CASIMIRA
dragon-shifting daughter of ashhal and ryatah
She had forgotten what it was like, to forget. To not feel the incessant clawing of that dragon inside of her brain, to not feel the sorrow that continually lingers on the fringes of her heart ever since Badden had disappeared. She had been apprehensive at first to let herself feel any kind of peace or happiness, afraid that she did not deserve it. How long was she supposed to wait for him? How long was she supposed to be a slave to her heartache, to refuse companionship because it felt like a betrayal? She could not look to her mother for guidance. Ryatah had no issue using another as a balm for every mark across her heart, but Casimira was more hesitant.
Or at least, she had been.
She is tired of being alone, she tells herself. She is exhausted from holding herself together, from always fighting every part of herself, and it is all too easy to fall into those green eyes and the way the light glints off the fire opal of his skin. It reminds her of entire galaxies bursting apart, and she imagines what it might feel like beneath the warmth of her mouth. It brings her closer, the gap between them diminishing, the plumes of her breath now curling across his shoulder. She hopes that he will not notice the smoke of it; that ash-like scent she can't seem to shake. She hopes that he thinks it is just the clash of warm breath against winter air, but she also does not withdraw in fear of him recognizing the truth.
“I did not stay in Tephra very long. I left after the first war.” She does not say it is because she died; she does not tell him that she had shattered to pieces and been reborn from a single dragon scale amid the lava-beds and scorched earth, but the secret is there, hidden in her voice. She looks away from him, again across the meadow as she says softly, “I love Tephra, but Hyaline feels more like home.” Her pale blue eyes turn back to him, pausing before telling him softly, “You should see it sometime.”