3 months later
Snow cracked under my claws as I dropped onto the ledge.
Not a perfect landing.
My wings flared too late—again—and I stumbled forward on impact, skidding across the stone with a grunt. A few loose pebbles rattled off the edge and vanished into the forest below.
But I didn't fall.
I straightened slowly, shook off the tension, and flexed both wings one at a time. They ached, but not from pain. From work. From strain. Muscles that didn't exist three months ago now pulled and tensed like they were learning how to matter.
That glide had taken me from the cliff outside my cave to a flat outcrop two hundred feet down. Not far. Not smooth. But it meant something.
I was getting stronger.
The wind moved lightly across the ridge, stirring the trees far below. I could see the lake from here—frozen in patches, shining in the sun. The air smelled of pine, old bark, and something warm drifting on the edges of spring.
I took a moment just to breathe it all in.
Then I opened my mouth and lit the world.
A thin stream of fire coiled forward—precise and low, black at the center and trimmed in faint violet. I swept it across a rock shelf, shaping it into a crescent. Not for destruction. Just for control.
The flame bent around the stone without touching the edges. It curved like it had memory. I cut it off with a breath and watched the groove cool.
Perfect.
I now trained daily. Not out of fear. Out of discipline. My claws weren't just for climbing anymore—they held heat now. I could drag fire down my arms, wrap it around my frame, even dive through a burst and emerge from the smoke like a shadow.
I liked that part.
Sometimes I would set a blaze—not large, never careless—and leap into it. Let it curl around me, scatter into the air. It never burned. Not me. It made my movements sharper. Quieter.
A predator in his own fire.
I flexed my claws and dragged one through the still-glowing groove in the rock. The stone sizzled faintly under the heat. I grinned and stepped back.
That's when I saw them again.
The lights.
They shimmered just at the edge of my vision—threads of soft color, drifting over the fire-scarred ground like veins under skin. They pulsed faintly, like breath, but didn't move. I could see them clearly now—more than ever—but I still couldn't touch them. Couldn't follow or chase or reach.
They were just there.
Waiting.
I tilted my head, watching one curl upward near a chunk of scorched earth. It faded as I stepped closer, not disappearing, just blending.
Magic? Energy? Something dragons were meant to see?
I didn't know. Maybe this was dragon-sight. Like ultraviolet, or thermal. Something human eyes had never been wired for.
But I saw it now.
And I had no idea what to do with it.
I exhaled, letting the last of the smoke drift from my nostrils. My wings twitched at my back, tired but eager.
Stronger body. Sharper senses.
And still—mysteries I couldn't explain.
I turned toward the sky, where the light cut sharp over the treetops, and crouched low.
Time to glide again.
I dropped from the ledge a minute later, wings catching the wind just enough to carry me down. Not far. Not graceful. But it worked.
I landed hard on the ash-blanketed soil of the grove below—my training ground, my ruin, my creation.
Three months ago, it had been part of the forest.
Now it was mine.
The grove had turned into a warzone.
It had been a quiet patch of forest. Now it was ash and ruin—a wide, blackened crater in the woods where snow no longer settled. No trees remained in a thirty-foot radius. No roots, no frost, no signs of life. Just scorched soil, splintered rock, and the memory of fire.
It was perfect for training.
I stood at the center, wings folded loosely against my back, smoke curling faintly from the ground beneath me. The air tasted like charcoal and singed bark. Around me, the earth was cracked and dry, baked into sheets where dragon fire had cut through it again and again.
I opened my mouth and released a blast—a short, curved stream of fire that twisted mid-air before breaking apart into heat shimmer and vapor. I tracked the pattern, watched the trail collapse, then adjusted my stance and tried again. This one I angled lower, thinner. It sliced a deep arc across a patch of stone, glowing at the cut line.
Then a third blast, wide and shallow, sprayed over the ground like a flood. The snow didn't melt—it vanished, consumed in an instant.
I wasn't training for strength anymore.
I was training for precision. For shape. For control.
Could I guide a stream after launch? Could I delay a burst until it mattered? Could I make fire do something more than burn?
So far, the answer was no.
But I wasn't done.
I crouched low and inhaled, the cold air sharp against the back of my throat. I swept fire in a wide arc, then dove into it—wings flaring, claws slashing the air. Heat swirled around me, but it never touched. I landed on all fours and raked my claws through the still-warm soil.
It felt natural now. Like instinct had sharpened into something I could use.
One breath. Then another. Then five more in rapid succession.
The fire roared. It hissed and carved. I shaped it wide, then narrow. I tested bursts so small they barely left a mark and streams so long they left me gasping. My body moved with them—gliding, leaping, striking—each movement refining the next.
I lost track of time.
There was no sun. No shadows. Just fire and breath, and the low, constant rumble of power coiled behind my ribs.
I never considered that someone might be watching. Why would I? Since the moment I woke in this body, I hadn't seen a single human. There were no roads, no planes overhead, no distant lights on the horizon. Only animals, snowfall, and silence.
This forest had become mine.
Until something changed.
I was mid-breath, testing a spiral curve of flame, when I noticed it—an absence. There were no birds. No deer. Not even the low, steady presence of a distant elk herd.
The air wasn't just still. It felt aware.
Then I sensed them.
Three heat signatures moved slowly through the trees. Their steps were measured and deliberate. They walked upright, careful, with the rhythm of something intelligent.
They weren't wolves. They weren't prey.
They were human.
The realization didn't land all at once. I had gone so long without a trace of them that some part of me had begun to accept the unspoken idea: that I might be the only thinking creature left in this world. But that idea shattered the moment I felt their presence.
They were real. Still alive. Still moving upright, still breathing. Still warm.
The word echoed through me.
Human.
For several seconds, I stood frozen. My limbs didn't respond. My tail dragged behind me, carving a faint arc through the ash. I stared toward the tree line, past the rising smoke and blackened trunks, where their shapes were just beginning to emerge.
And for the first time in three months, I felt something I couldn't quite name.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't joy.
It was a spark—faint but unmistakable. A flicker of recognition. A pull toward something I had once been.
I eased backward into the shadows, keeping my wings folded tightly to my sides. My body sank low to the scorched earth as I crept toward the far edge of the grove, blending with the ash and twisted remnants of trees. My breath slowed. My claws flexed lightly into the dirt as I waited.
They were approaching.
Maybe they had seen the smoke, or the glow of the fire in the sky. Maybe they thought it was a flare, or a forest fire in need of control. Maybe they believed someone had signaled them.
They were wrong.
I didn't remain on the ground. I climbed—quickly and without sound—until I was high above them, hidden among the trees. My claws dug into the pine, anchoring me to a thick branch. I kept still. My wings remained tucked, my heart steady, but my thoughts raced ahead of me.
The smoke had stopped rising, but its scent and memory still clung to the canopy. Violet wisps curled through the upper branches. Below, the last traces of heat from my training still hissed quietly in the ash.
I had left the clearing behind.
Now I crouched in the trees, half-hidden by the cover of pine needles and soot-streaked bark. I didn't move—not when I sensed them. Not when I heard them.
And not now.
Three humans stepped cautiously into the grove.
They weren't hunters. Their clothes were too clean, too practical. Canvas jackets, broad belts, sturdy boots. One held a folded map. Another wore a radio clipped to his side. A third moved slowly with a metal case in hand. They looked like rangers. Government-issued, maybe. Sent here by someone else.
They spoke English—older in tone, clipped, a little dated—but familiar.
"Still smells like sulfur," one said, scanning the ground.
"Smoke was climbing for two hours straight," the second added. "From one spot. That's not natural."
The third crouched near a patch of scorched stone. "This isn't wildfire. Look at the color. Purple-black smoke. And there's no ignition point. It's just heat."
He stood again, brushing his gloves off on his coat. "It's deep."
They weren't alarmed. Just confused.
Their eyes swept the grove, measuring the destruction. The crater of ash. The heat marks. They walked where fire had carved. Where I had trained. They moved like men who thought they understood the wild.
But none of them looked up.
Which meant they didn't see me.
I stayed perfectly still, claws hooked into the bark, breath low. But something inside me had already shifted—tightening behind the ribs, heavy and quiet.
These weren't myths. Not strangers in robes or soldiers with spears. They were human. Earth-human. Their voices, their boots, their gear—it was all too close to what I once knew.
Until now, I had convinced myself that maybe I wasn't on Earth. That maybe this world had no people. No cities. No cages. But the moment I saw them, that hope cracked wide open.
Because if this place reacted to dragons the way my world would have?
There wouldn't be awe.
There'd be questions. And then fear. And then knives.
One of the men knelt again, scooping a bit of soil into a glass jar. "We'll bring it back. Let the university analyze it."
"They'll call it a gas vent," another muttered. "Or some flare that caught dry bark. Who cares? Let's log it and get out of here before sundown."
They circled the grove once more, spoke a few words too low for me to catch, then turned and left—back into the woods, boots crunching softly over frost and cinder.
The cold still lingered on my scales, though the memory of heat pulsed faintly beneath the surface. I began to move, quietly and with care. My descent from the ridge was slow and steady, each motion deliberate and controlled. I stayed within the shadows, keeping my wings folded tight and my breath measured. My eyes never left the trail they had left behind.
Now I knew the direction they had come from. I could follow them and discover where they went once they left this place. I expected to feel some level of fear or hesitation, but it never came. What I felt instead was a sharpened sense of curiosity, an alertness that bordered on instinct. I remained focused, but there was no fear.
They had no idea they were being watched. They didn't know something was listening—something that understood their words and once belonged to their world. They didn't know the dragon they were trying to explain had already made a decision to follow them. Not to make contact. Not yet. I needed to understand them first.
If this truly was Earth—my Earth—then I needed to know what it had become, and more importantly, what it might do to something like me.
The word formed in my mind and echoed in my chest: human.
For a few seconds, I stood motionless. My limbs didn't respond right away. My tail dragged behind me, drawing a faint arc in the layer of ash beneath my feet. I stared through the smoke curling up from the scorched earth, eyes locked on the tree line where the voices were growing louder.
For the first time in three months, I felt something unfamiliar. It wasn't fear or joy, but something in between—a quiet surge of recognition. It was the feeling of being pulled toward a part of myself I thought was gone.
I took a slow breath and lowered myself toward the ground. I moved through the blackened grove with deliberate silence, my body sinking into the twisted shapes of charred trees and soft layers of ash. My wings stayed close to my sides, and my claws flexed gently with each careful step. My breathing slowed, and my senses focused entirely on the approaching figures.
They were getting closer now, unaware that something ancient and intelligent was already watching.
They were getting closer.
Maybe they had seen the smoke, or the glow of the flames in the sky. Maybe they thought someone had signaled them. Maybe they thought it was just another forest fire.
They were wrong.
They had no idea what they were walking toward.
But I did.
And just like that, the world wasn't empty anymore.
The smoke had faded, but I had already taken to the trees, climbing higher than I had ever dared before. My claws gripped the pine bark, my body still, my breath shallow. I was hidden, high above the grove in a canopy darkened by ash and shadow. Below, three humans stepped into the clearing.
Not hunters. Their uniforms were too standard, too neat. Rangers, probably. One held a map, another a radio. They weren't looking for danger—they were following a pattern. My pattern.
They talked for a few minutes, gathered a sample of scorched soil, made notes. Their words were in English—older, clipped, unfamiliar in rhythm but recognizable. Their gear looked outdated too. 1940s, maybe.
And that was when my certainty began to waver.
Was this really Earth?
Had I been reborn in some remote corner of my old world? Or was this something else entirely—some fractured timeline, some forgotten echo?
Whatever it was, it didn't feel ancient. It felt close. Real. Which made it dangerous.
Because if this world reacted to dragons the same way my old one might… there would be no awe. No worship. Just containment. Study. Fear.
I waited until they left. Then I followed.
I trailed them from a kilometer back. Far enough that they couldn't hear me. Close enough that I could still hear them. Their steps were loud in the snow, their voices carrying faintly through the trees. I didn't need to see them directly—I tracked their residual heat. The warmth their bodies had left in the snow. The disturbed air in their wake. The slight shimmer along their path.
They never looked back.
If I couldn't spot them with all my senses focused forward, there was no chance they'd notice me behind.
It wasn't morality that kept me from attacking. It was information. I needed to know where they had come from. Where they were going. If they were the only ones. If more would follow.
And, deep down, something about hiding didn't sit right with me. I was a dragon. Crouching behind bushes felt wrong.
But it was necessary.
They talked as they walked, grumbling about the cold, the climb, the strange color of the smoke. One mentioned sending the soil sample to Stark Labs. That name caught my attention.
Stark?
No way.
I crouched behind a snow-covered bush, wings tight, watching them disappear over a rise in the trail. They didn't know I was there. They didn't know anything had followed them.
But I knew where they were headed now.
And I followed.
The trees began to thin. The slope dipped gently into a valley, and the first signs of civilization appeared like ghosts—faint, familiar, and out of place.
Wooden fences. A dirt road. Tire tracks frozen into the slush.
Then houses. Not many, but enough to count as a town. The buildings were modest—sloped roofs, metal chimneys, faded paint. Old trucks were parked near wooden porches. There was a gas station, a post office, even a school building with boarded windows. It looked like something from a black-and-white movie.
But it was real.
I crouched just beyond the treeline, hiding in the shadows of a rocky overhang, and stared.
A sign stood near the edge of the square—a faded mural of a soldier holding a shield, mid-stride, surrounded by others in WWII uniform.
Below it, the inscription read:
"In memory of the sacrifices made by Captain America and his brothers-in-arms."
Captain America.
I stared for a full ten seconds, brain stalling as the weight of it sank in.
Not just a name. Not just a statue.
Captain. Freaking. America.
That wasn't history. That was Marvel.
I stepped back behind the ledge, mind spinning. Of all the places I could've ended up—some ancient world full of swords and sorcery, some dystopian ruin with mutants and scavengers—this was the last one I expected. Not just Earth. Marvel's Earth.
I let out a slow breath and muttered under it, "You've got to be kidding me."
Because for months, I thought I had things figured out. I was a dragon now—black-scaled, fire-breathing, growing stronger every day. I thought if I stayed hidden long enough, if I kept training, I'd eventually become something unstoppable. Something that nothing in this world could touch.
But this wasn't that kind of world.
This world had gods.
It had aliens and mutants and men who could level cities with a thought. It had people who wore metal suits and called down lightning, people who tore through space with glowing stones and cosmic weapons.
And then there was Thanos.
The thought hit me like a punch. That kind of power? He would've snapped Drogon's neck like a twig. Not metaphorically—literally. One hand. Done.
And that was just the movie version.
I didn't even know what this world actually was yet. The comics? The films? Some twisted hybrid in between? I couldn't tell. All I knew was that the stakes had just changed.
I wasn't in a world where I could hide until I was big enough to rule the sky.
That dream was gone.
Hiding wasn't going to cut it anymore.
I didn't just need to survive—I needed to evolve. I needed to grow smarter, faster, stronger. Because in this universe, even the monsters get hunted. Even gods bleed.
And me? I was just a dragon.
Which, here, meant I was barely getting started.