The flicker of the firelight danced across the carved dragon statues scattered on the ground between you and Lyarra. Her small fingers traced the wings of a silver dragon, eyes unfocused.

“The stars burn like ice, mother,” she murmured, her voice distant. “The dragons sleep beneath the stones. The fire waits.”

You watched her, heart tight with a strange mix of awe and fear. The weight of what she carried—what you both carried—was a silent shadow in the room.

Rickon let out a long sigh, shaking his head as he gathered his things by the door, leaving the room.

A soft knock announced Cregan’s arrival. His dark eyes scanned your face, noting the subtle worry behind your calm. He settled beside you, his rough hand covering yours as Lyarra whispered again, her gaze somewhere beyond.

He leaned close, voice low, almost a growl but gentle.

“She’s good,” he said.

You looked at him, searching his eyes for certainty. The tension eased just a fraction.

Cregan’s grip tightened ever so slightly.

“Good,” he repeated, “and ours to protect.”