Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A dragon’s growl rumbled through the trees, low and warning. Izuku froze, his tiny body stiffening at the sound. His fingers twitched at his sides, too small to be effective weapons, but still ready to mimic the actions his mother had taught him.

He wasn’t supposed to be this close to the nesting grounds. His mother had warned him—over and over—but his curiosity was like a spark, always wanting to chase after the next exciting thing, even when he didn’t quite understand the consequences. The creature ahead of him, its scales shimmering like molten gold in the dappled sunlight, narrowed its reptilian eyes. Its wings unfurled slightly, a silent message: leave or be eaten.

Izuku took a slow, careful step back, his heart pounding in his chest. He raised his hands the way his mother had shown him—small movements, keeping his palms open, showing he wasn’t a threat. He swallowed, his tiny throat working as he tried to speak in Dragonese, his voice a high, rough squeak. “I’m not here for your eggs,” he mumbled, his voice betraying his nervousness. The human throat wasn’t meant for growling the way dragons did, but he did his best. “I just wanted to see.”

The dragon snorted, sending a gust of hot air that ruffled his wild green hair and made his skin prickle. It tilted its head, considering him with what Izuku could only describe as mild amusement.

And then—without warning—it lunged.

Izuku barely twisted away in time, the wind of the dragon’s movement whipping against his cheek. He heard the ground crack and felt the earth tremble beneath him as the dragon’s claws scraped through the dirt where he had been just a heartbeat ago. His small body hit the ground hard, rolling clumsily through the damp leaves. Instinct screamed at him to keep moving, to get away—but his legs, short and untrained, were already struggling to find purchase. He forced himself to remain low, his breath ragged as he fought to control the panic that was starting to rise in his chest.

He should’ve known better. Monstrous Nightmares were not like the gentle Silver Phantoms or the playful Windwalkers. No, these dragons were selfish, brutal. They guarded what was theirs with a ferocity that didn’t care about the world around them. Eggs were everything to them. But once the young hatched, they’d be left to fend for themselves.

Izuku had hoped, in his naive way, that maybe—just maybe—the dragon would let him get a glimpse before it noticed him. But that was foolish. Even among dragons, Nightmares had senses that put others to shame. The fact that this one had let him get this close wasn’t kindness. It was patience. Patience only because he smelled like the wilds he belonged to more than the humans who’d once raised him.

To any other human, this creature would have snapped first, asked questions later. But to Izuku, the dragon hesitated.

Hesitation didn’t mean mercy, though.

The dragon’s lips curled, showing teeth that glinted in the sunlight like shards of black stone. It flicked its tail, and the air around them shimmered with heat. Izuku tensed. He wasn’t fast enough to run. He wasn’t strong enough to fight. At five years old, he wasn’t ready for this. Not by any stretch.

The Monstrous Nightmare’s jaws snapped shut with a terrifying finality, just inches from his face. He threw himself backward in a desperate roll, landing with a dull thud on the forest floor. The scent of sulfur filled his nose as the dragon loomed over him, its nostrils flaring with the heat of its breath.

He should’ve been terrified. But instead, he marveled at the dragon—the shimmer of molten gold along its scales, the way its wings flared and snapped in warning, casting huge, jagged shadows across the ground. It was the kind of beauty he didn’t know how to describe but felt deep inside, like a strange, fiery pull.

Izuku had always been captivated by dragons. Ever since he could crawl, he’d chased their tails, drawn to them with a fascination that bordered on obsession. They weren’t just creatures to him—they were family, guardians, always there, ever present. Their calls were like lullabies to him, their wingbeats the heartbeat of his life.

But he had also seen them kill.

His mother’s warnings rang in his head, sharp and clear, as the dragon’s gaze sharpened, turning from curiosity to something darker. “Respect them, Izuku. They may like you, but survival will always come first.”

He had always listened to her words, but knowing them in his heart and seeing them in action were two very different things. Now, as the Nightmare bared its teeth, the gap between curiosity and recklessness was all too clear.

With his hands trembling at his sides, he slowly raised them again, keeping his movements small and non-threatening. His breath came in shallow gasps, and his heart raced, but he forced his voice to stay steady. “I’m not here to steal your eggs,” he said again, his voice higher than it should’ve been, but he tried to match the guttural tones of Dragonese. “I just wanted to look.”

The Nightmare hesitated, its slit-pupiled eyes narrowing. That was the only reason he was still alive—because, despite being human, he was something different. Something not entirely foreign.

Izuku knew that no other human could have gotten this close. The dragons had long since accepted him as an oddity—human, yet not quite. His scent carried the earthiness of the wild, his presence was too familiar to be dismissed as just another trespasser. He was a part of their world in a way no other human could ever be.

His mother, Inko, had done everything in her power to keep him safe despite his reckless nature. She had taught him how to move around dragons without startling them, how to read the subtle shifts in their posture and breath, the flick of a tail that meant irritation, the narrowing of pupils that meant danger. But there was only so much she could do on her own.

Most dragons barely tolerated her. She was human, through and through—born and raised in a world of villages and stone walls, of tools and trade and fire that was meant to warm, not burn. Izuku, on the other hand, had never known anything but the wild, the steady presence of dragons, and the warmth of their scales. Inko had done her best to raise him in this dangerous place, but being a single mother surrounded by creatures that neither feared nor cared for her was more than anyone should have to handle.

She had done what she could to protect him. She had stitched dragonhide into his tunics and reinforced his boots with leather tough enough to withstand the roughest terrain. The worn fabric carried the scent of dragon scales, allowing him to move unnoticed among them. But despite everything—the lessons, the clothes, the careful warnings—Izuku was still human. Still fragile.

And the Monstrous Nightmare before him knew it.

The dragon's hesitation was brief, its reptilian eyes assessing him with a flicker of curiosity before settling into cold amusement. "Did you enjoy your look, Little Green?" it cooed, its voice low and silken, utterly devoid of kindness. "Do you want to try and take another?"

Before Izuku could react, the Nightmare lashed its tail against the ground beside him, sending a tremor through the earth. A warning.

Izuku got the message.

Scrambling back, he made sure not to turn his back completely. He didn’t dare turn his back. Running would only provoke the chase, and there was no world in which he could outrun a Monstrous Nightmare. Not with as young as he was anyways, perhaps when he was older, but certainly not now at only five years old. Instead, he moved carefully—retreating while attempting to mask his fear.

The dragon let out a final huff before snapping its wings shut against its back.

That was his chance.

Izuku turned and sprinted, his heart hammering against his ribs, not stopping until the trees swallowed him whole.

His mother was going to kill him.

And honestly? He probably deserved it.

__________

Izuku didn’t stop running until he was sure the Monstrous Nightmare had lost interest. Only then did he slow, panting, pressing a hand to a nearby tree to steady himself. His fingers curled instinctively around the strap of the satchel slung across his body, his mind racing as he retraced every detail he had seen.

The eggs. Their shape, their color, their arrangement. Every detail mattered.

Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out one of the old journals—one of his father’s books. The leather binding was cracked with age, the pages thick with notes and sketches. His mother had given them to him only recently, and he had spent every spare moment flipping through them, comparing his father’s notes to what he had seen with his own eyes.

Some details were right. Others… not so much.

He flipped through the pages until he found the section on Monstrous Nightmare eggs. His father had described them as charcoal-black with glowing red veins, hot to the touch. But Izuku had seen them himself. They weren’t black at all—they were a pale sandy color, though it was difficult to tell, given that their eggs were on fire. The flames seemed to burn on their own, flickering around the shells, though he had yet to see the parents ignite them directly.

He turned to a blank page, pulled out his charcoal pencil, and began sketching, hurriedly mapping out the cluster of eggs from memory. He needed to get everything down before the details faded.

His mother would be furious when she found out where he had been. But he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Not yet.

A gust of wind rustled through the canopy, tugging at his wild green hair. He ran a hand through it absently, though it did little good—his hair was always a mess, sticking out in all directions as if he had spent the morning wrestling a pack of baby dragons. Which, to be fair, he often had.

He glanced down at himself, at the faint gleam of dragon scales sewn into his tunic, at the dirt streaked across his pants. His mother had spent hours reinforcing his clothing, making sure he had the best protection she could provide. His boots, crafted from tough hide, had been a gift for his last birthday, though he often abandoned them to run barefoot through the forest. He liked the feel of the earth beneath his feet, the way it connected him to the land he called home.

But even here, in the wild, there were places he was forbidden to go. His mother had rules—strict ones. Certain parts of the woods, certain caves, certain dragon nesting sites… all of them were off-limits.

She worried more than Izuku thought was necessary.

It never made sense to him. His mother was strong, a survivor, a woman who had lived among dragons long before he was born. Yet there were things she feared—things he couldn’t quite understand.

Perhaps it was because she was human.

Izuku was too, of course. But he wasn’t like other humans. He had never lived in a village, never known the comforts of stone walls or market stalls. He didn’t know how to wield a sword or row a boat. But he did know how to leap from tree to tree like a Shortwing Squirrelserpent. He knew how to balance on the back of a Silver Phantom as it soared through the sky. He knew how to listen—truly listen—to the dragons, and even talk back.

That was something his mother could never do.

She had tried, but the dragons had never fully accepted her. They tolerated her because of Izuku, but she would never be one of their own.

Izuku, though? He was different. To them, he was a hatchling, raised alongside their young. He was one of theirs.

And maybe that was why his father had left.

His mother never spoke of him. Not really. Whenever Izuku asked, she would only say, “ He sailed off the edge of the world .” Her voice would turn distant, her expression unreadable. Eventually, Izuku had stopped asking.

But he had his father’s journals.

They were all he had of the man he had never met—pages filled with sketches, observations, and notes about dragons. Some of them were brilliant. Others were laughably wrong. His father had been an explorer, but he had never lived among dragons the way Izuku had. He had never seen them the way Izuku did.

That was why Izuku had started updating the journals himself. Correcting mistakes. Adding new details.

Like today.

He glanced down at his latest sketch—the cluster of Monstrous Nightmare eggs, carefully shaded in. A small sense of satisfaction curled in his chest.

He would rewrite his father’s notes. He would make them better.

No one else might ever see these journals, but it didn’t matter. Recording what he learned made him feel closer to his father in a way nothing else could.

And if that meant sneaking into a few more nests along the way…

Well.

His mother didn’t need to know.

__________

Izuku made his way back to the familiar network of tunnels, the worn pages of his father’s journals tucked securely beneath his arm. His heart still beat with the thrill of his latest discovery, but there was a nagging sense of unease, the kind he had learned to recognize after years of living in the caves. The catacombs were, after all, his sanctuary—but they also trapped him. A sanctuary from the outside world, but a reminder that it was always there, looming just beyond the cave’s entrance.

The caverns were dim, the glow of bioluminescent algae casting soft shadows on the jagged stone walls. Izuku navigated the familiar labyrinth with ease, moving past the twisting passages and hidden chambers they called home. His breath echoed softly in the cold air as he reached the small alcove where his mother slept, and with practiced care, he hid the journal deep in his pack.

He paused, listening to the silence. It was the kind of quiet that settled in only after the hustle of the world outside had died down. His mother’s voice would echo through the tunnels any moment now, calling him to dinner or reminding him of his chores. Yet, there was a part of him that always hesitated when they were alone in the catacombs.

As always, Izuku’s thoughts turned to his mother. She was the only constant in his life—the woman who had taught him to survive in the harshest of conditions, who had shown him how to respect the dragons without fear. She had been both mother and protector, a person who kept her past locked away, hidden like the journals he carefully guarded.

Yet, for as little as Izuku knew about humans, he often felt like he knew even less about her. The life she had before the forest, before he came into the picture, was a mystery. The walls she built around herself were high and unyielding. He could ask her anything, but her answers always felt incomplete—fragments of memories from her childhood, nothing about the years before they had come to the island. And when he asked about his father, she always grew quiet, a strange sadness– and what he later learned to recognize as fear— flickering across her face. Izuku learned not to press her on those matters, but the questions never left him.

The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps, soft but deliberate. His mother appeared from behind a stone pillar, her face masked in a hood and scarf, only her sharp eyes visible. They locked for a moment, a silent communication passing between them. Without a word, she went to the small fire where the food was being prepared.

“Tonight,” she began, her voice low and steady, “I'm heading to the village; we need more supplies from the village.”

Izuku’s pulse quickened, though he tried to remain calm. “I’ll go with you.”

Inko hesitated, a look of concern flashing across her face. The village was a dangerous place for someone like her—someone who had lived too long among dragons, someone who no longer resembled the humans there. And yet, she couldn’t manage alone.

“No,” she said firmly. “I’ll go alone. It’s safer that way.”

Izuku wasn’t ready to let it go. “Please, I can help.”

For a long moment, she didn’t respond, and Izuku thought she might refuse outright. But then, with a resigned sigh, she pulled off her cloak, revealing the worn fabric beneath. “Fine,” she said, “but you stay close to me. And no one is to know we’re together.”

Izuku nodded eagerly, his eyes alight with a mix of excitement and trepidation. He knew the risks; he knew the dangers that came with venturing into the village, where they would have to conceal their true identities. It was a place where people didn’t ask questions—unless they had reason to.

As they prepared to leave, Izuku glanced once more at the journal, now securely hidden beneath his cloak. His heart felt tight in his chest. There was so much about the world beyond the caves that he didn’t understand. His mother had taught him well—how to survive, how to cover their tracks—but there was always a question hanging in the air between them. A question about what lay beyond the safety of their hidden life.

The village, though, it was another story. Inko’s fear of the village always haunted him. He had seen his mother face down dragons without a flicker of fear, but the moment they stepped into the village, she was a different person. Anxious, jittery—always looking over her shoulder.

As they donned their cloaks and prepared to leave, Izuku couldn’t shake the feeling that his mother’s fear was something more than just the danger of discovery. There was something deeper, something unsaid, something that tied her to the village in a way he couldn’t understand.

“Are you ready?” Inko asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

Izuku nodded, standing at her side, his heart racing. They left the warmth of the catacombs and stepped out into the cold, the weight of their secrets pressing down on him. This world, the one outside the caves, was one he knew too little of, yet it felt too close for comfort. And his mother? She was hiding more than just their identities—she was hiding a part of herself.

The forest grew darker as they approached the village, the trees parting to reveal the faint glow of lanterns in the distance. Izuku’s heart beat faster, his fingers curling tighter around the fabric of his cloak. His mother had explained the rules of their visits—stay out of sight, keep their faces hidden, and never, ever let anyone know they were anything but ordinary.

Izuku had learned the hard way just how dangerous the village could be for them. It was a place where they didn’t belong, where people would ask too many questions if they caught wind of who they really were. He had never been able to understand exactly why his mother feared it so much, but tonight, the weight of her nervous energy was thicker than usual, her shoulders tense beneath her cloak.

She never told him what happened when she first arrived at the village, but the stories she shared always seemed laced with caution. The village, with its lively market and bustling people, was a far cry from the quiet serenity of the forest and their underground sanctuary. Izuku found himself wondering, once again, what had happened to her before they came to the island. Why did the village seem to have so much power over her? Why was she so afraid?

As they reached the outskirts of the village, the streets were already crowded with vendors shouting over the hum of activity. The smell of bread, roasted meats, and fish filled the air, mixing with the pungent odor of sweat and horses. Izuku stayed close to Inko’s side, keeping his head low and his face covered. She had taught him to move quickly and silently, to blend in like a shadow in the night, but there was something unsettling about being so close to so many people, none of them aware of the dangerous secrets walking among them.

Inko’s eyes flickered around the village, scanning the crowd with a vigilance that bordered on paranoia. Her gaze darted from one face to the next, searching for any sign of recognition, any hint that they were being watched. She reached down to grip Izuku’s hand, her fingers tightening around his with the kind of strength that belied her calm exterior. Izuku didn’t need to ask what she was thinking—he could feel the tension in her touch, the unspoken command to stay close.

Her every step was measured, deliberate, as if the very ground beneath them might shift at any moment. The bustle of the market around them seemed oblivious to their quiet urgency, but Izuku knew better. Every shadow, every whisper in the crowd, was a potential threat. His mother wasn’t afraid of dragons, but this place—the village—was another matter entirely. The people here were a different kind of danger.

“We’ll head to the market first,” she murmured, her voice low and clipped. “Bandages, needles, and dried fish. Stick close.”

Izuku nodded, though his thoughts were elsewhere. The village was never a place for people like them. He had learned the hard way that in a world of strangers, blending in was more than just a skill—it was a survival tactic. They had stolen from the marketplace before, but each time the risk of being discovered felt like a weight pressing down on his chest.

His stomach rumbled, a sharp reminder of the food he had seen in the stalls—salted meats, dried fish, freshly baked bread. Things they couldn’t grow or hunt themselves. Food from the village, though rare, was a treat—a fleeting reminder of what the world beyond the forest could offer. His mother had often said that the forest provided plenty, but the spices, the variety—those things could only be found in the village. But the price of that luxury was always the same: stealing.

Izuku pushed the thought aside, focusing on the narrow streets ahead. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, but it wasn’t just hunger gnawing at him—it was the knowledge that they didn’t belong here. Not in this place. The villagers were suspicious of outsiders, especially those who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—conform to their ways. He knew that if they were caught, if anyone recognized them, it wouldn’t just be a matter of running away. No, it was the fear of being found, of their existence being exposed, that terrified him the most.

But they had no choice. Without the supplies from the village, life would be much harder. Bandages, ink, paper—things necessary for survival, for keeping the journals intact, for healing his mother’s scars. Izuku often wondered how much of her past she kept hidden from him—how many stories she had never told. He knew she carried the weight of a life before him, one filled with pain and solitude, and he had heard fragments of it, pieces of a story that never seemed to come together.

As they reached the market, the stalls grew smaller and more cramped. The air was thick with the scent of fresh produce, salt, and the mingling voices of haggling villagers. Izuku stuck close to his mother, the crowd pressing in on them from all sides. Some people glanced at them with curiosity, others with suspicion, but none paid them much mind—at least, not yet. They were ghosts here, invisible to all but the keenest of eyes.

They approached the small stall selling medical supplies, the woman behind it old and sharp-eyed. Her gaze flicked over Izuku and Inko before landing on the wares spread out on the cloth before her. Izuku's eyes lingered on the neatly stacked bundles of cloth, the needles, the small bottles of antiseptic—items that would make their lives easier for a while.

Inko stepped forward, her voice low but warm. “Is this all you have?” she asked, her fingers brushing over a set of needles. “I’m looking for something a little stronger, something that can work through tough hide.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly, then flicked to Izuku before she asked, “What kind of hide are you working with?”

“Oh, just some cows,” Inko said smoothly, her voice as calm as ever. “I think I may have dried them wrong, though. The hide’s a little tougher than I expected.”

The woman nodded, satisfied with the answer, and without another word, she reached for a chest beside her, preparing to look for stronger needles. It was the opening Izuku had been waiting for.

Without a sound, he slipped his hand to the fabric covering the table, wrapping up a couple of needles in the folds. His heart thudded in his chest, the familiar thrill of the theft sending a surge of adrenaline through him. He made sure to keep his movements steady and calm, just as his mother had taught him.

As soon as the woman’s back was turned, Izuku quickly ducked behind a stack of barrels, his breath shallow in his chest. His mother continued to chat with the vendor, her voice a steady murmur, a perfect distraction.

Through the gaps in the barrels, Izuku watched as his mother shook her head and waved her hand dismissively, as if the woman’s wares weren’t quite up to her standard. The vendor scowled but seemed more irritated than suspicious, not noticing the missing needles.

Without a word, Inko motioned for Izuku to follow. They didn’t linger. There was no time to waste. They kept their heads down and moved swiftly through the market, their pace quickening as they approached the edge of the crowd. The village felt more alive than ever, bustling with life, but to Izuku, it all felt wrong—like they were intruders in a world they didn’t belong to.

Inko steered them toward a nearby alley, their movements becoming a blur of shadows and urgency. The marketplace, full of noise and color, faded behind them, but Izuku couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on them, the constant, suffocating awareness of being watched.

They didn’t stop until they were well out of sight, the market’s chatter replaced by the quiet hum of the forest at the edge of the village. With the supplies secured, they turned their backs on the place that had always felt more like a threat than a refuge.

As they slipped into the safety of the woods, Izuku felt a mixture of relief and unease. With the supplies in hand, they began returning to their catacombs, the hum of the forest dull in comparison to the village, which was alive with sound and color. 

Perhaps it was his mothers nerves rubbing off on him. But Izuku couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. 

__________

Izuku panted, his legs burning as he stumbled through the underbrush. The Wolf-Fangs darted ahead, their sleek bodies twisting between trees like living shadows. Every time he thought he was close, they bounded just out of reach.

"Faster, Little Green!" One of them—probably Sharpfang—called over his shoulder, a taunting lilt in his voice.

"I am fast!" Izuku protested, tripping over a root and barely catching himself.

Another Wolf-Fang—Dewclaw—snickered, perched on a low-hanging branch. "Fast for a human, maybe. But I’ve seen even snails move quicker."

Izuku groaned. "I climbed up the cliff last week! I even beat some of you! You all saw that!"

"Well of course, we went eays on you after all," Sharpfang said smugly, hopping from one tree to another with effortless grace. 

"No you did!" Izuku whined, face beginning to flush with anger.

Sharpfang flared his leathery wings dramatically, then tucked them in with a smirk. "We don’t even need our wings to beat you, Little Green."

Izuku huffed, preparing a retort, when the energy in the air changed.

The energy in the air shifted, heavy and wrong. The hatchlings stopped mid-movement, their ears twitching. The Wolf-Fangs stiffened, their teasing immediately forgotten. Sharpfang’s ears pricked, his sharp gaze scanning the trees ahead. Without a word, Dewclaw nudged Izuku sharply with his snout.

"Go. Now." His voice was suddenly serious.

Izuku hesitated—then yelped as the Wolf-Fangs vanished, disappearing into the dense foliage as if they had never been there.

"Wait—!" Before Izuku could ask what was happening, or even follow them, something slammed into him. A heavy body, scales pressing against his skin, knocked him off balance and pinned him against the rough bark. His breath hitched.

"Quiet," a voice hissed in his ear.

The dragon holding him was unlike the others. Its golden scales shimmered, then darkened to a dusky blue, shifting like ripples in water. Purple horns curved elegantly from its head, its slitted eyes locked on something below. Izuku’s breath hitched, and he followed the dragon’s gaze.

Through the gaps in the underbrush, he saw them. Humans.

A small hunting party moved through the trees, their steps careful, measured. Izuku shrank back instinctively, pressing into the dragon’s hold.

A young hunter—just a few years older than Izuku himself—pulled an arrow from his quiver. The bowstring creaked as he drew it back, his expression unreadable, gaze locked on a spot in the trees.

The silence stretched. Izuku clenched his fists.

Then, the arrow flew.

A sickening thwack rang through the clearing. A tiny body tumbled from the trees—a Hypnomunk, no bigger than Izuku’s hand, hit the ground. Motionless.

A cheer rose from the hunters. One clapped the young man on the back. "Nice shot!"

Izuku felt his stomach twist.

The Hypnomunk had been so small. So harmless. Its wide, glassy eyes stared at nothing, its little paws curled inward. He had seen death before—dragons hunted, creatures ate other creatures. But this was different. This wasn’t for food. It wasn’t for survival.

His chest felt tight, his breath shallow. Was this what his mother feared? Not just humans—but their casual cruelty ?

The dragon’s grip on him loosened slightly, but it didn’t move away.

"They didn’t even hesitate, " Izuku whispered, barely aware he had spoken.

The dragon's eyes flickered toward him, unreadable. "Humans rarely do."

The hunters moved on, unaware of the two watching from above. The tension in the air didn’t lift.

Izuku let out a shaky breath, finally turning to the dragon. "...Who are you?"

The dragon exhaled sharply. "The one who just kept you from being noticed," it said dryly. Then, with a slight smirk, "And the one who gets to tell Cloudnose that you were running off alone again."

Izuku stiffened. "You know Cloudnose?"

The dragon tilted its head. "She’s my mother."

Izuku’s jaw dropped. Cloudnose was a Silver Phantom—an entirely different breed from this Mood Dragon. But bonds among dragons weren’t always tied to blood..

"Wait, wait!" Izuku scrambled for words. "Could you... not tell her?"

The dragon raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because she'll be mad! " Izuku blurted, flailing. "And she’ll tell my mom, and then I’ll be in even more trouble!"

The dragon smirked. "That is tempting."

Izuku grasped at the only leverage he had. "If you don’t tell… I’ll be your best friend!"

The dragon blinked, taken aback. "Your... what?"

"Best friend!" Izuku repeated, nodding eagerly. "I'll tell you all my secrets! And I’ll—I’ll bring you food!"

The dragon looked unimpressed. "I don’t need a human friend. I do need food, though."

Izuku’s lip trembled, his eyes going wide and watery.

The dragon stiffened. "Oh, no—"

Izuku sniffled.

"No. Stop that."

A tear welled up.

The dragon groaned, rubbing a claw over its snout. "Fine," it snapped. "Fine. I won’t tell." It coiled loosely around Izuku’s shoulders, its scales warm against his skin. "But you owe me. And don’t go talking anymore nonsense about me being your best friend"

Izuku brightened instantly, sniffling but beaming. "Okay!"

The dragon sighed heavily, as though already regretting this decision.

"Now let’s get back before Cloudnose and your mother tear the island apart looking for you."

Izuku hesitated, glancing back toward the woods. "Wait! The Wolf-Fangs—I was with them!"

The dragon snorted. "They already left. The second they smelled the humans, they ran."

Izuku’s chest tightened. They had left him? Without even checking if he was okay?

"...Oh."

The dragon tilted its head. "You sound surprised."

Izuku didn’t answer. He swallowed the lump in his throat and adjusted his grip on the dragon wrapped around him. Everything felt different now. He had always known dragons were stronger than humans—faster, more powerful. But the Hypnomunk had been so small. And the humans had killed it without effort.

If even the smallest creatures could be hunted so easily… then what about him?

As Izuku and the Mood Dragon made their way back, the Wolf-Fangs reappeared, dropping from the trees with the kind of casual arrogance only they could manage.

"Thought you got eaten," Sharpfang said, sauntering up beside Izuku as though he hadn’t just abandoned him minutes ago.

Izuku shot him a glare. "You left me!"

Dewclaw tilted his head, unbothered. "You were too slow. We assumed after you telling us how fast you were, you’d just catch up."

"I was pinned to a tree!" Izuku flailed.

"Sounds like a you problem," Sharpfang snickered. “Se i’m muuuuch to quick to be pinned to any tree.”

Izuku spluttered. "What if I had gotten eaten?!"

"Then we’d be really sad," Dewclaw said solemnly.

Sharpfang nodded. "For at least a whole hour."

"A whole hour?" Izuku repeated, deadpan.

Dewclaw sighed dramatically. "Maybe even two."

The Mood Dragon beside him snorted. "You have terrible friends."

Izuku threw his hands in the air. "I know!"

The Wolf-Fangs just grinned, unrepentant.

__________

There was a village on the other side of the woods. Izuku had only been there a handful of times, but he knew it well—the sharp tang of salt and fish from the bustling port, the rhythmic creak of wooden carts rolling over uneven cobblestone, the hum of voices blending into a steady, endless murmur as merchants bartered and travelers passed through.

His mother never let him wander alone. She always kept a firm grip on his hand as they navigated the narrow streets, her cloak pulled low over her face. Even so, Izuku couldn't stop staring.

Humans built their homes from wood instead of stone. Their streets glowed with lantern light instead of the gentle shimmer of moss. Instead of hunting, they gathered their food from open-air markets, exchanging glinting coins for bundles of dried meat and baskets of fruit. It was all so strange. And yet… fascinating.

“Why don’t we live in houses like that?” he asked once, tugging at his mother’s sleeve as they passed a row of tiny wooden homes.

His mother didn’t pause, her sharp eyes scanning the market stalls ahead. “Because caves are safer. Those houses burn too easily.”

Izuku frowned. “Isn’t that dangerous? There are dragons around, right? So why would they build homes that could burn so easily?”

His mother hummed thoughtfully, running her fingers over a bolt of fabric displayed by a merchant. “Humans aren’t the smartest creatures,” she murmured. “But they are stubborn. Proud, like dragons in their own way. They build from wood because it’s cheap and easy to work with, assuming they’ll always be able to put out a fire when it happens.”

She paused, expression tightening. “But when those houses burn, Izuku, it’s rarely an accident.”

Izuku looked up at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

His mother let out a slow breath, guiding him away from the stalls and toward a quieter part of the market. “Humans and dragons don’t always get along.”

He knew that much. He had seen the hunters in the woods, the sharp glint of their weapons. He had seen the way dragons bristled when they caught the scent of metal and sweat. But the reason why still didn’t make sense.

“Why?” he pressed.

She hesitated, her grip tightening around his hand. “Because humans fear what they can’t control. And when they’re afraid, they fight.”

Izuku chewed his lip, turning the thought over in his mind. “But… not all humans, right?”

His mother sighed, kneeling so they were eye to eye. “Maybe,” she admitted. “But the ones in this village? If they knew what we were out there hiding, they wouldn’t hesitate to hurt us.”

Izuku swallowed hard, his gaze drifting back toward the crowd. The humans didn’t look cruel. They laughed, they bartered, they held their children’s hands just as his mother held his. But he remembered the hunter’s arrow, the Hypnomunk’s lifeless body, and the way the Wolf-Fangs had fled the moment they smelled humans.

He didn’t want to believe his mother was right.

But he couldn’t ignore what he had seen.

His mother straightened, squeezing his hand. “Come, dear. We shouldn’t linger.”

Izuku didn’t argue.

As they slipped through the bustling streets, his mind buzzed with questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answered.

__________

The first time Inko sat Izuku down to teach him how to make a snare, he was more interested in the rope itself than the lesson. He ran his small fingers along the rough fibers, rubbing them between his thumb and forefinger, marveling at the coarse texture. His green eyes gleamed with an almost feral focus as he sniffed at the twine, testing its scent like a wolf pup investigating something new.

Inko huffed a quiet laugh but tapped his hand gently. “Watch carefully, Izuku,” she said, drawing his attention back to the task at hand. “This isn’t a toy. A well-made trap can mean the difference between eating and going hungry.”

Izuku tilted his head, the way he always did when something intrigued him. His gaze locked onto her fingers as she began to work, looping the rope with a practiced ease. He watched the movements as intensely as he watched lizards in the underbrush—silent, still, waiting for the right moment to strike. She had seen him do it before, his body low to the ground, moving in slow, deliberate steps before springing forward with all the energy of a coiled snake. He was fast, startlingly so for his age. But speed alone wouldn’t be enough.

He was human, not beast nor dragon. His teeth were not fangs, and his nails would never be claws. He could chase prey, but he would never run them down like a wolf. He could pounce, but he would never be as quick or deadly as a true predator. If he was going to survive in this world, he needed to learn how to fight with his hands, his mind, and his wit. Instincts would only take him so far if he didn’t have the strength or skill to back them up.

But he was only six. Clever as he was, he was still just a child.

She finished tying the loop and reached for his hand, pressing her palm lightly over his to guide him. “Like this,” she instructed, tightening the knot just enough to keep it firm but not rigid. “You want it to hold strong, but the loop needs to slide easily. If the snare is too loose, the rabbit will wriggle free. If it’s too tight, the rope will snap before it catches anything.”

Izuku’s brows furrowed, his small face scrunched in concentration. He stuck his tongue out slightly, the way he always did when he was thinking hard, and tried to mimic her movements. His fingers fumbled at first, his grip clumsy and uncertain, but he was strong for his age. After a few tries—each one more precise than the last—he finally managed something that resembled a proper snare.

His breath hitched in excitement, and he looked up at her, eyes bright with triumph. “Like this?”

Inko’s lips curled into a smile as she reached out to smooth his wild curls away from his face. The boy had always been untamed in a way she both worried over and cherished. He was clever, quick, and resilient, but the world was cruel, and he would need more than just instinct to survive it.

“Close enough,” she said warmly. “We’ll practice more tomorrow.”

Izuku nodded, bouncing slightly where he sat. The rope was still clutched in his hands, his fingers already testing the knots again, eager to improve.

That was how it began.

__________

The lessons continued as the days turned to weeks. Each morning, after their usual chores—fetching water from the cold, rushing stream, gathering herbs from the forest floor, checking the snares for trapped hares or grouse—Inko led Izuku deeper into the woods.

This was their world, where the trees stood ancient and tall, their thick trunks wrapped in moss and whispering with the wind. The air was crisp with the scent of damp earth and pine, the soft calls of birds weaving through the canopy overhead. Here, beneath the dappled sunlight, she taught him what she could.

Some things came naturally to him.

He climbed like a Shortwing Squirrelserpent, quick and nimble, his small fingers gripping the rough bark as if they were made for it. He could move through the brush without making a sound, crouching low, his weight perfectly balanced between each step. He paid attention to the wind, noting the way it carried scents toward him or pushed them away—an invaluable skill for tracking. His senses were sharp, his instincts honed from growing up among creatures that relied on them.

But instincts could only take him so far.

Fire was different.

Izuku sat cross-legged on the forest floor, his fingers curled tightly around the fire striker. In front of him, a small bundle of dried moss and bark waited, delicate and dry, ready to catch even the faintest ember.

He had seen his mother do this countless times—quick, effortless movements that sent sparks flying, igniting the tinder into a warm, flickering glow. It had seemed almost like magic.

It was not magic.

It was frustrating.

Izuku struck the flint again, grinding his teeth as the sparks flared and died before they even touched the moss. His fingers ached from gripping the striker too tightly, his shoulders tensed with effort.

His mother had told him that patience was key, that fire was something to be coaxed, not forced. But patience was hard when all his instincts screamed at him to do something.

A low, frustrated growl rumbled in his throat, his small hands tightening around the flint until his knuckles turned white. “I hate this,” he muttered, his nose scrunching up in frustration. “It won’t work!”

His mother had taught him to respect fire—to see it as a gift, a force of life and destruction both. But that didn’t stop him from wishing he could breathe flames like the dragons did. When Inko had first introduced the lesson, he had even tried to, sucking in a deep breath before huffing it out in the hopes that somehow, impossibly, fire would come.

It hadn’t.

Inko knelt beside him, resting a gentle hand on his back. The warmth of her palm steadied him, as grounding as the sturdy oak roots beneath them. Her presence alone was enough to quiet the restless energy buzzing under his skin.

“Then try again,” she said simply, her voice calm as still water.

Izuku let out a dramatic sigh, his puffed cheeks making him look momentarily like an agitated squirrel, but he obeyed. This time, he watched her carefully as she demonstrated. She moved slower for him, deliberate and precise—the way she held the striker, the slight tilt of her wrist, the controlled pressure as she dragged the metal against the flint. There was a rhythm to it, a steady patience he had yet to master.

He swallowed, adjusting his grip.

He struck the flint again—this time just as she had shown him.

A bright spark leapt from the stone, landing on the dry moss.

His breath caught.

Inko leaned in, her voice softer now. “Now, gently. Give it air.”

Izuku cupped his hands carefully around the tiny ember, shielding it from the breeze, and exhaled a slow, steady breath. The ember glowed brighter, veins of orange spreading like cracks in ice. Smoke curled upward, thin and wispy, before a flicker of orange bloomed to life.

Fire.

He gasped. His wide green eyes reflected the small flame, flickering like stars in the darkness.

Inko smiled, smoothing back his wild curls with a hand calloused from years of work. “See?” she murmured, her voice warm with pride. “You did that.”

Izuku looked up at her, beaming, his earlier frustration all but forgotten.

He had made fire.

__________

It wasn’t always easy. There were days he tripped over his own traps, stumbling forward with a growl of frustration, his small hands scrambling to reset them before they were rendered useless. There were days when carving wood felt like a chore—his palms blistering and his fingers stiff from the friction, and the constant motion of the blade not quite as smooth as she made it look. There were days when he loosed an arrow and watched it disappear into the thick brush, his chest tightening as the arrow vanished without even a sign of the target. The lessons felt endless, and sometimes, Izuku felt as if he was chasing something just out of reach.

But he never gave up.

He was relentless, his spirit undeterred. Even when his traps didn’t spring, even when his hands ached and his fingers bled from the rough fibers of rope, he picked himself up and tried again. It was as if the very act of trying had become as instinctual as the breath in his lungs.

And every time he succeeded—when his snare finally caught, its taut rope holding firm as a rabbit struggled against it; when his hands, shaky but determined, finally fletched an arrow that flew true and struck its mark in the distant target; when he found wild roots that Inko had taught him were safe to eat—each victory was like a spark of light in his young, eager heart. He would look up at her, eyes shining with a mix of pride and exhaustion, and Inko couldn’t help but feel a deep, quiet relief settle in her chest.

He was learning. He was growing.

She didn’t know what the future held. There were too many uncertainties—too many dangers in the wild, too many unknowns about the world beyond the dense trees they called home. There was no way of knowing if they would always have the safety of each other’s company, or if the harsh world outside the woods would come crashing in on them one day. She tried not to think about it. But sometimes, when she caught herself staring at the flickering firelight late at night, the thought of him, alone in the world, crept into her mind like a shadow.

But for now, she could teach him. For now, she could be there.

At the very least, if he ever had to survive on his own, he wouldn’t be helpless. He wouldn’t be a wild creature at the mercy of the elements. He would know how to find food, how to build shelter, how to make fire. He would know how to survive.

And that, more than anything, made all of this worth it. It wasn’t just the lessons they shared—it was the quiet moments of trust, of watching her son learn and grow, that she cherished the most. Every scraped knee, every burnt fingertip, every exasperated sigh was a small price to pay for the knowledge that, no matter what happened, Izuku would be able to stand on his own two feet, as human as he was wild.

For that, she would endure it all.

__________

Izuku spent much of his days poring over his father’s old journals, each page a window into the vast and mysterious world of dragons. It had taken him five whole journals—five!—to finally track down the entry on Windwalkers, but when he found it, excitement surged through him like a lightning strike. Clutching the book tightly, he took off at a sprint, feet barely touching the ground as he rushed to share his discovery with his Windwalker friends.

The hatchlings greeted him with delighted chirps, their wobbly legs tangling as they tumbled over one another in their eagerness. Tiny, fragile wings flapped in uncoordinated bursts, sending stray feathers drifting through the air. Izuku knelt, laughing as they clambered over his arms and shoulders, their warm bodies pressing against him as they vied for attention. With careful fingers, he turned the pages, reading aloud every detail.

Windwalkers were easily one of his favorite dragons—not just because of their soft, feathery appearance, but because of what they became. They outgrew their awkwardness, shedding it like old skin until they emerged sleek, swift, and powerful. He liked that about them. They reminded him that being clumsy and awkward wasn’t forever. That one day, he too might grow into something stronger. More sure-footed.

And unlike some of the older dragons, the Windwalkers never teased him when he tripped over his own feet.

It wasn’t long before his mother’s voice cut through the trees, calling his name. He winced. He hadn’t exactly asked permission before running off. Sure enough, when she stepped into view, her lips were pressed into a firm line. But as her gaze settled on the pile of curious hatchlings draped over him, her expression softened with a sigh.

“Go get ready for dinner,” she said, shooing the hatchlings gently back toward their mothers before turning to gather ingredients.

Izuku did as he was told, but not before wrapping his father’s journals in a thick blanket and tucking them securely into a carved-out nook in the cave wall. He handled them like spun glass, whispering a quiet promise to return soon before dashing off.

Even after dinner, his mother wouldn’t let him return to his reading. He whined and pleaded for just a few more minutes, but her answer was firm: Bed.

With a dramatic groan, he flopped onto his sleeping mat, arms sprawled out in defeat. He tried—really tried—to obey, but sleep wouldn’t come. His mind buzzed with all the things he hadn’t had time to read. What if there was something important he had missed? What if there was a whole section on Windwalkers he had skimmed over too quickly?

Finally, he gave in.

Moving as quietly as a shadow, he slid a random journal free from the others and crept toward one of the tunnel exits. He had lived in these caves his entire life—granted, not a very long life, but long enough to know every twist and turn by heart. Stepping oversleeping dragons with practiced ease, he slipped through a well-hidden gap in the rock, where thick vines concealed a narrow exit.

Outside, the night air was crisp and alive with the sounds of the forest. Izuku scaled the ancient tree above the cave entrance with effortless agility, one arm wrapped around a sturdy vine while the other clutched the journal tight against his chest. Climbing was second nature to him. Within moments, he was perched high above the ground, nestled securely against the trunk, where the leaves rustled softly around him.

He pushed a few aside, allowing slivers of moonlight to filter through, just enough to illuminate the inked words on the page.

But he barely had time to start reading before a sharp snap echoed through the trees below.

Izuku froze, breath catching in his throat.

Carefully, he slid the book into the crook of a branch and pressed himself flat against the trunk, listening.

Footsteps. Slow. Uneven. Hesitant.

His stomach twisted. That wasn’t a dragon. A dragon wouldn’t move like that—unsure, wary.

Then he heard it.

A soft, stifled sob.

Frowning, Izuku peered through the leaves, his breath catching as he spotted a small, trembling figure stumbling into the clearing. The first thing he noticed was the boy’s wild, gravity-defying purple hair, a tangled mess of tufts that flared out in all directions like it had never known the gentle brush of a comb. It stuck out at odd angles, messy, just like his own hair, though not nearly as wild. The second thing that struck him was the boy’s clothing—torn wool hanging in frayed, ragged strips, and knee-high boots worn to near ruin, soles so battered they seemed ready to fall apart with another step. Even in his own rough tunic and oversized wolf-fur hood, Izuku felt better off in comparison.

The boy was crying. His small hands scrubbed at his tear-streaked face as he spun around in frantic circles, his movements erratic, lost. Desperate.

Izuku didn’t think.

Forgetting the journal, his mother’s warnings, and every ounce of caution, he clambered down the tree without a sound, landing lightly just beyond the clearing’s edge. Now closer, he could see the boy was taller than him but far too thin, his limbs fragile and shaking with exhaustion.

Izuku hesitated, then took a slow breath and deliberately stepped onto a dry branch, aiming to make just enough noise to announce himself without startling the boy too badly.

The snap was much louder than he intended.

The boy yelped, spinning so fast that his own feet betrayed him. He toppled backward with a sharp gasp, landing hard against the dirt. His breath hitched, panic overtaking his face as he flung his arms up in a feeble attempt to shield himself.

“Stay away!” he cried, his voice shaking as much as his hands.

Izuku frowned, confused. The boy hadn’t even seen him yet—he was still hidden behind the tree. Then it clicked. The kid wasn’t reacting to him . This forest was filled with plenty of things to be scared of. The boy probably thought something else was coming for him.

His mother had told him that humans feared the dark corners of the forest, convinced that dragons lurked in every shadow, waiting to snatch them away. Izuku had never understood that fear, growing up surrounded by them, but he didn’t want this boy to be scared.

Slowly, carefully, he stepped into the moonlight, raising his hands in what he hoped was a harmless gesture like he would with a spooked hatchling. “Hey there,” he said, keeping his voice soft and even. “It’s okay. Please calm down.”

The boy flinched at his voice. Izuku wasn’t surprised. Speaking Dragonese with a human throat left his words rough and raw like he had been shouting for hours. He must have sounded strange.

The boy blinked at him, his ragged breaths still shaky but no longer frantic. He hesitated, his arms still tense but no longer raised in defense, his wide eyes darting over Izuku’s face.

Izuku took another careful step forward. “My name is Izuku.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched, heavy and uncertain. Izuku opened his mouth to ask if the boy even had a name, but just before he could, the boy swallowed hard and finally spoke.

“…Shinsou Hitoshi.”

__________

Hitoshi didn’t know what to expect when he wandered into the woods. Honestly, he expected to die within the first hour. He was six, for crying out loud. And yet, here he was, trudging through the undergrowth, out to find a dragon and steal a claw—because that was the only way anyone would take him seriously.

That was just life for the runts.

When he had washed up on Yuuei’s shores as a baby, the Vikings had taken him in begrudgingly, bound by their own laws. A runt, once cast into the sea, was left to fate. If they survived the journey and reached another island, it was the will of the gods that they lived, and the tribe that found them was obligated to raise them.

That didn’t mean they had to like it.

Runts were smaller, weaker, and sicker than the other children. They were seen as burdens—mouths to feed that gave nothing back. No one had ever let Hitoshi forget that. He had fought for everything—scraps of food, space to sleep, even the right to speak without being dismissed. And no matter how hard he worked, no matter how many times he swallowed his pride and tried again, it was never enough.

Respect wasn’t given. It was taken.

And the only way to earn it was to kill a dragon.

Dragons—the most vicious, bloodthirsty creatures in existence. Only the strongest, bravest warriors could take one down. At six years old, with a body too thin to properly hold a sword and skin so pale he looked sickly even when he wasn’t, Hitoshi was neither strong nor brave.

At least, that’s what they told him.

So he would prove them wrong.

It had started the same way it always did. Taunts. Sneering. Someone shoved him to the ground when no adults were looking. He had learned to ignore it—to keep his mouth shut and let them tire themselves out. But today was different.

Maybe it was the way they laughed in his face.

Maybe it was the sting of dirt in his mouth.

Maybe he had just reached his breaking point.

Either way, he found himself snapping, voice raw with frustration:

“I can and will be a warrior! It doesn’t matter if I’m a runt—I’ll be better than any of you ever could be!”

A ripple went through the group. A challenge had been issued.

One of the older boys stepped forward, smirking. “Warriors have to be brave and strong. If you’re gonna be one, you have to prove it.”

The others caught on immediately.

“Yeah, Shinsou,” another chimed in. “If you really think you have what it takes, then prove it.”

Hitoshi narrowed his eyes. He should have walked away. He should have ignored them. But he had never learned when to stop himself.

“And how do I do that?” he asked, though deep down, he already knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

A girl in the back broke into a wicked smile. “Go into the forest and bring back the claw of a Sidewinder.”

Silence.

Even the bullies hesitated, as if realizing she’d taken it too far. Then, as if a dam had broken—

“Yeah!”

“That should be easy enough for a runt like you!”

“Or are you scared?”

Was he scared? Of course, he was. He was six years old and had just been dared to retrieve a claw from a dragon he knew nothing about.

Not that Vikings ever knew much about dragons, to begin with. They had names for them, vague descriptions passed down by fighters, but no real documentation. Vikings didn’t study their enemies. They fought them.

Which meant Hitoshi had no idea what a Sidewinder even looked like.

This was a terrible idea.

But his mouth had a mind of its own.

“Fine! I will!” he shouted back, ignoring the way his stomach twisted at the words.

And so, here he was.

Alone.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, bleeding red through the canopy. Shadows stretched long and claw-like through the trees, creeping closer with every passing minute.

Hitoshi had gotten lost almost immediately, but his stubbornness had kept him moving forward.

Now, turning back wasn’t an option.

He kicked a loose rock, sending it bouncing against a tree. “Stupid dragon,” he muttered.

A growl rumbled through the woods.

Low. Distant.

But definitely a growl.

A shiver crawled down his spine. He wasn’t sure if it was a dragon or something else, but he wasn’t sticking around to find out. He did the only thing that made sense—he ran.

Branches whipped against his arms, undergrowth snagged at his feet. He tripped, staggered, barely caught himself before tumbling forward. His breath came in short gasps, sharp and painful. His legs burned, but he didn’t stop.

He didn’t stop.

He had no idea how long he ran. When he finally skidded to a stop, lungs aching, the sky had darkened completely.

Tears pricked at his eyes, but they had slowed. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, sniffing. He was still lost. Still alone. But he had to keep going.

No one would come looking for him. He knew that much.

But a small part of him, childish and desperate, still wished someone would.

He stumbled forward, deeper into the trees. It wasn’t long before he found a break in the canopy. Moonlight filtered through the leaves in pale beams, casting the clearing in a soft, silver glow.

In any other situation, he might have stopped to admire it.

But he was cold. Hungry. Exhausted.

And still very, very afraid.

So he barely noticed the beauty of the night.

He just kept walking.

Behind him, a branch snapped.

Hitoshi spun around, moving faster than he thought possible. But in his panic, his foot caught on an exposed root, and he tumbled backward with a painful thud.

Dirt and leaves clung to his palms as he scrambled back, his legs refusing to cooperate. His breath came in short, panicked bursts, and his heart slammed against his ribs. “S-Stay away!” His voice trembled as he waved his arms in a weak, frantic defense. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. What was out there? A wolf? A bear? A dragon?

Then—a voice. Rough but unmistakably human.

“Hey, uh—it’s okay! Please calm down!”

Hitoshi froze.

From the shadows of the tree line, a boy about his age stepped forward, hands raised in a placating gesture. He had messy green hair and wide, curious eyes that reflected the moonlight. Hitoshi’s muscles remained coiled, ready to flee, but his fear shifted into something sharper—suspicion.

Kids his age had never been kind to him. Though, he supposed, none had ever tried to eat him either. That still put this boy above dragons.

“My name is Izuku,” the boy introduced himself, creeping closer like one might approach a frightened animal. “Who are you?”

Hitoshi hesitated. This kid wasn’t from his village—he was sure of that. His fur-lined hood looked far too well-made, and his boots weren’t the kind cobbled together from scraps like Hitoshi’s own. Was he lost too? Did that make him safe?

“…Shinsou Hitoshi,” he muttered warily.

Izuku’s face lit up. “Nice to meet you, Hitoshi!” But his excitement didn’t last long. He glanced over his shoulder into the darkness, and Hitoshi instinctively tensed. His fingers twitched against the forest floor, half-ready to run again. But Izuku either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“So… whatcha doing out here? It’s really late.” He tilted his head, studying Hitoshi with open curiosity. “You’re a little young to be a hunter.”

Then, just as quickly, his expression darkened. Green eyes narrowed, scanning Hitoshi’s face. “Wait—you aren’t a hunter, are you?”

Hitoshi swallowed thickly. “Uh, n-no?”

Immediately, the tension in Izuku’s shoulders vanished.

“Great!” He grinned, bouncing back to his previous cheer. “So, whatcha doing out here all alone?”

Hitoshi scowled, crossing his arms. “Well, you’re out here, aren’t you?” The words came out sharper than he meant, a reflex he’d honed after years of being the village outcast.

If Izuku was offended, he didn’t show it. He just shrugged. “Yeah, but I live out here with my mom.” He gave Hitoshi a knowing look. “And I know for a fact the only other humans on this island live in the village. You? You’re a long way from there.”

Hitoshi blinked. “Wait—you live out here? In the woods? By yourself?”

Izuku gave him a look that practically screamed, are you stupid ? Of course not,” he huffed. “I already told you—I live with my mom.” Then, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, he added, “And the dragons, of course.”

Hitoshi’s blood turned to ice. “D-Dra—Dragons?!” His voice cracked as he pushed himself further back. “You live with dragons?!”

Izuku winced at his volume but nodded. “Uh, yeah?” He threw a quick glance over his shoulder, scanning the treetops before looking back. “You do too, you know. They just don’t like getting close to your village because you always try to kill them. But some of the smaller ones sneak into your homes during the winter to stay warm sometimes.”

There was no malice in his tone, just an almost exasperated sort of understanding—like explaining something obvious to someone being willfully ignorant.

Hitoshi sputtered. Them? Kill dragons? Well… okay, maybe a few. But they had to! Dragons were dangerous. They burned homes, stole livestock, and destroyed crops. And yet—Izuku spoke as if they were the villains .

He bristled, ready to argue, but Izuku didn’t give him the chance. “Sooooo, what are you doing out here?” he asked again, head tilting.

Hitoshi hesitated, his mind racing. This boy claimed to live out here, which meant—maybe—he knew the way back to the village. It wasn’t the best plan, and it meant returning empty-handed, but it was better than wandering alone in the dark, waiting for something worse to find him.

“…Some of the other kids told me to get a Sidewinder’s claw to prove I was brave.” His voice wavered slightly, but at least he hadn’t stuttered. “But I don’t even know what they look like. Now, I just want to go home.”

Izuku frowned, tilting his head in quiet contemplation. “Is getting the claw important to you?”

Hitoshi hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded. He didn’t care about the claw. Not really. But if he brought one back… maybe the others would treat him differently. Maybe they’d stop looking at him like he didn’t belong.

Izuku seemed to understand. He nodded once, then stood.

Hitoshi scrambled to follow, but the other boy quickly held up a hand. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

Before Hitoshi could protest, Izuku turned and sprinted toward the base of a massive tree. Then, without a second’s hesitation, he climbed.

Hitoshi barely bit back a startled noise. The other boy moved fast—too fast for someone his age. His hands and feet found perfect holds with practiced ease, his small form vanishing into the canopy like a ghost. The leaves swallowed him whole.

And just like that, Hitoshi was alone again.

The silence pressed in like a living thing. The forest, once ominous but bearable in Izuku’s presence, now felt vast and suffocating. The distant rustling of branches sent a shiver down his spine. Every shadow stretched too long, shifting with the faintest whisper of wind.

How much time had passed? Minutes? Hours?

A branch creaked.

Hitoshi spun, heart hammering. His throat tightened, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a plea.

Then—movement. A shadow dropped from the lowest branch with an effortless landing, the impact barely rustling the underbrush.

Hitoshi nearly threw himself at Izuku, unsure whether he wanted to hug him in sheer relief or smack him for vanishing in the first place.

He refrained—barely—but he still rushed forward, relief washing over him. Izuku just smiled and held out his hand. In his palm sat a tiny, curved claw. It was no bigger than a ring finger.

Hitoshi blinked. “What’s that?”

“A Sidewinder’s claw,” Izuku said proudly, pressing it into his hand. “They shed ‘em all the time, so it wasn’t hard to find one.”

Hitoshi turned it over in his fingers. It was tiny—no bigger than his pinky. He furrowed his brows. “B-But… it’s so small.”

Izuku giggled. “Well, yeah! Sidewinders aren’t that big. Only about this big.” He spread his hands slightly wider than his waist, trying to demonstrate. “They hunt in packs and have a bunch of eyes. And they fly sideways! That’s why they’re called Sidewinders!”

He kept talking, his words tumbling out in an excited rush. Hitoshi barely kept up, his exhausted brain struggling to process the boy’s enthusiasm. Someone his age, rambling about dragons like they were the most fascinating creatures in the world instead of nightmares lurking in the dark?

It was… strange. Endearing, even.

But Hitoshi was still cold, still jumpy, and still desperate to be home.

“Can you show me the way back?” he interrupted, sharper than he meant to.

Izuku blinked, suddenly sheepish. “O-Oh! Right, sorry! Momma says I mumble when I get excited…” He flushed, rubbing the back of his neck, before gesturing for Hitoshi to follow.

They walked mostly in silence after that.

Hitoshi stayed close—closer than he’d normally allow. The claw in his hand felt heavier than it should, its jagged edges pressing into his palm. He clutched it tightly, fingers wrapped around it like a lifeline.

The forest loomed around them, dark and endless, but with Izuku leading the way, for the first time all night… he wasn’t completely alone.

After countless twists and turns, the dense trees thinned out, revealing a distant glow. The faint remnants of firelight flickered against the horizon, smoke curling lazily into the sky. Relief flooded through him all at once. He was back. He hadn’t been eaten. He hadn’t gotten lost forever. And—most importantly—he had the dragon’s claw.

A shaky breath left his lips, and before he could think twice, he took a step forward, eager to reach the village. His shitty hut had never looked so welcoming. He was just about to break into a run when something yanked him back, fingers clamping firmly around his elbow.

His breath hitched.

“Izu—Izuku?” He turned, startled by the sudden grip. The younger boy’s face, which had been so full of excitement before, was now twisted with hesitation.

And despite the height difference, Izuku was surprisingly strong for a six-year-old.

Hitoshi’s arm was released, but Izuku still looked uneasy, shifting on his feet as if debating whether to speak at all. His voice, when it came, was soft but urgent.

“S-Sorry about that,” Izuku stammered, eyes flicking down. “Um, d-don’t tell anyone about me. Please?”

Hitoshi blinked. “What?”

Izuku bit his lip, then rushed to explain. “No one’s supposed to know my mom and I live out here. And I’m not supposed to talk to anyone, but you looked so scared, so I thought I could help. But my momma would be so mad if she found out, so please,” he looked up, wide green eyes pleading, “don’t tell anyone.”

Hitoshi stared at him. It wasn’t like he planned on telling people anyway—who would believe him? That he met some kid living deep in the woods with his mom? That some scrawny six-year-old helped him make it back in one piece? No one would buy that, not without proof. And the only proof he had was the claw.

Still, Izuku had helped him when no one else would. That had to count for something.

Mustering up his best reassuring smile, Hitoshi gave a small nod and patted the younger boy’s back, a bit awkwardly. “Uh… do-don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.” He hesitated, then added, “Thanks. For helping me back.”

Izuku let out a relieved sigh, his tense shoulders finally relaxing. Then, just as quickly, his usual bright smile returned. “No problem! Good luck with your friends!”

Hitoshi winced at the word friends but didn’t correct him. Instead, he turned and started walking, keeping his grip on the claw firm.

As he reached the edge of the village, something made him glance back.

The trees were far now, their branches swaying slightly under the night breeze. But high above, perched near the top of one, a shadowed figure sat, barely visible against the dark.

Hitoshi squinted. A faint glow flickered around the figure’s neck, the moonlight catching on something reflective. Something wrapped around their throat, glinting briefly before shifting out of sight.

His exhausted mind told him it was just a trick of the light.

Still, on instinct, he lifted a hand and waved.

The figure hesitated for a second—then bobbed in response. A quiet acknowledgment.

Then, just as swiftly as he had appeared, Izuku turned and leaped away. It only took three jumps before he vanished completely into the night, swallowed by the canopy.

Hitoshi lingered, watching until he was sure Izuku was gone.

Then, with the claw still clutched tightly in his palm, he turned on his heel and headed toward his hut, his steps just a little more confident.

Maybe now, with this claw, they’d finally see his worth.

Maybe, just maybe, things would get better.