The Molting Mark

Sera waits until the dragon settles into its slower breath, the kind that lifts the flank in long, even intervals. The scales along its side lie close and dark, each plate fitting into the next with a precision that leaves no room for doubt. She places her fingers at the edge of one that has begun to loosen, feeling where it has already lifted from what held it before.

It comes free with a soft tug. Warm at first, heavier than it looks once it rests in her hand. The dragon’s eye opens, just once, then closes again, as if marking the moment and letting it pass.

“You take one,” the keeper says from somewhere behind her. “The rest belong to the next season.”

Later, the chain is built to carry it without movement. The smaller pieces are set along the length, each one from a different shedding, each one shaped to sit where it won’t interfere with the whole. When worn, the central scale holds firm at the throat, while the others move slightly with each step — a measured record of what has been given, and what was allowed to be kept.