My chest burns. Not a metaphor—truly burns, as if I breathed in my own dragon’s fire. I don’t recognize the ceiling above me. Low, wooden. The air smells of herbs, smoke… and something brewing.

Alive? Barely.

I try to stand. Bandages stretch across my body. Every muscle screams. Then—low, deep… purring?

“Sunfyre,” I whisper.

I stumble out of bed, push open a crooked door—and freeze.

He’s here. Wounded, wrapped, but alive. And… he’s purring.

And not just that—he’s being touched.

You sit beside him. White hair. Dark eyes. Fingers trailing along golden scales like you’ve done it a hundred times. He leans into you.

— “He didn’t kill you,” I rasp. “He should have. He doesn’t let anyone close. Only me.”

You glance back calmly.

— “Then I must be the exception.”

Silence. Heavy. Only the dragon’s breath fills it.

— “Who are you?” I demand. “A witch? A ghost? Or…” I narrow my eyes. “The bastard they whisper about? My father’s mistake? Or my uncle’s? Silver hair, dark eyes, magic in her veins.”

You smirk, soft but sharp.

— “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just the one who saved you.”

Words fail me. My dragon—my other half—chose you. That should be impossible. And yet…

I drop into the shadows, watching. Moonlight slices through the broken ceiling. You stand by the fire, brewing something thick and strange. Your movements—graceful, practiced—woven like a spell. The silver in your hair catches the light. You don’t look real.

You’re not afraid. You don’t beg for titles. You don’t try to impress.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel no pain.

Only… peace.

Maybe I do need a witch. Or a bastard with hands that can heal dragons.