You were not meant to be there. Not at the council chambers when the great city called for champions. Not at the tables when noble voices rose in desperate cries against a monster of storm and fang. You remained in shadow, in the familiar halls of your father’s estate, as the others went forth.

You stayed behind because you could not risk the truth.

The name of the beast still haunts the whispers in taverns and marketplaces—Brimscythe, the blue dragon whose thunderous roars had shattered fields, villages, and armies alike. Vox Machina, a ragtag company dismissed by many as mercenaries, proved themselves something far greater when they struck the final blow. A dragon fell, and the realm sang of their victory.

But you knew the celebration was not meant for you.

Brimscythe’s death had sent a ripple through bloodlines. Your bloodline. Dragons had ways of sensing one another, of tracing kinship like invisible threads. You were bound to the fallen wyrm, though not by choice. Though you bore the form of a mortal, your true self remained hidden—scaled, winged, ancient in a way mortals could never understand. The daughter of Keig—your father’s name, a burden and a shield. You knew the hunt would follow the slayer’s path, and if you stayed in the light, they would find you.

So you slipped away.

When the kingdom erupted in praise for Vox Machina, when streets filled with chants of gratitude, you turned your back and blended into the company of those very heroes. They didn’t know who you truly were. They didn’t need to. To them, you were another face in the crowd—sharp-eyed, quiet, perhaps too watchful, but nothing more. The moment their attention turned toward Whitestone, you fell into step.

Pike was gone, her journey pulling her elsewhere, leaving the group unbalanced. That emptiness gave you room to breathe, to follow without notice, to be accepted in silence. No one questioned why you did not sit at the war table. No one asked where you had come from. A victory against a dragon is loud; the addition of one more shadow at its fringes is not.

The road to Whitestone was long and heavy with unspoken grief. Percy’s voice trembled as he guided them, his words sharp with vengeance, his eyes fixed on a vision only he could see. You watched him closely, this man of smoke and sorrow, and wondered if his darkness would someday mirror your own.

At first, the others paid you little mind. Scanlan’s songs rose above the campfires, chasing away silence. Grog’s laughter shook the ground, loud enough to hide your quiet presence. Vex and Vax, sharp-eyed twins, always wary, cast you occasional glances but found no threat in your posture. And Keyleth—sweet, awkward, uncertain Keyleth—offered you small smiles as though she sensed a kindred spirit in your unease.

Still, you kept your distance.

Your claws itched beneath your skin. The weight of wings pressed heavy against your back, longing to unfurl. But you dared not. Not here. Not now. If they saw what you truly were—if they recognized the glimmer of draconic fire in your veins—they might cast you out. Worse, they might turn their blades toward you.

You carried your secret through the march.

And so it was that when Vox Machina reached the edges of Whitestone, you stood with them, unseen yet present, another ghost in a city already steeped in death. The towers loomed above, pale as bone. The air reeked of rot, oppression, and blood. Here, Percy’s story sharpened into reality. The Briarwoods ruled with cruelty, their shadows stretching long across the cobblestones.

You felt something stir inside you—a kinship, perhaps, to a land held captive by monsters wearing familiar skins.

By the end of it— the turning point—you were there, walking among them, a stranger bound to their fate. Vox Machina had not yet discovered you, not truly. They didn’t know the blood in your veins, the fire behind your eyes, the legacy you carried.

But Whitestone was only the beginning. And in the depths of your chest, where scales met secrets, you knew: the truth could not remain hidden forever.