They traveled slowly through the lowlands over the next few days, avoiding roads and open spaces. The terrain softened into gentle hills and meadows dotted with wildflowers, the kind of land that didn't rush you but welcomed you to linger. The sun hung lower in the sky this far from the mountains, casting everything in golden hues that made even the worn paths feel like something sacred.
Ashwing grew bolder with each sunrise.
She explored the edges of their camp with fearless curiosity, sniffing at moss-covered stones and pouncing on anything that moved. Leaves became her prey. Shadows, her rivals. She would dart at them with little snarls, wings fluttering, tail twitching with anticipation—then tumble sideways into a heap of scales and claws, triumphant.
More than once, Calypsius caught himself laughing—freely, without armor.
He'd started keeping a mental list of her quirks, which now had become a kind of running joke between him and Ellara.
She hated cold water and made a scandalized noise every time her paw touched it.
She chirped like a bird when happy—rapid, high-pitched trills that grew louder when fed.
She hunted bugs obsessively, only to pout when they escaped her grasp, tail flicking like an offended cat's.
And she absolutely refused to sleep anywhere but on Calypsius's chest, curled over his heartbeat like a dragon guarding treasure.
In quieter hours, they worked together to understand her needs. Ellara proved unexpectedly skilled at preparing for a young dragon—roasting scraps of rabbit or fish over their fire and experimenting with herbs that wouldn't upset her stomach. Sweetroot was a surprising favorite. Ashwing chewed it slowly, releasing tiny huffs of warm steam, grumbling like an old noblewoman with a mug of tea.
"She's not a typical hatchling," Ellara said one morning, crouching beside the fire while Ashwing gnawed on a roasted marrow bone. "Most dragonlings don't form bonds this quickly. Or show this much sentience this young."
Calypsius sat across from her, sharpening a stick for the spit. He paused. "You think it's because of the blade?"
He nodded toward Valenyr, which lay near his pack, quiet and unmoving for once—though still faintly warm, as if never truly dormant.
Ellara looked down at the dragonling, then away from Calypsius. "I think it's because of you. Whatever Valenyr awakened in her… it was drawn to something in you."
Calypsius didn't respond at first. Her words settled inside him like dust in old stone—quiet, but persistent. That thought stayed with him long after the fire had burned low.
That night, he woke to the soft sound of wings flapping and a frustrated huff.
He sat up to see Ashwing perched on a low boulder, silhouetted by the moonlight. Her wings stretched out on either side, too small for real lift but fluttering with conviction. She leapt—
—and promptly crashed into the grass with a soft pomf.
Unshaken, she scrambled back up the rock.
Ellara stirred nearby, peeking from her blanket. "She's determined," she said, voice thick with sleep but amused. "I'll give her that."
"I don't want her to get hurt," Calypsius murmured.
"She has to fall before she can soar," Ellara replied, her words echoing the old elven proverb.
Calypsius watched as Ashwing jumped again, a flicker of frustration in her tiny snort when she tumbled once more. But she didn't cry out. Didn't look for help. She climbed again, slower this time, and stood taller.
Eventually, weariness overtook her.
She padded back to Calypsius's side with a grunt, nuzzled into the crook of his arm, and let out a deep, tired sigh as her wings folded back against her sides.
"She'll fly one day," he whispered, stroking the top of her head. "And I'll be there to watch."
The fire cracked softly beside them. The wind danced through the trees like distant music. He leaned back, settling into the warmth of the earth beneath him. Ashwing curled into his chest, and his arm wrapped instinctively around her tiny form.
Ellara had already drifted off again, her expression peaceful in sleep.
The world beyond was still uncertain. The Court still hunted them. Secrets still stirred in shadows. But in this fragile sliver of peace—under stars unclouded and with two beings who had chosen him not out of destiny, but trust—Calypsius felt something shift.
For the first time, he didn't see himself as a vessel or a weapon. He didn't feel like a survivor grasping at borrowed time.
He felt present. Grounded.
Whole.
Maybe, just maybe, he was something worth saving after all.