When at last the frenzy subsided, Grak stepped forward.
My lord… there is something you should see. A gift kept safe for your return."
He led Kaelrith to a low, circular hut at the edge of the village. Strange symbols were painted around its hide-flap door in faded red dyes; they glowed faintly as Kaelrith passed, responding to the presence of draconic blood. Inside, the dim space smelled of dust and herbs. Racks of dried roots and fungus hung from the ceiling, and a stone table at the center was cluttered with ancient scrolls and clay jars. But Grak went to a smaller side table hewn from black volcanic glass. Upon it lay a silvery cloth wrapping an object the size of a melon.
With great care, Kaelrith unfolded the shimmering cloth. Inside was a box sealed with a delicate filigree of gold and glowing runes. The runes reacted to his touch, slithering open like living serpents. A soft click sounded as the box unlocked. Kaelrith lifted the lid to reveal a pendant on a fine chain, the gem at its center flickering with internal flame.
Grak bowed his head as he explained, "This is the Veil of Nythros, given to us by your mother to safeguard. It carries old magic to cloak your true form." He glanced up, wonder in his voice. "Even when veiled, your fire will burn within, Great One."
Kaelrith's throat tightened for a moment at the mention of his mother, but he mastered the emotion quickly. He lifted the pendant from its box. The gem — a teardrop-shaped opal with swirling red veins — pulsed warmly in his palm. "A clever gift," he murmured. There might come times when a dragon's open presence would be a disadvantage. If humans or other enemies ever encroached, deception could be as valuable as brute strength.
Nodding to Grak, Kaelrith looped the fine chain around his neck. The moment the clasp closed, the pendant flared with light. He spoke a guttural phrase in draconic, activating the artifact. Magic surged and wrapped around him like an ethereal cocoon, twisting flesh, scale, and bone into a new shape.
When the light faded, a human child no older than ten stood where the dragon had been. He had unruly red hair, amber eyes bright with intelligence, and skin dusted with freckles. His clothing was a simple tunic and trousers, frayed at the edges as if well-worn. Only a faint, smokey aura of heat radiating from him hinted that this was no ordinary boy.
Grak's breath caught. Even knowing what to expect, the sight of his mighty lord suddenly reduced to a frail human whelp was jarring. Yet, as Kaelrith fixed those intense amber eyes upon him, the goblin felt the same shiver of awe as before. The presence was unchanged—like a hidden volcano beneath a calm surface.
Kaelrith flexed his fingers, studying the small human hands that had replaced his claws. It was a strange sensation, this soft-skinned form, but not entirely unfamiliar. His memories of Elior—of living among humans—made the disguise easier to accept. "This guise will fool the eyes of any strangers," he said, his voice now that of a child yet retaining a quiet authority. "But make no mistake—dragon's blood still burns in these veins."
Grak exhaled and bowed. "We shall spread word to our people not to fear, my lord. However you choose to walk among us, we know it is you."
Together they stepped back out into daylight. A hush fell over the waiting goblins as they beheld a human boy at their chief's side. Murmurs rippled through the crowd—confusion, curiosity—until Grak raised his arms for silence.
"Rejoice!" the chieftain cried. "Our lord takes a form to conceal his greatness, so that he may walk among us and beyond without warning our enemies. The flame of the dragon lives within this human shell!"
The explanation satisfied the onlookers. The tribe nodded and chattered in excitement—marveling at the notion of a dragon who could become one of the hated humans in appearance alone. If their lord willed it, then it must be a strategy beyond their ken, and therefore worthy of trust.