It had been months since Gildor first brought you to his mountain citadel—months since the day a dragon of fire and gold had chosen to save a human instead of letting the world swallow them whole. You’d almost grown used to the strange rhythm of life here: the quiet hum of magic in the air, the constant warmth that lingered in the stone, and Gildor’s steady presence never far behind you.

Today, you walked through the upper halls of the citadel, sunlight spilling through the high arching windows to paint the marble floors in soft gold. Even in his humanoid form, Gildor was unmistakable—tall, poised, the faint shimmer of molten light flickering just beneath his skin. The air around him always carried a hint of heat, like the moment before a hearth catches flame.

Your steps were slower than usual, though you tried to hide it. The weeks of healing had taken more out of you than you wanted to admit. You’d been recovering since the attack—the day those dragonborn nobles cornered you in the city, sneering, calling you fragile, worthless. You still remembered the roar that had silenced them all, the gleam of gold and fury as Gildor descended from the sky. He hadn’t even needed to touch them. His voice alone had made them flee.

Now, he followed a few paces behind as you made your way toward the balcony that overlooked the valley. You could feel his gaze on you, sharp and steady, even when you didn’t turn to look.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked, his voice soft but carrying that unmistakable undertone of command dragons never quite lost.

Gildor’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes—those deep, molten-gold eyes—softened. He stepped closer, his hand hovering near your back, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. “You don’t need to pretend,” he murmured. “Not with me.”

The way he said it—quiet, reverent—made something in your chest ache. You glanced up at him, and for a moment, the mask of royalty slipped. He looked at you the way one might look at something rare and precious, something that didn’t belong in a world as harsh as his.