Eira was sure of it.

Some days it was calm—silent save for the low murmur of lava and the soft hissing of moss walls. But today, something was different. The air felt heavier, like a storm was waiting to be born in the rock itself.

She sat on the ledge above the glowing river, legs dangling over the edge. Harik was nearby, dozing with one smoky eye half open.

She was getting used to the stillness, the way time bent in this place. But there were moments—like now—when the silence felt… alive.

Then, she heard it.

Soft.

Haunting.

The song.

It came from deep within the mountain again, curling through the caverns like mist. Wordless, but not meaningless. The sound tugged at her ribs like a memory she didn’t have.

Eira stood slowly.

Harik lifted his head, growled low.

“You hear it too,” she whispered.

The creature didn’t answer, but his tail flicked with unease.

The song continued—faint but rising. Not sweet. Not sorrowful. Just… otherworldly.

She turned a corner, following the pull.

The tunnels narrowed, torchlight dimmed. Cracks glowed faintly on the walls. She passed through a long corridor lined with obsidian tiles. At the end stood a stone door—half open.

She reached for it—

“Stop.”

The voice behind her froze her blood.

She turned.

The Dragon King stood in the shadows, face unreadable.

“You should not go there.”

“What is that place?” she asked, breathless.

“Old.” His voice was quieter now. “And dangerous.”

“That song—”

“Is not for you.”

“Then who is it for?” Her voice sharpened.

He stepped forward. “There are things in this mountain even I do not want to disturb.”

Eira stared at him. He wasn’t angry. He was… cautious. Almost afraid.

“That’s the second time I’ve heard it,” she said. “What is it?”

He paused.

Then, very quietly: “A memory the mountain refuses to forget.”

She didn’t know what that meant. But she didn’t ask again.

Not this time.

---

Later, back in her chamber, Eira sat curled on her bed of woven moss and soft stone. The song was gone, but its echo still clung to her bones.

She picked up the slate she’d been using for sketches and began to draw—not something random this time. The door. The tunnel. The feeling.

Her fingers moved faster than her thoughts.

By the time she stopped, she’d sketched the outline of a figure.

Tall.

Wreathed in fire.

Wings of broken glass.

She stared at it, shivering.

The image didn’t come from memory.

And yet she knew it belonged here.

---

The next morning, she found the Dragon King waiting in the moss garden.

He rarely came here first.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, approaching carefully. “You told me this mountain chooses what grows.”

“I did.”

“Did it choose me?”

He looked at her for a long time. “No.”

“Then why didn’t you kill me?”

His jaw tensed.

She waited.

“I don’t know,” he finally said.

Eira blinked. It was the first time he’d admitted not knowing something.

“You’ve had other offerings, haven’t you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“What happened to them?”

He looked down at his hands. “They were not like you.”

That answer was colder than any flame. And softer, somehow.

Eira sat across from him, the moss glowing faintly beneath her.

“Do you remember their names?”

He hesitated.

Then nodded. “Every one.”

She didn’t ask for them. She wouldn’t.

Instead, she asked, “When you were human—if you were—what did you want most in the world?”

That made him look up. And something shifted in his eyes.

Pain.

Ancient and raw.

“I wanted a home that couldn’t burn,” he said.

Eira didn’t respond. Just sat with him as the mountain breathed around them.

---

That night, the song did not come.

But in her sleep, Eira dreamed of fire.

Not destruction.

A melody.

A heartbeat.

A promise.

And when she woke, there were ash prints on her floor—shaped like wings.