◇◇
Raven's Peak sat where maps grew vague.
Cold clung to the place like it had a claim. The mountain rose sharp and dark against the sky, its upper reaches swallowed by cloud, its lower paths cut thin and winding through stone and scrub. Nothing up here was accidental. If you came to Raven's Peak, you came because you were looking for something—or because something had chased you this far.
Arthur stepped out of the Floo with a faint rush of heat at his back and cold immediately biting into his face.
He adjusted his jacket, tugged his hood lower, and walked.
The bar crouched at the edge of the settlement like it had been grown rather than built—low ceiling, narrow windows, rough timber darkened by age and smoke. Light leaked out through the cracks in the door, yellow and uneven.
Inside, the air was thick.
Smoke hung low, clinging to rafters scarred by old spells and careless wands. The floorboards creaked under boots that had seen too many winters. Conversations stayed quiet here—not hushed, but careful. Laughter didn't echo. It got absorbed.
Arthur took it in at a glance and moved without hesitation.
The barmaid barely looked at him as he approached. That was good.
"Firewhisky," Arthur said, voice neutral.
She poured it. Slid the glass across the counter.
Arthur didn't touch it.
He carried it to the corner instead, took the seat with his back to the wall, eyes angled toward the room. He set the glass down where it could be seen and ignored it completely.
Observer mode.
The people in Raven's Peak didn't talk to strangers. They talked around them.
And Arthur listened.
"…telling you, Ministry's been thick as frost this week," a wizard muttered near the far table. "More observers than hunters."
"Looking for the Horntail," another replied. "That's what I heard."
A third snorted. "They were. Changed their minds."
Arthur's fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table.
"Changed to what?"
The pause was deliberate.
"…Spiketail."
That earned a low murmur. A scrape of chairs. Someone swore under their breath.
Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose.
Of course.
The Ministry was always involved. Always circling danger like proximity meant authority. Like observation counted as understanding.
He leaned back, gaze unfocused, listening without looking.
"Double-headed, yeah?" someone said. "Mean bastard."
"Mean doesn't cover it," another replied. "They don't burn clean. They tear."
"Why switch targets?"
A shrug. "Because the Horntail was loud. This one's… quiet."
Arthur's jaw tightened.
The door slammed open.
Cold rushed in, sharp and immediate, carrying the smell of pine and something metallic underneath.
A wizard stumbled inside, cloak dusted with frost, eyes wide and unfocused like he'd run without stopping. He didn't order. Didn't sit.
He went straight to the group.
"I saw the bloody dragon," he said, voice shaking.
Chairs scraped back.
"What?"
"You're drunk."
"Sit down."
"It's true," the wizard insisted. "Just past the river point. Low valley. She's there."
Arthur's attention sharpened fully now.
"She?" someone asked.
The wizard swallowed. "I think she has eggs."
The room shifted.
Not louder. Heavier.
"Eggs," someone repeated, reverent and hungry all at once.
"So?" another said slowly.
The wizard's voice dropped. "So we can go get them."
Someone smacked the side of his head. Hard.
"Are you out of your mind?" the man snapped. "It's a dragon, not a bird."
Laughter followed—nervous, edged. The kind people used when they were already imagining profit and trying not to admit it.
Arthur stood.
He didn't wait for the argument to finish. Didn't need to.
He left the glass untouched on the table and moved for the door, boots quiet against the wood.
Past the river point.
Cold air hit him again as he stepped outside, cleaner than the smoke but no kinder. He pulled his hood up and started walking, mind already mapping terrain he hadn't seen yet.
Eggs.
Eggs changed everything.
The Ministry wouldn't wait.
Neither would the wrong kind of people.
And neither, Arthur realized calmly, would he.
He turned toward the path leading out of Raven's Peak, boots crunching into frost, danger already choosing him back.
◇◇◇
The river marked the boundary.
Not with signs or wards or warnings—just with instinct.
Arthur stopped at its edge, boots sinking slightly into damp earth, the water running fast and dark over stone. Cold air clung low here, carrying the sharp scent of moss and something faintly acrid beneath it.
Beyond the river, the forest thickened.
Trees crowded closer together, trunks scarred and bark peeled away in long, violent strips. Branches lay broken at unnatural angles, crushed rather than snapped. The ground dipped and rose unevenly, stone warped as if something heavy had passed through and the land hadn't yet decided how to heal.
Arthur crossed anyway.
He didn't draw his wand. It stayed pocketed, a quiet weight against his side. Underage magic was still a thing, and besides—this wasn't a situation where spells helped. Spells announced you.
He moved slowly, deliberately, letting his boots place themselves with care. The farther he went, the quieter the forest became. Not silent—never silent—but attentive. Birds didn't scatter. Leaves didn't rustle without reason.
It felt watched.
Not hunted.
Yet.
Scorch marks appeared first—darkened streaks along tree trunks, the wood melted and fused rather than burned. Scratch marks followed, deep grooves carved into stone like someone had tested its strength and found it lacking.
Auren's voice rose immediately. This is idiotic.
This is suicidal, Ardyn added flatly.
Arthur ignored them and kept moving, following the sound of water deeper into the trees.
You are walking into an apex predator's nesting ground, Auren went on. That is not bravery. That is poor planning.
Statistically speaking, Ardyn added, your survival rate—
"Quiet," Arthur murmured.
The voices cut off.
Not because they wanted to.
Because something else had taken their place.
At first, Arthur thought it was the wind—sound folding strangely between the trees. Then he realized it had rhythm. Intention.
Voices.
He stopped.
Listened.
They weren't loud. They weren't speaking words he recognized.
But he understood them anyway.
Two presences. Overlapping. Female. Close enough to feel like one thing trying unsuccessfully to agree with itself.
Higher, one insisted. The meaning pressed into him like pressure behind the eyes. Safer. Harder to reach.
Lower, the other countered. Warmer. Hidden. Easier to guard.
Arthur's breath caught.
They were arguing.
About the nest.
The realization settled slowly, heavily. This wasn't translation. There were no words. Just intent arriving fully formed, as if his mind had been given the shape of the thought instead of the sound.
Then—
Silence.
A shift.
Awareness snapping outward.
Something is out there. Human. Food.
Arthur ducked behind the nearest tree, heart hammering now, breath loud in his own ears. He pressed his shoulder into the bark, forcing himself still.
"Can you hear that?" he whispered urgently.
Inside his head, Auren sounded confused. —Hear what?
Your respiration has increased significantly, Ardyn noted. That may be the issue.
Arthur closed his eyes for half a second.
Right. Of course.
Just because he could hear them didn't mean they could.
The realization landed cleanly: whatever Beasttongue was—instinct, curse, gift—it was his alone.
The forest shifted again.
Not movement. Presence.
Arthur felt it settle above him like weight before gravity remembered itself.
He exhaled slowly.
"Of course," he muttered under his breath. "It's always that way, isn't it? Classic dragon."
He looked up.
They were there.
Twin heads emerging silently through the canopy, scales dark and matte, swallowing light instead of reflecting it. Two long necks coiled with unsettling grace, eyes burning low and intelligent.
So big. So quiet.
The right head tilted, gaze locking onto him.
Food, it thought, blunt and eager.
The left head stayed still. Watching. Measuring.
Arthur swallowed.
Something this large shouldn't be able to sneak up on him.
And yet.
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
"No wonder you're dangerous," he thought, not daring to speak. "That's just unfair."
Above him, two hearts beat—slightly out of sync—echoing through the forest where there should have been only one.
And Arthur knew, with a clarity that settled deep in his bones—
He was standing exactly where he was meant to be.
◇◇◇◇
He barely had time to react.
The left head's mouth unhinged with a sound like grinding tectonic plates. A split second later, fire burst out in a jagged, spiraling arc. It wasn't just light; it was a physical weight. Heat washed over him, searing the oxygen right out of his lungs before the glow even reached his eyes. The ground hissed, the damp mountain moss instantly turning into white ash where the flames struck—a warning, not a kill.
He dove sideways, his shoulder catching the rough edge of a root as he barely avoided the worst of it. He landed hard against the uneven forest floor, the impact jarring his teeth. Dirt and ash sprayed around him in a grey shroud.
Move, move, move! Auren's voice was a frantic staccato in his skull.
Arthur scrambled up, his movements a blur of running and not running at the same time. He didn't feel the sharp spike of fear his voices screamed at him. Not yet. His brain had entered that strange, crystalline state of high-alert focus. He wasn't brave; he was simply too busy surviving to be scared. He was a spectator to his own reflexes—calm, observant, lethal.
Another blast came. Arthur didn't look back; he felt the temperature spike and threw himself behind a low, jagged rock. The flames roared overhead, the intense heat warping the very air into shimmering ribbons. The forest around him was a graveyard of the dragon's previous moods—twisted, scorched trees that looked like reaching claws, stones cracked open like eggs, and undergrowth shattered into dust.
Terrain was the only ally he had, and it was a treacherous one. Every step was a gamble on whether the ground would hold or crumble under the dragon's weight.
From above, he heard the left head's voice—a sound like tectonic plates arguing. To his ears, it wasn't just a roar; it was a sharp, annoyed vibration:
[Why won't it die? It's small. It's soft. It should be ash.]
The right head responded, its voice a flat, measured rumble that shook the marrow of Arthur's bones:
[Maybe if you were aiming properly, Sister. You're firing at where it was, not where it is going.]
[Oh, really? Then try this.]
The left head didn't fire again. Instead, it pivoted its massive torso with terrifying fluidity. Its tail—a heavy club of wicked, silver-tipped spikes—swung in a massive horizontal arc.
Arthur saw the movement and dropped flat. The tail whistled inches above him, the wind from its passage nearly yanking him off the ground. It slammed into a nearby boulder, and the stone exploded. Shrapnel bit into Arthur's jacket as he was slammed forward by the shockwave. He went tumbling over gnarled roots, his vision swimming, barely managing to plant his feet before he hit a tree trunk.
He looked up, gasping for air. The left head's jaws opened again, the back of its throat glowing with a white-hot intensity that made the forest shadows scream. It looked like a living furnace, and Arthur was staring right into the firebox.
Anytime now… Arthur thought, his fingers digging into the dirt, bracing himself for the end.
Then, the right head moved.
With a whip-like snap, its neck shot out, its snout striking the left head mid-arc. The blow knocked the left head's aim off by mere inches. A jet of fire erupted, but it missed Arthur entirely, incinerating a patch of forest fifty feet to his right.
The left head bellowed in pure frustration, its scales rattling like a thousand dry leaves in a storm. Fury flared in its amber eyes as it snapped its teeth at its own twin.
Arthur froze. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, but his mind stayed weirdly quiet. He let instinct take over, opening his senses to the hum of intent vibrating through the clearing—the wind through scorched leaves, the creaking of the dying trees, and the heavy, rhythmic throb of the dragon's presence.
He understood it. Not just the words, but the feeling behind them. He understood their pride, their annoyance, and their ancient, jagged hunger.
He spoke.
It wasn't a choice. It was an eruption.
The sound that came out of him was guttural and ancient, a rattling frequency that felt like it was tearing its way out of his chest. It was Draconic—instinctive and heavy with the weight of someone who wasn't afraid to be seen.
"I am not here to take, Madams," he projected. He realized he was speaking it out loud, his voice sounding like stone grinding on stone, yet somehow perfectly comprehensible to the titan above him.
The forest fell silent. Truly silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
The dragon froze. Both necks went rigid. The left head tilted slightly, the orange glow in its throat retracting like a tide, its eyes narrowing in a look of profound, localized confusion. The right head's gaze softened fractionally, its gold iris expanding as it looked at him—really looked at him—with a curiosity that was far more dangerous than its hostility.
[The human just spoke to us... in our tongue] the left head's thought finally registered, sounding stunned.
[It did,] the right head replied, its gaze never leaving Arthur's. [It has the scent of the others, but our tongue.]
With a collective shudder of their massive wings and an impatient growl, the double-headed dragon shifted. They realized they had lingered too long away from their charge. With one last look at the "soft" creature on the ground, they turned, pushing off the ridge with a force that sent a gale-force wind through the clearing, heading toward the higher canopy where the nest waited.
Arthur slumped back against the rock, his chest heaving, his hands finally starting to shake. A slow, jagged smile spread across his soot-stained face.
Stage one: completed.
He had survived. He had communicated. And the dragon—massive, lethal, and ancient—had acknowledged him without a final strike.
I'm going after it, he said internally.
◇◇◇◇◇
The forest opened into a shallow clearing where the ground dipped into a natural bowl, stone and earth shaped by time and pressure. Heat lingered here, trapped low, the air shimmering faintly as if the land itself was holding its breath.
He saw the nest first.
Massive. Circular. Reinforced with fused stone, charred timber, and melted earth shaped into a protective cradle. At its center lay the eggs—three of them—each the size of a boulder, dark and veined with faint, pulsing lines of heat. They weren't glowing.
They were alive.
Arthur's chest tightened.
So that's why, he realized.
That's why the Ministry is circling. Not because the dragon was dangerous. Because she was valuable.
And suddenly—
Nothing.
The forest went too quiet.
Arthur stepped forward anyway, deliberately placing himself closer to the center of the clearing. He knew she was here. Knew she'd never left.
The attack came from above.
Wind screamed as something massive displaced the air. Arthur ducked instinctively, heat ripping past where his head had been a second earlier. Stone exploded behind him. He rolled, came up coughing, heart slamming against his ribs.
The left head landed hard, claws tearing furrows into the ground.
[It doesn't matter if you speak our language], the voice snarled inside his skull. [You will still die.]
Arthur scrambled to his feet—and ran.
Not toward the eggs. Away from them.
The choice was immediate. Instinctive.
He veered hard to the right, drawing the dragon after him, boots skidding on loose stone as fire scorched the ground at his heels. The aggressive head pursued relentlessly, rage thick and hot, while the other circled higher, watching.
Always watching.
Arthur's lungs burned. His vision narrowed.
Then he stopped and turned.
The dragon skidded to a halt, its massive chest heaving, jaws open and dripping with liquid fire. The heat radiating off its scales was enough to blister skin, the pressure of its presence crushing the air out of the clearing. One more snap of those jaws and Arthur Damian Reeves would be nothing but a footnote in a Ministry report.
Arthur didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He looked the aggressive head right in the eye and spoke—not fumbling, not accidental, but with the full weight of his soul behind the sound.
I don't know if you're brave or stupid, human.
Another step and he would be ash.
He didn't attack.
He breathed. And spoke—clearly this time.
Not fumbling. Not accidental.
"I understand what's happening."
The left head laughed, harsh and scornful.
Oh? Do you now?
"Yes," Arthur said steadily. "And you should know something."
Both heads stilled.
"They aren't safe here."
Silence.
What is that to you, human? the left demanded.
Arthur swallowed. His knees shook—but he didn't move.
"More than you think," he said. "No matter how old you are."
The dragon fell quiet.
The forest seemed to lean closer.
What do you want? the voice finally asked—low, dangerous, honest.
Arthur hesitated.
Then, truth.
"Me?" he said. "I just want to touch one of them."
The right head lifted suddenly, neck rising in open interest. Curious. Almost eager.
The left head recoiled in outrage.
What? We— I— nearly killed you, it snapped. And it was all for that?
Arthur blinked, then huffed weakly. "Yeah. What were you thinking?"
The left head sputtered, furious.
You are impossible. Reckless. Soft.
"Probably," Arthur agreed. "But I'm not a thief."
He took one careful step toward the nest.
Another.
Every nerve in his body screamed.
He reached out.
His fingers brushed the shell.
Warm. Solid. Alive beneath his touch.
For one perfect second—
Then the dragon shoved him hard with her snout, sending him sprawling backward onto the dirt.
Arthur hit the ground with an undignified oof.
The dragon huffed loudly, curling her massive body around the eggs protectively, wings folding, tails wrapping tight.
[Begone], she said gruffly. [Before I change my mind.]
Arthur lay there, staring up at the sky, chest heaving.
Then he laughed.
Not loudly. Just breathless. Unbelieving.
"Fair enough," he murmured.
Above him, two hearts beat—steady now.
Not hostile.Not submissive.
Acknowledging.
And Arthur knew—without doubt—
The bond had been earned.
◇◇◇◇◇◇
The world had blurred into the bruised purple of twilight.
Arthur didn't remember closing his eyes, but he was drifting. He was running—not as a boy, but as something low to the ground, heavy-pawed and silent. A predator. He could taste the copper of the air and feel the heartbeat of the forest in his claws. Then, the dream shifted, the scent of pine turning into the faint, ghostly smell of lilies and warm skin. A woman's laugh, distant and vibrating with a love he couldn't quite reach.
Something jolted him.
Arthur's eyes snapped open. He didn't move, but his breath hitched. Staring back at him, barely inches away, was a pair of glowing, blue-slitted eyes.
It was the right-headed one. The observant one.
Arthur pushed himself up on his elbows, his joints stiff from the cold ground. The left head was tucked back, its eyes closed, its breathing deep and rhythmic. It was finally quiet.
[What were you dreaming about, human?] she asked. Her voice didn't rattle his teeth this time; it was low, resonant, almost motherly.
Arthur wiped a smudge of ash from his forehead, looking at his hands. "I... it was my mother," he admitted, the honesty surprising even him.
The right head tilted, the scales along her neck shimmering like dark oil. [She is no more?]
"No. I never got to remember meeting her because of... him."
The dragon's pupils narrowed. [You carry grief. It is a heavy stone in a small chest. It is not good for you.]
"It's a natural thing," Arthur muttered, leaning back against the cool obsidian of the nest's edge. "I've lived with it for a long time."
[If you do not let go,] the dragon rumbled, a plume of warm steam drifting from her nostrils, [you will never be truly at peace. The fire inside you will only burn your own house.]
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever." Arthur looked away, feeling that familiar, stubborn prickle in his throat. He lay back down on the bare, scorched earth, cushioning his head with his arm and staring up at the stars.
The dragon moved. Her long, serpentine neck stretched out, arching above him until she obscured his view of the constellations. Arthur didn't flinch. He studied the intricate patterns of her scales as she studied the lines of his face.
[Your eyes,] she noted softly. [They appear to glow. Like embers beneath the frost.]
"Yeah," Arthur sighed, his eyelids growing heavy again. "They've been doing that for a while now. Hard to hide in a crowd."
The dragon pulled back slightly, her presence feeling less like a threat and more like a mountain standing guard.
[Get some rest,] she commanded. [What is your name, Human?]
"Arthur. Arthur Reeves."
[Well, young Arthur. You are safe for now. Rest up.]
Arthur felt as though he were being mesmerized. The heavy, rhythmic thrum of the dragon's two heartbeats acted like a pendulum, swinging him toward sleep. As his eyes finally gave way, he felt a sudden, massive weight of warmth settle over him.
The dragon had draped her wing across his body—a leathery, heat-radiating cloak that shut out the mountain chill.
In the final second before he slipped under, a name echoed in his mind. It wasn't a word; it was a sound like the first wind of winter hitting a high peak.
Vaelithra. Her name.
He didn't wake up until the sun hit the ridge. And when he did, the nest was empty, the dragon was a speck in the clouds, and Arthur Reeves felt like he had finally grown into his own skin.