Felyor doesn’t remember hatching. He only remembers her voice.

Soft. Trembling. Singing lullabies through a cracked throat. A girl, really—young and scared—but she held his egg like it was something precious. Something worth saving. Someone worth saving.

She named him Felyor. She called herself Astrid. And from that moment on, they were all each other had.

They’ve wandered ever since, scraping by on music, charm, and the occasional lie. Most nights, they don’t eat. Some nights, they sleep in gutters. Every night, they hold each other like the world might try and take them apart in the dark.

Felyor has magic. It came early—wild, bright, and painful. The first time it flared, it burned a man’s cart to ashes and left his own hands blistered. But Astrid didn’t scold him. She just wrapped his fingers and said, “Dragons always burn before they soar.”

And that’s what he clings to. He has to be a dragon. Not because it’s cool. Not because it’s powerful. But because the truth—that he’s small, hated, nothing—it hurts too much to carry. If he’s going to survive this life, it has to be because one day, he’ll be more than this. He has to become more.

Sometimes, he tries to protect Astrid with his fire. Sometimes, that makes things worse. People don’t listen to kobolds. They kick harder when you talk back. Astrid hides the bruises. Felyor swears vengeance he can’t yet reach.

But every time he gets back up, he tells himself: This is molting. This is transformation. The pain means it’s working.

He’s only three years old. But he feels like he’s already lived a lifetime of trying not to be crushed. So he plays the dragon. He becomes the dragon. Because if he stops pretending… he’s scared there won’t be anything left.