The sky was still the color of ink. A mist rolled slowly over the forest floor, silver-laced in places where the faint moonlight slipped through broken branches. The morning hadn't come yet—but the night was no longer whole either.
Somewhere far off, birds stirred; she heard voices.
Men.
Rough. The clashing sounds of metal. Laughing too loud in a place that didn't allow laughter.
She stiffened. Hunters.
She turned, eyes narrowing. The boy was still there—half-slumped, half-awake. His wing twitched with each breath, blood still drying along the edges. She moved quietly toward him, knelt down. Without thinking, she touched the edge of his shoulder and whispered, "Don't make a sound."
His eyes flicked open, confused but obedient. She motioned toward the trees, toward the voices. He nodded, breath held tight.
They waited.
Branches cracked. Boots against roots. And then... silence again.
Only when the voices passed deeper into the woods did she let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
But the stillness didn't stay.
A sound rushed into her ears—a woman's voice, cracking like flames:
"Mira! Run!"
The air around her pulsed red. This was something else. Something she failed to remember.
She saw fire again. Not in a dream. A memory.
A woman burning.
A man shouting her name—no, not her name... her real name.
And a child. One that she recalled from her dream.
Small. Fragile. Crying for the people—which she didn't remember.
She stumbled, dizzy. Words spilled from her mouth, low and lost:
"Vaelwyn... Miracle Sol Vaelwyn... Mira... that's—"
A sharp voice cut the moment like a blade.
"HEY. I've been calling you for the hundredth time."
She blinked hard. The forest came back into focus. The fog. The boy.
His voice was annoyed but hoarse.
She turned to him, dazed. "What...?"
He frowned. "You were staring into space like you saw a ghost."
She touched her lips, heart still hammering.
Maybe she had.
Mira pressed her hand gently over her chest. Her sigil—hidden just beneath her collarbone—pulsed faintly again.
"You're still glowing," he muttered.
"So are you." Her eyes met his—bright gold, molten and flickering like dawn. And for a moment, everything else vanished. Her breath caught.
Then her sigil didn't just glow. It burned.
White-hot, searing. Not on her skin—but inside her ribs, in her spine, in her name. And with it came a name. One she had never learned. One she had never heard.
And a command.
"Protect him."
Again.
It echoed like a brand being seared into her bones. She staggered back slightly, eyes wide, breath gone.
He reached out instinctively. "Are you—?"
"Are you… really him!?" Her pain had faded already. But the heat hadn't.
And neither had the voice.
His expression shifted from pain to pure bewilderment. "What? Him who? What are you even on about?"
A tense silence hung between them. She turned away, hand pressed lightly over her chest, as if that would silence whatever had just been set in motion.
He shifted. Tried to sit straighter—and instantly regretted it.
"Stay down," she muttered, her voice still rough. "You're not flying anywhere, dragon boy."
"Don't call me that."
"Not until you give me a real name."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then, as if the word itself weighed too much: "...Maximus."
He didn't know how he knew it. He just did. Somewhere in his bones, it had always been there.
She blinked. "Big name."
"That's just a quarter of it."
She tilted her head, like she was teasing—but something in her voice shifted. Careful. Too careful. Like the name had surfaced from nowhere. "Maximus Vale...?"
He didn't flinch. Just met her eyes and answered. "Dravenhart."
"Dravenhart…" she echoed. Slower.
The word lingered. Felt too heavy to be coincidence. Like prophecy.
Maximus Vale Dravenhart
The name fell like a hammer.
Mira's breath caught. The white flame twisted—not in pain this time, but in recognition.
"Figures," she whispered. "Of course it's you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
But she didn't answer. Not right away. Instead, she stood. And offered him her hand.
"Come on, Maximus Vale Dravenhart. Let's get you out of the open before something worse than me finds you."
"What could be worse than you?"
"You really want to find out?"
He groaned but took her hand. Her grip was warm. Steady.
"I'm Mira, by the way," she said as they started walking.
"Mira what?"
She hesitated. "...Miracle Sol Vaelwyn."
She wasn't just telling him her name. She was trying it on again—for the first time in years. Seeing how it felt.
Her real name.
His head tilted. "Fancy."
"So's your name, Dragon boy."
"Still not accepting that nickname."
She smirked but didn't reply.
The forest around them creaked. The mist hadn't lifted. And far in the distance—too faint for human ears—a horn echoed again.
Maximus's wings twitched.
"They're still hunting me."
"I figured," Mira said, voice tight. "We'll move faster once your legs stop wobbling."
"They're not—!"
"They are."
A pause.
"...Thanks."
"For what?"
"Not leaving me."
She looked away. "Didn't do it for you."
"Then why?"
A long pause. Then, without looking at him, "...You're bleeding all over my forest."
But beneath her shirt, the sigil flared again—silver-white, soft as moonlight.
And in her bones, the voice returned:
"Protect him."
This time, she listened.
✦
The metal clangs had faded, as had the horn. The fog had thinned. And somewhere beyond the trees, the sky finally began to change.
A pale light crept in, brushing the tops of branches, turning gold where it kissed the mist. The forest, once shadowed and sharp-edged, exhaled.
Birdsong returned—tentative, then louder.
For the first time in what felt like hours, Mira let her shoulders drop.
Maximus stumbled again. She caught his weight without thinking, bracing him as they crossed over a fallen log. "You sure you're not secretly three times heavier?" she muttered.
"Wings add volume," he mumbled. "Not weight."
"Noted."
They kept walking.
The deeper they went, the more the forest softened—less wild, more familiar. Moss-coated trees leaned in. A worn trail curved beneath their boots, half-hidden but well-traveled.
And then, nestled between two large stones at the forest's edge.
Her home.
A crooked little structure of pale wood and slate-black roof, almost swallowed by ivy and wildflowers. Smoke curled faintly from the chimney. Wind chimes hung from the eaves, catching morning light in little sparks.
Not quite a cabin. Not quite a cottage.
Just hers.
Mira helped Max onto the porch and pushed open the creaky door.
Inside, the space was small—but warm. Lined with shelves and jars and old books. A table, two chairs, a fire pit, and a worn rug shaped like a dragon's wing. The kind of place made for secrets and solitude.
She didn't speak as she helped him to the low couch and fetched clean cloths, water, and a faded blanket. He didn't speak either.
The forest outside stirred again. Morning, fully arrived.
She dabbed the cloth gently at the base of his wing. Maximus flinched, more from the touch than the pain.
"Hold still, Dragon boy."
"Stop calling me that!" He growled that was most undoubtedly not human.
"Stop glowing, and I'll consider it."
Maximus flinched. Again.
"You're acting like I just skinned you."
"You're touching bone," he growled.
"Then try not having wings next time."
He gave her a withering glare but didn't pull away. She kept cleaning, fingers efficient, precise—too practiced for someone who claimed not to care.
Finally, as she pressed a damp cloth to the last of his wounds, he murmured, "Is this where you live?"
"For now," she said.
A line of strange glass vials. Books with no titles, only carved symbols. A blade resting under a coat by the door, hilt worn with use.
"Are you a witch of some sort?"
She met his gaze. "No."
A pause. "I'm not sure… but I could be something else," she said, unsure.
He didn't ask what.
She didn't offer.
The fire crackled. A bird called.
"You live alone?"
She didn't answer right away. Then, simply, "Yes."
And from the edges of her ribs, the white flame glowed soft and steady—no longer burning, no longer paining. Just present.
That glow… Something else blended with it. Something bright. Something crimson.
She turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing.
Across the room, on a shelf just above the hearth, something had begun to shimmer—its deep red color flickering faintly in the morning light and inlaid with dull red gems.