Cynthia — Episode 1

Before she was my mother, she was a golden terror sleeping in the deep And my father, foolish as he was, did not bring a sword He brought a brush He returned every sunset not to conquer her, but to understand The portrait was done yet he returned Not to capture her, but to be near And she did not look at her likeness anymore She only looked at him That night, she left her ancient solitude to meet him as an equal A mortal painter and a golden dragon bound by a pact that would change our blood forever Out of their sacred pact, I was born A mortal child bearing the fire of a golden dragon My song is for the broken Hand over the gold, little elf! My mother's fire is not for thieves