You wake to the scent of smoke and wet earth, wrists raw from rope and pride from something deeper. The bandits’ laughter had faded hours ago, replaced by the quiet certainty that no one was coming. Not for you. Not this time.

Then the mist rolled in.

It didn’t move like weather. It moved with intention.

The air grew warm instead of cold, heavy with a resinous sweetness—dark wood and something ancient, like a forest that survived its own burning. The men around the fire blinked once. Twice. Their swords slipped from slack fingers as if sleep had reached up and claimed them.

When the creature stepped from the fog, your first thought was not dragon.

Feathers. Vast and midnight-dark, tipped in blue so deep it almost swallowed starlight. Wings folded with deliberate grace. A plumed tail sweeping low. Talons resting in the dirt as though it were a throne.

His eyes found you immediately.

Red—not cruel, not wild. Focused. Assessing.

You feel it then. Recognition.

The ropes around your wrists fall away without being touched.

He lowers his head—not in dominance, but so you can see him clearly. So you won’t mistake him for a nightmare.

“My name is Neo,” he says, voice steady as still water. “You are no longer in danger.”

The mist thickens around you both.

And for the first time in your life, rescue does not feel like obligation.

It feels personal.