The dragon sits at the edge of the world, where stone drops into fire and the ocean refuses to be quiet.

Below, the water burns not because it’s broken, but because it remembers how to hold heat.

This is the moment romantasy never rushes past.

Power isn’t in the flight yet. It’s in the choosing.

The dragon doesn’t flinch. It watches. It waits.

Not for permission. For alignment.

Because some thresholds aren’t crossed by force.

They’re crossed by knowing exactly who you are

and stepping forward anyway.