Chapter 15 — The Lullaby Between Them
The palace was quiet after the rain.
Soft droplets still clung to the windows, and the garden below shimmered with silver light. Lyra sat curled on a velvet bench in the music room, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her fingers tracing the edge of a harp string.
She wasn't playing.
She was listening.
The Dragon King stood nearby, not in his usual robes, but in a simple tunic of deep gray. His hair was damp, his eyes distant. He had asked her to meet him here — not with words, but with a folded note left on her pillow.
> *Come to the room with the harp.
> I want to show you something I've never shared.*
She hadn't hesitated.
Now, as the silence stretched between them, Lyra spoke softly.
"Is this where you used to sing?"
He nodded. "Long ago. Before the curse."
She tilted her head. "Do dragons sing?"
He looked at her then — really looked — and something in his gaze melted.
"Only when they're safe," he said.
Lyra's heart fluttered. "Are you safe now?"
He didn't answer with words.
Instead, he walked to the center of the room, where a circle of candles flickered gently. He closed his eyes, placed one hand over his chest, and began to hum.
It wasn't a song.
It was a memory.
Low, ancient, and full of longing. The sound wrapped around Lyra like a blanket woven from stars. It spoke of skies that had never been touched, of wings that had forgotten how to fly, of a heart that had waited too long to be heard.
She didn't move.
She simply listened.
And when the melody faded, she whispered, "It's beautiful."
He opened his eyes. "It's yours now."
Lyra blinked. "Mine?"
He stepped closer, slowly, as if afraid to startle her. "You're the only one who's ever heard it."
Her throat tightened. "Why me?"
"Because you don't ask for fire," he said. "You ask for warmth."
She reached out, shyly, and touched his hand.
"I want to learn it," she said. "So I can sing it back to you when you forget."
His breath caught.
Then, gently, he guided her to the harp. His fingers brushed hers as he showed her the notes — not with commands, but with quiet encouragement.
Lyra played the first line.
It trembled.
He smiled.
"Again," he said softly.
She tried again. This time, the note held.
And as the night deepened, they sat side by side, weaving a lullaby from broken pieces — one that didn't belong to dragons or humans, but to them.
To the girl who listened.
And the king who dared to sing.