He dips his massive head in acknowledgment.
I lift the book the library offered me—Echoes and Embers: Forgotten Names and the Fires That Made Them. Its cover shimmers faintly in the starlight.
“I figured you’d like this one.” I sit cross-legged in the grass and begin to read.
This story is quieter than the last, more memory than myth. It tells of ancient names whispered into flame, of stars etched into dragon hide, of how the forgotten can still be remembered… if someone dares to speak of them again.
When I pause to rest my voice, he says nothing, just waits.
“What doesignosceremean?” I ask when I begin again, my tongue stumbling over the strange word.
He exhales slowly. “To forgive.” He watches the fire as he speaks, not me. “In the old tongues, forgiveness was not a gift given to the guilty,” he rumbles. “It was a release granted to the living. Those who refused it often withered alone.”
I swallow. The flames blur. “Some things aren’t so easily released,” I say, thinking of how I left things with Keiren.
“No,” he agrees. “But they are still carried. And if carried too long, they consume the bearer.”
“Indeed, Dragon.” A thought comes to me, one I’d never considered asking before. “Do you have a name?”
After a long moment, he answers, “I’ve had many names, most of them given in fear. But the one I was born with, I no longer remember… In my culture, names are not merely identity. They are purpose. Lineage. Legacy. And unless a dragon’s name is remembered—spoken aloud with meaning—he ceases to be.”
His gaze shifts to me, ancient and knowing.
“So too with bonds,” he rumbles. “Silence does not kill them quickly. It starves them. And starvation is a slow, cruel death.”
I stare up at him. The thought of anyone forgetting their name—being utterly disconnected from who they are—floods me with sadness.
“But surely the others—” I begin.
“There are no others,” he says flatly. Then his voice softens, heavy with grief. “I am the last.”
The silence that follows is vast and aching. Even the air feels heavier. My throat tightens.
“You’re cold,” he says suddenly.
“I’ll be fine,” I murmur, tugging my shawl closer.
He huffs. With a sweep of his powerful tail, he gathers nearby stones into a rough circle, lowers his head, and breathes a stream of golden fire into the center.
A hearth is born, burning bright without kindling.
We sit together, watching the flames.
“Since you’ve forgotten your name…” I hesitate. “What if I gave you one?”
He tilts his great head. “You? A mere mortal?”
“Why not?” I smile faintly. “It’s better than calling you ‘Dragon’ until you decide to char my bones in the next Trial.”
A rumble escapes him—amusement, or perhaps disbelief. “Very well, little flame. What would you suggest?”
I glance up. “You see those stars? The ones shaped like a cross? My people call that constellationDrakonis—or Drako, for short. If all dragons are descended from the stars, maybe your name should echo the reason they first fell.”
He is silent for a long moment. “Drako…” He tests the word on his tongue. His golden eyes flare a little brighter. “Yes. That is… fitting.”
“Then it’s settled,” I say. “Drako it is.”
“And you?” he asks, eyes glinting. “Do I get to call you something other than ‘little flame’?”
