Not an earthquake. Just the mountain breathing.

She was learning the rhythm of this place now. The Hollow was never still. The walls pulsed with quiet warmth. The air smelled like ember and stone. The creatures that roamed the tunnels didn’t always show themselves, but she knew they watched her.

She’d stopped being afraid.

Mostly.

After waking, she cleaned herself using warm water that flowed from a spring behind the glowing moss curtain. The Dragon King had shown her that—without speaking, just walking ahead and waiting for her to follow.

He wasn’t gentle.

But he wasn’t cruel either.

He gave her space.

Eira appreciated that. It gave her time to breathe, to think, to survive.

Most of her days were quiet.

In the mornings, she explored—with limits. She’d found a moss garden tucked between two lava flows, where soft green light bathed the floor. She often sat there, just to feel normal.

At noon, Harik—his strange lizard-wolf creature—brought her food. Sometimes fruit, sometimes roasted root vegetables she didn’t recognize. Once, he brought what looked like fire-roasted bird, but it sparked when she bit into it.

She spat it out. Harik had snorted. She could’ve sworn he’d laughed.

The King always appeared after midday, as though on a schedule only he understood.

“You’re awake,” he’d say each time, as if surprised.

“I live here now,” she’d respond dryly.

He rarely smiled. But when he did, it felt like watching frost melt.

---

Today, he joined her in the moss garden.

Eira was sketching on a piece of coal-colored slate. It wasn’t art—just lines and marks. A way to feel like she was doing something.

He sat on a smooth stone opposite her.

“You keep coming here.”

“I like it,” she said. “It’s quiet. Cool.”

“You could explore further. You’ve seen less than ten percent of my kingdom.”

“I’m not ready for lava wolves or biting crystals.”

His head tilted. “You remember the rules.”

“I like living.”

He studied her face for a moment. “Most would be begging for favors by now. A bed. A way home. Mercy.”

Eira lowered her slate. “I’m not most.”

“hmm,” he agreed. “You’re not.”

They sat in silence after that. Not awkward—just still.

“Why moss?” she asked finally. “In a place full of fire?”

He glanced at the glowing green around them. “The mountain chooses what grows. I do not control all things here.”

“You’re not the god they say you are?”

“No.” He looked away. “Not even close.”

---

That night, Eira couldn’t sleep.

She wandered toward the central chamber, where the river of gold flowed beneath the jagged ceiling. The lava hissed and burbled quietly, like it was whispering to itself.

The Dragon King stood at the edge, his back to her.

His robe fluttered in the heat. His long black hair shimmered with faint red highlights, like embers woven through silk.

She didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

Then, finally—without turning—he asked, “Do you miss your home?”

Eira blinked. “Halden?”

“Yes.”

She thought for a moment. “Not really.”

“No family?”

“My mother died. The village was just… people waiting to survive. I don’t think anyone ever really lived there.”

He nodded slowly.

“Do you miss yours?” she asked softly.

A long pause.

“My home is gone,” he said. “Long before the village ever knew my name.”

Something in his voice made her chest tighten. It wasn’t sadness. It was… silence. Like a door that had been closed for centuries.

Eira stepped closer to the edge. “You never told me your name.”

His jaw tensed. “I didn’t.”

“Will you?”

“No.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

“Names are power,” he said. “And mine… is not meant to be spoken lightly.”

She watched him carefully. “Then I won’t ask again.”

That made him turn. Slowly. His eyes, molten gold, met hers.

“You surprise me.”

“Why?”

“You’re not trying to charm me. Or fight me. Or weep.”

“I told you,” she said, folding her arms, “I’m not like the others.”

“hmm,” he murmured. “You’re not.”

Then he stepped back into the shadows, vanishing without a sound.

---

The next week passed with a quiet routine.

She began helping Harik feed some of the smaller creatures—salamander-like things with glowing eyes and wings made of smoke. They liked her. One curled around her ankle whenever she sat still too long.

The Dragon King watched but never intervened.

One evening, she found a hallway filled with paintings—massive murals carved directly into the stone. Scenes of fire and battle, winged figures, crowns made of bone.

They told a story, but not one she could fully understand.

When she asked him about them, he only said, “Old history. Most of it forgotten.”

“You painted them?”

“I preserved them.”

She turned to face him. “Why? If you won’t explain them?”

He looked at the images. “Because remembering pain is sometimes more important than explaining it.”

Eira didn’t press further.

But every day, a little more of the mountain revealed itself. A little more of the Dragon King, too.

Not through confession.

Through presence.

Through the way he allowed her to exist in his world without trying to break her down or own her.

And slowly, Eira began to feel something dangerous growing inside her.

Not love.

Not yet.

But interest.

Curiosity.

And the sharp, stubborn desire to uncover the truth behind the fire.