The world lay quiet under the long shadows of the night. Thæon, laid out on his bedroll, could not sleep.
He stared up at the star-filled sky, colourless and as never-ending as the thoughts that crowded within his mind, each vying for attention, keeping him from dreams. Curled around him, the dragon snores peacefully, his mind free from dark designs; dreams painted in the place of shadows and a fear conquered to carry him through it all.
Thæon wished he knew more about dragons. He wished that there were more to the tales than that which was carved into the stone of Arkeríon’s great halls; that there was more than the stories that had been passed down, father to daughter, mother to son; lessons in songs and tales; histories recorded that tell of what happened thousands of years ago, and yet none of what Thæon knows is useful to him.
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