The village was quiet, almost frozen in time. A handful of stone-and-wood houses, a silent tavern, a few children running barefoot in the dust. Nothing hinted at the presence of anything supernatural—let alone a dragon living in human form.

  Garlan walked slowly, hood pulled low, observing the villagers discreetly. He wasn’t here to spread panic, nor to ask blunt questions. He had another method in mind.

  He settled by the central well, leaned against the stone rim, and closed his eyes. He drew a deep breath, calling forth the ancestral Breath flowing through his veins. The draconic resonance. That subtle murmur, that barely perceptible vibration only the descendants of the ancients could feel.

  A shiver ran down his spine. He shut out everything not tied to his quest—filtered away the sounds, the flows of mana, the motions of humans. He sought a heartbeat, a pulse, a memory… familiar.

  But he felt nothing. Nothing but ordinary life. Villagers, animals, earth.

  He straightened slowly, face hardening. If his mother was here, she hid better than expected. Or she wasn’t here at all.

  He made for the tavern, not to question, but to listen. The server, a sharp-eyed woman of middle age, approached with suspicion.

  “You’re not from here.”

  “I travel. I’m looking for someone. A woman… alone, discreet. Maybe ill, maybe strange.”

  She studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

  “There’s someone, yes. A woman who lives alone, on the edge of the slate cliff. We rarely see her. Sometimes she comes for herbs, or stale bread. People say she talks to birds, and storms stop when she lifts her head.”

  A pang struck Garlan’s chest. He pictured her, alone, walking through the mist, speaking to crows. He didn’t yet know if it was her… but he wanted it to be. Even strange. Even flawed.

  A pulse throbbed within his chest.

  “Does she have a name?”

  “Not that I know. Folks just call her ‘the old woman by the edge.’ But she’s not that old. Just… worn.”

  He nodded, paid for a crust of bread, and left in silence.

  On the road to the cliff, the wind rose without warning. Not hostile—an ancient breath, laden with a scent he somehow knew though he’d never breathed it before.

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  He quickened his pace, unaware he was holding his own breath.

  At last he reached a small dwelling built against the cliff, modest, covered in moss and wild vines. The door stood ajar, the interior sunk in shadow. No sound. No breath.

  “Maybe she’s out,” he muttered aloud.

  He took a step toward the entrance—but a cold shiver shot down his spine. Something was wrong.

  Before he could turn, a shadow lunged from behind. A swift, brutal strike slammed into his ribs. Bones cracked. His body was hurled violently—over the cliff.

  The void swallowed him.

  And for an instant, the sky sealed shut above.

  The fall was brutal. Wind screamed in his ears, air crushed his chest. Then, in a surge of instinct and mana, Garlan’s eyes snapped open. He flung out his arms, summoned his wind-armor, and slowed just enough to avoid smashing into the rock wall.

  He crashed hard against the cliffside, tumbled through dust and gravel, and finally caught himself—right at the edge. He drew a ragged breath, then climbed slowly back toward the house, ribs aching, lungs burning.

  When he reached the threshold again, a crushing tension fell over him. The air vibrated—dense, charged with ancient mana, a power contained yet fully awake.

  “Who are you? And what do you want from me?”

  The voice, cold and sharp as crystal, came from behind.

  Garlan swallowed, slowly, without turning.

  “I’m not about to hit my own mother… assuming that’s what you are.”

  A taut silence. Then the voice, just as cutting:

  “Your mother? Do you think I bore a child with a human mage, more than eighteen years ago? And if I did… what of it?”

  A low rage rose in him. That aura… that power… he couldn’t mistake it.

  “You’re Ignir’s daughter. A dragoness of Wind. And you are my mother. If you want, I can jog your memory.”

  (The slap cracked like an explosion. Silence.)

  Elyzira staggered. A trickle of blood slid down her lip. Her eyes widened—then closed.

  She dropped to the ground. Dust swirled faintly around her.

  A heavy silence. Garlan had stepped back, his fist still smoking. Marenna dared not move. Virellia stood frozen, watching.

  A long second.

  Then a low sound. A grunt—wry, almost amused.

  Elyzira (muffled, from the ground):

  “…Well… you didn’t waste your dragon blood, kid…”

  She snapped upright, sat down, rubbed her cheek.

  Elyzira (louder, sarcastic):

  “So, we’ll call that a demonstration of draconic affection. That how your family says hello?”

  (She raised both hands, smirking.)

  Elyzira:

  “If I’d known talk of your father set you off this much, I’d have suggested a chess match instead.”

  (Pause. Her gaze hardened, almost sincere.)

  Elyzira (calmer):

  “It wasn’t an attack, boy. It was… a test. I wanted to see how far you’d go. Wanted to see if you’d tremble. You didn’t.”

  (Marenna stepped forward, wary.)

  Marenna:

  “You could have died.”

  Elyzira (mocking grin):

  “Would’ve been a stylish death. ‘The First Sister slain by brotherly love: a blazing right hook.’ I can see the epitaph already.”

  (Garlan stepped closer, still tense.)

  Garlan:

  “I… I’m sorry. It just came out.”

  Elyzira (raising a brow, half-serious):

  “Then save that ‘just came out’ for when you meet your father. Because that day… you’ll have to strike for real.”

  (Silence. A stare. Then, casually:)

  Elyzira:

  “In the meantime… I’ll get some ice. Or maybe another sibling less touchy-feely.”