Right in front of Ludwig, a dragon, that seemed almost as if it was birthed by nature itself stood. The creature filled the clearing without needing to move; the forest seemed to have grown around it long ago, a living hill of layered bark and emerald scale where moss clung like old velvet and lichen threaded pale sigils over the curve of its ribs. Antlered horns, grown in spirals like seasoned oak, swept back from a brow ridged as a cliff. When it breathed, the air warmed as if a green furnace lived behind its teeth, and the scent that came with it was rain in leafmold, split resin, crushed pine needles, clean, but deep, old, and absolute.
Panic? Fear? None of that was even crossing Ludwig's mind. No, it was simple awe of majesty. His fingers tightened, then steadied; the steadiness surprised even him. Somewhere in his chest, the Heart of Wrath gave one slow, deliberate thrum, as if marking the presence of something it would never dare to rage against.
