The snow was thinner that morning. Still cold, but not sharp. It had melted in patches, like the ground had started rejecting it out of spite.
Lindarion stood at the back of the inn, just outside the kitchen door. He held the edge of a cracked wooden bowl in one hand. The other rubbed at his temple like it might dislodge the headache that hadn't gone away since the funeral.
Ashwing crouched near the stone wall, tongue flicking out every few seconds. Steam rose faintly from the ground around him. The dirt was dry. Not burned. Not wet. Just… dry. Like nothing wanted to be near the heat.
The dragon looked different.
Bigger. Not by much, but enough.
His tail was longer. Thicker near the base. The tips of his wings had stretched overnight, the edge of each one now laced with a line of dull silver that hadn't been there before. And when he shifted, the ground answered. Nothing loud. Just a creak. A pressure.
He growled once.
Not cute.
Not baby.
