A dragon.

Of course.

A dragon?!

The realization slammed into me like a swung gate in a storm. My breath caught halfway through my chest, and I had to forcibly swallow down the growing list of questions screaming through my mind like a list of debts suddenly come due.

I turned to her slowly. Not with suspicion—but with the kind of wariness one saves for ancient, slumbering truths that just blinked open.

"Falias," I said, my voice a little rougher than I'd intended. "I'm going to ask you again—and this time, I need you to be blunt. No administrative voice. No polite buffering. No academic riddles."

She tilted her head at me, curious. Almost amused. Her hair shimmered slightly in the glow of Lunarias, catching every color in the air and folding it into her.

"What are you?"

There was a pause. A glimmer of mischief tugged at her lips.

"A Golden Dragon," she said brightly. Cheerfully. Like she was announcing the flavor of tea she'd brewed.

I blinked.

"…Golden dragon," I repeated. Flatly. Like maybe if I said it calmly enough, it wouldn't be real.

"Well, technically half," she continued, walking a few paces ahead through the frost-laced corridor. "My mother was a pureblood—one of the last. A relic from a tale so old even the Library doesn't know the whole version. My father… well, he was an elf. A scholar. Gentle. I get the hair from him."

I caught up to her, slowly, eyes narrowing.

"I'm sorry, I think I just short-circuited. Can we back up to the part where you're a living myth?"

"I thought you liked books," she said with a grin.

I rubbed my temples.

"That explains the aura," I muttered. "That explains the eyes. The… everything. Honestly, I thought you were just unnervingly pretty because of some high-tier soul refinement. Or maybe malnutrition."

Her head turned sharply toward me.

"Excuse me?"

"Not in a bad way!" I blurted out, hands up. "You know, how people in old stories with lean builds are secretly divine beings hiding in poverty and shadow? You've got that lean thing going on. I thought—look, never mind."

She gave me a long, unreadable look, and then smirked.

"You're not the first to mistake elven delicacy for starvation. But for the record, I eat plenty. The halls have pastry caches."

"Of course they do."

"Of course."

We walked on in silence for a moment, the brittle crackle of frost underfoot the only sound.

"So," I said slowly, turning the information over in my mind like a blade still too hot to sheath. "Golden dragons are real."

"Real, but rare," she confirmed. "And our bloodlines don't pass on cleanly. A child of a dragon might not inherit anything at all. Or, they might burn with power they can't contain."

"Which are you?"

She looked ahead, into the dark.

"I'm still deciding."

A silence passed between us. Not cold—just... heavy. Like the breath you take before reading a painful chapter aloud.

"Honestly…" she said, her voice barely louder than the wind curling through the icy corridor, "After all this, I might just want to disappear for a while. You know? Find someplace quiet. New. Live a life that's actually mine. No duties, no titles. Just… something simple."

She didn't look at me when she said it. Her eyes were fixed forward, watching the snowfall that never stopped, never slowed—eternal and unchanging.

The words slipped out of my mouth before I could throttle them into silence.

"Wanna live with me?"

Falias turned to me, one delicate eyebrow raised.

I blinked. "Wait, I didn't mean—I did mean it, I just didn't mean to say it yet—ugh, okay, let me explain."

I ran a hand through my hair, suddenly too warm despite the cold. "So. Right. I'm technically a noble now, and because of all the stupid political arrangements that come with that, I'm supposed to be married in the next few years. Something about alliances, legacy, preserving the bloodline—which is ridiculous, considering most of its recently inked in anyway."

Falias covered her mouth politely, either to hide a smile or suppress laughter.

"I just… look. If I have to go through with it, I'd rather marry someone I actually like. Or at least tolerate," I muttered, forcing the words out like they were stuck in my throat. "And you're not just tolerable—you're terrifyingly competent, witty, brave, warm, stubborn, mysterious, and, well… stunningly beautiful."

I rubbed the back of my neck again. "Also you're half dragon and that's... I dunno, kinda hot?"

Falias stared at me, blinking slowly, her opalescent eyes unreadable in that long silence. Then, finally—she sighed.

"Smooth. Very smooth," she said, rolling her eyes—though the smile that ghosted across her lips betrayed her amusement.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

"I'm serious!" I protested, half-laughing, half-panicking. "I know this isn't the right time or place. I know we're literally being hunted by mythological winter death puppets. I know! But still. I figured if I didn't say something now, I might not get another chance."

Her expression softened.

"I believe you," she said gently. "But Alexander, let's not promise each other futures while our hands are still frozen in the present."

"Fair," I said, letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Talk to me again," she added, stepping close enough that I could feel the warmth of her breath in the cold. "After we convince Winter to accept Springtime. After the stories stop screaming. When you're no longer just trying to survive long enough to finish this chapter."

I nodded, a little sheepishly. "Deal."

***

Another winter's thrall fell before me, three arrows sunk deep into its lifeless form—one in the head, another in the shoulder, and the last… in the knee.

I stared at that final arrow in mild disgust.

"I sneezed," I muttered defensively. "It would have been a perfect shot otherwise."

The creature crumpled into a brittle pile of frost-bitten limbs before dissolving like all the others—reduced to a bundle of icy, jagged firewood. Almost like it had never been human at all. The white stag appeared as if drawn by scent or some unseen command, scooping the firewood into its ethereal jaws before dashing silently into the fog beyond the corridor.

I sighed, watching the shimmering traces it left behind fade into nothing.

"How many damn bundles of firewood does one ice queen need to remember warmth?" I asked aloud, voice echoing through the vaulted silence.

"About eighty," Falias answered immediately, matter-of-fact. "That's the usual duration of winter in this particular tale. Eighty days, eighty bundles. The White Stag carries fire to Cailleach, to remind her not to keep holding the season. It's an old, old story—colder than it is wise."

I groaned. "Eighty? This is going to take forever."

Falias gave a half-shrug, stepping lightly beside me, her crystalline staff tapping faintly on the ice. "Be thankful it's not yet the black stag's version of the tale. That one can stretch for centuries if left unchecked."

"Charming," I muttered. "At least the enemies are pathetic. These things can't take more than a single decent shot—makes me wonder if they're just here to wear us down, not stop us."

"Or to lull you into thinking you're safe," she added, arching a brow. "Not every horror is upfront."

I grunted at that. Then, in a tone far too casual for the frozen warzone we were walking through, I tossed out, "Hey, Fallias, considering I technically proposed back there—wanna share Artes?"

She stopped, glanced sidelong at me, her expression unreadable for a moment. "You're seriously invoking marital privilege in an icebound nightmare realm?"

I grinned. "I'm flexible. Besides, it's a good strategy. For all I know, you already know mine."

"I do know yours," she said with that infuriating calm. "You manipulate paper, create constructs, and enter written mediums. It's rare but well-documented among forbidden bibliokinetic branches."

I blinked. "Wait—how do you know mine?"

"Every employee of the Halls is indexed in the archive database," she replied. "Even temporary contractors like you. Arte access isn't considered confidential unless it's paired to locked skillcubes."

"Oh." I paused. Then I blinked again.

And then I tried.

Immediately, panes of glowing script fanned open in my mind's eye, exactly like a full Gloss-Network display. The database was massive. Names. Descriptions. Arte branches. Some redacted, many available. It was beautiful. Overwhelming.

I knew exactly who I wanted to search.

Vanitas.

ERROR: User does not possess Danatallion-Level Access.

Access to this profile is restricted.

If you believe this is in error, insert password here.

"Damn it," I muttered under my breath, but of course Fallias heard me.

She sighed. "Please don't try to access the upper library databases. First of all, it's a really bad idea to piss them off. Second, you might actually succeed. And if you do, something will notice. And then we'll both be firewood."

I raised my hands in mock surrender. "Noted."

Her shoulders relaxed a little, though her expression didn't lighten. Not entirely.

"My Arte," she continued, tone more cautious now, "is tied to my bloodline. I can spend accumulated wealth—coin, relics, value— to enhance all my physical attributes. Strength, speed, regeneration, you name it. It's an alchemical principle inherited from the old hoards my dragon-kin ancestors once slept atop."

"That's… ridiculous. But cool. And completely unfair."

She smirked faintly. "You manipulate the written world like a god and make origami beetles that explode. I think we're even."

I gave a dramatic sigh. "Fine. I'll allow it."

We walked again, silence falling between us as we moved through the frost-encrusted corridors. Only the soft crunch of snow and the whisper of our breaths filled the space between our steps. Occasionally, another frozen tome hovered in the air—pages stuck mid-turn, radiating cold.

Every time we saw one, I instinctively raised Lunarias and fired.

The starlight arrow would streak through, detonating the magic inside, sending a burst of colored light ricocheting off the walls. Every time, Falias would flinch.

"Sorry," I said after the fifth one.

She shook her head. "No. You're doing what's needed. The stories in this part of the Halls are infected. Twisted. They cry out to be read, but reading them gives the cold something else to grab onto. You're severing their limbs before they can become bodies."

"That's a horrifying metaphor."

"It's also accurate."

We rounded another corner—and then stopped.

Ahead of us, sprawled across the frozen floor, was something… larger. Not a thrall. Not a Craven.

It was a librarian.

Or what was left of one.

She wore no hood or veil, and her skin was the color of parchment turned to ash. Her robes shimmered with glyphs that blinked weakly in dying cycles. An enormous ink quill was impaled through her back, snapped halfway down.

"She was my mentor," Falias whispered. "And shouldn't be here. Prime Archivist Elanith. One of the curators of another library… I"

She couldn't finish. She dropped to her knees, brushing away the frost around Elanith's face. Her fingers trembled, but her eyes stayed dry.

"Don't say anything," she said before I could speak. "Just… don't."

I didn't.

Instead, I knelt beside her.

And when the cold crept a little closer, I nocked another arrow, and kept watch.

It was an agonizing silence. A silence that deafened all who dared listen to it. I could hear Fallias's heartbeat—unsteady, choked, ragged. I could hear the wails she refused to let free, coiled in her throat like serpents of grief. Even the dead air mourned. The library groaned with quiet despair, like a monument aware of its own collapse.

The cries of the wind were no longer just wind. They were voices. Faint echoes of names that no longer belonged to living tongues. The cold had devoured them, same as it had Elanith.

The fallen archivist's body lay still—too still. Not even the ice dared reclaim her fully. She was frozen, but untouched. Revered by the frost that had taken so many others with cruelty. Her robes were tattered ink, her skin like brittle ash. A noble stillness.

I pulled out a tiny scrap of flashpaper from within my robes. My Arte could barely grasp it—too dry, too reactive, too resistant—but it responded just enough to stay folded in my palm.

I knelt, setting the sliver on Elanith's chest with quiet care, like a seal for her passage.

Fallias's hands trembled. Her eyes—those radiant, stained-glass opals—reflected the dim werelight around us, refracting every shard of sorrow she refused to let fall.

I gave her a single nod.

She returned it.

With a deep breath, she let her mentor, her friend, and the source of her lamentation rest, in the only way a dragon could.

In fire.

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