Vlad and Freya soared through the sky atop Fafnir's colossal, flame-wreathed head. The biting wind whipped away by walls of heat dancing around them. Yet in spite of the majestic display—crimson fire blazing against the heavens—the atmosphere between them was hushed and tender.
They clasped hands silently, standing close as if neither required lofty proclamations nor grand gestures. It was enough simply to be together. Weeks or months earlier, they had endured the crucible of war, driving themselves to the point where every breath was a roar of power and desperation. Now that the Leviathan threat had subsided, tranquility felt like a luxury of immense value.
For a long while, neither Vlad nor Freya said a word. Fafnir, gliding with wide sweeps of his wings, focused on the distant horizon, determinedly scanning the clouds and land below. At last, the massive fire dragon's gaze flicked back to the duo, his curiosity clearly piqued.
"You two are in love?"
