The second I was out of sight, I ran.

  Not the careful kind of running.

  The full-tilt, tree-dodging, ankle-snapping kind. My boots barely touched the forest floor. Every branch was a threat. Every second wasted was another heartbeat closer to discovery.

  Because if they found Tiny…

  I didn’t finish that thought.

  I skidded into the mouth of the cave, nearly bashing my shin on a half-buried rock.

  “TINY!”

  Silence. Just my echo bouncing off cold stone.

  “Tiny, you overgrown sneak-lizard—this is not nap time!”

  Then…

  A rumble.

  Deep. Low. Felt more than heard.

  Two golden eyes flared open in the shadows. His scales glimmered faintly like wet obsidian, reflecting nothing but power.

  He blinked once.

  Slow. Judgmental.

  I let out a shaky breath. “Thank the skies. Listen—we’ve got a problem.”

  He blinked again.

  “I’m serious. Hunters are coming, and not good ones like me. They’re sending a squad. You gotta go.”

  Tiny exhaled a plume of heat that curled the moss on the walls. Like he was sighing. Like I was the inconvenience here.

  “Don’t give me that look! I’m trying to save your life, you giant scaly idiot!”

  No response. Just that slow, smug dragon face.

  So I did the only logical thing.

  I picked up a rock and threw it at his snout.

  Thunk.

  Tiny growled.

  “Yeah? Growl all you want. You wanna survive? MOVE.”

  From deep in the trees—

  “The cave!”

  Pleit.

  My blood iced over.

  I spun. “That’s it. We’re doing this the hard way.”

  I ran forward, grabbed his horn, and started climbing. “Hey—HEY, STOP LIFTING YOUR HEAD!”

  Tiny rumbled. It almost sounded like… a laugh.

  “NOT FUNNY!”

  Then I felt it.

  The wind.

  Wings unfolding. Mana pressure building.

  He was going to fly.

  This was either salvation or death by dragon launch.

  I yanked myself into place, barely straddling the ridge of his spine.

  “GO! NOW!”

  Tiny lunged.

  The earth cracked beneath his claws. Wings slammed downward.

  And we were airborne.

  The ground vanished. The trees shrank to twigs. The wind punched me in the chest like a runaway wyvern.

  I clung to a ridge of scale and willpower, my eyes squinting against the rising blur of forest.

  Too fast. Too high.

  Too alive.

  The wind wasn’t random—it spoke. Tiny moved with it. Rode it like a veteran rider. Every shift of his wings had rhythm, purpose, instinct.

  I started reading it.

  He banked left—I leaned.

  He dipped—I shifted.

  He spun slightly—I adjusted.

  A hum filled my bones.

  A flicker of energy crackled in my mind.

  [Skill Acquired: Dragonflight – Lv.1]

  You’ve flown a dragon without immediate death. Well done.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  +500 EXP | +2 Agility | +2 Perception

  That’s what I’m talking about. Just hit level 35.

  Croutonaire unrolled beneath us like a fractured tapestry.

  The Wastes—cracked bone and dust. The Highlands—lava scars glowing faintly. The Velmire Forest—an endless ocean of emerald waves.

  And us.

  A blur above it all. A shadow the world wasn’t ready for.

  No one could reach us here.

  Not Hunters. Not Scribes.

  Not even Pleit.

  It was just me and Tiny.

  A Hunter and his dragon.

  (A dragon I was supposed to kill.)

  I guided him down to a dense patch near the southern ridge of Velmire—hidden behind cliffs and fog. Mana hung in the air like misted gold.

  Tiny flared his wings, landed too fast, skidded, spun, and absolutely yeeted a tree into the lake.

  I jumped off mid-skid and hit the ground rolling.

  “…Nice,” I muttered, brushing dirt off my everything.

  Tiny flicked his tail like it was my fault.

  I faced him.

  “Okay. This is your new hideout. Stay here.”

  He blinked.

  “If they find you—I’m dead. You’re dead. Got it?”

  Another blink.

  I groaned. “If you so much as sneeze fire at a squirrel, we’re both screwed.”

  Then—he pressed his head into my chest.

  I froze.

  He wasn’t attacking.

  He was… nudging me.

  Like a dog.

  Like a friend.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, patting his face. “But I swear, if I die because you wanted a sky cruise…”

  Tiny huffed.

  And didn’t move.

  I took that as a yes.

  I made it back to the forest edge in record time, lungs full of panic and probably bugs.

  There, standing way too close to Scribe territory for comfort, were two familiar disasters waiting for me like I owed them money.

  Tipo spotted me first and lit up like he just remembered where he left his spear.

  “There you are, man!”

  I jogged over, still very much processing the fact I had narrowly avoided dragon-related public execution.

  “What now?”

  Tipo slung an arm over my shoulder like I was a human coat rack. “You busy?”

  “Sure”

  “Perfect.” Tipo beamed. “Because we’re planning something.”

  I blinked. “Planning what?”

  Pleit immediately stepped back like we’d started leaking stupidity.

  “He means a prank,” he said, already turning to leave.

  “A prank?” I said, intrigued despite myself.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Tipo leaned in. “On the Scribes.”

  And just like that, I was listening.

  “They’ve got that freakish book obsession, right?” Tipo continued.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Pleit didn’t stop walking. “No. Whatever it is, no. I’m not doing it. If you get hurt, I swear on the last healing potion in the ward, I will not patch you up. I’ll let you rot, Alvert.”

  “You always say that,” I called after him.

  “One day, I might mean it! Also, if you do anything actually illegal, I’m telling Veyros.”

  That part was true. Pleit would sell us out to the Guild faster than a mana leech on a blood pact.

  Tipo waved him off. “Love you too, Medic Dad!”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  We watched him disappear into the woods, probably already regretting every life decision that led to knowing us.

  Then I turned back to Tipo. “Alright. Hit me.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “We break in—”

  “Already love it.”

  “—and rearrange the books.”

  I blinked. “…What?”

  “Like, all the books. History goes in the romance section. Potions swapped with battle strategy. Put the scrolls on top of the shelves. Replace their restoration guides with Scribe-approved recipe books. You know, chaos.”

  “That’s diabolical,” I whispered. “They’ll be crying into their breakfast scrolls.”

  Tipo grinned. “You ever seen a Scribe panic because a decimal’s out of place? It’s spiritual.”

  “And we’re doing this why?”

  “Because,” he said, throwing an arm around my shoulder again, “life’s short. Dragons exist. And I haven’t done anything dumb in, like, six hours.”

  I nodded solemnly. “Fair.”

  We stared toward the Scribe side of the forest, where glowing sigils and academic judgment loomed like a threat.

  “This is a bad idea,” I said.

  “Objectively.”

  “We’ll probably get caught.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “We might get de-ranked.”

  “Yeah, but, like... funny, right?”

  “…Yeah. Funny.”

  And just like that, the plan was in motion.

  We waited until the halls were empty, oil lamps flickering like they were in on the joke. The Scribes’ main study hall stretched out before us like some ancient cathedral of judgmental knowledge. Tall arching shelves. Color-coded categories. Binding enchantments humming quietly like bored librarians.

  Not for long.

  We slipped in through a side window—silent, fast, criminally underqualified. My boots hit the polished wood floor with a soft thud. Tipo landed beside me like a cat... if the cat was constantly vibrating with prank energy.

  I crouched behind a shelf labeled “Pre-Cataclysm Ritual Theory.”

  “Where do we start?” I whispered.

  Tipo pointed. Not with hesitation. With purpose.

  “Strategic Warfare & Tactics,” he mouthed, grinning.

  I followed his gaze to the shelf across the room. Theoretical Magic Formulas.

  I returned the grin.

  “Let’s ruin someone’s academic career.”

  What followed was glorious, calculated chaos. We swapped entire sections like a couple of gremlins doing unauthorized interior design. Scrolls slid into the wrong slots. Ancient treatises were lovingly jammed where formulas used to live. Some poor apprentice was going to try casting a levitation spell using medieval siege mechanics.

  Peak comedy. Zero survival instinct.

  We were almost done.

  And then—

  Rustling.

  We froze. Like statues.

  Footsteps.

  Slow. Measured. Moving through the aisles like death had a library card.

  I shot Tipo a look. He nodded. We ducked behind a low shelf, backs pressed to cool wood, breathing as quietly as our nervous systems would allow.

  A shadow passed through the aisle light.

  A candle. A silhouette.

  Someone was here.

  Someone who walked like they belonged here. Hood up. Scribe robes. The candle bobbed as they moved deeper down the aisle. Too quiet. Too smooth.

  And then—

  Gone.

  The light disappeared behind another section. The air felt suddenly heavier. Mana-hum buzzed in my teeth.

  I exhaled. “Close one,” I whispered.

  Tipo smirked—and then did the dumbest thing he’s ever done.

  A page.

  Torn.

  Loud as hell.

  I stared at him like he’d just slapped a god.

  “Bro,” I hissed.

  “What?”

  “You—you can’t just rip pages out of books!”

  “It’s just one,” he whispered.

  “Tipo. No. Not cool man”

  He shrugged, holding the page up like it was a trophy.

  Then

  THUMP.

  A book closed. Nearby.

  We looked up at the same time.

  No thinking. No talking.

  RUN.

  I grabbed Tipo by the collar and yeeted us toward the window. We vaulted over the sill like two idiots in synchronized panic, hit the ground in messy combat rolls, and sprinted into the tree line.

  Behind us? Silence.

  Tipo was already laughing, wheezing like a hyena, waving the page like it was the last slice of cake in a starving kingdom.

  “Dude! We nailed that! You saw their faces? Okay, well…you saw their shadows. Same thing.”

  I didn’t answer.

  I was already looking back.

  And there, standing in the window like a damn memory made real—

  Her.

  Green-hazel eyes. Same cloak. Same aura. Same intensity.

  Locked on mine.

  Time froze. Wind stopped. My brain might’ve blue-screened.

  I blinked.

  She was gone.

  Like she'd never been there.

  I didn’t even have time to scan compatibility. Couldn’t check the reading. But I already knew the number.

  94%.

  “Bro?” Tipo nudged me. “You good?”

  I nodded, kind of. “Yeah. Just… thought I saw something.”

  “Was it a ghost? Because if we get haunted by some Scribe spirit, I swear, Alvert, I’m making you deal with it.”

  “Not a ghost,” I said.

  He waved the page again. “Look! This one’s from some ancient binding ritual. Think we can summon toast demons?”

  “I think you need supervision.”

  We kept moving as l, Tipo practically skipping beside me like we didn’t just commit high-level academic terrorism.

  But my mind wasn’t in it.

  I was stuck in that window. Stuck in that look.

  And the question clawed at me with every step.

  What is it about her?

  Because whatever it was, it wasn’t over.

  Not even close.