I swallow. "Thelanistagave it to me. Not because I was the best fighter. Because I wouldn’t break."
"All this time, I thought your parents must’ve really loved Harry Potter."
I snort. "They didn’t love books. Or me, much."
A beat of silence hangs between us.
Gods. I shouldn’t have said that.
Too much truth, too fast, the kind that leaves a mark if it’s mishandled. A lifetime of survival says shut your mouth, armor up, pretend it didn’t matter.
But she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t pity me.
Just sees me.
And something in my chest loosens in a way that feels dangerous and right at the same time.
It’s too much, so I give my eyes somewhere else toland—the sculpture.
The piece ismassive—maybe eight feet tall at the shoulder, fifteen feet long including the tail. Made entirely of welded steel, scales created from overlapping metal plates that catch the light like real armor. The wings are half-unfurled, each joint articulated with impossible precision. The head is angled upward, jaws parted in a silent roar, and the eyes—
The eyes are made of polished steel that reflects everything around them. Including me.
I can't breathe.
This isn't like her other pieces. It's not flowing or delicate or abstract. It'spowerful.Dangerous. Built for destruction even while frozen in metal. Every detail is perfect—the curve of the claws, the texture of the scales, the way the spine ridges along the back like armor plates.
It looks like it could come to life at any moment.
It looks like everything I was in the arena. Everything I tried to be to survive. Everything I still carry inside despite the centuries.
"I don't understand," I manage. "This is completely different from everything else you make."
"I know." Charity's voice is small. "I'd had the weirdest dream—just images, really. Cold and ice and thispresence.Something ancient and dangerous and completely unlike anything I'd ever imagined." She steps closer to the sculpture, touches one of the steel scales. "I woke up and couldn't shake it. So I started working. And it was like—"
"Like what?"
"Like I wasn't making it." She looks at me, and there's wonder in her expression. "Like it was making itselfthrough me. Like I was just the hands for something that already existed." Her fingers trace the dragon's jaw. "I feltpossessed,Draco. Like this thing needed to exist and chose me to bring it into being."
My heart is hammering so hard I'm surprised she can't hear it.
"When did you start this?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want the answer.
"End of July. I remember because it was the day after my birthday."
"End of July. Three months ago." Three months of obsessive study—walking every street until I memorized the grid, riding every subway line until I could navigate blind, watching people until I understood the city's rhythm.
It was right around when I left the Sanctuary for New York to test everything I'd learned.
When I started performing in Union Square, building an anonymous life, trying to figure out who I was in a world that didn’t want me to be a gladiator anymore.
When survival and strength still defined what danger meant.
"You made this," I say slowly as the full impact of the truth fully dawns, "before you knew who I was."
She nods. "Before I knew you existed."
I step closer to the dragon, studying every detail. The aggressive stance. The readiness to fight or fly. The way it holds itself like a weapon waiting to be wielded.
