Zekar arrived at the Gem Stream long before the moon had reached its peak. He moved through the underbrush not as a traveler, but as a predator—pacing the bank with a restless, energy that made the forest creatures fall silent. The air in Velanthri was too cool, too damp for a son of Druvkaur, yet he felt a heat beneath his skin that surpassed any desert sun. It was the "hellfire" his mother had teased him about, a burning in the marrow of his bones that sparked whenever he pictured a certain shock of silver-white hair.
He stopped by a moss-covered stone and looked at his reflection in the shimmering water. His golden eyes, flecked with the red of dying embers, looked back at him with an intensity that almost felt foreign.
"Biu… bu-ti-fu," he whispered, the English word feeling like a jagged stone in his mouth. He shook his head, his ponytail whipping against his neck. "L-love?" He hissed the word, then growled in frustration. The language of the foreigners was too soft, too full of rounded edges. In Drk, words were forged in the throat and spat like sparks from a forge. To speak English felt like trying to catch a butterfly with calloused, hunting hands.
He paced again, his boots crunching on the glittering pebbles of the bank. He found himself practicing more words—words he had overheard from the traders or gleaned from Ryker's meager memory.
"Stay," he muttered. "Mine." He stopped, his heart thudding a heavy, draconic beat against his ribs. He was danger itself, the unruly twin who feared no beast and bowed to no man, yet here he stood, trembling at the thought of a young girl with eyes like the morning mist.
Then, the air changed.
The scent of jasmine and rain drifted through the trees, and Zekar went perfectly still. He did not need his sharp dragon sight to know she was there; his very soul seemed to pivot toward her like a needle to the north.
Emery emerged from the shadows of the forest edge. She looked even more ethereal than she had the night before. She wore a dress of pale blue that seemed to drink the moonlight, and her silver-white hair was loose, flowing over her shoulders like a silken waterfall. She stopped when she saw him, her hand going to the base of her throat.
"You came," she said softly.
Zekar didn't trust his tongue. He simply nodded, his gaze fixed on her face. He noted the way the moon caught the many freckles on her face—those constellations he had memorized the night before. He gestured to the flat, smooth rock beside the water, offering her a place to sit with a silent, regal tilt of his head.
Emery approached with hesitant steps, the hem of her dress brushing the grass. She sat, smoothing her skirts with a grace that made Zekar feel even more like a rough-hewn beast. He sat beside her, maintaining the distance of a respectful stranger, though the proximity made the air between them feel thick and charged.
"I... I brought a book," Emery said, pulling a small, leather-bound volume from a hidden pocket in her dress. "But perhaps it is better if we just... speak. To start."
Zekar looked at the book, then at her. "Speak," he agreed, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble.
Emery smiled, and for a moment, Zekar forgot how to breathe. "Let us start with the world around us. Look at the water, Zekar. See how it glows?" She pointed to the glittering current. "In my tongue, we call that Luminescent. It means it carries its own light."
Zekar squinted at the water, then repeated it. "Lu-mi-nes-cent." He turned his head to look at her, his golden eyes narrowing. "You... lu-mi-nes-cent."
Emery's breath hitched. She looked away, her cheeks deepening into that rosy hue he so loved to provoke. "No, I am just a girl. The water is a beauty. I am just... Emery."
Zekar shook his head firmly. He reached out, his dark hand hovering near her hair before he remembered himself and pulled back. "You. Light. Inside."
Emery cleared her throat, clearly trying to regain her composure as the teacher. "And what of your tongue? What do you call the water?"
"Vaelûn." Zekar spoke the word in Drk—a sharp, flowing sound that mimicked the rush of a mountain river. He saw her lips move as she tried to catch the shape of it.
"It sounds... strong," she whispered.
"Is word... for heart," Zekar said, struggling to find the English phrases. He pointed to his chest, then toward her. He said; "Vael'kharin."[1]
"What does it mean?" she asked, her blue eyes wide and searching.
Zekar felt a surge of boldness. He didn't answer with words. Instead, he held out his right hand, palm upward. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, reaching deep into the reservoir of heat that lived in the blood of the Druvkaur. He felt the familiar itch, the prickling of the ancient dragon magic that his people claimed as their birthright.
Slowly, a small, dancing flame flickered into existence in the center of his palm. It wasn't the roaring fire of a warrior; it was a steady, golden light, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
Emery gasped, leaning forward. Her first instinct was fear—the fear of the "burning tribes" that her elders spoke of in hushed, warning tones. But as she looked at the flame, she saw it didn't singe his skin. It didn't smoke or hiss. It simply glowed, casting a warm, amber light over his dark features and the wildness of his hair.
"It's... beautiful," she whispered, her fear melting into genuine wonder. She reached out a finger, stopping just inches from the heat. "Does it hurt?"
"No," Zekar said, his eyes fixed on her. "Is... me. Is Druvkaur."
"It is like a small star," she murmured.
Zekar closed his hand, snuffed the flame, and the moonlight reclaimed the bank. The silence that followed was not awkward; it was heavy with the weight of things they had no words for in either tongue. The night grew deeper, and a sharp wind began to whistle through the ancient sentinels of the forest. The dampness of the Gem Stream seemed to rise, bringing a biting chill that made Emery shiver.
She tried to hide it, hugging her arms to her chest, but Zekar noticed instantly. His instincts, honed by years of surviving the rugged mountains of his home, flared to life.
"Cold," he stated.
"I am fine," Emery lied, her teeth beginning to chatter. "The nights in Velanthri can be... unpredictable."
Zekar didn't ask for permission this time. He shifted closer, closing the gap between them until his shoulder was nearly brushing hers. He did not wrap his arm around her—he knew the rules of propriety that she lived by, even if he didn't fully understand them—but he allowed his body to do what the Druvkaur were built for.
He radiated heat like a living hearth. The blood of the dragon descendants was thick and ran hot, and as he sat beside her, the air around them began to warm. Emery didn't flinch this time. Instead, she leaned almost imperceptibly toward the warmth, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
"You are like a furnace," she breathed, her eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment.
"I keep you... safe," Zekar murmured. His English was improving with every minute spent in her presence, fueled by a desperate need to be understood.
They sat in silence for a long time, watching the luminescent water dance over the stones. Zekar felt a peace he had never known in the wild, reckless days of his youth. The thrill of the hunt was nothing compared to the steady thrum of being near this girl. He thought of his mother's teasing, of Ryker's smirks, and realized they were right. He was changed. The "danger wrapped in human flesh" had found something it wanted to protect rather than destroy.
"I must go," Emery said at last, her voice tinged with regret. "The gatekeeper will wonder where I have gone, and if my stepmother finds my bed empty..." She didn't finish the sentence, but the shadow that crossed her face told Zekar all he needed to know.
She stood, and Zekar rose with her, his towering height once again casting a long shadow over her slight frame.
"Tomorrow?" he asked, the word a plea.
Emery looked up at him, her silver hair shimmering. "Tomorrow. But be careful, Zekar. My people... they do not all see the beauty in the fire."
Zekar reached into his pocket and realized he had nothing to give her yet—nothing but words. "Another... time," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intense register. "I bring gift. From Druvkaur mountains. A stone... like your eyes."
Emery smiled, a small, secret thing that felt like a gift in itself. "I will look forward to it."
She turned and began the walk back toward the manor, her light dress fluttering in the wind. Zekar didn't move. He stood on the bank of the Gem Stream, his golden-red eyes tracking her every step. He watched as she crossed the cobblestone road, and didn't turn away until she was nothing more than a silver shadow lost to the night.
Only then did he turn toward the dark forest, his heart-thief gone, leaving him with a fire that no amount of mountain wind could ever blow out.
[1] English: Heart-thief