The Last Ember Road

The cartographer’s map ended where the dragon’s scales began. Beyond that line, roads were remembered rather than drawn: a ravine smelling of rain, a ruined watchtower, a valley where the moon rose green. She travelled there each spring, not as a rider, but as a witness. The dragon carried no saddle. It carried her maps, her bread, and the quiet certainty that some places are safest when they remain partly unknown.