Sleep would not return.
Elara lay beneath her blanket with her hand still clenched around the pendant, its warmth slowly fading back to stillness. Her heart refused to calm. The dream lingered like smoke—clinging, choking, whispering doubts into her bones.
Before the first light of dawn, she rose.
The hovel was still. The fire had burned low, its embers glowing soft and red beneath a layer of ash. She splashed cold water on her face from the basin near the door, trying to wash away the nightmare.
She heads outside, breathing in the fresh morning air.
That's when she saw it.
Curled beside the firepit, like a creature born from the embers, was a dragon.
A massive beast. Its scales shimmered with a deep sapphire hue, the color of storm-tossed seas, and faint wisps of smoke drifted from its nostrils as it snored gently. Its wings were folded tight against its body, and one claw rested protectively over a half-cracked log.
Elara froze.
Then she screamed.
A sharp, shocked, this-should-not-be-happening kind of scream.
Fig came flying out of the door a beat later, sleep-mussed and wielding the fire poker like a heroic kitchen utensil. "Who died? What's on fire? Who's on fire?!"
He skidded to a halt midair and stared.
The dragon, disturbed by the noise, opened one gleaming eye. Its slitted pupil narrowed lazily as it raised its head and gave a low, guttural huff.
Then it exhaled.
A short blast of actual fire shot across the sky, singeing a nearby tree branch.
Fig shrieked and dropped the poker with a clang. "WE'RE GONNA DIE!"
Elara backed away slowly, knees trembling, mind racing. Run. Fight. Freeze. She couldn't decide.
The dragon gave a snort—less annoyed, more like a sleepy sigh—and then, impossibly, began to shift.
Its body shimmered, scales evaporating like mist. Wings folded inward and dissolved. Claws reshaped, spine compressed, and within seconds…
There stood the old man.
Naked, save for a well-worn pair of trousers, his hair a wild mess and his beard as unbothered as ever. He stretched his back with a satisfying crack, then scratched his side.
"Oh good," he muttered. "You're up."
Elara and Fig both gawked, mouths open, frozen in disbelief.
"You're a—" Elara started.
"Dragon?" Fig squeaked.
The old man grunted and wandered over to the basin. "Was. Am. Depends on the day." He splashed water on his face. "You lot snore like you're being exorcised. Thought I'd shift and sleep properly."
Elara still hadn't moved. "You're a dragon. A literal, actual dragon."
He glanced at her over his shoulder. "That's what the fire and scales tend to imply, yes."
Fig flopped to the floor in shock. "Oh, we are in so far over our heads…"
The old man grabbed a towel, drying his face without concern. "You wanted a mentor who could help you survive the Academy. Well. Now you've got one who burned one down."
Elara blinked. "You… what?"
But he just walked past her, heading toward the hovel. "Hope you like onion stew. It's all I've got."
Elara stood there, heart pounding, mind racing, staring at the spot where the dragon had been—where he had been.
Training suddenly felt a lot more serious.
And so did the man who was giving it
Elara followed the old man into the pantry, her jaw still somewhere on the floor. Fig flapped after her, wings twitching with leftover panic.
"You—" Elara started.
"—were a dragon this whole time!" Fig finished, perching dramatically on a shelf. "And you didn't think that was worth mentioning?"
The old man calmly selected an onion, sniffed it, and began slicing it with a small, worn knife. "What difference would it have made?"
"What difference?" Elara echoed, throwing her hands up. "You could've roasted me on day one, that's what difference!"
"I nearly attacked you with a fire poker," Fig hissed. "A fire poker, old man."
The old man chuckled softly, then sobered. His hands didn't stop moving as he spoke. "There aren't many of us left. Not in the Elven Kingdom. Not anywhere, really."
Elara leaned against the pantry doorway, eyes narrowing. "Because you were hunted."
He nodded once, slow. "Our kind used to fly freely over the forests. We were guardians. Protectors. Partners to your people."
Fig snorted bitterly. "Let me guess. That didn't last."
"No," the old man said quietly. "It didn't. Elves feared what they couldn't control. And dragons…" He paused, fingers tightening slightly around the knife. "Dragons are powerful. Our breath burns. Our blood sings with magic. Our bones can be forged into weapons. And so…"
He left the sentence unfinished, the silence heavier than words.
Elara's voice was soft when she asked, "Did they kill your mate?"
He didn't answer at first.
Then he set down the knife and looked up, his weathered face shadowed with memory.
"She gave her life to protect a village that tried to sell us to hunters not two days before. She could have flown away. She should have. But she stayed." His voice wavered, just once. "She always believed people were worth saving. Even when they weren't."
Elara felt her throat tighten. Fig was uncharacteristically silent, his ears lowered.
The old man turned to her, his gaze steady and ancient. "So no—I don't tell people what I am. Not unless I have to. The world has long since decided that dragons are monsters."
"You're not a monster," Elara said firmly.
His mouth curved into a tired smile. "You've only known me two days."
"That's enough to know the difference."
He looked at her for a long moment—measuring her, maybe. Then he nodded once, slow and thoughtful.
"I see why fate's wrapped itself around you like a stormcloud," he said. "You're reckless. And dangerous."
Elara tilted her head. "Is that a compliment?"
"It's a warning."
Fig cleared his throat. "Well. I still think you should've told us. Just saying."
The old man raised an eyebrow. "Would you have stayed?"
Fig hesitated. "...Possibly in the ceiling."
They all shared a laugh, brief and sharp and necessary.
Then the old man turned back to the onions and said, "Eat well. Tomorrow we stop playing with sticks."
Elara blinked. "We were playing?"
He grinned over his shoulder. "Tomorrow, we bleed."