The forest swallows the sound of wings as they land.

Branches bend, leaves scatter, and then Aethryn settles among the trees like a fallen piece of night—vast, black-scaled, smoke breathing lazily from his nostrils. It is midday. He cannot change. He hates that.

She slides down from his shoulder ridge with practiced ease, dark hair loose, leather straps creaking softly as she adjusts the satchel at her hip. Snow does not touch this forest, but cold light filters through the canopy, pale and thin. She kneels almost immediately, fingers gentle as she parts moss and fern, murmuring the names of herbs under her breath.

Aethryn watches.

His golden eyes track every movement: the way she leans closer to the ground, the way her brow furrows when she finds what she needs, the way she hums without realizing it. His tail curls slightly around a tree trunk, possessive, unconscious.

Then the forest shifts.

Aethryn smells him before he sees him.

Human. Male. Close.

His head lifts a fraction. Smoke curls, darker now.

She senses it too and straightens, turning toward the trees. A man steps out of the shadows between the trunks as if he has always belonged there. He is slender, pale-haired—almost white—his hair falling into sharp, soft strands beneath a worn brown hood. His clothes are simple and frayed at the edges, layered linen and leather, travel-worn but clean. A bird of prey rests calmly on his gloved hand, its sharp eyes flicking toward the dragon without fear.

He does not reach for a weapon.

Instead, he offers a small, respectful nod.

“Good day,” he says quietly, voice steady. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

She smiles, open and unguarded, standing with a bundle of herbs cradled in her arm. “Not at all. We’re only resting. I needed a few things for salves.”

His gaze drifts—not lingering, but curious—from her to Aethryn. Appreciation, not hunger. Interest, not fear.

“That’s… remarkable,” he says. “I’ve never seen a dragon this close.”

Aethryn lowers his head slightly, eyes narrowing. One claw digs into the soil.

“He won’t hurt you,” she says easily, resting her hand against the warm, armored curve of Aethryn’s jaw. “Not unless you give him a reason.”

The man smiles faintly at that. “I don’t intend to.”

He introduces himself as Eryndel, steps closer only when she doesn’t retreat, and speaks to her as if the dragon were simply another presence—not a threat, not a prize. The bird on his arm shifts its wings but remains calm, sensing no danger.

They talk. Briefly. About the forest. About herbs. About the long roads.

Aethryn watches every breath the man takes.

He hates how close he stands. Hates the way she laughs softly at something he says. Hates that the man’s attention flicks between her and the dragon with equal fascination.