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“But I cannot follow you there,” Detraeus growled. The spines of his tail rippled, his posture stiff and anxious.

The spring of his childrens’ thirteenth year had come. Both had the dragon orbs and requisite skill necessary to present themselves before a racial leader and progress as warriors, officially, to the next stage of their training. He had been carrying on an argument — discussion — in relation to that subject with his mate for the better part of an hour.

Araceli, and Ataya and Akara, for that matter, wanted to make the trip to the Celestial Plane. She had recognition from her clan leader, a reputation and standing — enough to, apparently, merit her bringing their children to the Plane, hybrid bloodline or not — and she wanted to give them the chance to see that part of their heritage. Land they may not be permitted to ever tread on, later in their years.

Detraeus wanted nothing to do with it.

“You, and they, would be completely beyond my reach,” he snapped. “It is a hole of dovaa…only dovaa. They permit no one else there. Do you expect them to be accepting? Do you expect them to be kind? I do not want you…or either of our children anywhere where I cannot follow. If something happened to you there…”

Detraeus bristled at the thought. No. He couldn’t protect them if he couldn’t be with them, and would not even be made aware if something went amiss. The purpose of the presentation itself alluded him as well. Their children had nothing to prove to any race leader. They, as parents, could accept their orbs as a token of progression if Araceli was set on following the tradition, but they did not need to travel to an alternate plane in order to meet some unspoken standard. If anything, as Detraeus had already suggested, they could take them to Soudul. There, at the very least, both he and Ara could make the trip and be present to see to their childrens’ safety.

“Better that I could be there,” Detraeus grunted.

His vote, though, was outnumbered. Ataya and Akara wanted to go. Lithian promised he would keep constant company with both Araceli and the two children, and at length, Detraeus eventually gave up. He still disagreed. The concept terrified him. Something would go wrong. But Araceli could not be ordered what to do anymore than he could, and if she insisted on bringing their children to her home world, he would not physically bar her from doing so.

In a week’s time, after the last of the winter’s frost gave way to new grass and arrangements were made in terms of clothes and materials for travel, they set off down the mountains. Detraeus travelled with them to Taliuma where they met up with Lithian, and watched, brittle with anxiety when the ship which would take them to the portal left dock with his children on board.

Ataya could not have felt more differently.

Never having been on a ship before, the concept fascinated him: the rigging, the sails, the structure, the concept of taking something so large and steering it out where there wouldn’t be land for farther than the eye could see. It almost made the stares they received onboard ignorable.

“Mother…” he said, touching his hands to the rail and trailing his hands over the varnished wood, smooth and sturdy. “How large is this ocean? Will there be storms, do you think, while we’re out on it — and how long will it take us? I read that the portal used to be only a great water spout, and that you had to swim down its vortex to reach Abronaxus’ plane…”

“I bet you could swim here,” Ataya pointed out, propping himself against the rail and eyeing the open ocean on all sides. “It must be so deep…but Uncle could pull you out again, couldn’t you.” His gaze flicked in Lithian’s direction at the statement, but received raised eyebrows and a cleared throat in response.

“Somehow,” Lithian responded, “I don’t feel as though your mother would approve of such an adventure. The ocean here is vast indeed…most of it wholly unexplored. There is no telling what lurks beneath the surface, particularly in those reaches deeper than any light reaches…”

Ataya decided in that moment that one day he would explore to such reaches, somehow. With enough magic, and planning, it had to be possible.

As predicted, the ship cut its way through the sea for a day, unimpeded by foul wind or storm, and they arrived on the morning of the following day at the expansive docks surrounding the mage-formed portal looming over the celestial vortex. After docking, as the other passengers made their way through the proceedings to be permitted through the portal, Ataya and Akara were stopped and ushered aside, their mother and uncle moving with them as they were diverted from the crowds.

One of the clearance guards — armed and armored — shook his head. “What are these?”

Ataya opened his mouth. “We’re here t—”

“Hybrid.” The man looked to Lithian and then Araceli. “Take them back onto the ship. You ought to know better than to bring such embarrassments here. The Plane of our god is not to be sullied by the unfortunate byproduct of your off-world mistakes.”

“Our meeting is arranged for,” Lithian said, voice crisp but even. “Araceli Doryu…” He nodded his head towards her, “…fought for Lord Ysaride against the patchwork abominations of two decades past and earned honor for herself there. I am Lithian Bhardvaris, and I served our people against the Maralan constructs and healed in the aftermath. These children have clearance to present the products of their training before our leader. I would suggest that you do not keep him waiting…”

“Bhardvaris.” The man grunted, snatching up the medal Ara held out and lifting it up to squint at as the bustle of other travellers continued to pass them. “Bhardvaris, Bhardvaris…” After a long moment, he lowered the medal and looked Lithian over. “You know…that is familiar. Isn’t it former Bhardvaris, then? I heard one of ‘em ran away. Got himself disowned for deciding his family was less important than runnin’ off to go sit on some hybrid’s c**k.”

The muscles in Lithian’s shoulders stiffened like rigging pulled taut. At his side, Ataya squinted and tilted his head, his anger momentarily distracted by confusion.

“Sit…on…?”

“There are children here,” Lithian grit out, drawing out and unfurling a signed and stamped missive, marked with the seal of the celestial fortress. “You will clear us. Or you will find yourself regretting several life choices.”

The guard glanced to the paper, scanning it dismissively before looking back to Lithian. His chuckle when it came was thick, and low, his expression taking on an entirely different dynamic this time as his gaze trailed down him. “I knew that name was familiar…bit fiery for a peisio, aren’t you? Go on, then.” He notched his head towards the crowd and the steps leading through the portal, tongue flicking over his teeth. “Maybe when you come back through, you can convince me I’m makin’ the right choice, mm? Remind you what real dovaa is like, ‘stead of some melted down half-breed…”

At his wink, Lithian barely managed not to grimace. “I'd rather be a priest.” After re-furling the note, he snatched up the medal, placed his hand at Ataya’s back, and guided him away alongside his sister and mother. Ataya frowned, eyes lingering in the guard’s direction, but he held his tongue until they were nearly to the portal and well out of earshot of him.

“Uncle,” he asked, “do you really sit on—”

“If you’re still curious, Ataya, and if your mother permits, we can have this conversation when you are sixteen,” Lithian said, “but not a day before. Do you understand?”

“But—”

“Not a day before.” Lithian gave a gentle nudge towards the portal’s entrance, and they stepped through.

Ataya held the guard’s words in his memory long after they passed through the portal. Not just the ones about his uncle, but all of them: hybrid, embarrassment, off-world mistake, and a smear on the dovaa god’s name. Beside them, he tucked a mental note for every stare they got, every grimace, frown, and shake of the head. Every person who stopped to whisper. Every passerby who abruptly skirted further out of their path when they realized what they were. Every child who stared as though observing some foreign lifeform. The world had a problem with his parents loving each other, and it made this obvious. It had a problem with his uncles loving each other. It had a problem with him.

Ahead, the Celestial Plane was beautiful. A great, glimmering city. Elegant. Grand. Pristine.

And built for dovaa.

He enjoyed seeing his grandparents, but whatever pleasure he got out of it was ground down at the edges by the surrounding experience of his mother’s homeworld. By the time he was stepping through the looming, arched doors of the Celestial Fortress and walking its halls towards Marcus Ysaride’s chambers, his stride was stiff, shoulders set, chin nocked up, and expression hard, brimming with ready defiance.

The guards before Ysaride’s door spared them only cool, cursory glances before the scribe at their side confirmed their names and clearance. The great doors gave a low, creaking groan as they opened to permit them inside. It was difficult — for a child who had never experienced architecture any more grand than the desert churches of Taliuma — not to be impressed with the sheer size and majesty of it all. After allowing his eyes to dart everywhere once upon entering, though, Ataya did his best to curb his curiosity and look as unaffected as possible. Behind them, the doors clacked shut, and a ripple travelled up his skin.

“Araceli…Ataya, and Akara Doryu…” Marcus Ysaride’s voice seemed to fill the room intrinsically, full and powerful to every corner without sounding like a shout. His eyes flicked to each of them, holding Ataya’s stare for a moment when he met it before moving on and lingering on his mother. “You bring before me children of oblivionite blood—”

“We aren’t—” Ataya cut in.

“—who wish, nonetheless, to bring a testament of their progress before Abronaxus.” Ysaride’s gaze met Ataya’s again, holding it firmly for a long moment, as though in silent reprimand, until finally — much to his embarrassment — Ataya diverted his eyes, brow pinching and cheeks warming. Ysaride’s attention moved to his sister. “Come, girl…I sense you carry peisio magic within you. Show me what you have traveled here to present.”

Ysaride reached out, lifting each of the orbs set before him in turn before nodding and accepting the pair. “Good. And you…” His eyes turned to Ataya, who this time managed to hold the stare despite the hard stutter of his pulse in his chest, “…child…”

“Ataya.”

“Girl?”

“Boy.”

“Boy,” Ysaride repeated.

Ataya approached on stiff legs, his breath coming out white, frosted by the nervous pulse of his emotions. He drew two, gleaming red-gold firani orbs out and set them before the dovaa race leader, gaze narrow and sharp, daring the man to find fault with them. Ysaride tilted his head, thumbing over each before glancing to him.

“So…boy. What do you think of the city of the dovaa, and the plane Abronaxus built for your mother’s people?”

“Not enough hybrids.”

Ysaride blinked, clearly startled for a moment. Then, he laughed. Amusement lit his eyes, a — so far as Ataya could tell — genuine smile gracing his lips, though Ataya hadn’t meant it to be funny. At length, he notched his head back towards the adults. “Go. These suffice.” As Ataya bit his lip and retreated, Ysaride glanced to Lithian and then Araceli. “Only the children?”

“Only the children,” Lithian confirmed.

“Very well.” Ysaride moved back to stand behind the massive expanse of his desk and waved a hand dismissively. “See yourselves out.”

The doors groaned again as they opened, and Ataya frowned at them, wondering how, precisely, they worked as they stepped through them. Great and heavy as they were, they seemed to move on their own. Ysaride’s spellwork, perhaps?

Ataya promised himself, as they stepped out, that one day he would return. Powerful. Worthy of respect. And ready to take on the shape of a dragon. Until then, he had much work to do. Together, after another short period spent with his grandparents, the four of them were headed back for the night ship out, and on their way home.