The Tea Dragon
By the third day, Elaxin stopped pretending it was a coincidence.
His patrol through Stormwind adjusted itself without conscious effort, steps shortening here, turning there until he found himself once again circling the Mage District tower just as the sun crested the rooftops.
He didn’t tell himself why.
He simply went.
Kymëra was already there.
The blanket was spread, kettle warming, steam rising lazily into the morning air. She looked up when she sensed him, eyes brightening with that same quiet delight that had begun to feel… expected.
“Good morning,” she said, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.
He sat without hesitation this time, posture easing. “You’re consistent.”
She laughed softly. “So are you.”
They shared a look, acknowledging something unspoken, before she reached for the kettle.
And then something small and wooden-like scuttled out from behind the teapot with a soft chirrup. Elaxin stiffened as a warm, weighty presence climbed up his sleeve with surprising speed.
He froze.
The little creature — made of bark and vines, bright green eyes shining — circled once and then settled firmly atop his shoulder, curling into a compact, contented ball. A tiny puff of steam escaped it as it tucked its head beneath a leafy frond.
Kymëra gasped. “Oh! Fyrn—!”
The tea dragon chirped again and did not move.
Elaxin looked down slowly, eyes narrowing. “…What is on me.”
Kymëra clapped a hand over her mouth, trying — and failing — not to laugh. “That’s Fyrn. He’s my tea dragon.”
“It appears he has chosen me,” Elaxin said flatly.
“Yes,” she agreed, delighted. “That means he likes you.”
The dragon shifted, pressing closer, tail looping possessively around his neck.
Elaxin exhaled through his nose. “I have not agreed to this.”
Fyrn purred.
Kymëra’s smile softened as she watched him, noticing how his posture had unconsciously adjusted to support the little creature’s weight.
“I’m sure he’ll leave when he’s ready.” She offered gently.
“…I see,” Elaxin replied, though he did not attempt to dislodge Fyrn.
She poured the tea, passing him a cup as if nothing extraordinary had occurred. He accepted it carefully, balancing both cup and dragon with monk-trained precision.
As the tea steamed and the dragon slept, Elaxin wondered — quietly, privately — when exactly this small, shared ritual had begun to matter so much.
Because somehow, he had begun to look forward to it.
And to her.
