Liora was the first to recover her composure.
Not fully—never fully—but enough to tilt her head, eyes glittering with unmistakable curiosity.
"So," she said lightly, as if Nytherra had not just revealed a royal dragon's claim upon her skin, "was he… impressive?"
Nytherra blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
Hestia, still standing far too close, snorted softly. "She means attractive."
"I know what she means," Nytherra muttered.
Liora clasped her hands together, delighted. "I am merely asking for clarity. For academic purposes."
"Your academics are questionable," Hestia said dryly.
Liora waved her off. "In Drakenfell, we would phrase it differently."
Nytherra stiffened. "You are not about to use Drakenfell court idioms."
"I absolutely am," Liora said. "Now—did his presence 'bend the air toward him'?"
Nytherra felt heat rush to her face. "That is not—"
"Or," Liora continued eagerly, "did your pulse 'answer before your thoughts could'?"
Hestia pinched the bridge of her nose. "Liora."
"What? Those are standard metaphors."
"They are euphemisms."
"Poetic euphemisms," Liora corrected. "Very respectable ones."
Nytherra stared at them both, mortified. "You are discussing him as though he were a ballad."
"He is a royal dragon," Hestia said calmly. "Statistically, he is."
Nytherra groaned and leaned back. "Yes," she said at last, surrendering. "He was… striking."
Liora gasped. "Striking!"
Hestia's mouth curved, just barely. "Continue."
Nytherra closed her eyes. "He was quiet. Not in the brooding way—more like the world waited for him to speak. And when he looked at me, it felt…" She hesitated, then admitted softly, "as though he had already decided I was worth listening to."
Liora's expression softened. "Oh no."
Hestia exhaled slowly. "That is the dangerous kind."
Nytherra opened her eyes. "I know."
Liora leaned closer. "Did he smell like smoke?"
"No."
"Stone?"
"No."
"Rain on heated earth?"
Nytherra paused. "…Yes."
Liora collapsed back dramatically. "Tragic."
Hestia crossed her arms. "Drakenfell texts warn of that, you know."
Nytherra looked at her. "Warn?"
"Yes," Hestia said. "They say when a dragon smells like rain instead of fire, he is already thinking of permanence."
Nytherra swallowed.
"That does not make me feel better."
---
Chapter: The Shape of Old Tragedies
The levity faded gradually, like sunlight slipping behind the trees.
Hestia resumed her seat, posture composed once more, though her eyes never left Nytherra.
"Drakenfell and Eirvale rarely end cleanly," she said quietly.
Nytherra nodded. "I know."
Liora toyed with the edge of the cloth, suddenly subdued. "They write songs about it. None of them end happily."
"Because humans age," Hestia added. "And dragons endure."
Nytherra's fingers curled into her skirt. "Because humans are remembered fondly," she said, voice steady despite the ache beneath it, "and dragons are remembered forever."
Silence settled among them, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves and distant birdsong.
"I did not intend to fall for him," Nytherra said. "It simply… happened."
Liora glanced at her. "You sound as though you blame yourself."
"I waited," Nytherra continued. "At first, I told myself it was nothing. That months meant little to him. That perhaps he would return when he could."
She laughed softly, without humor.
"And then I began to wonder if he had chosen not to."
Hestia's gaze sharpened. "Abandonment."
Nytherra nodded. "Or mercy. I cannot tell which is worse."
Liora reached out, taking her hand without asking. "You loved him."
Nytherra inhaled shakily. "I still do."
"That does not vanish simply because someone leaves," Hestia said gently. "Especially not when a bond has taken root."
Nytherra stared at the garden—the same trees, the same sunlight, unchanged by her quiet grief.
"I feel foolish," she admitted. "For missing someone who may not even think of me."
Hestia shook her head. "Royal dragons do not forget claims."
Liora squeezed Nytherra's hand. "And even if he never returns—what you felt was real."
Nytherra's throat tightened. "It hurts," she whispered. "Because I was happy. For a moment, I was… chosen."
Liora leaned in, resting her head against Nytherra's shoulder. "Then let us be here now."
Hestia rose and placed a hand over Nytherra's, warm and steady. "You are not alone in this. Not today. Not ever."
The garden breathed around them.
Old tragedies might be written in songs and stone—but for now, there were three women on a bench, holding one another against a future still unwritten.
And for the first time in months, Nytherra allowed herself to rest.
---