The cave mouth breathed cold air across Oberon’s face as he stepped inside, pickaxe in hand, the metal still warm from his grip. The darkness pressed close, thick and damp, carrying the faint mineral tang of crystal dust and something else—something reptilian, ancient, and faintly amused.

  The dragon waiting for him was hardly impressive by Roselia’s standards. Seven feet tall, lean rather than imposing, his scales a dull slate-blue that caught the torchlight in uneven patches. He looked more like a lanky adolescent than a terror of the mountains. Oberon could have snapped him in half with his bare hands if he wanted to. He didn’t want to—but the thought was there, uninvited.

  “State your business,” Oberon said, reaching instinctively for his sword before remembering, with a small jolt of irritation, that it wasn’t there. His fingers closed around the pickaxe instead.

  The dragon flinched. “Be civil, at least! This is my landlord’s territory, and I’m sorry, but you cannot—”

  Oberon stepped forward, closing the distance in a heartbeat. “I want to talk to your so?called landlord.”

  The dragon’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. “How rude!” he sputtered, tail flicking in agitation. “Fine, fine—since you asked for it…” His voice trailed off as he slipped backward into the shadows, muttering something about “mortals with no manners.”

  Oberon exhaled slowly, annoyed at himself. Why did I act like that? It was a stupid argument. He tightened his grip on the pickaxe, listening to the cave’s slow breathing. He was about to turn around and find a different cavern when a familiar scent—warm stone, lavender smoke, and something faintly electric—washed over him.

  A shape emerged from the dark.

  Not the messenger.

  Her.

  “…Roselia?” he breathed.

  Roselia blinked her enormous violet eye at him, her expression caught somewhere between surprise and exasperation. Behind her, the smaller dragon—Avrid, apparently—kept glancing between them like a child caught between feuding parents.

  “Is this the man you keep—” Avrid began.

  Roselia smacked him on the back of the head with her tail. He sat down immediately, chastened.

  Oberon stared at him with pity before turning back to her. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

  Roselia’s frills fluttered in a way that might have been embarrassment. “Yes, well… also, you forgot your sword at the tavern. I have a key for you so you can retrieve it.”

  Oberon gasped. “You do? Show me!”

  “Wait,” she said, lifting a paw. “Before that… you owe me something. You lost our bet, remember? You never showed me your eyes.”

  Oberon froze.

  He had forgotten. Or rather, he had hoped she had.

  He bowed his head. “Apologies.”

  His fingers trembled slightly as he unfastened the helmet. It had been years—years—since he had shown anyone his face. The metal came away with a soft scrape, and cool air brushed his skin. Blond hair, pale skin, a face carved by hardship and scar—he felt exposed, raw, as if he had peeled away armor that wasn’t metal at all.

  Roselia leaned in, her massive head lowering until her eye filled his vision. “Sorry,” she murmured, “but could you move a bit closer?”

  She hooked a gentle claw around his shoulder and pulled him forward. Oberon stiffened, unsure where to put his hands. Avrid leaned over her shoulder, trying to peek.

  “What exactly are you looking for, my lord?” he asked.

  Roselia ignored him.

  Her pupil dilated as she examined Oberon’s eyes. The torchlight caught the faint orange gleam in them—hollow, reflective, unnatural.

  Her breath hitched.

  She knew that gleam.

  She had seen it in mirrors. In portraits of her ancestors. In the eyes of Draken touched by the sin of Lust—those whose lineage carried a strange, magnetic pull toward others, a hunger for connection that could be both beautiful and ruinous.

  But Oberon’s eyes were wrong. Not black voids like hers. Grey. Clouded. Empty.

  “Oberon…” she whispered, voice trembling.

  “What?” he asked, trying to read her tone.

  “Are you… blind?”

  The word hung in the air like a blade.

  Oberon didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His throat tightened, and for a moment he felt like a child again—small, useless, mocked for something he couldn’t change.

  “That is the case,” he said quietly.

  Roselia recoiled—not in disgust, but in shock. She circled him, inspecting his posture, his stance, the way he held himself.

  “But how do you even know where things are?” she asked, bewildered. “How do you know what color something is?”

  He replaced his helmet slowly, as if putting his face back behind a wall. “I know where things are, but I’m not sure how to explain it. As a child, I was considered useless. But I trained my senses to ‘see,’ if you will.”

  He touched the cave wall with his gloved hand. “I feel the air. The vibrations. The way sound bends around objects. I map the world through pressure and movement.”

  He hesitated.

  “And as for color… I only know what people tell me. I trust their words.”

  He reached out and touched her paw—carefully, reverently.

  “I know you’re purple. I wish I could see it. I imagine it would be… luxurious.”

  Roselia’s frills snapped upright. Her tail curled. Her wings twitched. She made a sound that was half gasp, half strangled growl.

  “W?where did you get that from?” she stammered.

  “Is it wrong to compliment someone I respect?” he asked, genuinely confused.

  Roselia’s heart hammered so loudly she was certain Avrid could hear it. She turned away, trying to hide the heat rising in her cheeks.

  “Can I have my sword now?” Oberon asked.

  “Y?yes,” she said quickly. “It’s in my den. Follow me.”

  They walked deeper into the mountain, the air growing warmer, richer with mineral scent. Crystals glimmered faintly along the walls, casting soft reflections.

  “You wouldn’t mind if I take some of these gemstones, would you?” Oberon asked.

  “No,” Roselia said. “We don’t depend on light sources for navigation. Take what you need.”

  He pried a few crystals free, the pickaxe ringing softly against stone. The sound echoed like a heartbeat.

  He felt strangely calm here. Safe, even. Though he would never admit it.

  Roselia led him into a wide chamber. He expected grandeur—royal halls, carved pillars, something befitting a dragon of her power.

  Instead, her den was humble. A large nest of leaves and moss. Scattered trinkets. A few strange jewels. A crown resting near the tip of her tail—delicate, removable, and clearly important.

  He filed that away for later.

  “It should be around here somewhere,” she muttered, burying her head in the leaf pile. Only her tail stuck out, twitching.

  Oberon watched her with a faint smile. She was powerful, ancient, terrifying—and yet somehow endearingly awkward.

  A glimmer of steel appeared as she emerged, sword in her teeth.

  “Found it,” she said, voice muffled.

  The sight hit him harder than he expected. The sword—his sword—shone faintly in the dim light, the last piece of his village, the last piece of who he had been before everything burned.

  “You have my gratitude,” he said softly.

  “It’s nothing,” she replied. “The least I can do after you gave me the information I needed.”

  “What information?”

  “Your eyes,” she said. “We share a trait. Either you are one of my distant descendants… or from a different family with the same lineage. I search for answers.”

  “Huh. That would be odd if you were my aunt or something.”

  Roselia choked on her own breath.

  He sheathed the sword. “Perhaps we should find out later. For now, I need to find someone.”

  “I could help,” she offered quickly. Too quickly. “I know many people. I’ve lived here for centuries.”

  “That’s the problem,” he said. “I don’t know who it is.”

  Roselia deflated slightly. “Then… perhaps meet me at the tavern tonight. We can discuss it there.”

  “We have a plan,” Oberon said. “I’ll see you then, mistress.”

  He left, footsteps fading.

  Roselia watched him go, her heart pounding in a way she didn’t understand.

  Avrid rubbed the spot where she’d hit him. “My lord… that was unexpected.”

  “You were not supposed to tell him anything!” she snapped, flustered.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “Does he interest you that much?”

  Roselia hesitated.

  “…He gives me hope,” she whispered. “Hope that there are people worth saving. Something about him is… special.”

  Roselia watched the empty tunnel long after Oberon’s footsteps faded. The air still held the warmth of his presence, the faint metallic scent of his armor, the quiet steadiness of his breath. She felt strangely hollow without it.

  Avrid shifted beside her, rubbing the back of his head where she’d struck him again. “My lord… forgive me for saying so, but you seem rather… flustered.”

  “I am not flustered,” Roselia snapped.

  Her frills betrayed her, fluttering wildly.

  Avrid raised a brow ridge. “Your tail is doing the thing.”

  Her tail was indeed doing the thing—curling and uncurling in tight spirals, a Draken instinct she had never been able to control. She stomped it flat against the ground.

  “It is not doing anything,” she insisted.

  Avrid wisely said nothing.

  Roselia paced in a slow circle, claws clicking against stone. “He should not affect me like this,” she muttered. “He is mortal. Human. Blind. And yet—”

  “And yet,” Avrid echoed, smirking.

  She glared at him. “Finish that sentence and I will bury you under this leaf pile.”

  Avrid shut his mouth.

  Roselia exhaled, long and shaky. “I have lived centuries without… without this. Without someone speaking to me as if I were not a monster or a deity. Without someone who—” She stopped herself, claws curling. “He treats me like a person.”

  Avrid softened. “You deserve that.”

  She looked away. “Do I?”

  Silence settled between them, heavy and warm.

  After a moment, Avrid cleared his throat. “If it helps, I do not think he realizes how you feel.”

  Roselia groaned. “That does not help. That makes it worse.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he is oblivious,” she hissed. “He thinks I am merely… respectful. Or amused. Or—” She flailed a wing. “He thinks I treat everyone like this!”

  Avrid snorted. “Do you?”

  “No!” she snapped. “I do not drag strangers into my den. I do not show them my hoard. I do not let them see my eyes up close. I do not—” She stopped, cheeks heating. “I do not let them touch my paw.”

  Avrid blinked. “He touched your paw?”

  Roselia covered her face with both wings. “He touched my paw.”

  Avrid let out a low whistle. “That is practically a proposal in some Draken clans.”

  “Do not say that!” she yelped, wings flaring. “He did not mean it like that. He was being polite. Respectful. He does not understand our customs.”

  “Do you want him to understand?”

  Roselia hesitated.

  “…Yes,” she whispered.

  Avrid nodded. “Then teach him.”

  She stared at him. “Teach him? Avrid, I can barely speak to him without sounding like a villainess trying to seduce a hero.”

  “That is your charm,” Avrid said.

  “It is not charming!” she protested. “Every time I try to encourage him, it comes out like—like—”

  “‘Your weakness is adorable, little mortal. I shall mold you into something worthy,’” Avrid mimicked in a dramatic growl.

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  Roselia slapped him with her tail.

  He laughed, rubbing his ribs. “See? Villainess.”

  She groaned again. “I hate this.”

  “No,” Avrid said gently. “You are terrified.”

  Roselia froze.

  He was right.

  She was terrified.

  Terrified of wanting something she had never allowed herself to want. Terrified of losing it. Terrified of hurting him. Terrified of being rejected.

  Terrified of being seen.

  She curled into herself, wings folding tight. “He looked at me,” she whispered. “Not with fear. Not with awe. Just… looked. As if I were someone worth knowing.”

  Avrid’s expression softened. “You are.”

  Roselia swallowed hard. “I do not know what to do with that.”

  “Start by meeting him tonight,” Avrid said. “Talk to him. Learn him. Let him learn you.”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes. Tonight.”

  Avrid smiled. “Good. Now, if you are done panicking, may I be released from punishment?”

  Roselia flicked her tail. “Fine. You may sleep in the nest tonight.”

  Avrid brightened. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “But if you ever imply I am in love again,” she added, “I will feed you to the mountain.”

  Avrid nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

  ...

  Oberon climbed out of the cavern with more urgency than grace, boots scraping against stone. His mind was a storm—Roselia’s voice, her questions, her closeness, the way she had looked at him when she realized he was blind.

  He had expected disgust. Pity. Distance.

  Instead, she had sounded… worried. Curious. Gentle.

  He didn’t know what to do with that.

  He reached the ridge and paused, breathing hard. The sword at his side felt heavier than it should have—heavier with memory, with grief, with the weight of everything he had lost.

  It was the last piece of home he had left. The last piece of the boy he had been before the world burned.

  He touched the hilt, fingers brushing the worn leather. A quiet ache settled in his chest.

  I shouldn’t have left it behind.

  He had told himself it was just a weapon. A tool. Replaceable.

  But it wasn’t.

  It was the only thing that had survived with him.

  He shook the thought away and hurried toward the tavern. The building was closed for the day, but he knew the back door would be unlocked. He slipped inside, the air thick with the scent of old ale and wood polish.

  He set the sword behind the counter, hidden from sight. He would retrieve it later, when the tavern opened.

  He turned to leave—

  —and froze.

  Someone was sitting at a table in the corner, watching him.

  A cloaked figure. Still as stone. Eyes glinting beneath the hood.

  “We meet again,” the stranger whispered.

  Oberon’s jaw tightened. “What do you want now?”

  He tossed the sword behind the bar, out of reach.

  The figure chuckled. “Did you speak with her again?”

  Oberon’s expression hardened. “What does it matter to you who I speak with? And what is your name?”

  The figure rose slowly, the cloak shifting like smoke. “Allīas,” he said. “And yes, it matters. Because she is not just anyone.”

  Oberon crossed his arms. “She is my friend.”

  Allīas laughed—a sharp, humorless sound. “Friend? Do you truly believe she sees you as a friend?”

  Oberon frowned. “Considering everything I’ve shown her, everything I know about her… yes. I think she does.”

  Allīas stepped closer, his presence cold and suffocating. “You fool. She is beginning to love you.”

  Oberon blinked. “Well, yes… that’s what friends do, right?”

  Allīas stared at him, stunned.

  Then he laughed again—soft, dangerous, pitying.

  “You really don’t understand, do you?”

  Oberon turned toward the door. “I don’t see what you’re getting at, and you’re wasting my time. Good day.”

  He pushed the door open.

  Behind him, Allīas’s voice dropped to a low, venomous whisper.

  “You are a threat, Oberon. To her. To us. To everything we have built. If you continue down this path, you will not survive what comes next.”

  Oberon paused.

  But he didn’t look back.

  He stepped outside, letting the door slam shut behind him.

  As he walked toward the mountain’s edge, he muttered under his breath:

  “Lord Almighty, what is his problem?”

  He found a foothold and began climbing down.

  But Allīas’s words lingered.

  I do hope Roselia thinks of me as a friend, though…

  Oberon descended the ridge with the mountain wind clawing at his cloak, but the cold wasn’t what unsettled him. His mind churned with Roselia’s voice, her closeness, the tremor in her tone when she realized he was blind.

  He had expected disgust. Or pity. Or the quiet, polite distance people used when they didn’t know what to do with him.

  Instead, she had leaned closer.

  Instead, she had asked questions—not out of fear, but fascination.

  Instead, she had touched him gently, as if he were something fragile.

  He didn’t know what to do with any of it.

  He reached the last ledge and paused, letting the wind steady him. The village lights flickered below like scattered embers. He inhaled deeply, grounding himself.

  Tonight, he would meet her again.

  And he needed to be ready.

  He took one step down—

  —and froze.

  Something shifted above him.

  A scrape of stone. A whisper of fabric. Too quiet for a human. Too deliberate for an animal.

  Oberon’s senses sharpened instantly. He tilted his head, listening. The air changed—pressure bending around a shape he couldn’t see, a presence that didn’t belong to the mountain.

  Someone was watching him.

  He reached instinctively for his sword, forgetting it wasn’t there. His hand closed around empty air.

  The presence lingered, heavy and cold, like a shadow with intent.

  Then it slipped away.

  Not gone—just… withdrawn. Waiting.

  Oberon exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to relax. He didn’t know who it was, but the prickling at the back of his neck didn’t fade.

  He continued down the mountain, but he didn’t shake the feeling that something had marked him.

  ...

  Roselia was not ready.

  She paced in frantic circles around her den, wings half?spread, tail lashing like a whip. Avrid watched from the nest, head propped on his claws, looking far too entertained.

  “Calm down,” he said.

  “I am calm,” Roselia snapped, tripping over a pile of leaves.

  “You are pacing so fast you’re creating a wind current.”

  Roselia froze mid?step. “I am not.”

  “You are,” Avrid said. “I can feel it in my scales.”

  Roselia groaned and collapsed into the nest, burying her face in the leaves. “Why is this so difficult? I have fought wyverns, slain tyrants, survived wars—and yet I cannot speak to one human without sounding like a deranged temptress.”

  Avrid coughed. “Well… you are descended from Lust.”

  She threw a leaf at him. “Not helping.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not an insult. It just means you feel things more intensely. Desire, affection, curiosity. It’s part of your lineage.”

  Roselia peeked out from the leaves. “I do not want to feel things intensely.”

  “That is unfortunate,” Avrid said, “because you do.”

  She groaned again.

  Avrid continued, gentler this time. “You have spent centuries alone. You have had no one to talk to except me, and I am hardly a model of social grace.”

  Roselia snorted. “You are not.”

  “Exactly. So you never learned how to… court someone.”

  Roselia’s frills shot upright. “I am not courting him!”

  Avrid raised a brow. “You invited him into your den.”

  Roselia froze.

  “That is not— I did not— It was not intentional!” she sputtered. “He needed his sword!”

  “Which you buried under your sleeping pile,” Avrid pointed out.

  Roselia covered her face with her wings. “I panicked.”

  “Clearly.”

  She peeked out again. “Do you think he noticed?”

  Avrid considered. “He is blind.”

  Roselia’s heart clenched. “Do not say it like that.”

  “I meant,” Avrid corrected, “he perceives the world differently. He may not understand the cultural meaning of being invited into a Draken’s den.”

  Roselia exhaled in relief. “Good.”

  “But,” Avrid added, “he did touch your paw.”

  Roselia let out a strangled noise. “Do not remind me.”

  Avrid smirked. “You liked it.”

  She threw another leaf at him.

  He dodged easily. “You should prepare. You have a meeting tonight.”

  Roselia’s wings drooped. “What if I say something wrong?”

  “You will,” Avrid said. “You always do.”

  “Avrid!”

  “But,” he continued, “he seems to find your awkwardness… endearing.”

  Roselia blinked. “Endearing?”

  “Yes,” Avrid said. “He smiles when you ramble. He relaxes when you talk. He listens.”

  Roselia’s chest tightened. “He listens,” she repeated softly.

  Avrid nodded. “Go. Before you lose your nerve.”

  Roselia rose slowly, shaking out her wings. She took a deep breath, then another. “I can do this.”

  “You can,” Avrid said. “And if you cannot, at least it will be entertaining.”

  She hissed at him, but there was no heat in it.

  Then she left the den, heart pounding.

  ...

  By the time Oberon reached the village, the sun had dipped behind the mountains, leaving the sky streaked with violet and gold. The tavern lights flickered to life, warm and inviting.

  He paused outside the door, adjusting his armor. He had cleaned the dust from his gloves, straightened his tunic, and tied his hair back as neatly as he could.

  He wasn’t sure why he cared.

  He told himself it was respect. Roselia was his mentor, after all. His superior. His… friend.

  He stepped inside.

  The tavern was quiet, only a few early patrons scattered around. The bartender nodded at him. “Evening, Knight.”

  “Evening,” Oberon said, voice steady.

  He chose a table near the back, where the shadows were soft and the noise was low. He rested his hands on the wood, fingers tapping lightly.

  He was nervous.

  He didn’t know what she would say.

  He didn’t know what he would say.

  He didn’t know what any of this meant.

  He only knew that when she had looked at him—really looked—he had felt something shift inside him. Something he didn’t have a name for.

  He exhaled slowly.

  Then the door opened.

  And Roselia ducked inside.

  Roselia had to duck to enter the tavern, her horns scraping the doorframe with a soft thunk. The room fell silent for a heartbeat—dragons of her caliber did not typically stroll into establishments—but the villagers had grown used to her presence. Mostly. A few patrons stiffened. One dropped his mug. The bartender sighed as if this were becoming a weekly occurrence.

  Roselia scanned the room, her single great eye sweeping across the tables until it landed on Oberon.

  Her frills fluttered.

  Oberon stood immediately, nearly knocking over his chair. “Mistress,” he said, bowing slightly.

  “Do not bow,” she blurted. “It makes you look… breakable.”

  Oberon blinked. “Breakable?”

  She winced. “I meant… dignified. Yes. Dignified. You look dignified.”

  Oberon wasn’t sure how those two words could possibly be confused, but he nodded politely. “Thank you?”

  Roselia cleared her throat—an earthquake?like rumble. “May I sit?”

  “You… can fit?” he asked before he could stop himself.

  Roselia’s tail curled in embarrassment. “I will manage.”

  She lowered herself carefully, coiling her body around the table like a massive, awkward cat trying to pretend it belonged on furniture built for mice. Her wings folded tight, her tail tucked neatly, her claws resting delicately on the floorboards.

  Oberon sat again, hands folded in front of him. He could feel her presence like a warm pressure in the air—steady, powerful, strangely comforting.

  For a moment, neither spoke.

  Then Roselia blurted, “You look less dead today.”

  Oberon choked. “Less—dead?”

  She slapped a paw over her snout. “Encouraging! I meant encouraging. You look… alive. More alive. That is good.”

  Oberon stared at her, unsure whether to laugh or apologize.

  Roselia’s frills drooped. “I am trying to be supportive.”

  “You’re doing fine,” he said gently.

  She perked up. “Truly?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s… nice.”

  Her tail thumped once against the floor before she caught herself.

  The bartender cleared his throat loudly. “If you two are done flirting, can I get you anything?”

  Roselia made a strangled noise. Oberon turned scarlet.

  “We are not—” Roselia began.

  “We’re just—” Oberon tried.

  The bartender raised a brow. “Uh?huh.”

  Roselia buried her face in her wings. Oberon stared at the table, wishing it would swallow him whole.

  After a long, painful silence, Roselia peeked out. “I wanted to speak with you,” she said softly. “About earlier.”

  Oberon nodded, bracing himself.

  She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Your eyes.”

  He stiffened.

  “I did not mean to frighten you,” she said. “Or pry. I simply… I have never met someone with eyes like mine. Not in centuries.”

  Oberon swallowed. “I understand.”

  “I do not think less of you,” she said firmly. “Not for your blindness. Not for anything.”

  He looked up, startled.

  Roselia’s voice softened. “You have survived things that would have broken most Draken. You have learned to navigate a world that was not built for you. You have strength that does not come from sight.”

  Oberon felt heat rise in his chest—an unfamiliar warmth, fragile and sharp.

  “I was afraid you would judge me,” he admitted quietly.

  Roselia’s expression softened. “I would never.”

  He nodded, unable to speak.

  She continued, “In Draken culture, eyes are… important. They reveal lineage. Power. Emotion. To show someone your eyes is to show them your truth.”

  Oberon blinked. “Then why did you want to see mine?”

  Roselia hesitated.

  Her frills fluttered. Her tail curled. Her wings twitched.

  “I wanted to know you,” she said finally. “Not just your armor. Not just your strength. You.”

  Oberon’s breath caught.

  She looked away quickly. “I am sorry if that was presumptuous.”

  “It wasn’t,” he said.

  She peeked at him, hopeful.

  He cleared his throat. “I… wanted to know you too.”

  Her tail thumped again.

  The bartender glared. “If you break my floor, you’re paying for it.”

  Roselia hissed at him. The bartender retreated behind the counter.

  Oberon smiled despite himself.

  Roselia noticed and froze. “Why are you smiling?”

  “You’re… different,” he said.

  She stiffened. “Different how?”

  He considered. “You’re powerful. And terrifying. And awkward. And kind.”

  Roselia’s wings flared in panic. “Do not call me kind! That is how villains are described before they betray someone!”

  Oberon laughed. “I don’t think you’re a villain.”

  She blinked. “You do not?”

  “No,” he said. “I think you’re trying.”

  Roselia stared at him, stunned.

  No one had ever said that to her.

  Not in centuries.

  She lowered her head, voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, the air warm and full of something unspoken.

  Then Oberon asked, “Roselia… what does it mean, culturally, to invite someone into your den?”

  Roselia froze.

  Her frills shot upright. Her tail curled so tightly it nearly tied itself in a knot.

  Avrid’s voice echoed in her mind: That is practically a proposal in some clans.

  She swallowed hard. “It means… trust,” she said carefully. “And… closeness. And… sometimes… More.”

  Oberon blinked. “More?”

  She slapped her wings over her face. “Not that I intended it! I panicked! You needed your sword! I was not thinking!”

  Oberon stared at her, stunned.

  Then he said softly, “I didn’t mind.”

  Roselia peeked out. “You… did not?”

  “No,” he said. “It was… nice.”

  Her heart nearly stopped.

  She opened her mouth to respond—

  —but the tavern door creaked.

  A cold draft swept in.

  Oberon stiffened.

  He didn’t hear footsteps. He didn’t hear breathing. But he felt something—pressure bending around a shape he couldn’t see, a presence that didn’t belong.

  The same presence from the ridge.

  Roselia sensed it too. Her frills snapped upright, her pupils narrowing to slits. She turned her head sharply toward the door, nostrils flaring.

  But whoever—or whatever—had been there was already gone.

  Only the cold remained.

  Oberon exhaled slowly. “Someone’s been watching me.”

  Roselia’s voice dropped to a low growl. “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But it doesn’t feel… friendly.”

  Roselia’s claws dug into the floorboards. “If someone threatens you, they threaten me.”

  Oberon blinked. “Roselia—”

  She leaned closer, her voice a soft, dangerous whisper. “I will not let anyone harm you.”

  Oberon felt a shiver—not of fear, but something deeper.

  He nodded. “I believe you.”

  Roselia relaxed slightly, though her tail still twitched with protective fury.

  The tavern fell quiet again.

  Oberon looked at her, at the way her wings folded, at the way her eye softened when she looked at him.

  “Roselia,” he said quietly, “I’m glad you came.”

  She swallowed. “I am glad you asked.”

  They sat together in the warm glow of the tavern lights, two unlikely souls bound by something neither fully understood.

  Outside, the mountain wind howled.

  And somewhere in the shadows, unseen eyes watched.

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