The morning sun of Aeloria spilled across the rolling fields like melted gold. The wind carried the scent of wildflowers and freshly turned soil, drifting lazily toward the small village of Greystone Hollow, a quiet hamlet nestled between the whispering woods and the far blue line of the Dragon Peaks.
It was a simple place — the kind of village where every sound felt familiar, every face well known. The blacksmith's hammer echoed from dawn till dusk, and the bells of the chapel marked the rhythm of the villagers' lives. Here, people believed in hard work, good harvests, and keeping one's head low when dragons flew overhead.
And in the midst of this ordinary peace lived Eric Arden, a young man of twenty summers with hands calloused from labor and eyes the color of storm clouds. He worked as an apprentice to the local herbalist, though he often helped farmers mend their tools or fix fences when coin ran short. His life was small, quiet — perhaps even forgettable.
Yet, even among such simplicity, Eric had dreams.
Each morning, before the village awoke, he would climb the gentle slopes beyond the fields to a lone hill crowned by an ancient oak. From there, he would watch the distant mountains where dragons were said to dwell. Their silhouettes sometimes shimmered in the morning mist — vast wings slicing through the clouds like living storms.
He had never seen one up close. No human had, at least not without dying soon after. The dragons of Aeloria ruled their skies and kept to their own. To Eric, they were both terrifying and beautiful — beings of legend and power beyond mortal reach.
He often wondered what it would be like to speak to one, not as a servant or prey, but as equals.
"Dreaming again, Eric?"
The voice came from behind, teasing and soft. Lyra, the blacksmith's daughter, was walking up the hill carrying a small basket of berries. Her brown hair was tied back, and her cheeks were flushed from the climb.
"Only watching," Eric said, smiling faintly.
"You always say that. But everyone knows your heart's too big for this village."
He chuckled, though there was sadness in it. "A heart's no good if it gets you killed by dragons."
Lyra rolled her eyes and sat beside him, plucking a berry. "You think too much. You should come to the midsummer dance tonight. Maybe meet someone real instead of dreaming about things that'll never happen."
Eric looked back at the mountains. "Maybe you're right."
But he didn't go that night.
When the village gathered under lantern light and laughter, Eric stayed behind in the forest's edge, collecting herbs beneath the silver glow of the twin moons. He moved quietly, humming to himself as the wind rustled through leaves. His lantern flickered in the darkness, casting long shadows that danced among the trees.
Then he heard it — a sound that didn't belong.
A cry, faint but sharp, echoing through the woods. It wasn't the sound of any beast he knew. Something — or someone — was in pain.
He froze. For a moment, instinct told him to turn back. The forest near the Dragon Borders was dangerous; strange creatures roamed there, remnants of old wars between dragons and men. But something in that cry tugged at his heart.
He set down his basket and followed the sound deeper into the woods.
The forest thickened, branches weaving above him like black veins against the moonlight. He pressed forward until he reached a clearing where the air shimmered faintly — as if touched by fire.
And there, beneath a twisted tree, lay a woman.
She was unlike any he had ever seen. Her silver hair spilled around her like liquid starlight, her gown torn and bloodied. But it wasn't her beauty that froze him — it was the faint glow of crimson embers seeping from a wound on her side, as though her very blood burned.
"Gods…" Eric whispered, dropping to his knees beside her. "Miss? Can you hear me?"
Her eyes flickered open — molten gold meeting his grey. For an instant, he felt as though he had looked directly into the heart of a flame.
"Don't… touch me…" she breathed, her voice trembling but regal.
"You're hurt," he said gently. "I'm not going to hurt you. Please, let me help."
She tried to push herself up but winced, clutching her side. "They'll find me… you must leave."
"Who?"
Her gaze darted toward the dark sky above, where faint roars echoed far away. "Hunters."
Eric looked up, heart pounding. He saw nothing yet, but the air carried a strange pressure — as if the forest itself were holding its breath.
"I can't leave you here," he said firmly. "If they're coming, we'll hide you."
Before she could protest, he slipped an arm around her shoulders. Her skin was feverishly warm, almost burning, but he ignored the pain and lifted her gently.
He brought her to a small cave near the creek where he often gathered moss. He laid her down and began to clean the wound using cool water and crushed herbs from his pouch.
The woman watched him silently, her eyes unreadable.
"You're… a healer?" she finally asked.
"Of sorts," he replied. "My teacher calls me a 'slow learner,' but I'm good with cuts and burns."
She almost smiled. "You're bold… for a human."
He blinked. "A human? What else would I be?"
She closed her eyes, her breathing shallow. "Nothing. Forget what I said."
For a moment, he hesitated. Something about her didn't feel right — the heat of her skin, the faint glow beneath her wounds, the strange scent of smoke and rain. But he said nothing.
When he finished binding her wound, she was already asleep.
Eric sat beside her, staring at the flickering light of his lantern. The night outside was eerily quiet, but his heart beat fast. He should have left her — brought her to the village guards, perhaps. But there was something sacred in her presence, something that felt like fate whispering softly.
Hours passed. At dawn, the sound of wings stirred him awake.
He crept to the entrance of the cave and peered out. In the sky above, three dark shapes circled — enormous, their wings blotting out the sun. The dragons.
His blood ran cold.
When he turned back, the woman was gone.
Only a faint scent of smoke lingered, and on the stone where she had lain was a single scale — small, silver, and warm to the touch.
Eric stared at it, realization dawning like thunder.
She wasn't human.
The woman he had saved was one of them — a dragon.