The sun hung high over the merged orchard that now straddled the Eternal Bridge, casting dappled shadows through leaves that rustled with a blend of Kot Addu's warm breeze and Elandria's faint magical hum. It was a lazy mid-morning in what Ahmed Khan liked to call "bridge time"—that perfect overlap when the portal's alignment made the two worlds feel like one seamless backyard. The original mango trees from his family's plot in Kot Addu had grown taller here, their branches intertwining with Elandrian starbloom vines that added a subtle glow to the fruit, making each mango shimmer like a captured sunset. Birds from Punjab chirped alongside iridescent featherwings from the Whispering Dunes, creating a symphony that was equal parts familiar and fantastical.
Ahmed—still Aelar Thorne in formal council meetings but always Ahmed in these quiet family moments—leaned against the oldest tree, watching his children with the mix of pride and mild exasperation that came with parenting hybrids. Ten years had flown by since the bridge's opening, and with it, the first wave of a new generation had arrived. His bonds with Vixen, Kira, and Sylara had deepened into something eternal, their love manifesting in three extraordinary children who embodied the best (and sometimes the most chaotic) of both worlds.
Ammar Thorne-Khan was the eldest at ten years old, a sturdy boy with his father's dark hair streaked silver like Kira's fur, and subtle wolf-scales patterning his shoulders and arms—armor-like but flexible, glinting in the sun. His eyes were a piercing blue, inherited from his mother, and when he got excited, a low growl rumbled in his chest. Ammar was the protector type: always watching over his siblings, quick to jump into any fray, but with a heart as big as the Indus plains.
Right now, he was in the middle of the orchard, practicing his "pack call"—a howl that could summon minor wind gusts, a gift from Kira's lineage fused with High Human mana. He puffed out his chest, took a deep breath, and let loose: "Awoooo!"
The howl echoed louder than intended. Leaves rustled violently; a nearby mango tree shook, and three ripe fruits plummeted straight down—right onto his head.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Ammar staggered back, rubbing his scalp with a scaled hand. "Ow! Abba, did you see that? The tree attacked me!"
Ahmed chuckled, walking over to help pick up the fallen mangoes. "Beta, that's not the tree— that's your howl getting stronger. Remember what I said? Control the breath, like reciting a kafi. Slow and steady."
Ammar nodded, his blue eyes determined. "Like Bulleh Shah's 'Bulleh ki jaana main kaun'? Slow build-up to the punch?"
Ahmed ruffled his hair—careful of the scales. "Exactly. Poetry isn't just words—it's rhythm. Your power's the same."
From behind a cluster of starbloom vines came a mischievous giggle. Zara Thorne-Fox, eight years old and as sly as her mother, peeked out with amber eyes sparkling like fresh honey. Her russet tail—fluffy and expressive—swished behind her, and faint illusion patterns danced across her skin like temporary tattoos. She had Vixen's cunning smile and Ahmed's quick wit, but her powers were pure chaos: minor illusions that could fool the senses, perfect for pranks.
"Did someone say punch?" Zara quipped, waving her hand. Suddenly, the air shimmered, and a dozen illusory mangoes rained down on Ammar—not real, but they felt squishy and sticky for a split second before vanishing.
Ammar sputtered, wiping phantom juice from his face. "Zara! Not fair—your illusions are cheating!"
Zara stuck out her tongue. "Not cheating—creativity! Mama says illusions are the best defense. Watch this!"
She concentrated, her tail twitching. The ground around Ammar rippled like water, turning into an illusory quicksand pit. Ammar yelped and jumped back—only to land on his backside in real dirt.
Ahmed suppressed a laugh. "Zara, enough. Powers are for helping, not sibling sabotage."
"But Abba," Zara protested innocently, "it's training! Like the Saraiki fox and jackal tale—fox tricks jackal into the well for moon cheese. I'm the fox!"
Ahmed knelt to her level. "And what happened to the jackal? He learned to be wittier next time. Use your gifts to lift others up, like Bulleh Shah dancing to break his ego—not to trip your brother."
Zara pouted but nodded, her illusions fading. "Okay. But can I make illusion parathas for lunch? No calories!"
Ahmed grinned. "Deal—if you help set the table."
From higher in the tree came a soft, tinkling laugh like wind chimes in frost. Liyana Thorne-Frost, the youngest at seven, perched on a branch with her pale blue scales catching the light like fresh snow. Tiny wings—still growing, a blend of Sylara's dragon heritage and High Human adaptability—fluttered excitedly. She had her mother's serene wisdom in her golden eyes, but Ahmed's quiet curiosity. Her breath carried a chill, perfect for minor frost spells that could cool a hot day or preserve a mango mid-bite.
"Look, Abba! I made a snow mango!" Liyana held up a fruit she'd frosted over, turning it into a glittering ice sculpture that didn't melt in the heat.
Ahmed caught it as she tossed it down—cool but not cold enough to burn. "Beautiful, beti. But remember—frost is gentle. Too much, and the tree might shiver."
Liyana nodded solemnly. "Like Shah Bhitai's Sassui—crossing mountains but not freezing her heart."
Ahmed's heart swelled. At seven, she already quoted poetry like a little saint.
The three children gathered around him under the tree, the chaos of moments ago settling into that perfect family quiet. Ammar sat cross-legged, rubbing a scale on his arm; Zara curled her tail around her knees; Liyana fluttered down to nestle against his side.
"Story time?" Ammar asked hopefully.
Ahmed smiled. "Always. But today, it's lesson time too. Your powers are emerging stronger—chaotic, like a young river finding its path. We need to train them, with help from both sides of the family."
He pulled out the worn leather book—Khawaja Ghulam Farid's Diwan-e-Farid—and a newer one with Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai's Shah Jo Risalo. "We'll start with poetry. Words shape the soul—and your magic."
Ammar leaned in. "Like how my howl shook the tree? Can poetry make it stronger?"
"Stronger and smarter," Ahmed replied. "Listen to this from Bulleh Shah: 'Bulleh ki jaana main kaun? Na main momin vich masjidan…' (Bulleh, who knows who I am? Not a believer inside mosques…) It's about letting go of labels—sayyid or peasant, wolf or human. Your scales are part of you, but not all. Recite it when your howl feels wild— it'll center you."
Ammar tried: "Bulleh ki jaana… main kaun?" His voice rumbled low; a soft wind stirred, but controlled—no falling mangoes.
"Good!" Ahmed praised.
Zara fidgeted. "What about illusions? They're fun, but sometimes they… stick around too long."
Ahmed flipped to Farid's Kafi 18. "This one's about wasted time—'Musag malyndi da guzar gaya dinh sara…' (The day passed rubbing teeth with miswak…) It's a reminder: don't chase empty tricks. Use your illusions for truth, like veils that reveal rather than hide."
Zara concentrated, reciting softly. An illusion mango appeared in her palm—not deceptive, but one that shimmered to show its inner seed, like a lesson in growth.
Liyana clapped. "Pretty! My turn?"
Ahmed opened Bhitai's Risalo to Sassui Punnhun. "For you, beti—Sassui crosses mountains for love, enduring cold and heat. Your frost is like her resolve: cool the fire, but don't freeze the heart."
Liyana breathed softly: "Sassui di awaz—Kohyari te chadhdi ae…" A gentle mist formed, cooling the air without chilling—perfect for a hot Punjab day.
The training montage began in earnest. Ahmed's mother emerged from the house, carrying a tray of sweets—gajar halwa and fresh jalebi.
"Grandchildren! Training without nani's fuel? Nahin chalega!" she declared, setting it down. "Eat first—then poetry."
Ahmed's father joined, sitting on a low charpoy. "And abbu's stories. Remember the Saraiki fox and jackal? Fox tricks jackal into well for 'moon cheese.' Jackal climbs out wittier—lesson: pranks teach, but don't drown."
Zara's eyes lit up. "Like my illusions! Nani, can I make illusion jalebi?"
"Only if it's calorie-free," his mother quipped, winking.
From the portal side came more family: Vixen sauntered through, tail swishing. "Heard there was training—and treats."
Kira bounded in, shifting mid-stride to scoop up Ammar in a hug. "My little wolf—show me that howl!"
Sylara glided over, wings spreading shade. "And frost lessons, little one."
The grandparents from Elandria arrived too—Thalira with her rumbling wisdom, Grom the bear-kin elder with his gruff tales.
Thalira sat heavily, the ground trembling slightly. "Your human poetry—strong as dragon fire. Teach the hatchlings."
Ahmed's grandmother beamed. "And our Saraiki legends—soft as mango pulp, deep as the Indus."
The montage unfolded in joyful chaos:
Ammar practiced howls under Kira's guidance—starting soft like Bulleh's whisper, building to controlled gusts that rustled leaves without shaking trees. "Feel the words, pup—'Bulleh ki jaana'—let ego blow away."
Zara wove illusions with Vixen: fake mango rains that turned into real flower petals when recited Farid's kafi. "Illusions are veils—lift them with truth, kit."
Liyana frosted fruits with Sylara: gentle breaths reciting Bhitai's Sassui, cooling without freezing. "Balance the cold, flame—like mountains enduring wind."
Grandparents chimed in: Ahmed's father told the peasant and goldsmith tale— "Cheat the poor, turn to gold—frozen greed!" Grom added an Elandrian twist: "Like the dwarf who hoarded gems—turned to stone statue!"
Ahmed's grandmother hummed Pathanay Khan: "Eh awaz te powers nu calm kardi ae." (This voice calms the powers.)
Thalira shared dragonkin lore: "Our elders sang of frost-wings crossing fire-veils—much like your Sassi."
By sunset, the children were exhausted but glowing—literally, their hybrid auras flickering with controlled magic.
Ahmed gathered them close. "You're the first generation—the bridge walkers. Powers are gifts, but family is the true strength."
Ammar nodded solemnly. "Abba, can we train in Elandria tomorrow? I want to howl from the spire!"
Zara: "And make illusion bridges!"
Liyana: "And frost the stars!"
Ahmed laughed. "Tomorrow—and every day after."
As night fell, the family sat under the tree—two worlds' stars shining through the open portal. Ahmed's mother passed chai; stories flowed like the Indus.
The chapter closed on that promise: the next generation rising, ready to walk the eternal bridge.