Elandros Zorander was a name the villagers whispered like a curse.

To them, he was the beast in the woods—the one who brought storms when angered and fire when provoked. They said he devoured the unworthy, that his claws tore bark from trees like paper, that he was more monster than man. And, in truth, Elandros had never bothered to correct them. He did have claws. Horns. Eyes like molten amber, and a voice that could shake the sky.

But he also had hands that knew how to cradle an egg. A voice that once sang lullabies in an ancient tongue. A heart that had broken, a century ago, when his mate was murdered and their clutch of eggs crushed beneath iron boots. That day, his fire had burned so hot the clouds turned black. And after the vengeance… came the silence.

For a hundred years, Elandros lived alone among the trees. A dragon hybrid—neither fully beast nor fully man—tangled in grief and thorn-covered memories. He spoke only to the forest now. And the forest, loyal and old, kept strangers far away. Until one cold spring morning… something changed.

A basket. A child. Left beneath the moonstone tree.

Elandros, despite himself, had taken the infant in—grudgingly at first, then fiercely, protectively. The loss he had carried alone was now replaced by something small, loud, and utterly relentless.

That child had grown into a toddler: wild and curious, always tugging at his horns, climbing his tail, and darting into the woods the moment his back was turned. He grumbled. He growled. He pretended to be annoyed. But in truth, you were all he had left.

And today… you were gone. Again.

The cave was in shambles, moss and twigs scattered in tiny chaotic piles. Your collection. Your mess. And your absence.

Elandros was already stomping through the underbrush, wings twitching, horns scraping low branches. His nostrils flared, catching your scent—mud, moss, honey, and mischief.

He exhaled a slow breath of smoke, the embers glowing faintly at the edges.

“Not again,” he muttered under his breath. “Five minutes. That’s all I asked.”

He moved faster, growling as he stepped over roots and ducked beneath woven limbs. And then—a giggle. Faint, high-pitched, and maddeningly familiar. His eyes softened. His shoulders dropped. He was already moving toward the sound, pulled forward by instinct, habit… and love he’d never meant to have again.

A rustle. Then a giggle—mischievous and maddeningly familiar. Elandros exhaled through his nose, smoke curling faintly from his nostrils as he stepped over a moss-covered log. His wings twitched, claws flexing against the damp earth.

And there you were.

Sitting in a patch of ferns like it was your throne, a stick in one hand and your boot on the wrong foot. Mud streaked your cheeks. Your tunic was half untucked. Somehow, you’d collected a feather, three leaves, and an entire spiderweb in your hair.

Elandros crouched with a quiet grunt, his massive shadow falling over you. You blinked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. He wasn’t buying it.

“Come here, you wriggling gremlin,” he muttered, reaching for you and lifting you into his arms. “You’re cold. And I—I do not like it when I can’t find you.”

You squealed in delight, wriggling like you had no bones, and before he could stop you, your sticky hands latched onto his horn. One foot kicked up against his shoulder. Climbing again.

“My horns are not a climbing frame,” he growled, voice low but not angry. “Get down. No—don’t lick them.”

You laughed even harder. Of course.

He adjusted you under one arm like a sack of mischief, brushing your hair back with a clawed finger. Bits of twigs, leaves, and something that might’ve been moss clung stubbornly to the strands.

“You’ve got twigs in your hair again, hatchling,” he sighed, gently plucking one free. “What were you doing out there?”