Meeting the little dragon had changed Tilda’s routine as a solitary traveler. Now, she had a companion.

  They had traveled together ever since, sharing silence and the road. In the beginning, he was just a quiet presence, always alert to his surroundings. But one morning, while she was making coffee, she heard a voice — guttural and soft, like an echo from the earth’s depths. She thought someone was approaching. Only after turning around did she realize it was him. Tolon stared at her with gentle eyes.

  She didn’t answer. She just stood there, frozen, trying to understand. And even without words, she did. From that day on, they truly began to get to know each other.

  Tolon introduced himself and told his story in short, measured sentences, as if weighing each memory before letting it escape. For the first time, Tilda told her own. Between them, there was a silent and profound bond, as if they were old friends reunited.

  Despite Tolon’s company, many thoughts still echoed in Tilda’s mind. They passed through different villages, met people, did small jobs — but nothing seemed to fill the void she carried. She still didn’t know what she was looking for. And that doubt followed her like a shadow.

  Sitting on the edge of the forest, Tilda stared at the green in front of her without really seeing it. Tolon, lying nearby, watched her in silence. His eyes, ancient and wise, held a deep understanding of life — but also a question: how to help that young goblin?

  Though small, Tolon had lived through many eras. Since their first meeting, he had sensed her confused emotions — a peculiar sensitivity of his kind. He had been drawn not only by the irresistible smell of the food she cooked that morning, but by something else. Something distant and tangled.

  As Tilda stared into the woods, she softly muttered, almost without realizing:

  — What should I be...?

  Tolon raised his head and slowly approached, until his eyes met hers.

  — To start... maybe just yourself!

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  Evening was falling. The sun had vanished behind heavy gray clouds, and the wind howled through the trees, making them creak as if complaining about the cold. Tilda walked silently, with Tolon perched on her backpack, watching the path above her head. They were far from the next town, and the storm was approaching fast. The first drops of rain began to fall, cold and scattered.

  — I think I found us a place to stay — said Tolon, spreading his wings.

  With a quick leap, he flew ahead and disappeared around a bend in the trees.

  Tilda quickened her pace to where Tolon had vanished. The trees creaked louder and louder, and leaves flew in restless whirlwinds. That landscape, which had felt welcoming during the afternoon — filled with the sounds of animals and the soft glow of fairies hidden among the branches — now turned into something eerie. The dim light twisted shapes and colors, making everything more threatening.

  The rain grew heavier. Tilda’s clothes began to cling to her skin. With no sign of Tolon, she decided to slip through the branches, following a half-hidden path, perhaps made by animals. There, the tree canopies offered some shelter from the rain and wind.

  Suddenly, a sharp crack broke the silence. Branches snapped violently, something heavy barreled down the trail toward her. A rhythmic, insistent sound followed: toc toc toc.

  Tilda raised her shield instinctively. She was about to draw her sword when a large javelina lunged at her with force. The impact threw her backward. Dazed, she fell into the bushes. Her sword slipped from her hand, lost in the grass nearby. The creature disappeared into the forest..., but the sound remained. Toc toc toc. Tilda remembered: javelinas move in packs. A sense of danger swelled in her chest. She got up as fast as she could and hid behind some trees. Soon, several javelinas rushed past along the same path. She took a deep breath and had an idea.

  She pulled a small knife from her belt and crept to the edge of the trail. When one of the javelinas passed close enough, Tilda grabbed it from behind and plunged the blade into its neck, covering its mouth firmly. The wind and the rustling leaves helped muffle the sound.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The javelinas had passed. Tilda exhaled deeply and lit the small lantern she carried. The flame flickered, lighting the damp ground and the trees around her. Her eyes quickly caught a familiar glint: her sword’s blade, buried among leaves and mud. A memory of her grandmother. It had been two years since she’d left home — she didn’t think of it much day-to-day, but when she did, the longing hit like a weight in her chest.

  She picked up the sword gently, cleaned the blade, and stored it carefully. Then, she tied the dead javelina by its legs and returned to the path. “Looks like we’ll have a good dinner tonight,” she thought, a tired half-smile on her face.

  Tolon appeared ahead, landing softly on the narrow trail, his wings scattering droplets around.

  — Did you see the javelinas? — he asked, curious.

  Tilda raised the slain animal proudly.

  — We’ll need a good fire tonight — she said.

  Tolon licked his lips and replied eagerly:

  — Come. I found a small cave.

  They continued walking. The rain grew heavier, steady, relentless. Thunder echoed through the forest, and lightning split the sky, casting ghostly flashes over the trees. Shadows seemed to move between the trunks. Tilda felt small sparks of fear flicker within her — she wanted to reach shelter quickly.

  Tolon trotted ahead through puddles and branches, looking more like a dog than a dragon. The trail began to climb, the ground turned rocky, and the trees faded behind them. The rain soaked their bodies, running down hair and clothes, making each step heavier.

  Then Tilda saw it. Between large moss-covered stones stood the narrow mouth of a cave. A refuge. As soon as she stepped in, she dropped the javelina in a corner and collapsed to the ground, exhausted, shivering, her clothes stuck to her body.

  Tolon flew out for a moment and returned with some logs. He added them to dry branches found nearby, sneezed a burst of sparks, and soon a flame danced at the cave’s center.

  Tilda crawled toward the warmth, hands outstretched in gratitude. After a while, she opened her pack and pulled out a dry tunic, followed by a thicker one to wrap herself. The night had turned cold, and being used to warm lands, Tilda felt how unfit her clothes were for that kind of chill.

  She changed slowly, muscles still aching. Then, she sat close to the fire, seeking the soft waves of heat. The wind howled at the cave’s entrance like a hungry wolf, and rain pounded the stones outside harder and harder.

  She turned to Tolon. He sat still, eyes locked on the javelina’s body in the corner, gaze hungry and alert. For a moment, Tilda had forgotten the animal and realized her own stomach was growling too.

  With a tired sigh, she pulled her carving knives from her saddlebag — sharp ones, inherited from home — and got to work. She turned the small boar on its back and, with precise cuts, opened its belly. Carefully, she removed the viscera and organs, separating the useful from what should be discarded. She quickly washed the best

  parts — liver, heart, and kidneys — and placed them in a small frying pan, along with some fat that had begun to melt beside the fire.

  She assembled a tripod over the flames, hung the pan, and let the heat work. Pulling out her spice pouch, she calmly seasoned the meat: a generous pinch of salt, freshly ground black pepper from a little mortar, some dry bay leaves, and finally a small spoon of annatto powder, which turned the fat a warm red. She stirred with the knife’s tip, spreading the flavors through the meat, while the smell grew rich and filled the cave. The scent of sizzling meat mingled with the rain and the crackling fire — a rare moment of comfort on such a stormy night.

  Tolon was already drooling at the thing he loved most — the sizzling livers and kidneys made him visibly excited. Tilda watched the scene with a half-smile. That dragon, who sometimes seemed so wise, ancient, and wild, now behaved like any creature — silly and hungry, almost like a dog waiting for a treat.

  She pulled out two wooden bowls and served the golden pieces, still sizzling in the hot fat. Then, she took a brown loaf of bread from her pack and sliced it in half — one piece for herself, one for Tolon.

  They ate in silence, side by side, while the storm drummed outside and the flames cast dancing shadows on the cave walls. Tilda chewed slowly, savoring the strong taste of meat and bread.

  The crackling wood matched her thoughts, coming in confused waves, as if they weren’t truly hers. What should I be? — the question echoed like distant thunder. Inside her, it felt like there were many... different versions of herself. So many desires, so many beginnings. But none dared to truly live.

  So much desire... so many ideas..., yet none dares to be.

  None is what I am.

  She looked at her hands, stained with grease and soot, trying to understand what in them was real. But what am I?

  Parts of these that live inside me?

  A reflection of what others think of me?

  What am I...?

  Besides a confused tangle of “selves”...

  Assembled and dismantled depending on the moment...

  Becoming irrelevant.

  Simply being.

  The weight of these words left her motionless for a while. Tolon, who had licked the last bits of food from his bowl, looked up silently. He watched Tilda with that calm, ancient, deep gaze — as if seeing beyond the tired body and its doubts. As if understanding, without a word, the whole confusion that lived inside her.

  And for a brief moment, that look was enough. Not as an answer,but as a presence.