Chapter 8 — Beneath the Moon's Breath
That night, Lyra couldn't sleep again — but this time, it wasn't fear that kept her awake.
It was warmth.
A quiet, lingering warmth that had settled in her chest ever since the greenhouse. His words echoed softly in her mind: "If you ever feel cold… come here."
She rose from bed, barefoot, wrapped in a shawl of pale silk. The palace was hushed, its corridors bathed in moonlight. No guards. No whispers. Just the soft hum of dragonsteel torches flickering along the walls.
She didn't go to the greenhouse.
She went to the balcony above the eastern wing — the one she'd never dared approach before.
And he was there.
The Dragon King stood alone, arms resting on the stone railing, his gaze lost in the stars. He didn't turn when she arrived. But she knew he felt her.
"I thought you'd be in the garden," she said gently.
"I needed the sky tonight," he replied.
Lyra stepped beside him. The wind was cool, but not biting. It carried the scent of firelilies and something older — something like memory.
"Do you miss it?" she asked.
He glanced at her. "Miss what?"
"Flying."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I miss the silence between wingbeats. The way the world falls away beneath you. The way stars feel close enough to touch."
Lyra looked up. "I've never flown."
"You will," he said. "One day."
She smiled, but it faded quickly. "Why did you choose me?"
He didn't answer immediately. His eyes returned to the sky, searching for something.
"I didn't choose you for the curse," he said. "I chose you for the quiet."
Lyra blinked. "The quiet?"
"You listen," he said. "Even when others speak. Even when the palace tries to distract you. You hear things… that aren't loud."
She felt her throat tighten. "I hear you."
He turned then, fully, and looked at her — not as a king, not as a dragon, but as someone who hadn't been seen in a long time.
"I know," he said.
The moonlight touched his face, softening the sharpness of his features. Lyra reached out, slowly, and placed her hand — the one that had once held the ribbon — over his.
He didn't pull away.
Instead, he closed his fingers around hers, gently, as if afraid to break something fragile.
They stood like that, hand in hand, beneath the stars.
No crown. No curse.
Just warmth.
And when Lyra finally whispered, "I'm not cold anymore," he leaned closer, his voice barely audible:
> "Then stay."