The Dragon's Keeper

The scent of crushed thyme and wild mint clung to Elara’s fingers, a familiar comfort against the chill of the morning air. Sunlight, still thin and watery, was just beginning to spill over the jagged peaks of the Dragon’s Teeth mountains, painting the ancient stone a bruised purple. Below, the village of Oakhaven was stirring, wisps of smoke curling from thatched chimneys, carrying the promise of warm bread and brewing tea. But Elara wasn’t thinking of breakfast. Her gaze was fixed on the gnarled roots of the ancient oak that gave the village its name, searching for the delicate, almost translucent petals of a moonpetal bloom.

Her basket, woven from supple willow branches by her own hands, swung gently at her hip, already half-full with an assortment of herbs: vibrant green feverfew, the earthy brown of dried comfrey root, and the silvery-grey leaves of dreamshade, carefully separated from the rest. Her grandmother, the village’s revered healer before her, had taught Elara to identify each plant by touch, by smell, even in the dimmest light. It was a skill Elara cherished, a quiet magic that hummed beneath her skin, connecting her to the earth, to the rhythm of life and growth.

A sigh escaped her lips, a wisp of white in the cool air. No moonpetals. Not yet. They were notoriously shy, blooming only under the rarest alignment of stars and the first kiss of dawn. She needed them for Old Man Hemlock’s cough, a persistent, rattling thing that had been plaguing him since the last full moon. Her grandmother would have known exactly where to find them, would have had a secret patch tucked away, known only to her. Elara, at twenty-two, still felt like an apprentice, forever chasing her grandmother’s shadow, even three years after the old woman’s passing.

A sudden, sharp cry ripped through the peaceful morning. It wasn't human. It was a sound that vibrated deep in her bones, a primal shriek of pain and fury that seemed to tear the very fabric of the air. Elara froze, her hand, still smelling of herbs, clutching the rough bark of the oak. The birds in the canopy above scattered, a flurry of wings and panicked chirps. The village below, usually a symphony of waking sounds, fell silent.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through her calm. That sound… it was impossible. It was a legend, a nightmare whispered around winter fires, a tale told to frighten disobedient children. But the raw agony in that cry was undeniably real.

It was the dragon.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, suffocating quiet. The Dragon’s Teeth mountains were named for the ancient, scaled beasts that once soared above them, their roars echoing through the valleys, their shadows falling like cloaks over the land. But that was centuries ago. The last dragon, the stories claimed, had been slain by the first king of Eldoria, its heart pierced by a magical blade, its essence bound to protect the realm. But then, another legend had emerged, a darker one: the dragon hadn't been slain, merely cursed, its life force intertwined with a prince, a punishment for some forgotten transgression. It was a tale of sorrow, of a beast in eternal slumber, a prince in eternal torment. A myth.

Except, myths didn't scream like that.

Without a conscious thought, her feet began to move, pulling her away from the village path, deeper into the ancient forest that clung to the lower slopes of the mountains. Every instinct screamed at her to run the other way, to hide, to cower. But another, stronger impulse, one she couldn't name, tugged her forward. It was the same instinct that made her tend to a sick child, that made her brave the deepest woods for a rare herb, that made her believe, despite all evidence, in the power of healing.

The air grew heavy, thick with an almost metallic tang, like ozone before a storm. The forest floor, usually soft with moss and fallen leaves, felt strangely brittle beneath her worn leather boots. She pushed aside a curtain of ivy, her breath catching in her throat.

Before her, nestled in a natural amphitheater of ancient stones, was a sight that stole the air from her lungs.

It was immense. Far larger than any beast her wildest imagination could conjure. Its scales, the color of obsidian, shimmered even in the dappled light, each one the size of a dinner plate. Great, leathery wings, scarred and torn in places, were folded tightly against its colossal body, like a broken cloak. Its head, crowned with horns that spiraled towards the sky, rested on the ground, one massive eye half-open, revealing a sliver of molten gold.

But it was the tremor that ran through its body, the ragged, shallow breaths, the low, guttural whimpers that truly terrified her. This wasn't a beast of legend, a creature of awe and terror. This was a creature in agony.

And then she saw him.

He lay sprawled against the dragon’s flank, his dark hair fanned out against the black scales, stark against the pale skin of his face. He was dressed in what looked like fine, if tattered, clothing—a dark tunic, leather breeches, and tall boots. A sword, ornate and clearly ceremonial, lay discarded a few feet away. One arm was flung over the dragon’s side, his fingers splayed, as if trying to grasp something that wasn't there.

His face was contorted in pain, a grimace that mirrored the dragon’s own suffering. Even in his unconscious state, a raw power seemed to emanate from him, a sense of ancient lineage and untold burdens. He was beautiful, in a stark, almost brutal way, his features sharp and aristocratic, shadowed by dark lashes.

But what truly held her captive was the faint, shimmering thread of light that connected his chest to the dragon’s. It pulsed, a fragile, silver-blue energy, dimming and brightening with each ragged breath of both man and beast. The curse. It was real.

A gasp escaped her lips, a small, involuntary sound. It was enough.

The dragon’s golden eye snapped open fully, fixing on her. It was an ancient, knowing gaze, filled with a sorrow so profound it felt like a physical blow. A low growl rumbled in its chest, a sound that vibrated through the earth, through Elara’s very bones. It wasn't a threat, not exactly. It was a warning. A plea.

Her heart leaped into her throat, choking her. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to flee, to turn and run back to the safety of Oakhaven, to forget what she had seen. But the dragon’s gaze, intelligent and desperate, held her captive. And the man, the prince, was so still, so vulnerable against the monstrous scales.

“Healer,” a voice whispered in her mind, not with sound, but with pure thought, ancient and resonant. It wasn't the dragon’s voice, not exactly. It was something else, something deeper, older. “Healer, you are called.”

Elara stumbled back a step, her basket clattering to the ground, scattering herbs across the moss. “Who… who said that?” Her voice was a reedy whisper, barely audible.

The dragon’s golden eye blinked slowly, then shifted, not to her, but to the prince. A soft, mournful whine escaped its throat.

The man stirred then, a low groan escaping his lips. His eyes fluttered open, dark as midnight, and immediately fixed on her. They were clouded with pain, but even through the haze, a flicker of something else—surprise, perhaps, or even a hint of challenge—ignited within their depths.

“You,” he rasped, his voice rough, like stones grinding together. He tried to push himself up, but a wave of pain clearly racked him, and he fell back against the dragon’s side, a sharp hiss escaping his lips. “What are you doing here?”

Elara found her voice, though it trembled. “I… I heard a sound. A cry.” She gestured vaguely towards the dragon. “It was… this.”

He followed her gaze to the dragon, his expression hardening. “You should not be here. This place is forbidden.” His eyes, though still unfocused, swept over her, taking in her simple tunic, the herbal stains on her hands, the fear in her wide eyes. “A village girl. How did you find this place?”

“I… I forage for herbs,” she stammered, feeling foolish, inadequate. “I heard the cry. I didn’t know…” She trailed off, gesturing helplessly at the impossible scene before her.

He let out a humorless laugh, a dry, rattling sound. “Didn’t know what? That the legends were true? That the cursed prince and his beast still exist?” His gaze, now sharper, pierced her. “You know of the curse?”

Elara nodded slowly. “My grandmother… she spoke of it. A prince bound to the last dragon, a punishment for a forgotten sin. They say… they say if the dragon dies, so does the prince.”

A shadow crossed his face, deepening the lines of pain around his mouth. “And if the prince dies, the dragon follows. We are two halves of a broken whole, girl. And now, it seems, we are both dying.” He closed his eyes, a shudder running through his body. “Leave. This is no place for you.”

But Elara couldn’t move. The sight of him, so vulnerable, so clearly suffering, stirred something deep within her, something beyond fear. It was the healer’s instinct, the unshakeable urge to mend, to soothe. And the dragon’s mournful gaze, still fixed on her, seemed to echo that silent plea.

She took a tentative step forward. “You’re hurt,” she said, stating the obvious, her voice gaining a surprising strength. “Both of you.”

He opened his eyes again, a flicker of annoyance in their depths. “What would you know of it? You are a village healer, not a sorceress. No herb, no poultice, can mend this ancient curse.”

“Perhaps not the curse itself,” Elara conceded, her mind racing, drawing on years of her grandmother’s teachings, on the quiet wisdom of the forest. “But pain… pain can be eased. Wounds can be tended. And you,” she looked at the dragon, then back at him, “you are in pain.”

He scoffed, a bitter sound. “Pain is my constant companion. It is the very essence of this existence.”

“But it doesn’t have to be,” Elara insisted, her voice growing firmer. She knelt beside her scattered basket, retrieving a small, leather pouch. “My grandmother always said that even the deepest sorrow can be lightened, if only for a moment. And a moment of peace can be enough to turn the tide.”

He watched her with a mixture of suspicion and weary resignation. “What do you propose, healer? A cup of chamomile for a curse that has lasted centuries?”

“No,” Elara said, her gaze fixed on the shimmering thread connecting them. It seemed to pulse more erratically now, a dangerous flicker. “But perhaps… something to ease the fever. Something to calm the tremors. And something for the fear.” She looked directly into his dark eyes. “There is fear in both of you. I can feel it.”

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, a flash of something akin to surprise. He hadn’t expected her to see past the anger, the weariness.

“My name is Elara,” she said softly, extending a hand, not to him, but to the dragon. Her fingers, still smelling of thyme, hovered inches from its obsidian scales. The dragon’s golden eye watched her, unblinking. “And I am a healer.”

A low rumble vibrated through the dragon’s chest, a sound that was less a growl and more a sigh. It lowered its massive head a fraction, nudging its snout gently towards her outstretched hand.

Elara’s breath hitched. She slowly, carefully, touched the dragon’s scales. They were cool and smooth beneath her fingertips, like polished stone, yet she could feel the immense power thrumming beneath the surface, a vast, ancient energy that was both terrifying and profoundly sad. It was like touching a mountain, a living, breathing mountain.

The prince watched her, his expression unreadable. “You are not afraid,” he murmured, a hint of wonder in his voice.

“I am terrified,” Elara admitted, pulling her hand back, but not from fear. The sheer magnitude of the creature, the raw energy, was overwhelming. “But… I also feel a great sadness. And a need. My grandmother taught me that fear is a wall, but compassion is a bridge.”

He closed his eyes again, a long, drawn-out sigh escaping him. “A bridge to what, healer? More suffering?”

“Perhaps to healing,” Elara countered, her voice gentle but firm. She began to gather her herbs, her movements deliberate, purposeful. “May I examine you? Both of you?”

He opened his eyes, a flicker of something that might have been amusement, or perhaps just disbelief, dancing in their depths. “You wish to examine a dragon?”

“And you,” she added, meeting his gaze squarely. “You are bound to it. Your suffering is its suffering. To heal one, I must understand the other.” She picked up a sprig of feverfew, its delicate white petals a stark contrast to the dark scales of the dragon. “I can make a poultice for the fever, a calming draught for the tremors. And I can brew a tea to help you sleep, to give your body a chance to rest.”

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze sweeping from her earnest face to the immense, suffering dragon. The shimmering thread between them pulsed weakly. A fresh wave of pain seemed to ripple through him, and he clenched his jaw, a low groan escaping him.

“Very well,” he finally rasped, the words heavy with defeat. “Do what you must, healer. But know this: you meddle with forces beyond your comprehension. And the consequences… they will not be yours alone.”

Elara didn’t flinch. She simply nodded, her gaze already assessing the prince’s pale skin, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the shallow, rapid rise and fall of his chest. “My grandmother always said that true healing begins with understanding. And a little courage.”

She moved closer to the prince, her hands already reaching for the small waterskin at her belt. “You need water. And then, I need to check your pulse.” Her fingers, accustomed to the delicate veins of the elderly and the frantic beats of children, were surprisingly steady as she reached for his wrist.

His skin was warm, almost feverish, beneath her touch. His pulse was rapid and thready, a frantic flutter beneath her fingertips. She could feel the tremor running through him, a deep, internal vibration that seemed to match the dragon’s own.

“Your name, Prince?” she asked softly, her eyes on his face, watching for any reaction.

He hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes. “Caelan,” he finally murmured, his voice barely audible. “Prince Caelan of Eldoria.”

Elara nodded, committing the name to memory. Caelan. It suited him, she thought, a name that sounded ancient and strong, yet carried a hint of sorrow, like the fading light of a winter’s day.

She spent the next hour working with a quiet intensity, her movements precise and practiced. She brewed a strong feverfew tea over a small, carefully built fire, the scent of the herbs mingling with the metallic tang of the dragon. She crushed comfrey root and wild mallow into a thick poultice, applying it gently to Caelan’s forehead and to a raw, weeping wound she discovered on the dragon’s flank, hidden beneath a torn wing. The dragon remained still, its golden eye watching her every move, a silent, ancient sentinel.

Caelan, for his part, offered no resistance. He lay against the dragon, his eyes closed for most of the time, his breathing slowly evening out as the feverfew began to work its magic. Elara could feel the subtle shift in his body, the easing of tension, the slowing of his frantic pulse.

As she worked, she found herself studying him, truly studying him. His features, though sharp, were not cruel. There was a vulnerability etched around his mouth, a weariness in the faint lines around his eyes. He was not the monstrous figure of legend, not merely a cursed prince. He was a man, suffering. And the dragon, too, was not just a terrifying beast. It was a creature of immense power, yes, but also of profound loneliness and pain.

“How long have you been like this?” she asked softly, as she carefully cleaned a scrape on his arm, applying a soothing balm of calendula and honey.

He didn’t open his eyes. “Long enough to forget what it feels like not to be.” His voice was a low rumble, still rough, but with a hint of something softer now, less brittle. “The curse… it ebbs and flows. Sometimes, the pain is a dull ache. Other times, it consumes us both. This… this is one of the bad times.”

“What causes it?” Elara pressed, her healer’s curiosity overriding her caution.

He sighed, a long, weary sound. “The moon. The stars. The turning of the seasons. And sometimes… sometimes it is simply the weight of existence. The dragon grows weaker. And so do I.”

Elara paused, her hand hovering over his arm. “Weak from what? From the curse itself, or from something else?”

He opened his eyes then, and for the first time, she saw a flicker of something raw and exposed in their depths. “From the magic that sustains us. It is a finite resource, healer. And it is fading.”

Her heart gave a lurch. Fading magic. That was a death knell in her world, a slow, inevitable decline. “Is there nothing that can replenish it?”

He gave a bitter laugh. “If there were, do you think I would be here, wasting away in this forgotten corner of the realm? The curse is ancient. The magic… it is of a kind no longer understood by man.”

Elara didn’t answer immediately. She thought of her grandmother, of the whispers of ancient lore, of the forgotten ways of the earth. Her grandmother had always said that magic wasn't just in spells and incantations, but in the life force of the world itself, in the growth of a seed, the flow of a river, the healing touch of a hand.

“Perhaps,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “it is not that the magic is gone, but that we have forgotten how to listen to it.”

Caelan looked at her, truly looked at her, then. His dark eyes, though still shadowed with pain, held a spark of something new—curiosity, perhaps, or even a flicker of hope he hadn't known he possessed. “You speak of forgotten ways, village girl. What do you know of such things?”

“My grandmother was a keeper of old knowledge,” Elara explained, feeling a familiar warmth spread through her as she spoke of the woman she admired most. “She believed that the earth held all the answers, if only we knew how to ask the right questions. That true magic wasn’t about power, but about balance. About harmony.”

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the ancient oak leaves rustling in the gentle breeze above them. “Harmony,” he repeated, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. “There has been no harmony in my life, or in this beast’s, for centuries.”

“Then perhaps it is time to find it,” Elara said, a quiet determination settling over her. She finished applying the balm, then gently placed her hand on his forehead. His skin was still warm, but the fever seemed to have receded slightly. “Rest now, Prince Caelan. Let the herbs do their work.”

He closed his eyes, a long, shaky breath escaping him. “I have not truly rested in a lifetime,” he murmured, his voice already growing heavy with sleep. “But… thank you, healer. Elara.”

The sound of her name on his lips, rough and intimate, sent a strange shiver down her spine, a feeling that had nothing to do with fear. It was a warmth, a connection she hadn't anticipated.

She watched him for a long time, watched the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his dark hair fanned out against the dragon’s scales. The dragon, too, seemed calmer, its breathing deeper, more even. The shimmering thread between them still pulsed, but it seemed less frantic now, a softer, more consistent glow.

The sun had climbed higher, its rays now piercing through the canopy, dappling the clearing with golden light. The air still held the scent of herbs, but now, beneath it, she could detect a faint, earthy smell, like ancient stone and something wild, something untamed.

Elara knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that her life had irrevocably changed. She had stumbled upon a secret, a legend come to life, and in doing so, had found herself bound to it, just as Caelan was bound to his dragon. The village, her simple life of foraging and healing, suddenly felt distant, a world away.

She was no longer just Elara, the village healer. She was Elara, who had touched a dragon. Elara, who had spoken to a cursed prince. And Elara, who, against all reason, felt a strange, undeniable pull towards this impossible task.

As the afternoon wore on, Caelan slept, and the dragon remained still, a silent, watchful guardian. Elara sat nearby, tending her small fire, brewing more tea, and watching the subtle shifts in the light, in the air, in the very presence of the ancient creatures before her. Her mind raced, trying to reconcile the impossible reality with everything she had ever known.

What did it mean, this fading magic? What could she, a simple healer, do against a curse of such magnitude? Her grandmother’s words echoed in her mind: “True healing begins with understanding. And a little courage.”

She looked at Caelan, his face finally peaceful in sleep, and then at the dragon, its immense form a testament to both power and suffering. A profound sense of responsibility settled over her, heavy and exhilarating all at once. She didn’t know what lay ahead, what dangers she might face, what secrets she might uncover. But she knew, with an unshakeable conviction, that she couldn't walk away.

Her gaze drifted to the shimmering thread connecting man and beast. It pulsed, a soft, steady light, a fragile bridge between two ancient souls. And Elara, the village healer, knew that somehow, she had to find a way to make that bridge strong again. She had to heal them. She had to try.

A twig snapped nearby, and Elara’s head shot up, her hand instinctively reaching for the small, sharp knife she kept tucked into her belt. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Had someone followed her? Had the village elders discovered her absence?

But it wasn't a person. From the shadows of the ancient trees, a creature emerged. It was a stag, its antlers magnificent, crowned with moss and ancient leaves. Its eyes, dark and intelligent, met hers, holding her gaze for a long moment. Then, with a soft snort, it lowered its head, took a long drink from the stream that fed the clearing, and vanished back into the depths of the forest, as silently as it had appeared.

Elara let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. It was a sign, she thought. A confirmation from the forest itself. She was where she was meant to be.

As dusk began to paint the sky in hues of orange and deep purple, Caelan stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He looked at her, his gaze clearer now, more focused.

“You stayed,” he said, his voice still rough, but with a hint of surprise.

“I told you I would,” Elara replied, a small smile playing on her lips. “How do you feel?”

He pushed himself up slowly, wincing slightly, but the tremor was gone. He ran a hand through his dark hair, his eyes sweeping over the clearing, over the dragon, then back to her. “Lighter. The pain is… distant. A dull thrum, rather than a roar.” He looked at the dragon, which stirred slightly, its golden eye opening to regard him. “The beast, too, seems calmer.”

Elara felt a surge of triumph, small but potent. “The feverfew and comfrey. They are good for easing pain and inflammation.”

He nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I have had healers before. Royal physicians, sorcerers even. None have ever achieved such a swift effect.” His gaze lingered on her, a new intensity in their depths. “You are… different, Elara.”

Her cheeks flushed slightly under his scrutiny. “I just use what the earth provides. And what my grandmother taught me.”

He slowly stood, his movements still stiff, but with a newfound strength. He was taller than she had expected, his frame lean but powerful. He walked over to the dragon, laying a hand on its obsidian scales. The dragon rumbled softly, nudging its head against his palm.

“This curse,” Caelan said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “It is not merely a physical ailment. It is a spiritual one. It drains the very essence of life from us both. And the magic… it is not just fading, Elara. It is being consumed.”

Elara’s heart tightened. “Consumed by what?”

He turned to face her, his dark eyes holding a depth of ancient sorrow that made her breath catch. “By the curse itself. It feeds on our despair, on our isolation. It grows stronger the more we succumb to it.” He took a step towards her, and another, until he was standing just a few feet away. The air between them crackled with an unspoken tension, a mix of the dragon’s ancient magic and something else, something new and undeniably potent.

“You brought me peace, Elara,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, resonant tone that sent shivers down her spine. “Even for a few hours. That is more than anyone has done in centuries.” He reached out, his hand hovering, then gently cupped her cheek. His touch was warm, rough, and utterly unexpected.

Elara froze, her breath catching in her throat. His thumb brushed lightly over her skin, sending a jolt through her, a spark that ignited a warmth deep within her chest. His eyes, dark and intense, searched hers, and she felt utterly exposed, yet strangely safe.

“What is your price, healer?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, his gaze never leaving hers. “For this peace? For this hope you have inexplicably brought?”

Her mind reeled, a thousand thoughts battling for dominance. Price? She hadn't thought of a price. Her grandmother had taught her to heal because it was right, because it was her calling.

“My price,” Elara managed, her voice a little shaky, “is to see you both truly healed. To see this curse broken.” She looked from his intense gaze to the immense, silent dragon behind him. “To bring harmony back to this place. To you both.”

A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, a rare, breathtaking sight. “A steep price, little healer. One that may cost you more than you know.” His thumb stroked her cheek again, a soft, lingering touch that made her heart pound. “But perhaps… perhaps it is a price I am finally willing to pay.”

He leaned closer, his gaze dropping to her lips, and Elara’s breath hitched. Her eyes fluttered closed, her body humming with an anticipation she had never known. The scent of him—earth, ancient magic, and something uniquely masculine—filled her senses, intoxicating and dangerous.

Then, just as his lips were about to meet hers, a sudden, violent tremor shook the clearing. The dragon let out a low, guttural growl, a sound of warning and distress. Caelan pulled back abruptly, his hand dropping from her face, his eyes snapping open, now filled with alarm.

“What is it?” Elara whispered, her heart still thrumming from his near-kiss, now laced with a fresh wave of fear.

Caelan’s gaze was fixed on the shimmering thread between him and the dragon. It was pulsing wildly, erratically, the silver-blue light flickering and dimming with alarming speed. The dragon began to writhe, its massive body heaving, a low whine escaping its throat.

“No,” Caelan breathed, his face paling, the brief moment of peace shattered. “It’s too soon. The curse… it’s reacting.” He looked at Elara, his dark eyes filled with a desperate urgency. “It’s growing stronger. It’s feeding on the hope you brought. It demands a price, Elara. A price for even a moment of peace.”

The ground shook again, more violently this time, and a deep, resonant roar ripped through the air, not from the dragon, but from somewhere deep within the earth itself. It was a sound of ancient power, of raw, untamed magic.

Elara stumbled back, clutching her chest, her eyes wide with terror. The air grew heavy, thick with an oppressive energy that felt like a physical weight. The silver-blue thread between Caelan and the dragon flared, then dimmed to an almost invisible flicker, as if struggling to hold on.

Caelan staggered, clutching his chest, a sharp cry escaping his lips. He fell to his knees, his face contorted in agony, mirroring the dragon’s renewed torment.

“Caelan!” Elara cried, rushing to his side, her healing instincts overriding her fear.

He looked up at her, his eyes clouded with pain, but also with a chilling realization. “The curse… it is not just bound to us, Elara. It is bound to this place. And it will not allow us to be free. Not without a fight.”

As he spoke, the ancient oak, the very heart of the clearing, began to glow with a faint, ominous red light. The ground trembled violently, and a crack, long and jagged, snaked its way across the stone floor of the amphitheater, heading directly towards the dragon and the prince. The air filled with the acrid smell of ozone and something else, something ancient and malevolent.

Elara stared at the crack, at the ominous red glow, at the suffering prince and his dragon. This was not just a healing. This was a battle. And she, a simple village healer, was caught in the heart of it.

“What do we do?” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rising roar of the earth, the dragon’s pained whimpers, and Caelan’s desperate gasps.

Caelan looked at her, his eyes blazing with a mixture of fear and fierce determination. “We fight, Elara. We fight for every breath. For every moment of peace. And for every chance at freedom.”

The crack reached the dragon’s side, and with a deafening roar, the earth split open, a chasm of darkness appearing beneath the beast, threatening to swallow it whole. The dragon screamed, a sound of pure terror, and Caelan cried out, his body arching in agony, the shimmering thread between them flickering, on the verge of snapping.

Elara watched in horror, her heart in her throat. The ground beneath her feet was crumbling. The world was falling apart. And she was standing on the precipice, holding the fate of a prince and his dragon in her trembling hands.