The giant dragon Eliviraa strode through the skies, her massive wings cutting through clouds like a blade through silk.
Aragon sat atop her scaled back, his mind far from the looming battle ahead. Instead, his thoughts drifted to Freja, his grandmother, and the moment they had shared just before his departure. He touched his lips softly, still feeling the lingering warmth of their kiss.
Freja had been different that day. Her usual composed demeanour had cracked, revealing vulnerability beneath her weathered exterior. At fifty, she carried herself with the grace of nobility and the strength of a warrior, but when he had finally confessed his love, he saw something else in her eyes—fear, perhaps, or uncertainty.
"You shouldn't," she had whispered, even as her hand lingered on his chest.
