“I will protect you,” I whispered. “All of you. The old magic. The sacred. The truths that haven't yet been told. And the ones still being born.”
I thought of Celeste.
Of her laughter in the yarn shop.
Of her instinct, the one that whispered of dreams and futures.
I thought of Skye and her baby, of the vulnerability in the world outside the Academy’s walls, of how close danger had crept without our noticing.
I thought of Gideon.
Of shadows.
And I made a silent promise.
They will not touch this place. Not while I breathe.
The hatchling stirred, lifting her head to look at me with eyes that shimmered like mirrors.
And I knew, deep in my bones, that I wasn’t just meant to teach or guide or rebuild.
I was meant toguard.
To stand between light and whatever sought to undo it.
The air in the den shifted again, not with movement but meaning.
I stood still, surrounded by breath that shimmered faintly in the warmth. The hatchling had returned to her mother’s side, her eyes slowly closing, her golden body rising and falling with each shallow breath. Yet the silence wasn’t silence at all.
It pressed against me. Not in weight, but presence.
The older dragons had moved without sound, their scaled bodies stirring in slow arcs. One blinked with deliberate patience, another exhaled through flared nostrils that released a spiral of pale vapor. No one approached. No one turned away. They observed. They recognized.
And something passed between us.
I couldn’t explain it, not in words that belonged to language. There was no voice, no sound, no flash of magic or mind. But the thought settled behind my ribs with certainty.
I was part of this.
It wasn’t just a welcome or a mere witness; I belonged.
I breathed in the scent of warm stone, moss, salt, and embers. The air was thicker now, full of low vibration that curled around my skin and into my bones. I didn’t feel fear. There was no room for it. Only a vast, quiet understanding.
Another dragon moved closer, a dark green one whose horns twisted back across its head. Its eyes, deep and glassy, held no expression, and yet I felt it. That same hum. A question I couldn’t hear, yet answered without speaking.
I knelt, palms to the mossy floor, heart steady.
More than warmth flowed from the space between us. Memories not mine brushed across my mind: ancient stonecracked by fire, first flight against storm, eggs cradled in hidden earth. Time unraveled, wound again, stitched through me by presence alone.
They didn’t ask for allegiance.
They already had it.
I touched the floor, grounding myself. In that moment, the hatchling stirred again and opened her eyes. Not curiosity this time. Recognition. The breath between us held.
Something had been shared.
Something planted.
