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Oisin finds out about it during Advanced Conjuration Theory, his last class of the day. It’s almost February, still cold enough for the faintest dusting of snow on the ground, and Oisin is fighting to sit still, to not tap his foot or lash his tail or give any sign, aside from the tight, menacing grip on his pencil, that he is bored out of his skull. School used to be interesting, thrilling even. Now it’s something to get through, something to endure while his skin crawls and his gut burns and lightning lashes behind his teeth, until the last bell rings and he can hightail it to the gym or the Far Haven woods and just punch something or kill something, anything to get rid of the awful itch of a burning sun scorching his veins. This is not sophomore year after, where he was annoyed by every little thing, or last semester when he had to grit his teeth and wrestle with feelings of rage, to try and pretend he was still a good guy. Oisin is a monster and he knows it, biting down vicious, conquering hatred every second of every day, fighting to be just a wizard, a boy, and not a roaring, furious dragon of an ancient, power-hungry bloodline, the scar on his chest burning his scales with the fire of an angry dawn. His ancestor would be proud.
He finds out about it when people start whispering in class. Crystal notifications, followed by gossip immediately passing via Message cantrips and feats of subtle spells. Oisin’s phone is in his bag, and he’s not all that close with the other wizards – before, he was shy and cerebral, and now- but the news is too juicy, the gossip too rich, and one of the Message spells manages to hit him, a voice he can’t place a name to, just knows vaguely from class, echoing in his head: The Oracle’s prediction came true.
Oisin straightens up, a surge of pride flaring, lip curling in a snarl of triumph. The closest he has to good feelings these days, the sheer blinding joy of his Oracle doing her work. She’s not taking Seacaster’s diamonds (he’d checked, vindictive and jealous, Ivy laughing at his petty grudge), but she’s doing the work, and Oisin loves her for it, with hungry, vicious need. The brightest, most perfect treasure a wizard dragon could ask for, steady and dedicated and good at her job. What prediction? he asks. She’s so good, a marvel, a sapphire gleaming with perfect facet cuts-
Fabian Seacaster, the voice chatters back, Fabian Seacaster just became the Oracle of Dance.
The pencil in Oisin’s grip shatters, shards flying at everyone within range. Wizards at the surrounding desks yelp and cast Sheild or duck for cover, and Oisin’s palm is bleeding, dripping from splinters as his vision goes hot, pure white with rage. He throws a Message at random, not caring who he hits. What the fuck happened? Even in his head, it comes out with bite.
She named Seacaster her champion, someone else crows. He beat some elf from the Court of Stars in a dance-off for her. Talk about Maximum Legend, for real!
Her champion. Oisin hears the bell ring; it’s the only thing that saves the room from certain death. He burns the spell slot, Dimension Doors straight to the woods – there’s fire in his chest, lighting in his throat, pure burning rage clouding his vision, and the second he’s alone he roars, shaking the trees. Lightning flashes out in a cone as more bark splinters, goes flying, and he screams again, a second powerful blow, forcing it out of his body with the sheer relief of destruction, cutting a swath through the woods with this gift his ancestor gave. It’s not enough, not fucking enough, and he burns another slot as a Thunderwave booms, a pure arc of damage sundering through the snow, followed by a Shatter as his fist hits the remnants of a tree. Two Chromatic Orbs, one after the other, his hands burning and crackling, needing to get it out, to have it be anywhere but tearing his fury-drunk body in two-
“Oisin, what the fuck?” Hands grip his shoulders, and he spins, landing a claw attack that has Ivy cursing, reeling back on her heels as vines shoot from the earth, her Ensnaring Strike biting with thorns as he’s pulled to the ground. Oisin snarls, snapping and fighting the grip, and Ivy gets her hands around his snout, crushing it closed so hard he bites his own tongue. “Get it together! Have you lost your bleeding mind?” Blood drips down her cheek, staining her top, and something inside Oisin roars in triumph, cut by the steel of her gaze. He wrestles himself back under control, still fuming. His jaw is held shut – good for her, or he’d light her up too – but he manages to bite out half of Seacaster’s name and a curse. Understanding dawns in her eyes and she scowls. “’Course you fucking heard.” She releases her hold, stepping back, and shouts over her shoulder, “It’s alright, it’s just Oisin freaking out!” With a snap of her fingers, the vines come down. Trembling, in a stalemate with rage, Oisin stays prone on the ground.
If he stands, he’s going to kill her, he thinks. He doesn’t want to. He’s just so fucking mad. It’s all the effort in the world to stay down.
He hears footsteps racing up, stuttering to a stop, followed by a slower tread. To Ruben, Ivy snaps, “Get a Calm Emotions on him, now.”
“But he looks-“
“I don’t care how he looks,” she spits. “I said Calm Emotions. Or I’ll let him claw your pretty face too.”
Obediently, Ruben hits a chord on his guitar, echoing around the clearing. It washes over them all, and suddenly Oisin can breathe, hears his party take that same inhalation in unison, in unexpected relief. He slumps forward, panting hard, the all-consuming fury ebbing to simple exhaustion and hate. He chances a look up: Ivy looks angry but concerned, Rueban sullen and unsure. Mary Ann is behind them, not looking at anybody, nose buried deep in one of her Tamagotchi games. Kipperlilly is nowhere to be seen. Probably still at some club, or sucking up like a good little mentee. Buddy…Oisin doesn’t give a shit about Buddy.
“You know the big guy hates it when we use that spell,” Ruben says, the words breaking into a mumble when Ivy rounds on him with a glare. “I’m just saying.”
“Professor Cliffbreaker can go fuck himself,” Ivy retorts. She looks back to Oisin, offering out her hand. “You alright?”
He lets himself take it, and she hauls him to his feet. He’s still shaking, he thinks, fists clenched so hard he can feel the splinters shoving deeper. They’ll be a nightmare to pick out. The faintest traces of his blood are smeared across the snow by his feet, the rest of the ground disturbed by the sheer destructive force of his spells, the trampling of clawed footprints. In the distance, a tree creaks and falls, shredded to bits by his lightning. A dragon on a rampage.
“No,” he manages, the syllable a snarl in his mouth he can’t help. “I’m not fucking alright.” There are scratches across his scales, button-down torn from the vines. Another chord from Ruben, minor this time, and he feels some of the ache go away. He shoots him a look, vicious and prideful, and Ruben just rolls his eyes, studying the ground. He doesn’t ask for thanks for the heal, even sarcastically. Oisin wouldn’t give it to him if he did. Ivy lifts a hand, and a Fog Cloud of cover rolls out, closing them in and offering privacy.
She turns back to Oisin. “What exactly did you hear?”
Just the thought makes his breath weapon light again, Ruben’s spell the only thing keeping it down. Thirty seconds left, at best. He takes a deep breath. “She- she made Seacaster her champion for some stupid dance-“
“Yeah. Some Oracle thing, I heard.”
“And I just-“ Oisin snarls. His tail slaps the ground, kicking up puffs of snow. Mary Ann’s eyes flick up, and then fall placidly back to her game. He pictures Seacaster’s smug face, the fighter-bard twirling Adaine around, tucking her tight to his side as some other high-elf submits to his claim. “I want to kill him,” he hisses. “He doesn’t deserve her.” She didn’t use his diamonds, all fucking year – did he even offer? Oisin offered, and he’s so fucking proud, Adaine doing the work even when she couldn’t say yes. A dragon, offering to part with his hoard. Did Seacaster do that? Oisin doesn’t think so, his mouth curling into another growl at the thought of the selfish, arrogant-
“Alright, alright!” Ivy holds her hands up, “Let’s not burn any more spell slots, yeah? Still got training to do. Unless you’re planning on clawing the monsters to death.” And Oisin blinks, staring down at his fingertips, halfway into another, instinctual burst of furious light. He extinguishes the spell with a shudder, disgusted, and Ivy nods in approval. There’s derision in her expression, but there always is, these days. She’s still looking out for him, even if the condescension in her gaze makes Oisin want to rip her throat out more often than not. Condescension isn’t rage, isn’t hate, and he has to remember that. His draconic pride doesn’t make it easy, wants to tear out her tongue and make her feel small.
“She’s mine,” he bites out, snarling at Ruben’s wince, growling when Ivy rolls her eyes. “Not Seacaster’s. She’s part of my fucking hoard-“
“Not she’s fucking not,” Ivy snaps back, and the rage swells, another lightning blast behind the teeth before she says, “Not yet, she’s not.” She huffs, pushing an irate hand back through her brown hair. “I didn’t want to have to play the fucking grown-up here, but since your braincells are apparently taking a hormonal vacation, let me spell it out for you, yeah? The Oracle? Is his. Their fucking party. Not yours.” Oisin goes to retort, and she holds up a finger, sharp as a knife. “I’m talking now. So he’s her champion. So what? Seacaster’s a moron, a show-off running around playing legend. Keep your shit together, and you can be her hero.” Her voice drips with disdain. “You do want to be her hero, don’t you? Little baby dragonborn, playing all white knight in armor?”
Oisin hears a crack in his jaw at how hard he’s gritting his teeth. Between them, he hisses, “So what if I do?” He deserves it, deserves her. The only one offering to help. If she’d have just let him, back on that night-
“So,” Ivy drawls, rolling her eyes again. “The big guy’s putting it all into place. Applebees will fail this semester, and they’ll take the Last Stand. And you know what it means when they do.”
Images, lit like stormy flashes in his mind. A broken body, wide blue eyes. A cry wrenched from pretty pink lips and then choked off. A rumble starts, all the way in the back of his throat. “She can’t- I won’t let her-“
“She has to die,” Ivy snaps. “That’s what he wants.” She jabs a finger at Oisin’s chest. “They all die, and they fail, and then what do you do?” He blinks, question lost in the urge to bite the digit off, and she finishes, “You bring her back to life. Your fucking princess, all resurrected with true love’s fucking kiss. Who needs a champion who can’t even do that?”
Her words hit him like a blow, like an arrow through the chest. It…makes sense, actually. A whole lot of sense, the kind of practical, no-nonsense sense he’s always relied on from Ivy, tactically straight to the heart. Oisin reels back, letting that play out in his mind. Adaine’s body in his arms. Her little cough and shudder, clinging to him as she surges back to life. Her staring up at him, thankful and awestruck. His Oracle. His treasure. Adaine Abernant, the crown jewel of his hoard. All of the fairytale, dragon and knight rolled up into one.
“O-okay,” he manages, breathing shaky. She’d be so grateful. He loves her so much. He nods, slow and even, fighting back for control. Ride the storm, a sheòid. His mother’s favorite wisdom. Don’t let it control you. “Okay,” he says again. “That, I can do.”
“Thought you might,” Ivy sneers, but he can hear her relief. She might have won the argument, but he won the fight. She’s scared. Good. She should be. There’s a leveled forest around them, and she should be very, very afraid.
Distantly, he wonders if Lucy was afraid. She was their friend too. Her ribcage crushed all the same.
“You keep from killing Seacaster,” Ivy says, “and everything goes according to plan.” She smirks. “If Copperkettle can keep Applebees breathing, surely that won’t be so hard?”
Oisin growls at her, and her smile just grows. It’s not the same. Kipperlilly is a halfling, a little mastermind in a petty feud. Oisin is a dragon. Seacaster is threatening his hoard.
Still, he nods. He’ll keep it together, even as the rage rumbles and boils in his stomach, threatening lightning. Threatening storm. He’ll stick to the plan, even if it kills him to do it.
A few weeks later, he sends Adaine a Message, one hand in his pocket as he points for the spell. The rage hasn’t abated – won’t ever abate – but Ivy sorted that for him too, nicking some gizmo from the artificer classroom with Ruben’s intel. All he has to do is squeeze it, a few charges a day, and it helps keep the rage down. Enough, at least, to keep him from tearing Seacaster’s other eye out.
He Messages Adaine a “Sorry,” and it’s purely sincere. He can’t offer her diamonds this time. He wishes he could. He’ll make it up to her, he promises himself. A mountain of jewels, all the eggs she could ask for. Spell scrolls and components, whatever she needs. Every princess needs a knight, and a dragon’s hoard. Adaine will have that, and more.
If she has to die to get it, well. Oisin is a monster. He’s not going to pretend, anymore.