He is perhaps too young to pick up on the nuances of the conversation. To note that she is shy or perhaps overwhelmed by the intensity. He would struggle to understand the idea of overwhelm in the first place. He was born into the thick of it—raised alongside a twin flame by a mother who brought the heavens down with a whisper. He was crafted into summer and set free along the plains, pushed forward by the promise of more, by the inevitability of it. He was always destined to be too much. Too volatile.
Too passionate.
Too hungry.
But he doesn’t understand this and thus cannot curb himself. He can only turn his gaze back to her, studying her with the same unchecked focus of a wildfire making its way down the bank. When she tells him that she’s not made of fire, he snorts a little. “You’re not,” he agrees, but it’s not a haughty statement. It’s merely fact and he tilts his charred cheek to the side. “But you are made of something.”
A flicker along charred lips although it does not quite pass as a smile. More of a ripple of amusement as he nods at her introduction. “Neka,” he repeats, trying the name out for size before nodding, finding that he likes the curtness of it. “I’m Drakon.” A name of equal bluntness—the syllables a bullet from his tongue, firing off with little warning. He takes a step closer, the stars moving as though awakened with the motion, dazzling as they spin up around his head into a loose halo, touched only by the fire that reaches toward them.
“Why are you here today, Neka?”
@[Nekane]