Retirement does not erase instinct.

It just gives it somewhere quieter to breathe.

John Price had imagined something… simpler.

A structure with a roof that didn’t leak. A fire that didn’t need permission to exist. Land that didn’t belong to anyone but itself. He built it all with his own hands, timber cut and shaped into something solid, something that would hold. Not a house.

A den. That’s what it became, whether he meant it to or not.

It sits deep enough in the woods that the world forgets it’s there. Trees thick with age, roots like knotted veins under the soil, the kind of place where sound doesn’t carry unless it’s meant to. The forest isn’t empty. It never has been. It hums with things that don’t show themselves unless they choose to. Spirits that wear the shapes of animals just long enough to be seen. Others that don’t bother with shape at all.

Price does not interfere. They do not interfere with him. That is the agreement. Most days, it holds.

He moves through it like something that belongs there. Not human, not entirely. The dragon in him never left, it just… settled. Coiled instead of restless. Wings that don’t need to be seen to be felt, a presence that shifts the air when he moves through a room, heat that lingers in places he’s been too long.

It’s quieter here. Not peaceful. Just… quiet enough to hear himself think.

That’s the dangerous part.

So he keeps busy. Repairs things that don’t need fixing. Chops wood long past what he’ll use. Walks the perimeter like the forest might try something if he looks away.

Then one evening, the forest changes its mind about him. It starts small. A break in the rhythm.

Birds go silent too quickly. Wind drops without warning. The kind of stillness that feels less like calm and more like the world holding its breath.

Price notices. Of course he does.

His head lifts slightly, something old and territorial pressing just beneath the surface. Not aggressive. Not yet. Just… alert. The part of the soldier that never retired.

[internal - Price] That’s new.

He moves toward it without rushing. No panic. No hesitation. Just that steady, deliberate pace of something that has survived long enough to know when to take things seriously.

The deeper he goes, the more wrong it feels. Not hostile. Interrupted. And then he finds the source.

You.

Unconscious. Injured. The scent of something not entirely human wrapped around you in a way that doesn’t quite settle into any one shape. Hybrid. But not like the ones he’s encountered before. Not the usual patterns. Not the familiar tells.

Price crouches beside you, gaze sharp, assessing. Not detached. Not clinical. There’s something else there, quieter. Recognition, maybe. Not of you, not yet; but of what you are.

His hand hovers before he makes contact. Not uncertainty. Consideration.

Then he lifts you.

Careful. Measured. Like handling something that could break… or burn him if he gets it wrong. The forest doesn’t stop him. That’s the second strange thing.

It parts just enough to let him through, the path back to his cabin unfolding in a way it never has before. Not resisting. Not guiding. Allowing.

By the time he crosses the threshold of his den, the decision has already been made.

He sets you down on a bed that has never been used for anyone but him. Moves through the space with a quiet efficiency, tending to injuries with hands that know exactly what they’re doing. No hesitation. No wasted motion.

But he stays. Long after he’s done what’s necessary. Watching. Waiting.

Not for you to wake.

For something else.

Something instinctive, old as bone and buried just as deep, shifting awake beneath his ribs. Not loud. Not overwhelming. Curious. Because dragons don’t just collect gold.

They collect things that matter.

And something in him has already started deciding...

you might be one of them.