The first time Xiao Lin touched the dragon's scales, he thought he would die.
It was foolish — reckless even — but that night, when the courtyard was abandoned and the moon hung low like a broken eye in the sky, he crept closer than he ever dared before.
The dragon watched him.
Silent.
Still.
Its golden-red eyes gleamed faintly, reflecting the dim starlight. No snarl, no roar. Just... a heavy, endless exhaustion.
Xiao Lin swallowed his fear and reached out with trembling fingers.
His hand hovered above the beast's side, hesitating.
He could feel it — the deep, gnawing wound inside the dragon.
Not a physical one, but something deeper.
A shattered soul. A broken beast nucleus bleeding chaos into the creature's mind.
He had learned of such things in the old stories whispered by the head cook: when a beast core was damaged beyond repair, the human would lose themselves, become the monster fully, driven only by instinct and rage.
Yet here this dragon was — broken, chained, and still fighting to stay alive.
Xiao Lin closed his eyes.
From his forehead, beneath his messy bangs, the red sun mark pulsed softly.
Warmth spread from his palm, weaving a thin strand of healing light into the dragon's torn spirit.
The dragon flinched violently.
Chains clattered as it recoiled, a guttural growl rumbling from its throat.
Xiao Lin immediately dropped his hand and bowed low.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Then, slowly, the dragon lowered its head back to the ground, exhaling a hot, shuddering breath.
It was not acceptance.
Not yet.
But it was not rejection, either.
Xiao Lin sat cross-legged beside the dragon, careful not to touch it again.
Instead, he sang — a simple lullaby with no words, just soft notes carried by the night wind. His mother's song, the only thing that had ever made the cold walls of this place feel less suffocating.
The dragon's breathing slowed.
Its massive eyes drooped halfway shut, the fierce hatred in them dulled by bone-deep weariness.
And for the first time in many years, Xiao Lin felt the tight knot of loneliness in his chest loosen, just a little.
The days blurred together after that.
By day, Xiao Lin worked like a ghost — cleaning, scrubbing, enduring slaps and curses without a word.
By night, he stole scraps of food and crept into the courtyard, feeding, singing, healing.
Every time he touched the dragon, he dared to pour a little more of his energy into it, knitting broken threads inside the beast's shattered soul.
And every time, the dragon resisted a little less.
It began to lift its head when he approached.
It ate more greedily from his hands.
It rumbled low in its chest — not a growl, but something closer to a purr — when he sang.
He did not know the dragon's name.
He dared not give it one, for fear of hoping too much.
But in his heart, he called it Hei Yue — Black Moon — for the mark on its forehead that shone so vividly even in the darkest hours.
Trouble, of course, could not stay away forever.
One evening, as Xiao Lin tiptoed out of the kitchen carrying a cloth bundle of food, he nearly ran straight into his step-sister, Mei Hua.
She was beautiful, in the way cold marble statues were beautiful — all sharp edges and dead eyes.
Her lips twisted when she saw him.
"And where are you slinking off to, little fox?" she sneered, voice syrupy-sweet.
Xiao Lin bowed low, hiding the food under his sleeves. "Just cleaning the courtyard, Elder Sister."
Mei Hua's gaze sharpened, flickering to the heavy cloth bundle hidden under his arm.
For a breathless second, Xiao Lin thought she would strike him.
But instead, she laughed — a brittle, poisonous sound.
"How dutiful," she said mockingly. "Be sure you clean well. We wouldn't want our honored guests tomorrow to think our house is dirty."
With a flip of her silk skirts, she swept past him, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and bitter hatred in her wake.
Xiao Lin exhaled shakily.
He knew better than to believe her.
Mei Hua never let things go so easily.
And indeed, that night, after feeding Hei Yue and healing a little more of the broken soul inside the dragon's body, Xiao Lin sat awake in the dark corner of his cold little room, heart pounding with dread.
Something was coming.
He could feel it — the way animals sense storms long before the sky falls.
In the courtyard, the dragon lay with its eyes closed, pretending to sleep.
But deep inside its mind, something stirred.
A half-forgotten name.
A distant memory of battle, of sacrifice, of a promise never fulfilled.
And the scent — the pure, aching scent of the little ger who came every night, who touched him without cruelty, who sang to him as if he mattered.
The dragon's blood, sluggish for so long, warmed painfully in its veins.
It did not understand the boy's kindness.
It did not trust it.
But like a seed buried in frozen earth, something had begun to grow in the dragon's shattered heart.
A spark.
A whisper.
A reason to fight.
Again.