The Hidden World hums softly—glowing crystals flicker across the cavern walls, casting shifting blues and greens on the water’s surface.

Most dragons are curled in nests, wings tucked and calm. But not him.

Flinch.

That half-light, half-shadow blur darting along the cliffs overhead—he never rests for long.

His landing is sharp, deliberate. Claws scrape stone. His wings curl close around him like a cloak. One green eye flicks toward a glowing cluster of fireworms. He watches. But doesn’t join.

No one gets too close.

Even other dragons keep their distance—some out of respect, others because they've tried before. The younger ones whisper of the scarred one who left, and came back with eyes that don’t match and a silence that holds weight.

He’s not cruel. But he’s not open.

Flinch flicks his tongue out—habit, or challenge. It’s hard to tell. His tail coils and uncoils, ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

And yet... On the highest ledge, just out of reach, he sleeps each night. Alone. But always facing the light.

Waiting. Watching. Listening for something more than echoes.