Such a simple word. Simple, unassuming and unthreatening. And yet that one word— those two syllables had the power to shake the world; a cascade of mountain stones that sent a flurry of snow tumbling into an avalanche; a great ocean of snow and frost plummeting down slope of Thæon’s shoulders; a chill in the air raising his skin to pimpled Goosebumps and a stuttering flame in his chest that fought against the dead of winter; Ríenn’s words echoing, their memory filling the silence like night fills the void.
Thæon stares at the dragon he holds in his hands, at the tears that trace heart break down the sloping of his muzzle; dragon-fire eyes muted in colour but sharp in pain.
He is a dragon, not human. And yet the avalanche buries the world in an empty, unforgiving white; like water washing out the colours of a canvas until there was only the memory of gold and honey and warmth.
Obí was a dragon. He couldn’t be human.
He was a dragon, he couldn’t be—