Chapter 17 — Wings in Her Dreams
Lyra had always dreamed softly.
Her dreams were never loud or wild. They came like whispers — petals drifting on wind, stars blinking behind closed eyes. But lately, they had changed.
She dreamed of skies.
Of wind rushing past her cheeks, of clouds parting like curtains, of wings — not hers, but close enough to feel.
She didn't tell anyone.
Not yet.
Instead, she wandered the palace with a quiet glow in her chest, as if something inside her had begun to stretch.
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One morning, she stood on the highest balcony, the one that overlooked the cliffs and the sea beyond. The wind was strong there, playful. It tugged at her braid, lifted her shawl, and made her laugh — a soft, surprised sound.
The Dragon King found her there.
He didn't speak at first. He simply watched her, the way her eyes closed against the breeze, the way her fingers reached out as if to touch something invisible.
"You're different," he said gently.
Lyra turned, smiling. "Am I?"
He stepped closer. "You're lighter."
She tilted her head. "I've been dreaming."
"Of what?"
She hesitated, then whispered, "Flying."
His eyes darkened — not with fear, but with memory.
"Describe it," he said.
Lyra closed her eyes. "It's not like falling. It's like… being held by the sky. Like the wind knows my name. Like I'm not escaping, just… rising."
He was silent.
Then he reached out and placed his hand over her heart.
She didn't flinch.
"You're changing," he said. "The palace feels it. I feel it."
Lyra looked up at him, innocent and open. "Is that bad?"
"No," he said. "It's beautiful."
She smiled, then turned back to the edge of the balcony.
"I don't want to fly away," she said. "I just want to fly with you."
His breath caught.
Then, slowly, he stepped beside her and opened his cloak.
Inside, folded carefully, were two feathers — long, iridescent, and warm to the touch.
"They're not mine," he said. "They belonged to my mother. She was the last dragon who loved without fear."
Lyra reached out, reverently, and touched one.
It pulsed beneath her fingers.
"She would have liked you," he said.
Lyra's voice was soft. "I would have liked her."
He handed her one of the feathers.
"Keep it," he said. "It will remind you that you're not bound to the ground."
Lyra held it close, her heart full.
And as the wind danced around them, she whispered:
> "Maybe I'm not just dreaming.
> Maybe I'm remembering."
He looked at her, wonder blooming in his eyes.
And for the first time, he believed it.