And Eira had only seen a fraction of it.

The main halls were wide and jagged, shaped more by volcanic force than mortal design. Magma flowed through glassy channels in the walls like veins of fire. There were no windows, only cracks in the mountain that bled light from the ever-glowing sky above the lava fields. It should have been suffocating.

But the mountain breathed.

And Eira followed its breath.

She wandered farther from the central chambers than she ever had before. She wasn’t supposed to. She knew that. But something—curiosity, restlessness, or maybe the memory of that haunting song—kept pulling her forward.

She passed doors carved with strange runes, staircases that spiraled into smoke, and bridges that led into pitch darkness. The deeper she went, the colder the air became, despite the ever-burning glow.

Until she came to a ledge.

It wasn’t just any ledge. It opened into a vast, hollow chamber at the heart of the mountain. Below her, a river of molten rock flowed in silence, glowing red and gold. Above, steam curled in ghostly shapes around spires of black stone.

It was both terrifying and beautiful.

And she wasn't alone.

She turned too late.

The stone beneath her shifted.

A crack. A crumble.

And then—nothing.

She fell.

The scream barely escaped her lips before wind and fire swallowed it. Her body plummeted toward the lava below, heat searing her skin even from a distance.

This was it.

She hadn’t even gotten a chance to fight back.

But then—

The wind changed.

Or was it wings?

She didn’t know.

One moment she was falling.

The next, she was caught—suspended in the air, her back pressed against something hard and alive and scorching. Arms wrapped around her. The heat wasn’t killing her. It was shielding her.

She looked up.

The Dragon King.

He didn’t speak.

His eyes blazed with fury—not at her, but at himself. Or maybe the mountain. Or maybe fate.

They rose slowly, his wings beating once, twice, until they reached the ledge again. He set her down. She wobbled, knees weak, heart hammering in her chest.

“I—” she started, but he held up a hand.

“Do not speak.”

His voice was deeper than usual. Raw. Shaken.

“I told you not to wander.”

“I didn’t know—”

“You knew,” he said, stepping closer. “You simply didn’t care.”

His nearness was suffocating. Not from fear—but from intensity. His body still radiated heat from his transformation, his eyes still rimmed in gold, glowing faintly.

“I was exploring,” she said, voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to fall.”

“You nearly died.”

There was silence. The kind that made ears ring.

Then, softer—almost broken—he said, “If you had died, the mountain would have buried itself in ash.”

She looked at him, startled. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying…” he stopped himself. Something flickered in his eyes. Vulnerability. “I have lived for centuries. Long enough to stop fearing loss. But you—”

He stepped back. As if realizing he’d said too much.

“I’m not yours to lose,” she said quietly.

“I know,” he replied. “But if you were…”

She waited. But he didn’t finish the thought.

Instead, he turned from her, his cloak flicking ash into the air. “This mountain does not forgive curiosity, Eira. Choose your steps more carefully.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving her breathless, shaking, and confused.

But alive.

And for the first time, she wondered:

Did she want to be his?