The air in Veilheim carried a chill, sharp with waiting. Snow fell slow - like threads from the night itself - draping roofs and trees alike, glowing beneath skies streaked by endless northern lights. Town folk hustled now; Solstice plans unfolding fast, filling streets with flicker and noise. Creatures called Veilhorns flitted past, their feathery wings catching color from surroundings, fur matching snow-draped woods. They tied up ribbons made of faint star glow, set down bright stones that hummed on walkways, while paper lamps bobbed above paths, each holding a captured sunrise inside. After that, everything went still. Not like the calm you get when snow’s falling - more like an empty pause, stunned and unsure. It started small. One shiny ball had disappeared off a windowsill. Then, some glowing ice-shaped lights were no longer hanging where they belonged. Before long, each little loss added up - no more decorations, no festive strings, nothing left that showed someone got ready for the Solstice. The big Solstice Star, supposed to sit on top of the highest pine in the open area, was just an empty spot now. Because the Orb of Endless Light - the core of the whole event - had disappeared from its stand. Panic hit Veilheim - sudden, icy, like a gust at midnight. Smiles faded; eyes widened with unease instead. Without its usual glow, the place seemed hollow, left behind. Harvey stood close to where Mireille used to be, his dark smoke-colored fur - patched with silver and shadow - twitching from worry. His feathery white wings sagged low behind him. "I... I can't believe it," he whispered, heart heavy seeing the ruins around them. Next to him, Severyn quietly agreed; her bright pale coat seemed out of place amid the wreckage. "Why destroy this?" she said instead of crying. Her magic glow - the one that normally danced like fireflies - was flat now, matching how everyone else felt. As the town struggled, something wild stirred up top - way above - in the sharp, wind-bitten mountains called the Northern Spires. Inside a huge fortress hacked out of black stone, thick with smoke, laughs boomed alongside low growls. A pack of hungry dragons, skins flashing like coins in sunlight, stumbled on fresh loot that sparkled. They didn’t act by themselves either. Mireille stood near a tall spike of rock, her dark caramel-and-pearl speckled coat glowing from the warm flicker of dragon fire. She lined up round orbs filled with trapped starlight one by one - each placed just right. Her dappled brown fairy wings buzzed softly in quiet pride. Nearby, Atlas watched closely while a young dragon set down a huge, throbbing Solstice stone into a heap of shiny gold. His silvery-blue, shimmering hide sparkled under dim light. As he waved dramatically, his leathery bat wings blocked the glint of an old sapphire for a second - pure showmanship, like always. "No, no, darling Ignis," Atlas drawled, his fiery element sparking at his horntip. "A little to the left. It needs to reflect better off that pile of goblin teeth. Aesthetic, dear boy, it’s all about the aesthetic." Mireille chuckled, a low, pleased sound. "You're enjoying this far too much, Atlas." "And you're not?" he retorted, a smirk playing on his lips. "The sheer audacity of it all! Stealing every single glittering bauble from under their upturned noses. It's simply delicious!" They’d slipped right in, like it was meant to happen. The dragons, bored stiff up on the peaks, went hunting for anything glittery instead. Mireille, always chasing dark thrills and twisted magic, couldn’t say no to the risk. Cracking Veilheim’s shields felt like a game - she slithered through with quiet spells, silenced warnings, swapped reality just enough to fool eyes. Atlas, never one to miss a show, soaked up the madness like the sun. His flames, normally just flash and flare, sparked fake fires in open fields - not dangerous, just loud enough to make folks turn their heads. He’d still cut deals with the younger dragons - easier to sway - swapping prime display spots for shiny new loot. Not because they needed cash; nah, it was the rush, the chaos, that raw joy of stirring trouble. In Veilheim, sadness hung heavy - almost like smoke in the throat. Still, right there in the mess, two people held their ground instead of backing down. Not letting the winter celebration fade, Harvey with Severyn decided to spark something real - a quiet kind of fire where no one expected it. “We can't simply quit," Harvey said, voice steady even though his chest felt tight. Not really about decorations - the Solstice means brightness - also courage. Flapping his pale wings with purpose, he got moving. Frost curled from the cold sky as his magic sparkled, twisting water into delicate shapes lit from within by fake radiance. He made heaps of glowing specks hover, zipping around like mini suns caught mid-air, looping them into short-lived strings that hung on empty twigs. Feathers along his throat stood sharp with focus, his will low but strong. Severyn showed up, kind as always. Her magic was light, almost like breathing frost - she made icy flowers appear out of nowhere, quick and fleeting. Instead of real fire, she twisted starlight into tiny glowing shapes, shaky but warm-looking. “Feels different,” she said quietly, “still helps though.” Some works amazed people just fine, showing how tough folks could be - yet none closed the gap from that total robbery. A quiet yearning stuck around, like a party losing its spark, hanging over Veilheim. As Harvey worked hard, someone else from the Veilhorn line set off alone - his mind weighed down. Eryx moved fast, his bright catlike fur standing out sharp in the white snow. Something felt wrong, maybe even broken. He didn’t wait around; he acted, pushed by worry mixed with boldness. Family roots mattered to him - not just rules, but real meaning behind them. Lately, Mireille and Atlas had vanished way too often. And right where they’d been? A weird glow flickered - one that hummed like old magic - and it stretched toward the northern edge. He shook his head, whispering it wasn’t possible - yet that cold pull inside him said otherwise. Still, the sign was there, faint but clear: a thin line of power dragging northwest, right into the old dragon peaks where no one dared go. With a strong flap of his bird-like wings, Eryx shot up into the air. Cold wind slammed against his fur - still, he pushed forward, driven hard. Light flickered near him, not only lighting the darkening sky but also acting like a signal, a guide. He chased the weak magic trail Mireille left behind, feeling hints of Atlas’s flames beneath it. The trip felt dangerous - peaks got steeper, breath came slower, quiet split now and then by howling wind along with the steady flap of his strong wings. Climbing up more, body sore yet will be tougher each time the wind hits. A jagged shape appeared in the stormy sky - the dragon’s fortress. Thick black stone ate up what little light remained, like a gap torn into the hillside. Then his eyes caught it. Just a flicker, really - shifting hues he knew well, spilling from a tall, hollow slit above. Festival lights hung inside. Eryx came down, touching the snowy edge without a sound. Through a secret crack he moved, where the air smelled sharp - like burnt rock and old earth. Inside, everything stretched wide, cluttered with treasures no one had earned. Gold here, gems there, relics scattered under wavering flames from the beast’s breath. There they sat, right in the middle of everything - the looted riches from Veilheim. Wreaths made of pale light hung loosely, glassy orbs caught every flicker nearby, tiny chimes forged from frozen magic dangled quietly.