Work Text:
You're no knight, the red dragon said, eyeing the human dubiously. The man smelled fetchingly of silver, but rather more of the Dark. Mage, then?
"Prophet," his visitor corrected him, staring up with a frank, unafraid smile. That was odd--humans tended to run screaming at the sight of him, mostly 'away,' occasionally 'toward' with swords upraised--but odder still was how the shadows clung to the man without stealing his brightness: the silver of his arms, the gold of his hair.
Ah. Well, if you're here for treasure, he said, you're welcome to it. Except the weapons, he added sharply, eyes narrowing. Those you shouldn't touch.
"I'm sure you don't expect me to use them on you," the prophet replied, amused.
No. The human had claws of his own, pretty ones. But I like them better than jewels.
The prophet's laughter was a bright, rare thing itself, and he found himself listening entranced, eyes wide and intent, every muscle coiled tight until even the echoes faded away.
"You're an odd one, dragon. What do I call you?"
Ash, he said, resisting the urge to slink closer, to pounce and take and hoard. Pretty, pretty claws. Even the man's skin must taste of silver.
"Ash," the prophet repeated. "You may call me 'Sydney.' And you will probably call me quite often," the human added with a swift, quirking smile, "because I haven't come for your jewels or your swords. I've come for your books," he explained, lifting a single claw to point at the roof of Ash's lair. "Upstairs. In the old castle above."
The books? He hadn't realized those could be treasure as well.
"I suppose I'm a bit of a mage after all, enough to be lured by hidden grimoires. But as you've guarded them so diligently," Sydney purred, waving a negligent hand that Ash followed hungrily with his eyes, "however am I to repay you?"