The forest of Eldrath had grown quiet again.
No cries of war, no roaring flames, no tremors shaking the soil — only the sound of wind weaving through the tall, ancient trees.
Eric sat beside the dying campfire, staring into the glowing embers, each flicker of orange reminding him of the dragonfire he once feared and now shared a bond with.
Seraphina was a few steps away, standing at the edge of a cliff where moonlight spilled like liquid silver upon her white hair. Her horns glimmered faintly — a soft reflection of her lineage — yet the gentleness in her gaze betrayed the legend of her blood. She wasn't the monster the world painted her to be. She was the bridge between two realms: the fire of dragons, and the fragile heart of humanity.
For the first time in months, there was silence — real, pure silence.
No pursuit. No danger. Just the weight of everything that had already passed.
Eric rose and walked toward her. His steps were soft, careful not to disturb the quiet she seemed to be guarding. When he reached her side, he noticed how the moonlight framed her face — serene, yet burdened with invisible scars.
"You're awake," she said, her voice gentle, almost melodic.
"I couldn't sleep," Eric admitted. "Every time I close my eyes, I see them… the faces, the flames, the chaos. It's hard to tell what's real anymore."
Seraphina turned to him, her eyes glowing faintly with dragonlight. "Reality is not always kind to dreamers, Eric. But you've survived it — again and again."
He chuckled faintly, without joy. "Survived, yes. But living… I'm not sure I've figured that part out yet."
A soft breeze carried her scent — like ash and lilac — a strange combination that had grown familiar to him. Seraphina watched the moon as if trying to read fate's handwriting across its pale surface.
"There was a time," she began softly, "when I believed peace was only a story the weak told themselves to sleep at night. In my kingdom, strength was everything. Power decided who lived, who ruled, and who was worth remembering."
Her hand lifted slightly, tracing the air as if sketching memories. "But power… it never brought peace. Only more blood."
Eric said nothing. He simply listened — because he knew these words weren't for him alone; they were pieces of her, fragments of a soul finally daring to speak after centuries of silence.
"I've spent my life running from what I am," Seraphina continued. "A dragon noble who hated her own kind. A woman cursed to outlive the humans she loved. And now…" She looked at Eric, eyes glistening like molten silver. "Now I stand beside a mortal who burns brighter than any flame I've ever known."
Eric met her gaze, his breath catching. "I'm no hero, Seraphina."
"You are to me," she said simply.
For a moment, the world held its breath. The wind stopped. The fire dimmed. The stars themselves seemed to lean closer.
And under that quiet sky, something fragile and infinite bloomed — a bond born not of destiny, but of choice.
Eric reached out, brushing a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. His hand lingered near her cheek, feeling the warmth of her dragon blood beneath the skin.
"You deserve peace too," he whispered. "Not as a warrior or a noble… but as you."
She smiled faintly, and for the first time, it wasn't the smile of a dragon princess — it was that of a woman rediscovering her heart.
They stood there for a while, wrapped in silence. The moonlight painted them in silver and shadow, two souls adrift between worlds, clinging to the fragile promise of something more.
Then Seraphina broke the quiet. "Do you ever think about what happens after all this?" she asked.
"After what?"
"After Drakonis. After the war. After the fire's gone."
Eric hesitated. "Sometimes. But I don't know what 'after' means for someone like me. Or for someone like you."
Seraphina lowered her gaze. "Maybe 'after' doesn't mean peace. Maybe it just means… continuing to breathe. Together."
The simplicity of her words struck deeper than any vow.
He wanted to say something — anything — but his throat tightened. Instead, he just nodded, stepping closer, until their shoulders brushed. Her warmth seeped into him, chasing away the cold of the night.
Minutes, maybe hours, passed in silence. Then Eric spoke again, his voice quieter, steadier.
"When I first met you, I thought dragons were only stories. Then I realized the stories never told the truth — they never spoke of their hearts, their fears, their pain."
He turned to her. "If I could, I'd rewrite every legend — to show them who you really are."
Seraphina's eyes shimmered, tears catching the light like tiny diamonds.
"And what would you call that story?"
He smiled. "The Dragon Who Learned to Love."
She laughed softly — a sound like chimes in a storm — and leaned her head on his shoulder.
"Then let's make sure it has a happy ending."
They stayed like that until dawn began to creep through the trees. The first rays of light painted the forest in gold, and with it came the weight of reality — the reminder that peace, however fleeting, could never last forever.
From somewhere far beyond the forest, a faint tremor echoed — distant, almost imperceptible, but enough for Seraphina's eyes to sharpen.
Eric felt it too. The earth shivered beneath their feet, and in the distance, the wind carried a scent — smoke and iron.
Seraphina lifted her head slowly, her expression shifting from tenderness to caution. "The world never lets us rest long, does it?"
"No," Eric replied, hand instinctively moving to his sword. "But maybe that's why we have moments like this — to remember what we're fighting for."
She turned toward the horizon, where clouds gathered like dark wings.
"Then let's be ready, Eric. Whatever comes next — we face it together."
Eric nodded, his heart calm despite the storm that was surely coming.
Because for the first time in his life, he wasn't just surviving. He was living — for her, for their fragile dream, for the world they still believed could change.
As the last ember of the campfire died, they stood side by side, watching the dawn break through the veil of night.
And in that fleeting peace, beneath the silver moon fading into morning light, hope — fragile, stubborn, and eternal — began to burn once more.