Renkai's claws retracted slowly as the last of the brush fell away. What lay ahead wasn't a clearing—at least not in the way the forest usually offered. It was more like a hollow carved from time itself. The trees stood still here, unmoving, as though watching. The air was wet and heavy, every breath a struggle as the fog thickened into swirling curtains.
Then it came.
A low rumble shivered through the ground. Not a growl—deeper than that. Ancient. Like a mountain shifting in its sleep.
Lira froze. The shape they had glimpsed through the mist was moving.
At first it looked like a mound of stone draped in moss and old vines. But as the fog stirred around it, something massive began to rise. A long, plated back arched upward, slow and deliberate, as though waking from centuries of stillness. Jagged scales covered its form—dark and ridged, like tree bark fused with iron. Vines wove through the gaps, some pulsing faintly with green light, others brittle and dead, coiled tight like restraints or veins.
Two eyes opened—dull gold with slitted pupils—and exhaled.
The breath was deep and wide, curling out into the air in long, swirling gusts that rolled over the ground like waves. Fog thickened instantly, spreading out in tendrils that clung to the trees and their skin like cold silk.
Thalanir let out a low sound, not fear—something closer to awe.
Renkai stepped slightly in front of Lira, his posture protective. "I thought they were extinct," he said under his breath. "Or maybe just… legend."
The creature turned its massive head toward them, its jaw opening slightly—not to roar, but to breathe again. With each exhale, the fog pulsed outward, hiding its limbs and tail in curling white.
"What is it?" Lira whispered.
Renkai's voice was tight. "A vinebound drake. They were guardians of sealed places. They breathed the mist to keep intruders from ever finding the way in."
The creature didn't attack. But it didn't move aside either. Its body was a wall of scales, vines, and ancient silence. Its breath continued, rhythmic, as though it breathed the forest in and out.
Lira took a cautious step forward. "Does it remember us? Or is it just doing what it was made to do?"
Renkai didn't answer. The air was thick now. Every breath tasted of root and stone and something older still.
Then, as if responding to her voice, the creature tilted its head slightly. One massive eye fixed on Lira.
The vines across its chest pulsed once. Then again. Like a second heartbeat.
Something was waking. Or recognizing.
The vinebound drake shifted again, heavier this time, and its clawed limbs pressed into the damp earth with purpose. Vines pulled taut along its body like muscles awakening from centuries of stillness. A deep groan echoed from its chest, and its breath came heavier—each exhale a thick wave of fog that rolled like stormfronts across the ground.
Lira stepped back instinctively, hand brushing against Thalanir's warm flank. Even he, proud and fearless in his stag form, had lowered his head and begun to paw the earth cautiously.
Renkai's claws snapped out once more, gleaming under the pale light. "It's preparing to defend the threshold," he warned, voice tight. "We've been seen as intruders."
The drake's eyes narrowed, and it let out a sound—not quite a roar, but a resonant thrum, like wind through stone. Its body moved with sudden speed for something so massive, vines snapping loose as it lunged forward. The fog moved with it, rushing toward them in a blinding wave.
Renkai reacted instantly, meeting the charge with a growl. He slashed across the creature's face, but his claws barely scraped the thick bark-like scales. The drake swung a massive vine-wrapped limb, catching Renkai across the ribs and sending him crashing into the underbrush with a strangled gasp.
Before Lira could call out, Thalanir surged forward with a wild cry, green fire flaring around his antlers. He lowered his head and charged, striking the creature's shoulder with force enough to crack boulders. The drake staggered—but only for a moment. It responded with a coiling motion, vines lashing out like living whips. One struck Thalanir's flank, slicing through fur and drawing blood. He stumbled back with a pained snort.
"Stop!" Lira cried out—but neither beast nor forest heeded her.
The drake loomed over them now, breath billowing in thick, suffocating clouds. Renkai was already pulling himself up, blood trickling down his side. Thalanir stood tense, head lowered, antlers glowing but dimming from strain.
Then Lira felt it—a pull. Not from outside, but inside. A hum beneath her ribs, an old warmth threading through her breath.
She stepped forward.
The fog parted around her as though commanded. The drake paused mid-step, its massive head tilting. Its eyes—gold and ancient—locked with hers.
"Don't!" Renkai rasped, reaching out, but Lira ignored him. She didn't know why she moved. Only that something deep, bone-deep, told her to.
It wasn't courage that carried her forward, but certainty. As if her bones had always known the path to this moment, even when her mind had not.
She took another step, then another.
The drake lowered its head slightly, vines twitching along its back like wind-touched branches. Its golden eyes stared through her.
Her heart pounded, but she didn't stop. She raised her hand—not high, not threatening, but open and steady. The fog curled around her wrist like smoke dancing toward firelight.
A whisper stirred the air. Not in words, but in memory. Recognition.
The vines pulsing on the creature's chest throbbed in time with her own heartbeat.
Renkai stood frozen now, bloodied and silent. Thalanir's glow flickered again—this time, calmer.
Lira placed her palm gently on the drake's thick scale. It was rough like old bark, warm beneath the cold mist.
The creature exhaled once more, and the fog rolled around them—but it no longer suffocated. It wrapped them gently, shielding, protecting.
"It remembers," she whispered. "Or it knows something I've forgotten."
Slowly, the creature lowered itself, massive limbs folding like tree roots finding rest.
An invitation.
A beginning.
The creature drew in a long breath, and this time, the fog it exhaled parted around her instead of smothering. It moved like wind around a flame.
Then it lowered its head.
Vines coiled loosely around its neck and shoulders, and now they pulsed in harmony with her breath. The rhythm matched. Lira reached out, trembling, and placed her hand upon one of the scales. It was rough like old bark, warm from within. Life pulsed there. Recognition passed between them, wordless but certain.
Renkai stood frozen. His claws slowly retracted, gaze locked in disbelief. "It… it chose you," he murmured.
Thalanir shifted beside him, antlers still glowing, but the tension in his stance melted into something softer.
Lira turned to them, hand still resting on the creature. "It's not just guarding something. It's been waiting."
The drake's long, vine-wrapped tail curled around behind her like a shield. The fog continued to billow from its sides and mouth, but now it moved with purpose—flowing outward like it was clearing paths rather than hiding them.
Beyond the fog, something ancient stirred: ruins, hidden stones, sunken archways almost devoured by roots. The threshold the drake had protected for so long was beginning to reveal itself.
"I think it remembers me," Lira said softly, voice touched with awe. "Or someone I once was."
The drake shifted beside her, lowering itself slowly—an invitation. A mount. A guardian.
Renkai stepped forward carefully, eyes narrowed in thought. "This changes everything."
The forest around them was no longer still.
It breathed with her.
The drake shifted its massive body, vines loosening like old ropes released from tension. Its plated head dipped again, then turned—slow, deliberate—toward the curtain of fog now parting in waves before it.
Lira felt the pull before it moved. Something ancient beneath her skin, deep in her chest, seemed to say: Go.
The drake lowered itself, curling one forelimb in toward its chest. A gesture. An offering. Lira stepped closer, placing a hand on the thick vines draping its shoulder. They moved gently beneath her fingers, not alive in the way a snake would move—but in the way a river answers gravity. The surface of its scales, though rough in appearance, held a strange warmth and softness where the vines had woven into armor.
With a deep breath, she climbed.
Renkai instinctively stepped forward, concern flashing in his eyes, but stopped when the drake remained still. Not even a flicker of aggression pulsed through its body. Only waiting.
Lira settled atop its back, just behind the curve of its thick neck. It surprised her—how comfortable it felt. The place where she sat was smooth and cupped slightly, as though shaped by time to bear her weight. As if others had once ridden this creature through mist and forgotten paths.
The drake rumbled—a sound she now felt more than heard—and began to move forward, each step silent but powerful. Fog parted before it like breath through smoke.
Renkai and Thalanir exchanged a glance. The tension in both had shifted now. Their instincts no longer screamed of danger—but of something older. Recognition. Deeper than memory. They followed without words, Renkai limping slightly from the blow, Thalanir silent at his side.
Ahead, the mist peeled back to reveal the outline of massive stone structures.
What emerged was no ordinary ruin.
Crumbled towers loomed like broken teeth, their edges softened by moss and time. Thick ivy snaked up crumbling stone walls. Arches still stood, half-consumed by trees that had grown through them like veins through bone. In some places, carvings still clung to the stone—weathered faces, sigils, and forest symbols worn by centuries of wind and silence.
It had once been a castle—but not built by human hands. The architecture curved like the flow of rivers, spiraling upward with natural grace. A place shaped with the forest, not against it.
Lira's breath caught.
She slid from the drake's back without thinking, boots landing softly on moss and root. The drake did not stop her. It settled near the base of a leaning wall, tail coiling protectively behind it, and watched with eyes that burned dim and ancient.
"This place…" she whispered.
Renkai came to stand beside her, gaze sweeping the structure. "I've walked this forest for a hundred years. I never knew this existed."
"It was hidden," Thalanir said, voice low, "and the drake was its veil."
Lira stepped under a broken archway, brushing her fingers over the stone. Her skin tingled—no pain, only sensation. As though the ruin remembered her touch.
A flash hit her.
Not a vision. A knowing.
She turned to the others slowly. "I think… I was here. Or someone like me. A witch. A guardian. This place… it was meant to be protected."
Renkai's expression darkened slightly, but not with fear—more like realization.
"And the drake was left behind to keep it hidden," he said. "Until someone it recognized returned."
They all stood in silence then, the ruin whispering around them in wind and leaf. The air no longer felt heavy. The fog still curled around their feet, but it no longer hid—it revealed.
And Lira could feel something more waiting within. Not danger. But truth.
The drake exhaled behind her, and the ruins breathed with it.