Waffles

Chapter 38: Dragon Confinement 

The decision was made, and Svend and Mirabel bid farewell to Fiora and Leoric with promises to return once their experiment was complete. Leif clung to Svend’s leg, reluctant to let his toy-making friend go, while Fiora pressed a basket of baked goods into Mirabel’s hands, whispering, “For strength.” Elara cooed from her cradle, oblivious to the departure, and Mirabel felt a pang of longing tempered by newfound resolve.

They chose a secluded cave high in the mountains, far from human eyes and dragon politics alike. It was a cozy hollow, warmed by a natural spring, with a wide ledge overlooking the valley. Svend set to work making it theirs—dragging in soft moss for a nest, stacking firewood, and even carving a crude shelf into the stone for Mirabel’s baking tools. “Just in case,” he said with a grin, knowing she’d miss her craft.

Mirabel shifted into her dragon form and settled in, her sapphire scales gleaming in the dim light. Svend joined her, his emerald form a comforting presence beside her. The first days were strange—Mirabel felt restless, her human instincts urging her to move, to bake, to do. But Euphemia’s words echoed in her mind: Patience. So she stayed, letting her dragon self take root, trusting her body to adjust. Svend kept her entertained with stories—some from Gregory, some from his own childhood—his deep dragon voice rumbling through the cave.

Months passed, and Mirabel began to feel a shift. It was subtle at first—a warmth deep within, a faint pressure that grew steadier each day. She didn’t dare hope too soon, but Svend noticed too, his ruby eyes lighting up as he pressed his snout gently to her side. “It’s bigger this time,” he whispered, awe in his tone. “Not a goose egg. A real one.”

The season stretched on, and the egg grew, a solid weight that anchored Mirabel to her dragon form. She felt strong, powerful, more dragon than she’d ever been. Svend hunted for them both, bringing back deer and wild boar, and they feasted together, their bond deepening in the quiet isolation. One evening, as the first snow dusted the ledge, Mirabel knew it was time. In her dragon form, trembling with effort, and with Svend’s steady claws softly guiding her, she laid the egg—a beautiful, iridescent orb the size of a melon, pulsing faintly with life.

They stared at it, breathless. They both shifted back to human form for the first time since their seclusion started. “It’s warm,” Mirabel said, cradling it close. “It’s alive.”

Svend wrapped his arms around her, tears in his eyes. “You did it, Mir. We did it.” They built a nest by the fire, piling it with furs and moss, and placed the egg within, watching it glow softly in the flickering light. The incubation would take time—two years, if it followed dragon norms—but they were ready to wait, to guard it, to hope.

To celebrate, Svend insisted on cooking again, rummaging through Mirabel’s tools to make something special. He emerged triumphantly with a tray of delicious waffles covered in warm strawberry jam and cool whip, grinning like a fool. “For our little dragon,” he said, and Mirabel laughed, the sound echoing through their cave. These are the waffles he made.