The first problem was the horns.
They were small.
Smooth.
Black.
Barely the length of a thumb.
But they were impossible to ignore.
Edward stared at the infant sleeping on the bed in his rented room above
the bakery.
She had cried all the way back from the forest.
Not loud.
Just enough to make his heart race every time someone walked too close.
Now she was quiet.
Her tiny hand curled against his shirt.
Her breathing warm.
He had not slept.
He didn't know how.
Children required things.
Milk.
Clothes.
Care.
Dragon children probably required more.
He exhaled slowly.
"Think," he muttered to himself.
He had survived goblins.
He had survived fifteen years of regret.
He could survive this.
---
He tore an old piece of cloth from one of his spare tunics.
Carefully.
Clumsily.
He fashioned a small wrap.
Then another layer.
And another.
He made it look like a child's cap.
He lowered it gently over her head.
The horns pressed slightly against the fabric.
Hidden.
For now.
She stirred.
Her eyes opened.
Golden.
Not human.
His stomach dropped.
He leaned closer.
"Not those," he whispered.
As if she could understand.
She blinked slowly.
Then—
Her eyes shifted.
The gold softened.
Faded.
Turned brown.
Edward froze.
He leaned back.
She stared up at him calmly.
Brown.
Human.
His pulse pounded.
Had he imagined the gold?
He leaned closer again.
For a moment—
Just a flicker—
Gold shimmered beneath the brown.
Then vanished.
Edward swallowed.
"…We'll manage," he said quietly.
---
The second problem was explanation.
The bakery owner, Mrs. Harlan, noticed immediately when he descended the
stairs holding a bundled infant.
Her eyes widened.
"Edward?"
He had prepared nothing.
No plan.
No backstory.
The lie formed in his mouth on instinct.
"She's… my sister's child."
He did not have a sister.
"She passed."
That part felt too easy to say.
Mrs. Harlan's expression softened instantly.
"Oh, you poor thing…"
She moved closer, peering into the blanket.
"What's her name?"
His grip tightened unconsciously.
"…Elsa."
The name felt different this time.
Not a memory.
A decision.
Mrs. Harlan smiled.
"It suits her."
Edward exhaled quietly.
Lie number one.
For survival.
---
The third problem was fear.
It never left.
Every knock at the door.
Every guild notice about dragon sightings.
Every rumor in the tavern.
He listened more than he spoke.
There were whispers.
A dragon had been killed somewhere in the western forest.
No body recovered.
Scorched earth.
Strange heat lingering in the cave.
Edward kept his face neutral.
He did not return to that forest.
He did not tell the guild what he had seen.
He avoided higher rank requests.
Safer jobs.
Closer jobs.
Quicker returns.
He moved to a slightly more secluded room within months.
Then again a year later.
Not because anyone suspected.
Because paranoia is quieter than accusation.
---
Elsa cried often in those early months.
Not softly.
Not gently.
When she cried—
The air warmed.
Candles flickered.
Water in a basin trembled.
Edward learned quickly.
He would rush to her.
Pick her up.
Rock her.
Murmur apologies.
"I'm here."
He didn't know why he apologized.
Maybe for the lie.
Maybe for the world.
Maybe for the first Elsa.
Sometimes when she cried too hard—
A faint red shimmer pulsed beneath her skin.
Then faded.
He would press his forehead gently against hers.
"Shh."
Slowly.
Carefully.
She would calm.
The warmth would settle.
And the world would not burn.
The first time she smiled—
He forgot to be afraid.
She was barely six months old.
Sitting awkwardly on the floor while he repaired a torn boot.
She grabbed the leather scrap.
Put it in her mouth.
Made a face.
Then laughed.
A small sound.
But real.
Edward stared at her.
The sound struck somewhere deep.
He had not heard laughter like that since—
He stopped himself.
She reached toward him.
Hands open.
He hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then he lifted her.
She rested her head against his chest.
Content.
Trusting.
His heartbeat slowed.
Fear did not vanish.
But something else began to grow beside it.
Something warmer.
Something quieter.
Something dangerous.
Attachment.
---
At night, when she slept—
He would sit beside her.
Watching.
Counting her breaths.
Checking the cap.
Ensuring the horns remained hidden.
One evening, as moonlight slipped through the window—
He noticed something.
Her lashes.
Long.
Straight.
Black.
Almost too sharp for a child.
He brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"You can't stand out," he murmured.
"You have to live."
He didn't realize the contradiction in his words.
Living and hiding are not the same.
But for now—
It would have to be enough.
---
Weeks became months.
Months became years.
The fear that had first gripped him slowly changed shape.
It did not disappear.
It settled.
Like a shadow he grew used to.
And in its place—
Routine.
Feeding.
Cleaning.
Training.
Working.
Rocking her to sleep.
One night, after she cried for nearly an hour—
He leaned back against the wall, exhausted.
She sniffled in his arms.
Red eyes.
Wet cheeks.
He exhaled.
"You cry too much."
She stared at him.
Offended.
He almost smiled.
"If there's ever a time you need to cry… and you don't…"
He paused, unsure why he was saying it.
"I'll kiss your forehead."
Her eyes blinked.
He continued softly.
"And I'll play with you the whole day. No work."
She hiccupped.
Then, strangely—
She stopped crying.
He stared at her.
"…You understand me?"
She gurgled.
Grabbed his collar.
Refused to let go.
Edward sighed quietly.
"Alright."
He adjusted her cap.
Held her closer.
And for the first time—
He did not think of the dragon in the cave.
He did not think of curses.
He did not think of dragons hunting.
He only thought—
She's warm.
---
Outside, the night was still.
High above the clouds—
Something vast shifted in silence.
Watching.
But not yet moving.