The stranger didn't look at anyone else in the tavern. His eyes, cold and sharp as daggers, locked onto Rose. He didn't blink. He didn't breathe.
The blood of the First Dragon," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the crackling fireplace. "It wasn't a myth."
Rose backed away, her heart hitting her ribs like a drum. She wanted to run, but her feet were frozen to the floor. The birthmark on her shoulder burned, and suddenly, the entire room turned silent. Every candle in the tavern flared bright blue, then extinguished, plunging them into total darkness.
In the pitch black, she heard it—a sound that vibrated in her very bones. It was a low, resonant growl, like stones grinding deep underground.
Rose," the voice echoed, not from the stranger, but from inside her own soul. "Do not fear the shadow. Become it."
When the light returned, the stranger was gone. In his place, on the wooden table, lay a single, obsidian dragon scale—pulsing with a faint, dangerous light.