Three days.
To a mortal, seventy-two hours of running and hiding was an eternity of terror; to Aerion, it was merely the opening movement of a masterpiece.
As night settled over the Southern Kingdom's deep forest, the world fell into a heavy, unnatural hush. Moonlight filtered through the dense canopy, shattering into silver shards that barely touched the mossy floor. Shadows ruled here—thick, watchful, and ancient—but to Aerion, the darkness was as clear as a summer's day.
He stood atop a gnarled ancient oak, balanced with weightless, predatory grace on a branch that should have snapped under his weight. From this height, the forest was a sea of blackened green. Deceptively calm.
His golden eyes glowed, pupils slitting into thin vertical lines as they swept the terrain. He wasn't just looking; he was tasting the air, catching the frantic, jagged echo of a spirit that didn't belong in these woods.
"Where have you gone, little princess?" he murmured. His voice was a low purr, a secret shared with the wind. A smile tugged at his lips. "Still running. Good. Keep running."
Behind him, his tail lashed once—a whip of gold-and-shadow that sliced the air with a faint whirr.
The crystal's trail leads here. You're close.
The voice in his mind was his own, yet older—the dragon's soul humming beneath the boy's skin. Aerion's expression sharpened. He felt it now: a snag in the forest's natural energy, like a tear in a piece of fine silk. It was a weak, fluttering pulse.
She was exhausted. He could practically smell the salt of her sweat and the metallic tang of her blood. She was so devastatingly human, so fragile, and yet she had lasted three days.
Snap.
The sound was tiny—a mere crackle in the night's symphony—but to Aerion, it was a thunderclap.
His ears flicked. The forest seemed to hold its breath with him. He crouched, muscles coiling beneath his clothes, shifting from spectator to weapon. Whatever had made that sound had just signed its own death warrant—or its invitation.
His gaze locked onto a patch of dense brambles. His smile sharpened into something jagged.
"So," he whispered to the dark. "The little bird finally slips."
The hunt wasn't just beginning. It was reaching its crescendo.
(Luna's POV)
My lungs were on fire. Every breath felt like swallowing shards of ice, and my legs had long since transitioned from a dull ache to a heavy, throbbing numbness.
Three days. I didn't know if the sun was up or down anymore. I only knew the cold silver of the moon and the suffocating black of the trees. I slumped against the rough bark of a cedar, my chest heaving. My hands were shaking so violently I had to tuck them under my armpits just to keep the rattling of my gear from giving me away.
The forest was too quiet.
In the stories, forests were alive—crickets, owls, the constant rustle of life. But here, the Southern Kingdom felt dead. Or maybe it was just waiting for me to fail.
I looked down at the teleportation crystal clutched in my palm. It was dull now, a dead piece of rock. It had bought me distance, but it couldn't buy me safety. My thumb traced a jagged crack in its surface. I had used the last of my kingdom's light to end up in a graveyard of trees.
Snap.
The sound was small, but in the vacuum of the night, it felt like a gunshot.
I froze. I didn't even dare to exhale. My heart hammered against my ribs—thump-thump, thump-thump—sounding so loud I was sure the entire forest could hear it. I stared into the darkness until my eyes stung from the effort of not blinking.
Was it a deer? A fox? No. The silence that followed was too heavy. It was the silence of a predator that had already found its mark.
Then, the air changed. The biting chill of the Southern woods began to retreat, replaced by an unnatural, creeping warmth. It felt like the breath of a furnace. I knew that heat. I knew the way it made the hair on my arms stand up.
He was here.
"No," I whispered, the word barely a ghost.
I forced myself to move. My muscles screamed in protest as I pushed away from the tree. I had to keep going. I couldn't let it end like this—cowering in the dirt like a wounded rabbit. I thought of the baker's smile, the silver towers of my home, my mother's final, desperate blessing.
If I die here, their memory dies with me.
I took a step, trying to be silent, but my boot skidded on a patch of slick moss. I reached out to steady myself, and my hand brushed against a dry, brittle branch.
Crack.
The sound echoed through the clearing. I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, a wave of pure, cold terror washing over me. I had slipped. I had given him exactly what he wanted.
The warmth grew stronger. The shadows between the trees seemed to shift and lengthen, stretching toward me like fingers. I looked up, searching the canopy, and for a heartbeat, I saw them—two burning embers watching me from the sky.
I didn't run. I couldn't. Instead, I reached into my boot and pulled out the small, rusted dagger I had scavenged from a dead soldier. It was a pathetic weapon against a dragon, but the weight of it felt real. Solid.
"Come then," I breathed, my voice cracking but my grip tightening. "Come and see if I've broken yet."
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of smoke and ancient gold. He was close. I could feel him in the very marrow of my bones.