The world came back into focus in pieces. First, the scent of rain-soaked earth and the sweet, alien fragrance of the dragon. Then, the feel of the smooth, warm cave floor beneath his knees. Finally, the sight. The shell of the egg lay in glittering, inert fragments around him. In its place, coiled on the crystal pedestal, was a creature that stole the breath from his lungs. It was no larger than a fox, with a long, serpentine body covered in scales that swirled with the light of a nascent galaxy—deep indigo, emerald green, and soft gold. Its head was delicate, with large, intelligent eyes that glowed with a soft, white light, like twin captured stars. They were fixed on him. There was no fear in its gaze, only a profound, ancient knowing. A wave of emotion, not his own, washed over him: a newborn's confusion, a deep-seated hunger, and an overwhelming sense of *rightness*. Of *home*. This was his. He was its. The bond, once a chaotic storm, now settled into a steady, resonant hum in his soul. He was Zoran Ironfoot, a farm boy. And he was a rider. The two truths warred within him, one born of a lifetime of humility, the other forged in a single, impossible moment. He had to hide it. He had to protect it. He had to run.
The dragon uncoiled, its movements fluid and silent, like water flowing over stone. It slithered down from the pedestal, its tiny claws making soft, clicking sounds on the crystal floor. It approached him without hesitation, its head tilted. As it drew closer, the images came. Not as thoughts, but as memories poured directly into his mind. He saw a barren rock in a sea of nothingness, felt the dragon's will, and watched as the rock bloomed with life, sprouting forests and carving rivers into its surface. He saw a sky devoid of stars, felt the dragon's focus, and witnessed the ignition of a sun, its light a warm, golden caress. He saw mountains being born from the planet's molten core, their peaks scraping against a newly formed atmosphere. The sheer scale of it, the raw, unadulterated power of creation, staggered him. This was no mere beast. This was a force of nature, a primal architect of worlds. And it was bonded to *him*.
A soft, inquisitive chirp echoed in the cavern, the sound a mix of a chime and a purr. The dragon nudged his hand with its snout. The touch sent a jolt through him, not of pain, but of pure connection. He could feel its hunger, a gnawing emptiness in its own small belly. He could feel its lingering fear of being alone, now replaced by a profound relief at finding him. And beneath it all, he felt its trust. An absolute, unconditional faith that he, Zoran Ironfoot, was its protector, its partner, its other half.
The weight of that trust was crushing. He was a farm boy. His greatest accomplishment had been plowing a straight furrow and winning a footrace against the blacksmith's son. He'd stolen bread to survive a noble's tantrum. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't worthy of this. The lie, the one he had always told himself, that he was simple, ordinary, and small, screamed in his mind. It was a shield he had always carried, and now it felt like a cage, trapping him in a role he was utterly unequipped to play.
He had to get out of the cave. The thought was a lightning bolt of clarity. If he stayed, they would be found. The King's riders patrolled these foothills, hunting for any sign of unregistered dragons or dissent. A Primal Dragon… the stories said they hadn't been seen for a thousand years. Vortrex would burn the entire kingdom to ash to possess this creature. He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't.
He looked down at the dragon, who was now peering up at him, its glowing eyes reflecting his own terrified face. "I have to hide you," he whispered, the words feeling inadequate and foolish. "I have to keep you safe."
The dragon seemed to understand. It nudged his hand again, this time with a sense of urgency that mirrored his own. Zoran fumbled with his satchel, a worn leather bag that had once held carrots for the plow horse. It was empty now, the stolen bread a forgotten casualty of his flight. He opened the flap and held it out. The dragon looked from the bag to his eyes, then, with a graceful leap, it coiled itself inside. It was a perfect fit, its small body nestling amongst the loose threads as if it were made for it. The soft glow of its scales was muted by the leather, but not entirely extinguished. A faint, pulsating light emanated from the bag, a tell-tale heart of impossible magic.
He needed a name. Something that wasn't just 'dragon'. Something that fit the scale of what he had just witnessed. A name that held power. "Zorath," he said, the name forming on his lips as if it had always been there, waiting to be spoken. "Your name is Zorath."
A wave of affirmation washed over him through the bond. A feeling of *yes*. Of *me*. It was settled.
Zoran stood, his legs trembling. He slung the satchel over his shoulder, the warmth of the dragon a constant, reassuring pressure against his back. He took one last look at the cavern. The crystal pedestal was now dull, its light extinguished. The glittering fragments of the egg shell looked like common, milky quartz in the dim light. The magic was gone, or rather, it had been transferred. It was now walking beside him, hidden in a farmer's satchel.
He moved to the cave entrance, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The storm outside had passed, leaving behind a world washed clean and glistening under the light of a rising moon. The air was cool and damp, smelling of wet pine and fresh mud. He peered out, scanning the foothills. No sign of Garrick or his guards. They had likely given up the chase in the downpour. He was alone. For now.
The journey back to Oakhaven was a waking nightmare. Every snap of a twig was a hunting party. Every shadow in the moonlight was a King's rider. The bond with Zorath, which had been a source of awe in the cave, was now a source of constant, low-grade anxiety. He could feel the dragon's contentment, a sleepy, purring hum in the back of his mind, but he could also feel its awareness. It was sensing the world through him, tasting the air, hearing the sounds. He was its eyes and ears, and the fear he felt was a constant, bitter flavor in their shared consciousness.
He stumbled through a patch of moonlit ferns, their fronds cool and slick against his bare arms. He could feel Zorath's curiosity about the texture, the scent of the plants. It was a strange, intimate experience, sharing his senses with another being. He felt the dragon's flicker of interest at the hoot of a distant owl, its instinctual assessment of the sound as neither prey nor threat. It was a constant, silent conversation, a stream of pure emotion and simple concepts that required no words.
As he crested a final ridge, the familiar sight of his home valley spread out below him. Oakhaven was a cluster of lights in the darkness, a tiny island of warmth in a vast, sleeping world. His family's farm was a dark shape on the edge of the village, the silhouettes of the barn and the small cottage stark against the moon-drenched fields. The sight should have filled him with relief, but it only amplified his dread. He was bringing a world of trouble to that peaceful place.
He skirted the village, keeping to the treeline, a ghost in his own homeland. The satchel on his back felt heavier with every step, not from the dragon's weight, but from the weight of the secret it contained. He was a liar now. A deceiver. How could he ever explain this to his parents? To his sister, Elara? They would see the glowing bag, they would ask questions, and he would have no answers that made sense.
He reached the edge of his family's property. The fence was low, a simple barrier to keep the sheep in. He vaulted it easily, his movements practiced and sure despite his exhaustion. The grass was damp under his boots as he crossed the open yard towards the barn. He planned to slip inside, to find a hidden corner in the hayloft where Zorath could rest. He would figure out the rest tomorrow. Tonight, he just needed them to be safe.
He was ten feet from the barn door when a small figure detached itself from the shadows of the wall. Zoran froze, his blood turning to ice. For a terrifying second, he thought it was a guard, a spy. Then the figure stepped into the moonlight, and his heart clenched for an entirely different reason.
It was Elara. She was fourteen, with the same dark hair and serious eyes as their mother. She was holding a bucket, likely on her way back from the well. She stopped, her eyes widening as she saw him. "Zoran? Where have you been? Mother's been worried sick. You missed supper."
He opened his mouth, searching for a lie, any lie, but his mind was a blank slate. All he could think about was the warm, living secret in his satchel. He tried to edge past her, to get to the barn, but she moved to block his path, her expression shifting from annoyance to concern.
"You're hurt," she said, her gaze fixed on his split lip. "And you're trembling. What happened? Was it Garrick Valerius again?"
"Elara, please," he begged, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Not now. I just… I need to get inside."
But it was too late. Her eyes, sharp and observant, had already fallen on his satchel. The faint, pulsating glow was visible in the moonlight, a soft, rhythmic beat of light against the worn leather. Her brow furrowed in confusion. She took a step closer. "What's that? Your bag is… glowing."
Zoran instinctively pulled the satchel closer to his body, a protective gesture that was as much for himself as for the dragon within. "It's nothing. Just a… a lantern. It's broken."
Elara was not fooled. She was the smart one in the family, the one who saw through his clumsy deceptions. She reached out a hesitant hand, not towards him, but towards the satchel. "Let me see."
Panic, pure and absolute, seized him. He couldn't let her touch it. He couldn't let anyone know. He took a sharp step back, bumping into the barn wall. "No! Elara, don't!"
His sharp tone made her flinch, her hand dropping to her side. Her eyes, which had been filled with concern, now held a flicker of hurt and suspicion. It was that look, that small betrayal of her trust, that broke him. He couldn't lie to her. Not completely.
As he stood there, trapped between his fear and his love for his sister, the flap of the satchel shifted. A tiny, serpentine head, with scales that swirled with captured starlight, peeked out. Its large, luminous eyes blinked once, adjusting to the moonlight, and then fixed on Elara.
The world seemed to stop. The night air went still. The only sound was the frantic beating of Zoran's own heart. Elara stood frozen, her mouth slightly agape, her eyes wide with an expression that was not fear, but pure, unadulterated awe. She stared at the impossible creature for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, she lifted a trembling hand and pointed a single, shaking finger directly at the dragon peeking out from his satchel.
"Zoran," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper, filled with a universe of wonder and terror. "What *is* that?"