I ran after her, every worst-case thought crashing in at once. 

By the time I reached her, my heart was in my throat.

When I finally coaxed her out, I froze.

Izzy wasn’t grey anymore.

She was black—dark from nose to tail, a deep, inky color I had never seen on her before. Not sick. Not injured. Just pure, unmistakable fear made visible. Her body pressed tight, eyes wide, every instinct screaming danger.

Whatever she heard, it was enough.

I held her until her color slowly returned, grey seeping back in like dawn after a long night. She calmed. The house quieted. The yard went on like nothing had happened.

But I never forgot that moment.

Izzy taught me something that day: dragons hear what we can’t. They know before we do. And when they run, they’re not being dramatic.

They’re being smart.