. "Stone also knows you will fail. But Guard appreciates the effort."

Despite everything—the chaos, the broken things, the constant apologies—Felix found himself smiling.

The dragons had chosen to stay.

The troupe had chosen to keep them.

And Felix had chosen to take responsibility for six tiny thieves who made his life infinitely more complicated and somehow infinitely better.

"Come on," he said to the dragons. "Let's return Forge's tools before he changes his mind about letting you stay."

Ember chirped and immediately stole another screw.

Felix sighed.

It was going to be a long day.

 

The troupe had a performance scheduled in an hour when Felix realized his coat was missing.

"No, no, no—" He tore through his wagon, checking every corner, under the bed, behind the trunk. "Not the coat. Anything but the coat."

He could perform without cards if he had to—he'd done it before. He could improvise around broken props. But the coat—the rhinestone-covered proof that he belonged, that he was the Card Master—that was non-negotiable.

"Has anyone seen my coat?" Felix called, poking his head out of the wagon.

"The blue one with the sparkles?" Lyric asked.

"Yes!"

"Haven't seen it. Did you check—"

A delighted squeal from one of the local children interrupted him.

Felix followed the sound to find a small crowd gathered near the edge of camp, pointing and laughing at something.

He pushed through to see—

Glimmer, the smallest dragon, was attempting to wear Felix's coat.

The coat was easily ten times the dragon's size. Glimmer had somehow gotten tangled in one sleeve and was now dragging the entire garment behind her like an elaborate, rhinestone-covered cape, looking absolutely thrilled with herself.

The rhinestones scraped against the dirt with every step.

"No!" Felix lunged forward. "That's—be careful with the—"

Glimmer saw him coming and took off, the coat billowing behind her like a banner.

Felix gave chase.

The dragon led him on a winding path through camp—under Vigil's cart (Felix had to crawl), around Rosey's wagon (Felix slipped in the mud), past Forge's workspace (Felix narrowly avoided crashing into the newly repaired tool chest).

"Just—stop—please—" Felix panted.

Glimmer finally came to rest on top of a barrel, the coat pooled around her in a glittering heap, looking enormously proud of her treasure.

Felix approached slowly, hands out in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture. "That's my coat. I need it for the performance. You can have literally anything else—"

The dragon considered this.

Then she carefully extracted herself from the sleeve, gave the coat one last longing look, and hopped onto Felix's shoulder instead.

Felix grabbed the coat, checking frantically for damage. A few dirt smudges, some grass stains, but the rhinestones were intact.

He sagged with relief.

"Oh, the irony," Forge's voice came from behind him.

Felix turned to find Forge watching with barely concealed amusement.

"What?"

 

"You," Forge said, "lecturing dragons about not stealing. You, who still performs with a deck you—" He paused meaningfully. "Well. You know."

Felix's face burned. The deck. Captain's deck. "That's—that's different. I was—"

"A thief?" Forge supplied.

"I was desperate," Felix corrected, his voice quiet. "And I've never stolen anything since, and I'm trying to teach them—"

"I know," Forge said, his expression softening. "I'm just saying."

It wasn't quite absolution. But it wasn't condemnation either.

Felix swallowed hard. "I'm still sorry. About... everything they break. Everything I break trying to catch them."

"I know," Forge said again. "Just try to make it to the performance without breaking anything else today."

 

Felix learned something unexpected about pocket dragons in his second month with them.

They gave things back.

Not immediately. And not always to the right person. But eventually, the stolen items would reappear—tucked into coat pockets, left on pillows, carefully placed on breakfast plates.

The first time it happened, Felix woke to find his deck of cards arranged in a perfect fan on his chest. Ember sat nearby, watching him with those bright golden eyes, waiting for... approval? Acknowledgment?

"Thank you," Felix said softly, gathering the cards.

Ember chirped and curled up against his side, apparently satisfied.

After that, it became a pattern.

Forge's screws would vanish for a day or two, then reappear in his tool chest—sometimes organized better than he'd left them.

North's map pins would migrate to the dragons' nests, then find their way back to her desk, arranged in neat little rows.

Lyric's guitar picks disappeared and returned so regularly he started leaving extras out, like an offering.

"They're not stealing," Lumina observed one evening, watching Twilight carefully return one of her hair clips. "They're... borrowing."

"Borrowing without asking," Forge muttered, but there was no real heat in it.

They always give it back," Rosey pointed out. "Eventually."

Felix watched Glimmer gently place a shiny button on Rosey's sewing basket—a button that had been missing for three days.

"They like shiny things," Felix said slowly, understanding dawning. "But they also like... making people happy?"

"Vigil thinks they understand gratitude," Vigil said, feeding Moss a treat. "Guard thinks they know the difference between taking and keeping."

It was true. The dragons hoarded treasures in their nests, but nothing stayed there permanently. Everything cycled back eventually—returned with what Felix could only describe as care.

They weren't cursed.

They weren't pests.

They were just... dragons. With their own strange logic and generous hearts.

"You're good dragons," Felix told them that night as they settled into their enclosure—the one Vigil had built, the one they used by choice even though they could leave anytime.

Six pairs of luminous eyes blinked at him.

"You steal everything, and you break half my things, and you make my life chaos—" Felix smiled. "—but you always come back. And you always give things back. And that matters."

Ember chirped softly and tucked her head under her wing.

The others followed suit, one by one, until all six were nestled together in their soft bedding, surrounded by a modest hoard of borrowed treasures that would, eventually, find their way home.

Just like the dragons had.

Just like Felix had.

CAPTAIN WATERS

Felix was practicing on a quiet street corner when the small crowd began to gather.

The troupe had stopped in a mid-sized town for a few days—big enough for decent crowds, small enough that they wouldn't get lost in the chaos of a city. They had a performance scheduled for that evening, but Felix had woken early, restless, wanting to run through his routine one more time.

He'd found a good spot near the market square—enough foot traffic to draw attention, but not so busy that he'd be competing with a dozen other performers.

The morning crowd was generous. A handful of people stopped to watch as Felix worked through his routine—card cascades, fans, a few simple illusions that looked more impressive than they were. His hands moved with the confidence of three years' practice, and his patter flowed smooth and easy.

The pocket dragons had stayed back at camp with Vigil, thank goodness. Felix loved them, but they had a terrible habit of stealing his reveal cards mid-performance.

He finished with a flourish—all fifty-two cards appearing in his hands at once, fanned in a perfect arc—and the small crowd applauded.

"Thank you, thank you," Felix said, grinning as coins clinked into his hat. "The troupe performs tonight at the main square if you'd like to see more. We've got music, lights, stories, and—if you're lucky—I might even show you how I did that last trick."

The crowd laughed and began to disperse.

Felix was gathering his cards when a voice spoke behind him.

"You did good, kid."

Felix froze.

He knew that voice.

Slowly, he turned.

Captain Waters stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, smiling like he'd just run into an old friend at the market.

Felix's chest tightened. His hands went numb. The cards he'd been holding scattered to the ground.

"Easy," Captain said, his tone gentle. "Didn't mean to startle you."

Felix couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Could barely breathe.

Captain's gaze traveled over Felix's coat—the long blue one with rhinestones catching the morning light—then down to the scattered cards at Felix's feet.

His smile widened slightly. "I watched your show last night. The troupe performance at the square. You were really good."

"I—" Felix's voice came out hoarse. "You were there?"

"Wouldn't miss it." Captain crouched down and began gathering the scattered cards with practiced ease. "I've been following your career. Heard about a young card master traveling with a performance troupe, figured it might be you. Came to see for myself."

He handed the cards back to Felix, who took them with shaking hands.

"You... you've been following me?" Felix managed.

"For about a year now," Captain confirmed. "Word travels in our line of work. 'Talented kid with a troupe, does card work that'll make your head spin.' Had to see if it was the same skinny street thief I met three years ago."

Felix flinched at the word thief.

Captain's expression softened. "You got a minute? Or do you need to run off?"

It was said kindly, without judgment. An offer, not a demand.

Felix's legs felt unsteady, but he nodded.

Captain gestured to a nearby bench at the edge of the market square. "Come on. Let's sit."

Felix followed on unsteady legs, clutching his deck like a lifeline.

They sat in silence for a moment, watching the market come to life around them—vendors setting up stalls, early shoppers haggling over produce, the normal rhythm of a town waking up.

Felix couldn't stand it anymore. The words burst out of him in a rush.

"I'm sorry."

Captain raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For stealing your deck." Felix looked down at the cards in his hands—worn from three years of constant use, the edges soft, some of the cards slightly bent from being shuffled thousands of times. "For taking something that wasn't mine. I was desperate and stupid and I didn't think about what it would cost you, and I've never—I swore I'd never steal anything again, and I haven't, but I still—"

"Felix," Captain interrupted gently. "I left it for you."

Felix's words died in his throat. "What?"

"The deck." Captain nodded toward Felix's hands. "I left it where you could find it. On purpose."

"But—" Felix stared at him, uncomprehending. "Why would you—"

"Because I saw you," Captain said simply. "During my performance that day. You were standing at the back of the crowd with this look on your face like you were watching something holy. Like you'd found the thing you were meant to do."

Felix's face burned. He remembered that day—remembered being unable to look away, unable to stop watching Captain's hands move, the cards dance, the crowd lean forward in wonder.

"And then I saw you following me afterward," Captain continued. "Skinny kid in clothes two sizes too big, trying to be invisible but watching everything I did like you were memorizing it. I knew that look. I knew what it meant."

"I wasn't trying to—I didn't mean to—"

"I know what desperation looks like," Captain said quietly. "I know what it looks like when someone needs something so badly they can taste it. When they've found their calling but have no way to reach it." He paused. "So I left the deck there. Made sure you saw where I put it. Walked away and gave you the choice."

Felix couldn't breathe. "You... you wanted me to take it?"

"I gave you the opportunity," Captain corrected. "You made the choice. And from what I saw last night, you made the right one."

Felix looked down at the deck, his vision blurring slightly.

"I thought I'd ruined your life," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thought I'd stolen your livelihood, your craft. I've carried that for three years."

"I had other decks," Captain said. "And I'd been performing for twenty years by then. I could afford to lose one deck if it meant giving a kid a chance." His expression softened. "But you didn't ruin anything, Felix. You took what I offered and turned it into something beautiful."

"The troupe did that," Felix protested. "They took me in. Taught me. Gave me a real stage, a real audience. Gave me this coat." He touched the rhinestones self-consciously. "They made me the Card Master."

"They gave you the opportunity," Captain echoed. "But you did the work. You learned the cards. You practiced until your hands knew the moves without thinking. You built the routines, developed the patter, found your own style." He smiled. "That wasn't the troupe. That was you."

Felix swallowed hard. "I still feel like I stole it. Like I took something I didn't deserve."

"Did you?" Captain asked. "Or did you take something you were meant to have and spend three years earning it?"

The question hung in the air between them.

"You could've sold that deck," Captain pointed out. "First week on the streets, you could've traded it for food or coin or a warm place to sleep. But you didn't. You kept it. Protected it. Learned every card, every shuffle, every trick you could figure out." He nodded toward the cards in Felix's hands. "You didn't steal it, kid. You claimed it. There's a difference."

Felix's hands tightened on the deck.

He thought about the last three years. The hours of practice in his wagon while the troupe slept. The performances that went wrong and the ones that went right. The pocket dragons stealing his cards and him patiently retrieving them, over and over. The broken props and spilled water and Forge's long-suffering sighs.

The first time he'd stepped onto the troupe's stage in this coat and felt like he was becoming who he was meant to be.

"I've never stolen anything since," Felix said quietly. "Not once. I swore I wouldn't."

"Good," Captain said. "That means you learned something important."

"That stealing is wrong?"

"That taking something without earning it leaves a weight you can't put down." Captain's voice was gentle. "But you've earned this deck now, Felix. Every card, every performance, every person who's watched you and felt that same wonder you felt when you watched me. You've earned it."

Felix looked up, his eyes stinging. "You really think so?"

"I watched you last night," Captain said. "That routine with the floating cards? I've been doing this for decades and I couldn't figure out how you did it. You've gone beyond anything I could've taught you." He smiled. "Yeah, kid. You've earned it."

They sat in silence for a moment, but this time it felt different. Lighter.

"You did good," Captain said finally, standing and brushing off his coat. "Really good. Keep doing what you're doing. Keep making people feel that wonder. That's what the cards are for."

Felix stood too, the deck still in his hands but feeling different now. Not lighter, exactly. But right.

"Thank you," he managed. "For the deck. For the chance. For—"

"For seeing what you could become?" Captain finished. He clapped Felix on the shoulder. "That's what we do, kid. We see the magic in things other people miss."

He started to walk away, then paused and looked back.

"I told you before, my name's Captain," he said. "Captain Waters. Wasn't what I wanted to be—my father named me for the destiny he wanted me to have. But I became the Card Master instead." He smiled. "Figured you should know—you can choose who you become. And remember what I said before: your starting point doesn't define your destination."

Felix nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

Captain tipped an imaginary hat and disappeared into the morning crowd.

Felix stood on the street corner, holding the deck that had changed his life, and for the first time in three years, the weight of it felt different.

Not lighter.

But earned.

 

EPILOGUE

"...and for the first time in three years, the weight of it felt different. Not lighter. But earned."

Mender's voice was soft as he finished the story, his pocket watch resting peacefully in the palm of his hand. The wagon was warm and quiet, filled with the gentle sounds of breathing and the occasional pop from the small stove in the corner.

The children sat curled together on cushions and blankets, their cheeks still rosy from playing in the snow. Lyric and Lumina's little girl—the one with hair like moonlight—had her head on her brother's shoulder, both of them processing what they'd heard.

The pocket dragons had finally settled down, draped across various surfaces like tiny, colorful decorations. Ember dozed on the windowsill. Twilight was tangled in someone's scarf. Glimmer had claimed a spot on top of the tea kettle, soaking up the warmth.

"Is that really how it happened, Uncle Felix?" the boy asked, looking over at Felix with wide eyes.

Felix smiled from where he sat near the door, his long coat—still covered in rhinestones after all these years—catching the lamplight. "Every word."

"Even the part about the dragons wearing your coat?"

"Especially that part," Felix said, shooting a mock-glare at Glimmer, who chirped innocently.

The little girl sat up slightly. "And Captain Waters really left the deck for you on purpose?"

"He did," Felix confirmed. "Gave me a chance when I didn't know I needed one."

"That's what family does," Rosey said warmly from her spot near the stove, where she'd been preparing hot cocoa throughout the story. "We give each other chances."

"And pocket dragons," the boy added solemnly. "Family gives each other pocket dragons."

Vigil made a sound that might have been a laugh. "Flint thinks that is not always intentional."

"But always worth it," Lumina said, her lights glowing soft gold as she gathered her children close. "Right, little ones?"

Both children nodded, their eyes drifting to the sleeping dragons with new understanding.

Felix caught Mender's eye across the wagon and nodded once—a silent thank you for telling his story, for making it real for the next generation.

Mender smiled, tucking his silver watch safely into it's home in his pocket.

 

The snow had stopped by the time they began preparing to head back down the mountain. The children had been bundled up and sent to their respective wagons, full of cocoa and stories and the kind of tiredness that came from a perfect day.

Felix helped Wren secure their belongings in their wagon, moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been traveling for years.

"That was a good story," Wren said, handing Felix a bundle of blankets to pack. "The children loved it."

"Mender tells it better than I could," Felix admitted. "Makes it sound more... I don't know. Meaningful."

"It is meaningful," Wren said, pausing to look at him. "You know that, right? What you overcame. What you built."

Felix smiled and kissed her forehead. "I know."

A soft sound came from the cradle secured near the front of the wagon—their baby, stirring from a nap.

Wren moved to check on them while Felix continued packing, sorting through boxes and bags with the methodical focus of someone trying to make everything fit.

He was reorganizing an old trunk—one he hadn't opened in months—when his hand closed around something small and waxy.

Felix pulled it out and stared.

A candle.

Cream-colored, slightly misshapen, with a wick that had never been lit.

For a moment, he couldn't place it. Then the memory hit him like a wave.

The Gypsy woman. The market. 'Light it when you know what you truly want.'

Felix had been—what, eleven? Twelve? A desperate street kid who'd tucked the candle away because he didn't know what to wish for. Didn't know what he was allowed to want.

He'd forgotten about it entirely.

"What's that?" Wren asked, settling back with their baby in her arms.

"A wish candle," Felix said slowly. "Someone gave it to me years ago. Before the troupe. Before... everything."

Wren raised an eyebrow. "A wish candle? Does it work?"

"I don't know," Felix admitted. "I never lit it."

"Why not?"

Felix looked down at the candle, turning it over in his hands. "Because I didn't know what to wish for. I was just trying to survive, and a wish seemed like... too much. Too big."

Their baby made a soft cooing sound, and Felix looked up.

Wren stood in the lamplight, holding their child with the easy confidence of new parenthood. Behind her, through the wagon's small window, Felix could see the rest of the Troupe preparing to leave—Forge checking the cart wheels, North consulting her maps, Vigil tending to Gentle, Brave, and the other Trotters, Lyric and Lumina herding their children with patient laughter.

His family.

His life.

Everything he'd never known how to ask for.

"I think," Felix said quietly, "I'd like to light it now."

 

Wren watched as Felix set the candle on the small table and struck a match.

The wick caught easily, and a small flame flickered to life.

Felix waited, watching it carefully.

The flame was... ordinary. Just a normal, warm, golden flame. No special color. No magical shimmer. No sign that this candle was anything other than what it appeared to be—a simple piece of wax and wick.

Felix let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"No magic?" Wren asked gently.

"No," Felix said. Then he smiled. "But I don't think there ever was."

"What do you mean?"

Felix looked at the candle, then at Wren, then at their baby—who was watching the flame with wide, fascinated eyes.

"I think," he said slowly, "the magic was never in the candle. It was in having something to hope for. In believing that someday I might have something worth wishing for." He touched the edge of the table, his voice soft. "The Gypsy gave me hope when I had nothing else. And that was enough."

Wren shifted their baby to one arm and reached for Felix's hand with the other. "And now?"

"Now," Felix said, squeezing her hand, "I have everything I never knew I wanted."

He looked around the wagon—at the coat hanging on its peg, rhinestones still catching the light. At the deck of cards on the shelf, worn and loved and earned. At the small chaos of their life together, the troupe outside, the pocket dragons probably stealing something even now.

At Wren and their baby, watching him with matching expressions of warmth and love.

The wish had already come true.

Felix leaned forward and gently blew out the candle.

The flame disappeared, leaving only a thin trail of smoke that curled upward and faded into nothing.

"There," Felix said quietly. "Done."

"What did you wish for?" Wren asked.

Felix smiled and pulled her close, careful of the baby between them. "Nothing. I already have it."

 

A soft flutter of wings announced the arrival of the pocket dragons, who had apparently sensed that something interesting was happening and decided to investigate.

Ember landed on Felix's shoulder with her usual confidence. Twilight perched on the edge of the cradle, peering down at the baby with curious eyes. The others scattered around the wagon, poking into corners and investigating the packing with their typical nosiness.

The baby's eyes went wide.

Then, to Felix and Wren's delight, the baby laughed—a pure, delighted sound that filled the small space.

Tiny, chubby hands reached towards Twilight, who obligingly hopped closer and allowed herself to be gently touched.

"Careful," Felix murmured, but Twilight was already leaning into the baby's touch, her scales shimmering in the lamplight, a soft pur radiating from her throat.

Glimmer flew a lazy circle around the cradle, and the baby's eyes tracked the movement with absolute wonder. Spark and Moss joined in, creating a gentle aerial dance that made the baby giggle and reach and smile with pure joy.

Felix felt his throat tighten.

This. This was what he'd dreamed of  without realizing it.

Not just survival. Not just success or skill or recognition.

But this—family, love, belonging, and tiny dragons making his child laugh with wonder.

Wren leaned her head against his shoulder, watching their baby watch the dragons.

"They're going to be a handful," she said, but she was smiling.

"The dragons or the baby?"

"Both."

Felix laughed and wrapped his arm around her. "Good. I wouldn't have it any other way."

Outside, someone called that they were ready to head down the mountain. The Troupe was packed, the Trotters were harnessed, and the path was clear.

Felix took one last look at the candle—cold and ordinary and perfect—then tucked it back into the trunk.

He didn't need it anymore.

He had achieved his dreams.

 

THE END