No one comes here. Not even the wind dares to disturb this place."
The moon was a silver coin dropped carelessly into the sky.
It hung above the wisteria grove—bright, brazen, impossibly close—as if it watched her and only her. Nytherra stood at the water's edge barefoot, letting the cool soil embrace the soles of her feet. She had come here every night for as long as she could remember. It was hers—her sanctuary, her secret, her still-spring.
Just like the one from the tale.
The story her mother told her so often that the words had stitched themselves into her bones—the healer girl by the quiet pond, the dragon prince who bowed his wings and his fate to her. Nytherra used to fall asleep to it, tiny fingers gripping her mother's sleeve, imagining ancient love that defied fire and death and time.
Tonight, she could almost hear her mother's voice again.
Not all stories are just stories, little star.
The water lapped gently, a hush-hush of whispered secrets. Wisteria petals floated like lost dreams on the silver surface. She slipped out of her cloak and clothing piece by piece until the night air wrapped her bare skin. The pond accepted her with a sigh, cool arms lifting goosebumps along her shoulders.
Nytherra tilted her head back, letting the moon kiss her face.
"It's still beautiful," she murmured.
But beauty was not simple. Beauty was dangerous. Beauty drew things toward it.
She sank deeper into the pond—and her mind sank deeper into memory.
What if the princess hadn't vanished?
What if the flame lived on?
What if stories remembered themselves?
The water reached her collarbone when a sudden gust tore through the trees.
The petals stopped swaying.
The night stilled—
—and every part of her instincts sharpened, primal and alert.
Someone else was here.
Nytherra's head snapped toward the sound—heavy footsteps, quiet but unmistakable—and a figure emerged from the shadows like he had been carved from the darkness itself.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Bare chest rising with controlled, dangerous breath.
But what stole her voice was not his arrival.
It was his body.
His skin gleamed faintly as if dusted with metal—patches of dark iridescent scales shimmered across his ribcage, his forearm, trailing up his neck and just along the line of his jaw. Not decorative. Not subtle. Real.
A dragon.
A very real dragon—in human form.
Her heart slammed so hard she felt it in her teeth.
Without thinking, she ducked—half plunging under the water until only her eyes and wet hair floated above the surface.
His gaze locked on her instantly.
Not roaming. Not searching.
Pinned.
Her.
Humans do not usually bathe," he said slowly, voice like smoke and tempered steel, "in places that time itself seems to have forgotten."
Nytherra swallowed. The chill of the water no longer reached her skin.
"I come here often," she managed. "It's quiet. No one knows of it."
A faint shift crossed his face — not disbelief, not mockery — something more curious, almost haunted.
"No one," he repeated, tasting the word like an old memory. "This grove is older than your cities, older than your maps. Names have been lost here. Oaths buried. Blood remembered."
The air thickened, as though the trees leaned closer to listen.
"And yet," he continued, stepping toward the edge of the water, "you found it. As though it called only to you."
Nytherra's breath hitched — she didn't know why she felt ashamed, or exposed, simply for standing there.
"It's just a pond," she whispered.
His eyes lifted to hers — slow, unwavering — the faint shimmer of scales catching the moonlight.
"No," he said quietly. "Ponds do not guard echoes. And this place has far too many."
But then—
His expression changeded—not a smile, not exactly—but something dangerously close.
But then—
His expression changed.
His attention dropped—from her eyes to her chest—where the moonlight caught faint pale lines just visible above the water. The diagonal claw-shaped birthmark she had always hidden. Always.
He went still.
Utterly still.
His eyes widened—not with anger this time, but something raw, ancient, and hollowed out by centuries.
He stepped closer, water rippling with each slow, deliberate footfall near the shore.
Nytherra froze, breath trapped behind her ribs as though her body refused to risk sound.
"What… is that mark?" His voice was hoarse.
"It—it's nothing," she whispered, pressing her palm to cover it—too late. Much too late.
He lowered himself slightly—not crouching, not kneeling, but leaning in as if drawn by gravity that did not belong to the earth.
Gold flickered brighter in his eyes. Hungry. Disbelieving.
Nytherra was shaking now, hair dripping down her face, cheeks burning in humiliation and fear, the cold unable to hide how her pulse betrayed her.
"I was born with it," she managed. "It's just a birthmark—"
Nytherra's chest tightened. Her cheeks burned hotter than the chill of the pond, and her arms wrapped instinctively around herself, though she knew it did little to shield her. Her heart hammered, a frantic drum inside her ribs. She could feel her pulse in her temples, in her throat, in her fingertips, trembling in the water. Fear, embarrassment, and awe tangled together, leaving her dizzy and silent.
Then, slow, impossibly careful, he reached out. His hand hovered over the diagonal claw-shaped mark she had always hidden, tracing its curve in the air, almost reverently.
"What… what are you doing?" she finally whispered, voice trembling.
He didn't answer. His storm-grey eyes, flecked with molten gold, stayed locked on the diagonal claw-shaped mark she had always hidden. He reached toward it, hand hovering above the pale line.
And when his fingers finally brushed it, the touch was light—barely there—but it sent a shiver down her spine that ran like lightning to the tips of her toes.
He did not look at her face. Not once. His storm-grey eyes, flecked with molten gold, were fixed entirely on the mark, and something in their intensity made her feel small, exposed, and yet… utterly seen
Nytherra shivered, pressing her arms to herself instinctively. He's not… lustful, right? she thought, panic twisting with embarrassment. He's just… fascinated…
"You're… a dragon," she said, her voice barely audible, fear coiling in her stomach.
His head tilted slightly, a hint of surprise in his expression. "So early you realized," he murmured, almost with a growl. Anger still lingered at the edges of his features, but when his fingers brushed her mark, it softened, calm settling into his gaze.
He didn't speak. He didn't look at her face. Only the mark.
"Who… are you?" she asked, voice quivering, small and human in contrast to the presence before her.
He drew in a slow breath. "…I am…" His lips pressed together, then he finally muttered, "…someone you are not meant to know."
Nytherra's hands trembled in the water. "I—I'm… a human, I guess."
"Human," he repeated softly, almost tasting the word. "…And yet…" His thumb traced the mark once more, deliberately, carefully. "…here you are."
She couldn't move. Her body refused. Fear, awe, and something unnameable kept her rooted. The water lapped gently around her, but she was frozen.
When he finally lifted his hand, the spell seemed to break. Nytherra's body reacted instantly—she dipped beneath the water, letting it envelope her, shielding herself. Only her wide, silver-gold eyes remained above the surface.
He blinked, dumbfounded. The sudden motion, the retreat, left him staring, caught between disbelief and… something else. Fascination. Curiosity. Recognition. The mark had drawn him, and now this act of fear, of concealment, had him utterly still.
The moonlight caught the shimmer of scales along his jaw and shoulders, glinting like liquid metal. Nytherra's hair floated on the water, glowing softly. She felt exposed, vulnerable, ashamed—but alive.
He said nothing. He could not. The calm in his expression didn't waver, yet his storm-grey eyes, flecked with molten gold, reflected the impossible moment he had just witnessed.
And somewhere in the hush of wisteria and moonlight, the pond held its breath with them both...