Whispers of the Heart

The road to the Whispering Peaks was less a road and more a suggestion, a winding scar etched into the land that seemed to mock our ambition. Each step was a testament to our determination, and my own feet, usually so sure on the familiar cobbles of Riverbend, felt clumsy and uncertain on this uneven terrain. Beside me, Hope moved with a grace that always made my breath catch. Her black hair, usually tied back neatly, had a few escaped tendrils that danced around her face as she navigated the rocks with surprising agility. I found myself stealing glances, my gaze lingering a moment too long on the curve of her cheek, the way the sunlight caught the green of her eyes.

It was all rather ridiculous, really. Here we were, a band of hopefuls trekking towards a dragon’s den, and my biggest concern was whether I was staring too intently at the woman walking next to me. Bowen, bless his practical heart, seemed to have a sixth sense for my internal monologues of awkwardness. He’d fall back, a reassuring hand on my shoulder, and offer a gruff, “You alright, Gage?”

“Just… thinking,” I’d reply, my voice probably sounding far too high for a dragon slayer.