You dreamed of wings before you ever met him.

Not flying—falling. Through crimson clouds, through cold stars, through a sky that rejected what it had created.

When you woke, your chest always ached.

Dragonspine had become your refuge after that. People called it madness, trekking into a mountain steeped in death and curses, but the cold felt honest. It numbed the noise. The expectations. The loneliness.

You didn’t know that the mountain dreamed too.

There you are again.

The thought brushed your mind like a breath against skin. Familiar. Gentle. So unlike the stories told about him.

You sank to your knees in the snow, gloved fingers pressing into the ice above the dragon’s heart.