Chapter Text
Rain lashed the cliffs for three unrelenting days, its drumming against stone the only sound in the cavern beyond the steady drip of water seeping through limestone cracks. The smell of wet earth settled on him like a cloak—thick, stale, suffocating.
Born to be a dragon, yet here he was, living like a worm. He cleared his throat with a grimace. Even his mouth tasted like dirt.
Grounded wings itched between his shoulder blades, begging to be set free. But there was no choice except to wait out the storm. He was bored, yes, but not reckless enough to fly in these abysmal conditions. With nothing to do, he surveyed the treasure scattered about him yet again. Once, they had brought him something resembling satisfaction—joy, even—but now, all he felt was a mounting irritation. Cobwebs draped from the ceiling like shrouds, dust coating every surface in a gray pall. Swords and guns jutted from alcoves at odd angles; gold coins and precious gems littered the dirt floor like glittering debris while fur pelts lay crumpled across bolts of silk and other finery.
Sixteen centuries sealed away in the Abyss, and this was what he was coming back to: A housekeeping project for the ages.
He rubbed his face wearily and stretched upon the chaise, eyes tracing the spider-web cracks in the limestone ceiling. Nothing had changed in his absence—a fact that should have comforted him, yet filled him only with gnawing restlessness.
Was this it? Was he supposed to pick up where he left off before he was sealed away? Continue the war that had wiped out his kind? And for what—more revenge? What came after that?
Frankly, he doubted he could muster the enthusiasm for another campaign against those maggots. After sixteen centuries, he’d expected the Legion of Justitia to develop some tactical sophistication, yet they remained as uninspired and pathetic as before—if not worse. Only courtesy had kept him from yawning as he watched their soldiers tear one another apart in the Sanctum like rabid beasts.
What he needed was a challenge, an adversary worthy of his time...
“ Better amuse yourself at my expense while you can. Who knows? My next gift to you might just be your death. ”
Mouthy little witch. According to Mephisto’s intelligence, she’d been a high-ranking member of the Legion’s junior Inquisition cadre—the “Princess” of Ivory City, they’d called her. Admittedly, she possessed a certain allure, but if her combat skills were considered elite, then the League sorely needed to re-evaluate their assessment criteria. And replace all their instructors. He still wasn’t sure which of them had been more embarrassed when he’d disarmed her in less than a heartbeat.
Stifling a yawn, he wondered what transgression had turned them against her. It wouldn’t surprise him if her fall from grace had been over something ridiculous—breathing too loudly, perhaps. Heresy encompassed all manner of sins in Ivory City, and guilt required little evidence. One didn’t even need to challenge their rigid doctrines; appearing different was reason enough for persecution.
She wasn’t the first heretic the Legion had condemned to the Abyss. Scores had preceded her—old, young, infirm—and he’d watched every single one perish during his imprisonment. It was the only entertainment he’d had while pinned to that cliff like some monstrous specimen. A good number of them had clutched prayer beads, calling upon deaf gods for salvation. Others continued to proclaim their innocence even as the Wanderers closed in. All had proven weak and worthless to their last breath.
All save her. A voice whispered that he was tempting Fate by bringing her back, that he should have ended her in the chapel, but he silenced it. Her blazing defiance had called to him like a siren’s song—he’d sensed it before glimpsing her pale, bruised form emerging from the crimson mist. It had stirred something dormant in him, something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
That she was the sword’s designated master made matters more interesting still. The witch seemed unaware of her powers—or purpose. He had caught her trying to call out the sword when she thought he wasn’t looking but each attempt merely resulted in a string of curses more colourful than the last, to his endless amusement.
Of course Fate would appoint a slip of a girl who couldn’t even summon her weapon to be his executioner. He should have been insulted, but time had inured him to Her twisted sense of humour.
Though at the rate things were going, he’d probably die of old age before she made any real progress. And so he’d given her a nudge to speed things along.
“ Let this be your first lesson. Before the mark disappears, you have two more chances to kill me. Prove to me that you can become stronger . ”
Nothing like adversity to draw out one’s survival instincts—he knew this better than anyone. It was how he’d become what he was. But whether or not she’d rise to the challenge, that was another question altogether: Would she gain mastery over the sword and embrace her powers, or fritter away her time and end up just another offering—like all the souls that came before?
The fire in her eyes as she’d struggled against him told him she wasn’t mere bluster. Good. He needed a diversion from the tedium of existence. He’d been curious to see what she’d do next, had even considered allowing her the first three strikes as motivation. Perhaps, if his mood allowed it and she showed promise, he might even offer a pointer or two.
However, instead of acting with the urgency of one whose soul was on the line, she was spending her time... moping.
Since witnessing the carnage that the Legion had unleashed upon Ivory City, she’d grown distant and melancholy. No longer venturing outside or exploring the lair, no longer needling him with veiled barbs. Instead, she passed hours in her chamber just staring into space—or so Mephisto reported. He couldn’t say he understood her distress. He’d have thought she, of all people, would be glad to see the end of that stifling, puritanical hellhole.
Shaking his head, his gaze fell upon a blade lying beside the chaise. Ah, the Fiendbane. Had she abandoned it after slinking off in defeat? Perhaps the time had come to remind her that the clock was ticking. Every moment spent indulging useless emotions meant her soul was closer to being his. Surely she’d want to avoid such a fate?
Maybe a different weapon—something more menacing—would spur her to action. He considered his arsenal thoughtfully. The humans who’d tracked him to his lair had devised such creative methods for his destruction. Pity their skills hadn’t matched their enthusiasm.
He rose from his resting place. Yes, he had just the thing—an exquisite hand-forged meteor hammer with blades coated in basilisk venom. While it wouldn’t kill him, he knew from experience that even a nick would prove unpleasant. He merely hoped she wouldn’t be careless enough to cut herself with it. That would be most unfortunate.
With a smirk, he began rifling through chests and boxes in search of the weapon.
For the first time since his return from the Abyss, he felt his spirits rise a little.
oOo
That witch seemed to have forgotten she lived solely through his mercy.
According to Mephisto, she’d barely acknowledged the weapon it had left on her dressing table two days prior.
Or the trinket box of rubies he had picked out, on account of her obsession with his eye. He recalled how hers had practically sparkled when she’d clutched that insignificant red gemstone on her first day in his lair, clinging to it even while realising her precarious position. If such a trifle could capture her attention, surely the treasures he’d selected would prove irresistible?
Unfortunately, there was no accounting for what was going on in that witch’s head. She really was fortunate to have encountered him rather than another demon.
“What’s wrong with her?”
The crow tilted its head, fixing him with a look that seemed to say, “You brought her back—why are you asking me?”
He cursed the soul resonance between them as he incinerated cobwebs and banished dust with a sharp snap of his fingers. Since she’d drawn that blasted sword, her emotions had been seeping into his consciousness like smoke under a door. They were predictable for the most part—banal fantasies about killing him, nothing new there. But this prolonged gloom was different. It pulsed against his skull like a second heartbeat, creating a dull throbbing behind his eyes that made his jaw clench. Maybe this was how she was planning to kill him—not by impaling him with the sword, but by driving him mad.
Coins and gemstones arced back into their respective chests, filling the den with a rhythmic patter that echoed off the walls.
“Wait! Killing me is easy. But I’ll be of far better use to you if you spare me…”
Better use? He scoffed. She was nothing but a ghost of the witch who had made a deal with him to live. And ghosts were useless, their souls little more than withered husks. Perhaps it was time to remind her that he wasn’t keeping her around for the pleasure of her company.
An iridescent glint caught his eye, winking at him from beneath a cascade of displaced treasure. He stalked toward it, mood fouling with each step, and kicked aside a battered wooden chest. The impact sent a sharp crack echoing through the chamber. Plunder from a bygone era spilled across the stone floor: diamond-crusted diadems that caught the dim light like captured stars, brooches shaped like extinct birds with jeweled eyes, ornate crucifixes heavy enough to crack skulls.
Crap. That was what it was. A priceless, extravagant pile of crap.
Why did humans make these things? More importantly, why did he even have them? Oh right, he was a dragon, and dragons were supposed to hoard treasure. Did that make him a walking cliché? A perverse satisfaction coursed through him as he ground the glittering debris beneath his heel, relishing the sound of precious metals warping and gems cracking. As he raised his hand to incinerate the rest, something snagged his attention. He frowned as he lifted it from the pile—a braided cord of weathered leather, its uneven weave unmistakably childish. He turned it over in his palm, feeling the roughened surface, the way certain sections had been pulled too tight while others sagged loose.
It was nothing special, just—
He paused, peering at the discreet markings on the loop knot securing the bracelet’s end.
Oh.
Memory struck like a blade between the ribs, sharp and unexpected. They were adaptations of symbols the dragons had used.
He had made this.
The den around him seemed to blur at the edges as he was thrust back in time, suddenly fourteen again and sitting alone beneath a massive elm tree, its shadow stretching long across the grass like the wings of dragons long dead. His fingers had worked clumsily at the leather strips, brows furrowed in concentration, while laughter rang out around him from the other children. He had been shy, awkward, unsure of his place in the world…
Weak, growled the beast within him.
He remembered wanting so desperately to be accepted by those he considered his own kind. He’d always regarded himself as human, didn’t understand why Fate had forced him to live among a commune of overgrown reptiles.
When his horns first sprouted, he had been sick with horror. He’d taken a blade to them immediately, sawing through cartilage and ignoring the blood streaming down his face. The pain had been nothing compared to the anguish of knowing he was a freak.
It hadn't taken long to learn that even without horns, he would never be accepted as human. When the soldiers brought him to the village after the siege, people had pointed at his hair and eyes, marking him as cursed. His silver hair had caught light like spun moonbeams, too otherworldly for the villagers’ parochial sensibilities, and the dark penetrating gaze of his eyes had made the adults flinch with uneasiness.
No matter his efforts at good behavior, stares and whispers followed, their words leaving scars long before their blades did, each cruel comment carving deeper into his sense of self until he’d learned to build walls around the wounded places.
A dull weight settled in his chest as he studied his younger self’s handiwork again, turning the withered band over.
The village children had called these things…what was it…friendship bands? Or some such nonsense. He’d watched them exchange the ones they had made with one another, bright smiles and promises of forever accompanying each gift.
He couldn’t remember if he’d intended to give it to someone. In any case, it didn’t matter now.
He watched dispassionately as the leather in his palm curled and blackened under a swirl of black mist. Soon, there was nothing left but ash.
In the stillness of the den, the soot drifted to the floor like snow. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant drip of water through limestone.
That boy was dead. The Abyss had burned him away, leaving behind a creature that had no use for sentiment and foolish dreams of belonging.
To survive, one only needed teeth, claws, and the will to use them.
Everything else was a weakness, and weakness was death.
oOo
He heard it while soaring above the forest—a small, persistent voice refusing to be silenced by the wind’s howling.
A Tarean wildcat, still a kitten judging by its stubby tail. They’d been common once, back when dragons had presided over Philos’s natural habitats. It hissed at his approach, amber eyes wide, retreating into the undergrowth.
“Too late.” The creature yowled and writhed as he lifted it by the scruff, its tiny claws raking uselessly at the air. “Such a noisy little thing. It’s a wonder you’re still alive.”
Up close, he could see the sharp jut of its ribs beneath matted fur, could smell the sickly stench of infestation from the festering wounds on its hind leg.
“Looks like you haven’t seen your mother in a while.”
Only a hiss answered him. He shook his head and turned his attention to its injuries. Red and black mist flowed over the damaged limb, incinerating maggots and sealing flesh within moments.
He released it to the ground, watching it stumble before finding balance. It looked up at him, confusion replacing fear.
“You’re on your own now,” he said sternly, arms folded as the kitten flopped onto its back, exposing its tawny belly. The vulnerability of the gesture made something within him twist uncomfortably. “I’ve interfered quite enough.”
Memories surfaced of his early years in the Abyss—thrust into darkness with only rage, grief, and remembrance for company. He’d cowered in the undergrowth much like this kitten, wounds still fresh from the villagers’ and soldiers’ assaults, understanding that survival came down to one thing: Kill or be killed.
And he’d been determined to live. Regardless of what he had to become.
He wouldn’t make the same mistake the dragons in the valley had made. They’d been guardians of Philos’s wilds—peace-loving fools who recognised too late that the arriving humans shared neither their pacifist ideals nor their reverence for the land. Their powers, unlike his, had been benign, concerned with nature and the elements. By the time of his appearance among them, propaganda had already painted dragons as soul-devouring demons, driving them to their final stronghold in the valley beyond what would eventually become Tarus City.
A sharp pricking sensation drew him from his thoughts. He raised an eyebrow at the kitten clinging to his leg like a burr.
He clicked his tongue, watching with reluctant amusement as it continued its ascent, clamouring loudly all the while. “I don’t need a pet—”
He paused, studying the creature with new interest. Small, troublesome, impossibly vocal, and utterly unaware of when to quit.
“Hmm,” he muttered, lips twitching at the thought of a certain witch who had finally crawled out of the lair, only to stare mournfully at the burning pile of rubble that had once been Ivory City. “The resemblance is…remarkable.”
As the kitten reached his hip, still airing its grievances to the world, inspiration struck. He grasped it by the scruff once more, ignoring its indignant squeak. Perhaps what the wench needed was something that would demand her attention, something that wouldn’t tolerate being ignored the way she had dismissed his gifts.
His solitary existence had made him forget how…what was the word for it? Ah, yes… needy humans could be. The village children from his previous life had done everything in groups, even mundane tasks like drawing water or kicking a ball. When they’d cried over some trivial matter, adults would fuss over them, a compulsion he had never understood.
The mere thought of being offered words of solace or comfort made him recoil. He had weathered his losses on his own, but humans, it seemed, were different.
He took to the skies, cradling the kitten against his chest as the wind whipped through his hair. Insolent though she was, the witch wasn’t cruel—of that, he was certain. She’d look after it, and perhaps it would provide whatever comfort she seemed to require.
And put an end to that insufferable mood of hers.
“Stop struggling. I’m not going to eat you. You’re nothing but skin and bones anyway.” He closed his eyes, savouring the wind’s caress against his face and the way it carried the woodsy scent of rain-soaked earth. Even the beast within had stilled, soothed by the gentle pastels of the deepening evening sky. How he’d missed this—the freedom of flight, the exhilaration of racing through the heavens, the blessed emptiness of simply being without thought or memory.
The abandoned cathedral’s spire pierced the forest canopy, its shadow stretching like a sword pointing at his lair. Instead of the coiling dread that had once gripped him when she was merely a hazy vision in his mind, he found that the knot in his gut had faded. How would they reach that place? Perhaps they never would at all.
“We’re here.” He ascended the lair’s steps and placed the kitten before her chamber. “Go,” he said, nudging it forward. “Find your kin. She’ll take care of you.”