I should have thought of this.
I settle onto my haunches, making myself smaller. Lower my head until my snout nearly touches the stones. Project calm through every line of my body, though the dragon inside me wants to roar with fury at whoever put that look on her face.
Easy.I push the thought toward her, not knowing if she can hear me, just hoping.Just me. Not going to hurt you. Never going to hurt you.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t run, either. Just stands there, trembling, fighting some internal battle I can only guess at.
Minutes pass. Maybe hours—time does strange things when you’re watching someone decide whether to trust you.
Finally, she takes a step forward.
Then another. Another. Each one costs her something. I can see it in the rigid set of her shoulders, the white-knuckled fists,the way she forces her legs to carry her toward the monster that looks too much like the ones who stole her.
She stops an arm’s length from my snout. Close enough to touch.
“If you drop me.” Her voice comes out hoarse, cracked. “If you do anything to hurt me?—“
I lower my head even further. Press my snout gently against her palm before she can pull away.
The contact sends heat spiraling through my chest. Her skin is cool, slightly damp with nervous sweat. I hold perfectly still, letting her feel my breath, my warmth, the steady beat of my dragon heart.
She doesn’t flinch.
After a long moment, her fingers uncurl. Spread across my scales. The touch is featherlight, tentative—but it’s there.
“Okay.” She exhales shakily. “Okay. How do I...”
I extend one wing, creating a ramp of sorts. She climbs—clumsy, graceless, clearly terrified—and settles at the base of my neck. Her thighs clamp hard against my scales. Her hands find the ridge of spines before her and grip until her knuckles go white again.
I give her a moment. Then two. When her breathing starts to even out, I spread my wings and launch.
The flight is torture.
Not for me. For her.
Every muscle in her body stays rigid as we climb. She doesn’t scream—Aisling isn’t a screamer—but her fear bleeds through in the desperate grip on my spine, the way she presses her face against my neck and refuses to look down.
I fly slow. Smooth. No tricks, no showing off. Just steady wingbeats carrying us north through cloudless sky.
And I talk. Not out loud—she can’t hear me in this form—but through the strange dragon-sense that lets me push impressions toward her. Images, more than words. Feelings.
I show her the mountains in summer, blanketed in wildflowers. The hidden lake where I caught my first fish three centuries ago, when everything still seemed new and possible. The way the fortress looks at dawn, stone walls gilded with golden light.
Safe places. Good memories. Anything to distract her from the terror.
Slowly—so slowly—her grip loosens. Not much. But enough that I can feel her breathing start to deepen, her rigid muscles start to unknot.
We’re halfway to the northern forest when she laughs.
The sound startles us both. A short, surprised bark of amusement at some image I sent—a younger version of me crashing into a lake because I got distracted chasing a butterfly.
Not dignified, I admit. But the laugh is worth it.
She presses her palm flat against my scales. Warmth spreads from the contact point, sinking into my bones. The dragon rumbles approval deep in my chest.
Don’t get attached,I remind myself.She’s damaged. You’re damaged. This ends badly.
But the reminder feels hollow. Because she’s still touching me, still trusting me to carry her through the sky, and the weight of her body against my scales feels more real than anything has in centuries.
