When I opened my eyes, he was already there.
A dragon made of moonlight and smoke, hovering in the broken chapel, filling the whole ruin with a cold that crawled down my spine. His wings barely moved, yet every feathered shadow trembled like they remembered killing things.
The Dragon—my Dragon—was on the floor, belly pressed against stone, limbs tucked under him, shaking.
Actually shaking.
"Up," the ghost commanded.
The Dragon lurched upright like a puppet yanked by strings. "Y-yes, uncle."
Uncle.
Oh gods.
I swallowed, stepping back until my shoulders hit a scorched column. The ghost didn't look my way. Not once. Not even a flick of an eye. To him, I wasn't a person. I wasn't even scenery. I was the dirt under his nephew's claws.
"You reek of shame," the ghost said, drifting closer. "I felt it halfway across the veil. This… degradation."
"Yes, uncle."
"You were to be a blaze upon empires. A terror of the highlands. A name carved in fire. And now—" His eyes narrowed to glowing slits. "This."
A claw of mist swept contemptuously toward the Dragon's bedroll, the dented goblets, the bag of mismatched coins…
And then, lower.
At me.
Without actually turning toward me.
"A strumpet," the ghost spat, as if the word were poison. "A gutter-born hussy dragging her fleas into your hoard."
Heat flared in my cheeks. "Excuse me—"
The ghost talked over me, deaf to anything human.
"A street slut with a cost of exactly three coppers and the last shreds of her dignity. This is what you tether yourself to? This is what you hide among, like a rat in laundry?"
My heart hammered against my ribs. Fear, like a hand around my throat. Anger, like a kick in the gut. But he didn't see me. Didn't acknowledge me. Just kept dissecting me out loud like an afterthought.
"You bring rifraff into your den. Let her touch your treasure. Breathe your air. What next? Will you groom her? Nest with her? Fetch her berries?"
The Dragon made a strangled sound. "N-no, uncle. I— I haven't—"
"Haven't what?" the ghost roared. "Haven't sunk low enough? Haven't humiliated your ancestors sufficiently? Look at you. Cowering like a hatchling. Trembling at the sight of discipline."
The Dragon did tremble. Wings twitching. Tail limp. Eyes on the floor.
I'd never seen him like that.
Never thought I could.
The ghost leaned down until its snout passed through the Dragon's skull, making him shudder like someone had poured ice water through his bones.
"You torched your first orchard before your hatch-scales even hardened," the ghost hissed. "By two weeks, you were flambéing daisies for fun. At two months, you roasted a clutch of bunnies and claimed it was 'an experiment.' By four, you melted a knight clean out of his armor. And by your first full cycle? You leveled a trade caravan because their bells annoyed you."
He sneered, drifting closer.
And now? You spend your days swindling millers and rutting around ruined chapels with a painted trollop."
"…Kill her," the ghost said softly.
That one phrase turned the cold to ice.
The Dragon froze.
"Kill. Her. Now."
I saw it—just for a moment—the glow building in his throat. Instinct. Reflex. Old training waking up.
His claws shifted.
And in that breath, I screamed.
"Don't!"
It tore out of me, sharp and shaking, louder than I meant, more desperate than I wanted.
The glow died.
His gaze dropped.
Tail curled. Wings pulled in.
He couldn't look at me.
Couldn't look at himself.
The ghost exhaled, slow and deep, like a forge going out.
"You can't," he said, almost gently. "You can't, can you? Softened by a tramp in torn lace. Humbled by lust. By loneliness."
The Dragon said nothing.
The ghost hovered higher, rising above us both, eyes burning hotter now—not rage, but contempt aged like wine.
"You have twelve moons," he said. "One year to make yourself worthy again. To rise. To burn. To reclaim what's in your blood."
Silence.
Then the Dragon, voice barely a rasp: "Or what, uncle?"
The ghost's smile was smoke and teeth.
"Or you will face the Family."
The temperature dropped again.
Even the fire choked.
The ghost's wings flared wide—one last flare of terrible, ancient presence—and then, like ash in a gale, he was gone.
Just like that.
The Dragon didn't move.
Neither did I.
Only the wind stirred now, sighing through broken stones.
And between us, nothing but a burned patch of ground and a silence full of old terror.
Twelve moons.
The Family.
Gods help us both.
We sat there in the ruins for a long while.
The fire had burned down to a dull glow. The chapel stones radiated chill. Ash still floated in the air like reluctant snowflakes. I could hear my own heartbeat. And his breathing—shallow, uneven, almost human in its smallness.
He didn't look at me.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Not to me, not really. More like to the stones. Or to the memory of the thing that just left scorch marks on both our souls.
I swallowed. My voice came out hoarse.
"Are they all like that?"
He blinked. "Who?"
"Your family. Are they all homicidal maniacs with artistic standards?"
A long pause.
Then he nodded.
"They're all dragons."
"…Oh," I said. "Right."
Silence again. He stared at the fire like he wanted to crawl into it.
"Still," I added, trying to sound breezy and failing, "I've met in-laws who were worse."
He didn't laugh.
Didn't even blink.
"He's right," the Dragon said quietly. "I am wasting it. What's left of me."
I turned slowly.
"You mean your fire?"
He didn't answer.
"Your power?"
Nothing.
"…Your bone structure?"
Still nothing.
He just kept staring into the flames like they owed him something.
And for once—I didn't have a joke ready.
The silence pressed in again, thick and brittle.
I pulled my knees up to my chest. Watched the dying fire for a bit. My throat felt dry.
Then I said it.
Not loud. Not accusing. Just… truth.
"You would've torched me."
His body tensed beside me.
He didn't deny it.
He didn't nod either.
He just looked away.
Turned his head like the shadows were suddenly more interesting than I was.
I shifted closer. Slowly. Slipped my arms around his big, shivering frame and leaned my cheek against the side of his chest. The scales were cold.
I didn't say anything for a while.
Then, soft, I murmured, "It's okay."
Not because it was.
But because he needed to hear it.
And maybe… so did I.