Three bites into the rice ball, the migraine came back.
Not the ice-pick spike from before — this was duller, heavier, like someone had wrapped my skull in a belt and was slowly tightening it. I set the food down and pressed both hands against my temples, breathing through my teeth.
(Not now. Not now, not now, not now.)
I remembered the medication. The bottle had tumbled out of my backpack when the dragon had dumped everything — it was sitting on the grass about ten feet away, next to my jacket and the fishing line. I could see it from where I was sitting. Small brown bottle, white cap. Right there.
I looked at the dragon. He was still eating, his massive head lowered over the enlarged sandwich, tearing off pieces with a precision that seemed almost polite. Every nature documentary I'd ever watched said the same thing: don't disturb a predator while it's feeding. Don't get between an animal and its food. Don't even move too fast in their line of sight.
(I've known this dragon for about two hours. If he wanted to kill me, he would have done it by now.)
(But still.)
(Guess I'll wait it out.)
I let my hands drop and stared at the skyline instead. The clouds here were different — thicker, slower, with colors at the edges that didn't exist back home. Pinks that bled into golds that bled into something between lavender and silver. The light moved through them like it was alive, shifting and breathing.
(So many questions. I don't even know where to begin.)
(He understood me when I offered to open the bag. He responded. He drew an X on the ground and expected me to understand what it meant. That's not instinct. That's communication.)
(But was it real? Did he actually understand my words, or did he just read my tone? Dogs do that. Horses do that. Smart animals figure out what you want from how you say it, not what you say.)
(I need to know.)
I heard his footsteps before I saw him. Heavy, measured, the ground vibrating slightly with each one. I looked over and he was watching me — not eating anymore, just sitting there with his head tilted, those sky-blue eyes fixed on my face. Like he'd been studying me while I was lost in thought.
I swallowed. My mouth was dry.
"Mighty dragon," I said. My voice came out steadier than I expected. "Can you understand my language, or was it just —"
I didn't finish the sentence.
He moved. Slowly, deliberately, lowering his massive head toward mine. I froze — every muscle locked, every nerve screaming — but he didn't stop. He brought his head down until his forehead pressed gently against mine. His scales were warm. Smooth. The heat of him radiated through my skin and into my skull, and for a second the migraine flared so bright I thought I'd black out.
Then I heard it.
Not with my ears. Inside. A voice — deep, calm, resonant, like a sound that had always been there and I'd just now learned to hear it.
*Yes, little one. I can. But your language is not from here. I saw you come from that transport circle. Not many humans can use them.*
I stopped breathing.
(He's — he's in my head. He's talking inside my head.)
The voice was warm. Patient. Like someone who was used to being careful with fragile things.
I pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were right there — enormous, sky-blue, with vertical pupils that caught the light like cut glass. This close, I could see the faint blue tracing along his scales, the way it followed the lines of his face like veins of light under dark water.
"You can hear my thoughts?" I whispered.
He pressed his forehead against mine again.
*Only when we touch like this. Your mind is loud, but I would not enter it without your permission.*
(My mind is loud. Great. Even a dragon thinks I overthink.)
A low rumble moved through his chest. Not a growl — softer, shorter. He was laughing. He'd heard that.
"That's — okay, that's going to take some getting used to."
He pulled back and settled onto the ground beside me, close enough that his wing brushed my shoulder. The warmth of him was like sitting next to a furnace — not uncomfortable, just constant, steady, impossible to ignore.
I sat there for a minute, trying to reorganize my entire understanding of reality. A dragon had just spoken to me telepathically. A dragon who understood English. A dragon who had fed me, given me water, laughed at my jokes, and was now sitting next to me like we were old friends watching the sunset.
(Ask him. Just ask.)
I leaned forward and pressed my hand against the side of his head. His scales shifted under my palm — warm, dry, alive.
*I have a lot of questions,* I thought, hoping he could hear me this way too.
*I know,* he replied. *I can feel them stacking up in you like stones.*
(Even my anxiety has a metaphor now.)
That rumble again. Definitely a laugh.
*I will answer what I can,* he said. *But first — may I ask you something?*
*Yes.*
A pause. I felt it — not silence, but hesitation. Like he was choosing his words carefully.
*I would like to take on a more suitable form. But in order to do that, I need a couple of drops of your blood. Do I have your permission?*
I pulled my hand back. Stared at him.
(Blood. He wants my blood.)
(A couple of drops, he said. Not a pint. Not a sacrifice. A couple of drops.)
(But why mine? Why does it have to be human blood? Why does it have to be my blood specifically?)
He watched me think. He didn't push. Didn't press his head against mine to explain or persuade. Just waited, those blue eyes steady and patient, like he understood that this was the kind of question that needed space.
I thought about it.
(Two hours ago, I was on a mountain with Jen and Naomi. Now I'm in a world with dragons, sitting next to one who can talk inside my head, and he's asking for my blood so he can change shape.)
(This is insane.)
(But he fed me first. He gave me water. He hasn't hurt me. He laughed at my thoughts and called me "little one" and he's been more gentle with my stuff than most humans I know.)
(A couple of drops doesn't sound so bad.)
"Sure," I said.
I looked around for something sharp. A rock, a stick, anything with an edge. Then I looked at his tail — the row of spikes near the tip, each one dark and pointed and gleaming like polished obsidian.
I pointed at them. He nodded.
I walked over to his tail. Up close, it was enormous — thick as a golf cart, the muscles beneath the scales shifting as he adjusted his position. The spikes were each about the length of my forearm, tapering to points so fine they looked like they could split a hair.
I pressed my index finger against the tip of one.
A sharp sting. A bead of blood welled up, bright red against my skin.
"What do I — where do you want it?"
He turned his head, opened his mouth slightly, and extended his tongue. It was dark, almost black, and the surface of it had a texture like fine sandpaper.
(He wants me to put it on his tongue.)
(This is the weirdest thing I have ever done in my life, and I once ate a cricket on a dare in seventh grade.)
I held my finger over his tongue and let two drops fall. They landed on the dark surface and — I swear — glowed for a second. A faint pulse of light, there and gone.
Then he closed his mouth, leaned forward, and licked my finger.
The cut healed. Just like that. The sting vanished, the skin closed, and when I looked at my fingertip there was nothing — no mark, no scar, not even a pink line where the cut had been.
He pressed his head against mine one last time.
*It will take some time for the form to settle. I'm going to make a small base for us down by the riverside. I will explain more in a few hours.*
He paused.
*I notice you are exhausted. You could use some rest from your journey.*
I nodded. He was right. My body felt like it was running on fumes and stubbornness, and the stubbornness was starting to lose.
I gathered my things — jacket, canteen, fishing line, bell, the medication bottle. I grabbed the bottle, popped it open, and dry-swallowed two pills. Put two more in my pocket for later. Shoved everything back into my backpack and pulled it on.
The canteen was empty. I sighed.
Before I could say anything, the dragon lowered himself to the ground and picked me up in his jaws.
Not roughly. Not like prey. He lifted me the way you'd lift a sleeping cat — carefully, with just enough pressure to hold, not enough to hurt — and set me on his back, right between his shoulder blades where two large spikes rose on either side like natural handholds.
I grabbed onto them. His scales were warm under my legs, and I could feel the massive engine of his body working beneath me — muscles shifting, lungs expanding, heart beating in a rhythm so deep and slow it felt like the earth itself was breathing.
He started walking.
Not flying. Walking. Steady, measured steps through the grass and between the trees, his body swaying gently with each stride. I understood why — I was barely conscious. If he'd launched into the sky, I would have slid off his back and died in the most embarrassing way possible.
(Good call, big guy.)
I tried to take everything in as we moved. The trees were taller than anything back home — massive trunks with bark that shifted between dark brown and deep green, canopies so thick they filtered the light into something golden and soft. I saw plants I didn't recognize, flowers with petals that moved on their own, vines that pulsed with a faint bioluminescence even in the afternoon light.
(This world is just like mine but — more. The air is fresher. The colors are deeper. Everything feels more alive.)
(And more dangerous.)
(I need to get stronger. If the big guy isn't by my side, I'm dead. I can't rely on him for everything. I need to figure out how to survive on my own.)
I looked at my hands. Thin fingers. No calluses. Nails that I'd painted blue last week, already chipping.
(I'm too physically weak right now. Rest first. Figure it out after.)
He stopped once and looked back at me, turning his massive head to check. Those sky-blue eyes, steady and questioning.
"I'm okay," I said. "Just — taking it all in."
He held my gaze for a second longer than necessary, then turned back and kept walking.
We arrived at the base maybe twenty minutes later. He stopped at the edge of a clearing and looked around — scanning, checking, his head moving in slow sweeps like a security camera. When he was satisfied, he knelt down and tilted his body to one side, lowering me gently to the ground. I slid off his back and landed on unsteady legs, one hand still gripping a spike until I found my balance.
"Thank you," I said.
He dipped his head. A small gesture, but it meant something.
I looked around.
A river ran through the clearing — small, clear, the water moving over smooth stones with a sound that was almost musical. A large tree stood near the bank, its branches spreading wide enough to shade a decent patch of ground. To the left, a cave entrance sat half-hidden under a layer of moss and grass, the top blending so seamlessly into the hillside that you could walk right past it without noticing.
And to the right —
I turned, and the wind hit me.
Waterfalls. Three of them, cascading down a mountainside in the distance, each one catching the light differently. Rainbows arced through the mist — not one, but several, layered on top of each other like someone had painted them there. Birds I'd never seen before cut through the spray, their wings flashing colors that didn't have names in English.
I stood there with my mouth open, my hair whipping across my face, and I smiled. I couldn't help it. It was the first real smile since I'd landed in this world, and it came from somewhere deep — not happiness exactly, but something close to it. Wonder, maybe. The kind that makes you forget, just for a second, that you're terrified.
The dragon was watching me. I felt it before I turned around — that steady, attentive gaze, tracking every expression, every micro-movement of my face.
When I turned, the wind came with me, blowing my hair back and pressing my jacket against my body. I was still smiling.
He looked away. Fast. Turned his whole head to the side like something in the trees had suddenly become very interesting.
(Did he just — )
(No. No way. He's a dragon. Dragons don't blush.)
(But his scales just changed color. Right along his jaw. That darker shade wasn't there before.)
(I'm losing my mind.)
"I'm going to explore the cave," I said, mostly to break whatever that moment was.
He lowered his head and I felt his voice again, pressing gently into my mind.
*This is our temporary base. While you explore, I will get dinner. You can make a fire in the open area here. I'll be back soon. This area is safe — make yourself at home for now.*
He stood, stretched his wings — the span of them blocking out the sky for a second — and walked away from me toward the edge of the clearing. He stopped, looked up at the sky like he was reading something written in the clouds, and then launched himself upward.
The force of his wings hit me like a wall of warm air. I watched him rise — black against the golden sky, those blue-traced wings catching the light — until he banked to the left and disappeared over the treeline.
I stood there, hair still settling, heart still hammering, alone for the first time since I'd met him.
The clearing was quiet. The river talked to itself. The wind moved through the grass.
(So empty here. But that never bothers me. I'm used to quietness.)
I looked at my backpack, then at the cave, then at the river.
(Medication first. Then water. Then explore.)
I walked to the riverside, knelt down, and filled my canteen. The water was so clear I could count the stones on the bottom. I took a long drink and almost laughed.
"This is better than my apartment's water," I said to no one.
I took the two pills from my pocket and washed them down. The water was cold, clean, and so good it almost felt like cheating.
Then I turned toward the cave, and whatever came next.