Eira’s torch flickered, throwing shadows that danced like ghosts along the ancient stone walls. She had followed the faint melody again—half-dream, half-memory—down a path she didn’t remember noticing before. It led her to a place beneath the heart of the mountain, far from the carved halls and golden silence of the upper chambers.

Here, the air felt older.

Heavier.

She stepped into a cavern, vast and still, with a ceiling lost to darkness and a quiet that pressed into her skull.

It was beautiful in a way that made her uneasy.

The stone around her glittered faintly with minerals, and a deep pool of water reflected her torchlight with eerie calm. For a moment, she imagined faces beneath the surface, peering back at her.

Then she heard it again.

The song.

But this time, it wasn’t distant.

It was right here.

Inside her.

Inside the mountain.

She dropped to her knees, gripping her head as the melody spun into something dark and low, like a lullaby meant for the dead. Images she didn’t recognize flashed in her mind—flames, broken wings, a throne of bones.

And eyes.

Golden, grief-struck, and ancient.

The Dragon King’s eyes.

“Stop…” she whispered, pressing her palms into the stone. “Please stop…”

A voice—softer than wind, sharper than knives—whispered in her ear: You are not the first. You will not be the last.

She screamed.

And the song stopped.

A strong pair of arms caught her just as her knees buckled. His scent—snow, ash, and something impossibly warm—wrapped around her.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice hoarse with something like fear.

“Then why does it keep calling me?”

He didn’t answer. Only held her tighter, like he was afraid she’d vanish if he let go.

For a long time, neither of them moved.

Only the mountain listened.