The drifting land grew larger with every mile. It was darker, heavier, as if the sky itself avoided it. The air around it shimmered faintly — too still, too quiet.
From afar, it looked like a scar among the clouds.
As the travelers' small patch of grass brushed against its edge, the wind changed. It was colder here, dry and empty. The once-green blades of grass faded into grey ash. Every step left a print that lingered longer than it should.
"This place…" Lyra whispered, her voice barely a sound. "It's dead."
Rowen knelt and brushed the soil. It wasn't soil — just dust, brittle and thin. He rubbed it between his fingers. "Not dead," he said softly. "Burned."
Elian tightened his grip on his sword. "The dragon's mark."
They walked quietly. The land stretched endlessly, yet it felt small — suffocating even. Trees rose around them, twisted black, their branches frozen mid-sway like they'd been turned to stone in the middle of running from fire. Some still stood tall, others had fallen, and their hollow insides whispered when the wind passed through.
The pink rabbits were gone.
Even Harkon noticed it. He glanced around uneasily. "First time I'm not seeing those furballs," he muttered. "Not a good sign."
"Maybe they're smart enough to stay away," Elian replied.
They passed through what might have been a meadow once. The air shimmered faintly, a strange haze that made the edges of things blur. Lyra lifted her sleeve to her nose — the smell of smoke still lingered here, faint but unending.
"Do you think it sleeps here?" she asked.
"Dragons don't sleep," Rowen said quietly. His tone carried something heavier than belief — memory, maybe.
Elian glanced at him. "You sound certain."
"I've seen its work," Rowen said. He didn't look back. "It doesn't rest. It waits."
The others exchanged glances but didn't argue. They followed him deeper into the forest, stepping carefully between blackened roots. The ground was uneven, cracked from heat. Sometimes, they found bones — of animals, of things they couldn't name — covered in soot.
The wind howled once, just once, long and distant, like something far away had sighed.
"Feels like it's watching," Lyra whispered.
"Then don't give it a reason to wake," Harkon said, his usual grin gone.
They walked in silence after that. Only the soft crunch of ash beneath their boots filled the air.
The deeper they went, the darker it became. The light dimmed as if swallowed by the air itself. The clouds around the land were lower here, thick and heavy, tinted faintly orange — like the memory of fire.
Finally, they reached an open clearing.
The air was warm. The ground pulsed faintly beneath their feet. In the center of the clearing lay something massive — a shape so still that for a moment, it seemed part of the earth itself.
The dragon.
It was larger than any mountain they'd crossed. Its body was made of bone, pale and sharp, with faint traces of glowing embers still running between the cracks. Its wings were folded like collapsed bridges, its skull resting gently on the ground, teeth longer than any sword. One of its eyes — or what used to be an eye — was sealed shut with hardened ash. The other was nothing but a hollow pit.
It looked dead.
But even from where they stood, they could feel it breathing. The faint tremor in the air, the soft rhythm beneath the ground.
Lyra took a step forward, but Rowen raised a hand to stop her. "Don't," he said.
She froze. "It's asleep."
"No," he said. "It's pretending."
Elian frowned. "You can't know that."
"I can." Rowen's eyes were fixed on the beast. "Because I've seen that breath before."
Harkon squinted at the dragon, his hand resting on the handle of his axe. "Then what do we do?"
"Nothing," Rowen said. "Not yet."
They backed away slowly, taking shelter behind a fallen tree. The air was hot now, faint wisps of smoke rising from the dragon's nostrils with each slow exhale.
Lyra's voice trembled. "We can't fight that."
"No," Elian said softly, staring at the creature's colossal ribs rising and falling. "But maybe we can find where it sleeps — and why."
The four of them crouched in silence, eyes fixed on the beast. It was too quiet — no wind, no sound, only the steady beat of something ancient and angry beneath the earth.
For a long time, none of them dared to breathe too loudly.
The dragon shifted slightly, its jaw creaking, releasing a soft puff of smoke that coiled lazily into the air.
The land itself seemed to hold its breath.
Lyra's fingers tightened on her sword. Rowen didn't move.
And in that stillness — between one breath and the next — the world waited.