“Mo, it’s fine now. Want to know why? Because I’m here!!” The voice rang like a silver bell through fog.
Who? The question shot like an arrow into the dust.
The whelp couldn’t tell, his mind a pond muddied by ash.
He knew that voice; dulled by grit, yet a childlike lilt glimmered like a reed flute.
A girl’s voice, but not a Dragonfolk female; the note was too clear, like spring water over stones.
Adult Dragonfolk females rasp like crows or boom like thunderheads; this was neither, bright as dawn.
Which meant, an intruder—like a red flag in snow.
To see the truth, he had to wait for the dust to fall like tired rain.
He felt safer with a great dragon beside him, like a mountain under his back.
Huh? Where was the great dragon? The thought skittered like a startled lizard.
Whoosh—! Wingbeats drummed overhead, like fans stirring a storm.
Below, the dust peeled away in ripples, like gray waves pushed by wind.
He stole a glance upward through the veil, like a fish breaking the surface.
His pupils knifed to pinpoints, not in fear, but in a spark like fire catching dry pine.
The one above was the Dragon King, a crown-shaped cloud over his heart.
With the Dragon King herself here, confidence rose like a tide against a cliff.
If they still lost now, the Dragonfolk might as well fade like old embers.
He fixed his gaze on the dust’s heart, eyes sharpening like a hunter’s moonlit blade.
The haze thinned, sketching a petite outline, like a brushstroke left in mist.
Two feet planted, human shape, long hair streaming like a dark waterfall.
“Child…” The voice spilled out, sugar-sweet and hot-blooded, like candy melting on iron.
But he felt cold sluice his scales, like frost creeping over a pond.
The figure flickered, a firefly darting through reeds.
The dust burst with a sudden hollow, like a fist through paper lanterns.
The shadow vanished; he stopped looking, fear snagging like a hook.
His feet found no earth, as if the floor had turned to sky.
A small hand, half the size of his snout, clamped his throat like an iron ring.
He hung there, a kite snatched by wind.
The one lifting him was a girl his size, a mirror held at dusk.
“You were looking at me like I was prey, weren’t you, child~” Her words coiled like a silk ribbon.
Her eyes were winter-cold; her free hand hid her mouth, a painted fan hiding a knife.
Her chuckle crawled like centipedes in a temple bell.
He didn’t sweat like humans, but his back scales locked tight, like shutters in a gale.
It felt like liquid ran under them, a river under ice—was this cold sweat?
I’m dying… I can’t breathe… The pain bloomed like black flowers.
Thud— The ground answered, a drum under snow.
Compared to Ling’s brutal drop, the Ninety Nine Maiden landed smooth as a feather on rice paper.
“Stop!” She shouted as she touched down, voice a whip-crack through reeds.
Ling never meant to kill this clueless brat; the word let her loosen her grip without losing face, like silk slipping off jade.
The whelp’s limbs met earth, and he gulped air like a fish thrown back to river.
Ling watched his sorry state without guilt, her heart a steady stone.
She was thinking of the larger weave, like a loom working a royal robe.
She’d once been such a brat; this little Black Dragon wouldn’t submit just because she “cleared” a task.
He’d play the rogue, wriggle like an eel from the net.
There are many cures; the simplest is a sip of despair, like bitter tea that lingers.
Just as she once drank it, thorns and all.
Sure, it was only a hunch; still, she’d strangle the chance in the cradle like a weed.
She wasn’t here to play adventure games with a hatchling, no more than a wolf plays with shadows.
Why not wait and threaten after landing? The thought fell like a dull stone.
Do you think Jiu Jiu would allow it under her lantern-bright gaze?
If it were Ling, she’d never let anyone bully a teammate; if Ling is like this, how much more the Dragon King?
Ling stepped back to Alicia’s side, a blade sheathing behind a banner.
The Ninety Nine Maiden tensed, shifted to human, and rushed in, patting the whelp’s back like coaxing a coughing stove.
For a beat, the scene felt crooked, like a brushstroke gone astray.
Still, she looked at the broader sky and didn’t rush to tear into Ling.
Even if she didn’t scold, a knot must have formed, like a pebble in a shoe.
Well… forget it. One day she’ll rule many races, like stars under one night.
Faith is one pillar, force the other; both stand like twin pines.
Let me carry the bad blood that force brews; I’m strong, a cliff against waves.
If Alicia had to shoulder it, trouble would bloom like mold in damp.
Cough, cough… Time slipped by like sand through fingers.
When the whelp traded gasps for coughs, color returned to the Ninety Nine Maiden’s face like sunrise.
Coughing meant he’d crawled back from frozen terror, like a deer from a snare.
She whispered at his ear, words soft as moth wings.
He nodded and left, a shadow slipping behind bamboo.
Only then did she turn to Alicia and the others, warmth in her eyes like hearthlight.
As for Ling… ah, the same warmth, a summer sun painted in winter.
Truly a Dragon King; she hid and performed her face like an actor behind silk.
Impressive—and it meant no storms for a while, only drifting clouds.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Alicia and Miss Ling. Let’s settle the Dragonfolk joining the Mystic Realm.”
Alicia glanced back at Arthas and Edmund, a quick check like a tap on armor, then nodded.
“Yeah. It’s about that time.”
