The stone path was damp beneath Eira’s feet as she wandered farther into the hidden terrace, nestled deep within the heart of the mountain. Strange blue flowers glowed faintly under the moonlight that filtered through cracks in the stone ceiling far above. The air shimmered—warm, wet, and sweet with the scent of something alive, yet not quite natural.

It was a garden that shouldn’t exist in such a place.

But then again, nothing here truly felt natural.

She walked along the narrow path, her fingers brushing the sharp edges of ancient stone that framed the garden. There was something sacred about this space—untouched, ancient, filled with mysteries she had yet to understand.

The Dragon King sat on a stone bench near the center of the garden, one hand resting on his knee, the other trailing his fingers through a thin stream of silver water that trickled down a carved basin. He didn’t look at her when she approached.

“Do you ever sleep?” she asked, breaking the quiet that wrapped around them like a heavy cloak.

His voice came without movement. “Sleep is a mortal comfort.”

“So you’re never tired?” she pressed, her gaze never leaving his still figure.

“I am always tired,” he answered, his words softer now, as if they carried some hidden weight.

That answer shouldn’t have startled her. But it did.

She moved closer, almost instinctively. There was something in his posture, something vulnerable beneath the iron control he always exuded. But it was fleeting, hidden in the space between them, and she wasn’t sure if it was meant for her to see.

“What are you tired of?” she asked quietly, feeling the air shift as she dared to inch closer.

He turned toward her then, his eyes dark with something unreadable. “You’ll find out,” he said, his voice colder, though not unkind. “Eventually.”

She sat beside him. Not too close. But closer than she probably should have.

“I’m not leaving anytime soon,” she said, her tone firm, though something in her chest tightened as she spoke.

He turned his head to her, his gaze intense. “You hate it here.”

“I did,” she admitted. “Now... I don’t know what I feel.”

“That is more dangerous than hatred,” he said softly.

Eira gave a small, bitter smile. “You say that like you know something about feelings.”

He tilted his head, the faintest smirk crossing his lips. “I know more than you think.”

Their eyes met again. There was something heavy in that silence—something taut, like the space between lightning and thunder. She couldn’t quite place it, but it felt like a tension she hadn’t yet learned how to handle.

She looked away first.

His hand, almost hesitantly, reached toward the flowers blooming at the edge of the terrace. He plucked one gently, its petals glowing softly in his fingers before he turned to her.

He offered the flower without a word.

Eira took it without thinking, her fingers grazing his as she did. The simple contact sent a shiver through her body, a warmth spreading through her chest that had nothing to do with the heat of the mountain.

She held the flower close, trying to steady her breath. “Why do you do that?” she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.

“Do what?” he asked, his eyes still locked on hers.

“Offer things. Touch things. But never… take anything in return.”

He paused, his lips pressing into a thin line as if considering his words carefully. “I take what I need,” he finally said. “When I need it.”

The words were simple, but the weight of them hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

---

Later that night, as she lay in bed, the glow of the flower still bright in her hand, Eira couldn’t shake the feeling that something between them had shifted. His touch—his proximity—had left a mark on her, deeper than she cared to admit.

The mountain was silent. But she could still hear the faintest echo of his presence.

And the song—that strange, haunting melody—drifted through her thoughts once again. What was it? And why did it feel so close?