The magic here was old. Prehistoric. It hummed in his blood like a long-lost song, and beneath that hum was something else—
A faint echo.
A memory.
Not his.
Not the dragon's.
The land's.
Visions flickered at the edges of his thoughts—of glowing saplings blooming in endless dark, of elven figures weaving spells to create shelter from the sunless void, of this beast arriving, wounded, guided here by forces unknown.
The elves had not tamed it. They had built around it.
And in turn, it had protected them.
He opened his eyes again.
"I understand now," he murmured.
"This realm doesn't belong to one being. It's shared."
A soft snap echoed behind him.
He turned slowly, and there she was again.
The silver-haired elf.
This time, she didn't vanish.
They stared at one another for a few seconds.
Then she stepped forward and spoke in a soft, ancient dialect.
He didn't understand the words—but the meaning was clear.
Who are you?
