Hartiel, a coworker with a smile like dawn slicing through warehouse smog, saw through Ashton's guarded walls. Her auburn hair caught the dim light of sodium bulbs, her bracelets clinking like wind chimes as she stacked boxes with a grace that belied her sharp tongue. She didn't pry, just slid him coffee in a chipped mug during late shifts, her hazel eyes catching his curt "fine" with a nod that said she knew better. Her warmth was a quiet anchor in the warehouse's grind, her laughter a spark in the gray. One Saturday, her text buzzed his cracked phone, the screen spiderwebbed from a drop during a forklift mishap: "Farmer's market, 10. Get your ass there." No question, just her command, bold as the glittery eyeliner framing her eyes, a challenge he couldn't refuse.
The market pulsed under a spring sky, the air sharp with fresh-cut grass, baking bread, and the sweet bite of citrus. Peaches glistened like amber in wooden crates, sunflowers towered like sentinels, their petals bold against the morning haze, roots still caked with earth. A fiddler shredded a weathered violin, notes weaving through stalls piled with lavender soap, handmade quilts, and jars of honey glowing like liquid gold, their labels curling in the humidity. Hartiel tried on silver rings, her laugh sharp as she haggled with a vendor, her bracelets clanging like a storm, drowning out the crowd's hum. Ashton's canvas bag tore, peaches rolling across the dirt, bouncing into a kid's sneakers, the boy giggling as he kicked one back. "Smooth, dipshit," Hartiel teased, kneeling to help, her fingers quick as she tossed him a fruit, her grin infectious. Ashton muttered thanks, cheeks warm, the market's colors—red tomatoes, yellow petals—a faint echo of his dream's paint rain, easing the knot in his chest.
In a crystal shop, incense hung thick as fog, amethysts and quartz glinting in candlelight, their facets catching the sun like prisms. Hartiel seized a selenite wand, its milky glow reflecting in her eyes, her grip firm. "I'm no witch," she snapped, cutting off Ashton's smirk with a glare that could cut steel. "Priestess, retard. Know the difference." Her voice softened, a rare crack in her armor: "My husband, Henry, is a dragon, his heart forged in valor's flame." Ashton blinked, reality tilting like a glitched VR rig, the incense stinging his nose, the shop's shadows shifting. Henry entered—tall, serene, his presence commanding the air like a storm held in check. His suit was crisp, but his eyes hinted at scales, a predator's calm beneath human skin. His handshake was firm, a pledge, his voice steady as oak: "Lucina calls, young man. A warrior of your dream, bound to you by fate."
Marines in hoodies flanked him, their calm strength a contrast to the market's chaos. Harley, a mechanic with a rogue's grin, carried a wrench like a scepter, her overalls smudged with grease, a spark plug dangling from her belt. Cam, a comms expert, adjusted an earpiece with surgical precision, his eyes scanning like a hawk's. Zreri, a wolf anthro built like a fortress, her gray fur gleaming, scanned the crowd, ears twitching like sentinels, claws flexing as she stood guard. "We're here for purpose," Hartiel said, her gaze fierce, bracelets still, her voice cutting through the fiddler's notes. "To bring her back." Ashton nodded, the dream's colors—teal, magenta—stirring in his chest, sharp as a blade. "Lucina," he said, the name slicing through years of pain, a vow to the woman who'd fought for him. Henry's eyes gleamed, a dragon's promise: "Let us not delay the lady."