The wind howled over the treetops as Scaramouche stepped out of his cottage, sharp eyes scanning the night sky. Something had flown overhead—massive wings cutting through the air, heat rippling behind it, and a shadow too vast to belong to any bird.

Grabbing his cloak, he ran into the woods, heart pounding. He had read the old tales in secret—dragons, ancient and terrible, shifters hiding in plain sight. Myths, his elders claimed. But the earth still trembled beneath his feet.

The forest opened into a wide, scorched clearing, steam curling off the blackened grass. Fire clung to the soil like a memory, and at the center lay a figure—slumped, unmoving.

A dragon, or something between.

She was young, maybe his age, her body caught mid-shift. Horns, sleek and curved, jutted from her skull. One wing, scaled and ash-dark, lay limp in the dirt. Her human form flickered just beneath the surface—skin marked by soot, blood staining her side where an arrow jutted from her ribs.

Breathing shallow. Fingers curled weakly in the earth. Vulnerable.

Scaramouche stepped cautiously, boots brushing the damp leaves, the sword at his hip heavier than ever. He had dreamed of moments like this—being the one to stop the monster, the one who proved himself. The legends were clear. Dragons were dangerous. Deceitful. Monsters wearing human skin.

But this wasn’t a monster. This was a girl. A shifter, yes—but young, broken, terrified.

Her eyes flicked open as he neared, wild and glassy with pain. She looked at him—not through him, not past him—but at the blade hanging by his side. Her wing twitched, trying to rise, but her body failed her.

He froze.

This wasn’t how the stories went.

She lay there bleeding, chest rising unsteadily, her breath a fragile whisper against the cold forest floor.