Several hours passed without incident.
Night had settled over the castle like a tranquil cloak, and Scarlet's room was bathed in a comfortable twilight, illuminated only by the soft glow of enchanted embers and the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains.
The little dragon now lay in the middle of the bed.
Curled between pillows, blankets, and the faint residual warmth of Scarlet's magic, she slept soundly, her small body rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. With each breath, tiny ice crystals formed in the air and vanished before touching the sheet, as if the cold itself knew where to stop.
Strax leaned against the wall, arms crossed, silently observing.
Scarlet, on the other hand, sat on the edge of the bed.
She looked at the dragon with an expression that definitely didn't match the fiery speech of hours before.
Carefully—feigning disinterest—she extended a finger.
And poked the hatchling's cheek.
Gently.
