I woke up to the soft sound of growling and a gentle tug at my leg. Sitting up, I saw the little dragon softly pulling at me. “Are you hungry, little guy?” I asked, though immediately I thought, Why am I so dumb? Dragons probably don’t understand human language.

  To my surprise, the little dragon nodded. My eyes widened in shock. “You can understand what I’m saying?” I asked again, and the dragon nodded once more.

  I scratched the back of my head, confused but intrigued. Glancing to my right, I saw Alya still deep in sleep. With a deep sigh, I carefully picked up the little dragon and stepped outside the camp. Just outside was my bag. I rummaged through it until I found a piece of bread—the same bread the villagers from the nearby settlement had given us when we first got the dragon. I broke the bread into two equal halves, eating one piece myself and gently offering the other to the little dragon, who eagerly accepted it. As I watched the dragon nibble on the bread, a strange warmth filled me—an unexpected bond growing between us in that quiet moment.

  Just as I finished the last bite, Master Luan emerged from his camp. Seeing me and the little dragon together, a small, pleased smile spread across his face. It was comforting to see him happy that we were finally forming a connection.

  As Alya stirred and rubbed her eyes sleepily, the soft morning light warmed the air around us. For a brief moment, despite the uncertainty and challenges ahead, a calm sense of hope settled between us. We spent a short while packing our belongings, preparing to move forward toward Kingdom Erta, the next step in our uncertain journey. The little dragon was curled up, fast asleep atop my head. I was surprised that my head could provide enough space for the tiny creature to rest so comfortably, but more than that, I felt a quiet happiness that the dragon had chosen me. Alya let out a soft chuckle as she watched the peaceful scene. “You and dragons look cute like this,” she said gently, reaching toward the dragon. Then, thinking better of it, she stopped and laughed quietly. “Don’t want to wake the little guy, do we?”

  I smiled and laughed along with her, feeling the lightness of the moment. “What should we name him?” I asked. “We can’t just keep calling him ‘dragon’ all the time. He needs a proper name.” Alya thought for a moment before suggesting, “You’re right. How about ‘Yandy’? Like candy. When my father was alive, he always brought me candy.” We were walking, the soft crunch of leaves and earth beneath our feet accompanying our conversation. As we passed a towering oak tree, I protested, “That's nice name. But I don’t think ‘Yandy’ suits him.” A light breeze swept through the field of crops around us, rustling the stalks as Alya shot back, “Hmph, well then, you think of a better name!”

  Master Luan, walking a few steps behind us, had been quietly listening. He finally spoke up: “The dragon is an ice dragon. Maybe that will help inspire a fitting name.”

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  That gave me an idea. “How about ‘Frostbite’?” I suggested, glancing at Alya.

  “No, no,” Alya protested as a gust of wind ruffled her hair. “I still think Yandy is better, even if he’s an ice dragon.”

  “Like I said, Yandy doesn’t make sense,” I insisted. “His name will be Frostbite.”

  Our playful argument continued as we moved forward, the sun rising higher in the sky. Passing a small stream, we stopped briefly to rest, the little dragon twitching in its sleep. Master Luan’s patience slowly wore thin. Clearing his throat, he made us both fall silent. Then, with a sigh, he said, “Since you two can’t decide, I’ll settle it. From now on, his name will be Frostbite Yandy. Happy?” Alya scratched the back of her head, puzzled. “Frostbite Yandy? Isn’t that just both the names put together?”

  “Yes,” Master Luan replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Now you have no excuse to argue. His name is Frostbite Yandy—one name, not two.”

  We shared a quiet laugh, the tension broken, as we continued onward, the little dragon still peacefully asleep atop my head.

  As we continued walking, the forest thickened around us, shadows lengthening beneath towering trees. Master Luan, who was a few steps ahead, suddenly stopped and raised his hand. A soft, white glow began to emanate from his palm, spreading and forming a protective barrier that surrounded us all. “Stay within the mana,” he instructed firmly. “Do not stray outside. We have entered the Cursed Forest.”

  Alya’s body tensed at the mention of the cursed name. “Master Luan, why the Cursed Forest? Can’t we go through any other forest?” Her voice betrayed her unease; clearly, she did not want to tread this dangerous path. Master Luan glanced back at her with a calm but serious expression. “We could have taken another route, but we don’t have that option. We’re traveling on foot because of Dliva’s condition. Remember?” Alya turned her gaze toward me, her eyes searching. “Why do you have to go to Kingdom Alvans on foot? Why can’t you use a vehicle?”

  I remained silent, unwilling to reveal the truth. I knew I was bound by a higher order not to disclose my connection to God or my true nature. My silence made Alya suspicious.

  “Dliva, are you even listening?” she pressed.

  “Y-Yeah, I am,” I replied quietly, avoiding eye contact.

  “Why won’t you answer my question?” she asked again, her concern deepening.

  I forced a weak smile and said, “Oh... just for the thrill of adventuring.” My voice held hesitation, and I kept my head lowered, uncomfortable with the lie. I didn’t want to deceive someone as innocent as her. Alya looked at me for a long moment, then sighed. “Well, at least we could have used a vehicle by now, but I guess it’s too late.”

  “We’ve already gone too deep into the forest,” I said, glancing up. My eyes met Master Luan’s, who was watching me closely with a sharp, suspicious gaze. His eyes always held a hint of doubt when he looked at me, but this time, it seemed more intense. As our eyes locked, Master Luan quickly turned his gaze forward, continuing his steady pace through the dense, cursed forest, the white mana barrier shimmering faintly around us, a fragile shield against the unknown dangers lurking beyond the trees.