"Sourdough! Two cups of flour! One cup of starter! Don't let the crust burn!" Tybalt's voice was a jagged scream, cutting through the shimmering hum of the Engine Room. He was gripping his rolling pin so hard his knuckles were white, his eyes squeezed shut. "It's a light bake! Just a light bake!"
"Ren, if I forget how to make a croissant because of this glow-in-the-dark lizard, I'm going to kill you first!" Red yelled, though her voice sounded distant, like she was speaking from the bottom of a well. She was staggering, her daggers drooping as she stared at the Star-Warden.
The small dragon didn't move. It didn't need to. Its wings, made of shifting nebulae, cast a light that didn't just illuminate the room—it saturated your thoughts. Every time I tried to focus on the blue crystal beneath its paws, a memory of my old life—the office, the computer screen, the taste of cheap coffee—would flicker and vanish, replaced by a cold, empty static.
