Then something stirs inside me. A memory.
I’m six years old, tumbling from the branch of our old apricot tree. I hit the ground hard, knocking the wind from my lungs. And then I’m enveloped in the safest warmth of all: my mother’s arms. The aroma of lavender and leather washes over me as she whispers,“You’re braver than most. But even the bravest need to be held sometimes.”
I blink it away.
And then, without warning, I’m falling.
The world spins, and I close my eyes, waiting to be crushed.
This time, I don’t hit water. I hit the ground hard, ribs slamming into the earth, sending what little breath still clung to my lungs scattering. My elbow cracks, and stars dance before my eyes. The rancid scent of soot and rot makes me cough, gasping shallow breaths. My ribs ache as if the beast’s talonprints are still outlined across my skin. My palms sting, scraped and raw. But worse than that is the throbbing at the side of my head—the steady pulse of heat and dizziness. I reach up, and my fingers come away slick with crimson.
I try to sit, but the world tilts. The air in this place is as thick as a clot—heavy with moisture, rot, and something fouler, like scorched meat and sulfur. Beneath me, the black stone is cracked and spiderwebbed with soot. Bones litter the edges, half-buried in ash and moss. Some still bear scorch marks. Others are fresh.
Too fresh.
I blink through the dark and suddenly realize I’m in a cave. The walls sweat. The air is wet and foul, like something diedhere and has been rotting for centuries. Somewhere in the dark, somethingmoves.A low rumble follows it like distant thunder.
I just barely manage to push myself upright, fear keeping me from sinking back into unconsciousness.
Then I see them.
Eyes.
They glow gold, no longer the crimson red I first thought I glimpsed.
The darkness peels back as a massive head materializes from it, horned, spiked, and ancient. The dragon steps into the faint light, steam curling from its nostrils. Its scales shimmer obsidian, etched with molten lines like veins of fire beneath stone.
It snarls and bares its fangs. The sound is deep and guttural.
But it isn’t anger.
No—it’s a challenge.
I freeze.
The air thickens, growing hotter, heavier. My heart pounds, and my knees tremble, but I force myself not to move. Not to scream. Every instinct screamsrun, but there’s nowhere to go. And I refuse to die a coward.
I feel my Pegasus dagger in my hand, etched with ancestral memory—the blade Aaron slipped into my palm like a lifeline. I clutch it now, trembling. But I don’t raise it.
My fingers tighten around its hilt. The steel hums. Yet something deeper—older—stills my hand. What would be the point of fighting such a colossal beast with a mere dagger, anyway? If only I could remember what it was called, maybe then I could remember how to survive. But pain has usurped my mind.
I should cower. I should faint.
Instead, I meet its gaze—and growl back.
The sound is nothing compared to its own snarl, more breath than voice, but it echoes in the cavern. I bare my teeth, jaw clenched tight around a sound born of blood and fire.
The beast pauses.
It tilts its massive head, studying me. Watching. For a moment, we simply stare.
A girl bleeding on the stone floor of a cursed cave. A beast that could kill with a single, heated breath—and chooses not to.
Something shifts. Not in the cave—but between us.
I don’t understand it, but I feel it in my bones, in the slow settling of heat in my palm, the strange calm crawling over my skin.
Recognition. A tether of fate pulling tight.
