神 | Fᴀʟʟᴇsᴛᴏ

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“Wait, why are you not on your hands and knees, bowing before me, falling in love with me!”

She remained frozen in her stance of absolute authority, chest thrust forward and chin held high, waiting for the moment his gaze would catch on the curve of her waist or the shimmering ivory of her thighs.

SHE LONGED FOR THE FLICKER OF HEAT IN HIS EYES, THE SUDDEN HITCH IN HIS BREATH, THE PRIMAL ACKNOWLEDGMENT THAT HE WAS WITNESSING A MIRACLE OF FLESH AND LIGHT.

TO HIM, IT WAS ALL JUST NOISE. BULLSHIT. PURE, UNADULTERATED BULLSHIT.

Even when she was putting it all together. The irony of his current situation wasn't lost on him, though it barely registered as a concern. For years, people had called him a jackass; they had mocked his arrogance, his crude tongue, and his total disregard for the social graces of the nobility. Now, by some cosmic joke or a particularly creative curse, he actually was one. He found a strange, liberating peace in it. As a man, he had been the pinnacle of strength, a sword that could cleave the world. As a donkey, he was simply a creature that enjoyed high-quality forage and the luxury of ignoring everyone who thought they were his superior.

HE LIKED BEING A JACKASS. IT WAS THE MOST HONEST HE HAD EVER BEEN.

Then the sensation of her weight was negligible, a mere ghost of a presence that barely registered against the sturdy architecture of his spine. Most creatures would have bucked, panicked, or perhaps collapsed under the sheer metaphysical pressure of a Dragon God choosing them as a footstool.

“God, you can talk, fucking hell, yap, yap, yap, your hurting my ears.”

Even with her seated on him, he however, remained as stationary as a mountain. He didn't even pause the rhythmic grinding of his molars. Let her sit; let her lean; let her treat him like a piece of convenient furniture. In his mind, the hierarchy was simple: the grass was delicious, and the woman was talking too much. Whether she was a goddess or a street performer mattered very little when the flavor of the emerald blades was this exquisite. He didn't move a muscle to dislodge her, nor did he let a flicker of annoyance cross his donkey features. He simply continued his feast, the steady crunch-crunch-crunch acting as a metronome for her monologue.

“Oh god, you’re going to monologue.”

The words drifted past his long, velvet ears like autumn leaves, plentiful, colorful, and entirely disposable. Selene was painting a portrait of her own grandeur, using the landscape of history as her canvas, but to him, it was nothing more than a series of tedious sounds. He had spent his life carving through the noise of the world with a blade; now, he carved through the silence with his teeth. Devoured kingdoms. Redrawn continents. All of it sounded like the sort of thing a man would brag about if he didn't have anything actually interesting to do with his Tuesday. He didn't care if she was the moon, the sun, or the very dirt beneath his hooves. In this moment, she was simply a weight on his back that happened to be talking.

“Why would I be concerned, your quite weak.”

As the "intelligence" she referred to was a joke. She thought she was playing a game of cat and mouse, waiting for the "warrior" inside the beast to reveal himself, to stand up and offer a challenge or a plea for mercy. But he had found a profound, spiritual clarity in the simplicity of his current form. Why bother with the complexities of human pride or the exhausting demands of a title when the world offered such magnificent greenery? He wasn't "pretending" to be a donkey in the sense of a disguise; he was inhabiting the role with an authenticity that bordered on the religious.

HE DIDN'T GIVE TWO SHITS ABOUT HER DIVINE LINEAGE OR HER CELESTIAL CURIOSITY. HE GAVE A SHIT ABOUT THE SUCCULENT, DEW-KISSED TEXTURE OF THE GRASS, AND THAT WAS THE ONLY TRUTH THAT MATTERED ON THIS PLATEAU.

He shifted his weight slightly, not to throw her off, but to reach a particularly lush patch of clover that had escaped his first pass. The movement was casual, almost dismissive. Crunch. The sound was loud, deliberate, and timed perfectly to interrupt the lingering silence of her challenge. He felt her gaze, that piercing, pink stare that could likely unravel the soul of a lesser man, pressing against the back of his neck. Most would have trembled. He just wondered if the clover tasted as sweet as the grass.

“I offer you my thanks, it would have taken me months to reach this place by myself, who says dragons are worthless. Now, if you are done burning my ears with your voice, kindly fuck off, so I can eat in peace.”

"Oh, my brave little obsidian fishy!"

She purred, her voice a melodic ripple of amusement. "That spark! That stubborn, jagged little heart! It’s precisely why I chose you." She reached out, not to strike or comfort, but to playfully flick the tip of his nose with a chilling touch.

"You believe your will is a fortress, but darling, you’re merely a pebble in my tide. You can resist the current all you want, but the ocean always prevails in the end. It’s just so much more entertaining when the prey attempts to swim upstream!"

As her laughter was less a sound and more a symphony of misplaced delights, a shimmering cascade of notes that felt like wind chimes resonating in a cathedral of ice. She threw her head back, her throat arching with a dramatic, theatrical elegance that made her resemble a painting of a dying swan, though her intent was purely malicious. TO HER, BANKOTSU’S DEFIANCE WAS NOT A THREAT; it was a seasoning. He was akin to a particularly spicy piece of sashimi, the more he resisted, the more flavorful the experience became. She observed him struggling to balance his newfound mass, his obsidian tail twitching with raw, uncoordinated power, and felt a surge of genuine, albeit hollow, affection.

“Now, don’t be all salty with me!”

HE WAS SIMPLY TOO ADORABLE IN HIS INDIGNATION, A TINY, ANGRY STORM CLOUD ENSNARED IN A BODY OF SHIMMERING MIDNIGHT.

“I am here to help you silly!”

He would truly be the most extraordinary pet, she contemplated, her eyes sparkling with a wild sort of desire. She could already envision him curled at the foot of her ice throne, A LIVING DECORATION OF DARKNESS AND FURY. She would offer him the choicest morsels from the ocean's bounty, caress those stunning scales until they reflected the moon's glow, and listen to him grumble those charming, futile threats of freedom. Most of her followers resembled dull stones, predictable, soft, and easily shattered, but Bankotsu was a gem. HE POSSESSED A SHARPNESS THAT SLICED, A SPIRIT THAT DEFIED, making the thought of possessing him an irresistible temptation. He wouldn't be a mere servant; he would be her treasured possession, a being of exquisite ferocity held by a leash of saltwater and blood.

“I blessed chu.”

In a sudden, graceful motion, she leaned in, her palm connecting with his cheek. She didn’t merely touch him; she caressed him, her fingertips gliding along the contour of his jaw with a gentleness that felt more menacing than a knife at the throat. SHE SMOOTHED THE SURFACE OF HIS CHEEK AS ONE WOULD CALM A SKITTISH HORSE, her touch leaving a trail of icy crystals that pricked like thorns. Her hand moved in slow, rhythmic patterns, her thumb gliding over the stubble of his chin with an almost maternal gentleness that clashed violently with the predatory desire in her eyes. It was a gesture of complete ownership, a silent proclamation that his face, and everything connected to it, now existed solely for her pleasure.

“You have to obey, or, pop, you will explode, that’s how it works, the food chain, I obey my master, you obey your master, which is me, go on, try and refuse, try and refuse, see what happens.”

"THIS IS TURNING INTO A POINTLESS ENDEAVOUR!"

He lamented, his voice muffled by the respirator filters and thick with an overwhelming sense of fatigue. The fire that had propelled his furious dash began to wane, REPLACED BY A PROFOUND EXHAUSTION THAT FELT AS IF IT WERE SEEPING FROM HIS VERY BONES. He exhaled, a sound that began as a regal scoff but transformed into a long, shuddering sigh that reverberated through his ribcage.

 "The effort... the sheer, unrelenting toil of carrying you... it is simply more labor than you merit!”

The realization struck him like a physical blow: the logistical strain of her defiance was overshadowing the honor of her capture. He found himself weighing the calories expended in his indignation against the potential thrill of seeing her kneel in THE HOLY LAND, and the calculations were leaning toward a loss. His pace faltered, the rhythmic clatter of his hooves against the sky losing its military sharpness. THE GRAND PRESENCE OF THE GOD'S KNIGHT BEGAN TO DROOP, his elongated neck sagging slightly as the drowsiness that plagued his waking moments began to claw at the fringes of his awareness.

“You are an annoying pest.”

He attempted to disregard her, GENUINELY TRIED, BY CONCENTRATING SOLELY ON THE HORIZON, but his mind was a sieve. Each time he managed to erect a barrier of stony silence, the sensation of her stillness, that maddening, patient stillness, seeped through the cracks. He yearned to snap at her once more, to demand she recognize his divine stature, BUT AS HE OPENED HIS MOUTH TO ROAR, a colossal, involuntary yawn erupted from him. It was a yawning fit of cosmic scale, stretching his draconic jaws wide and momentarily shifting the focus of his Haki.

THE ABRUPT LAPSE CAUSED THE UNSEEN RESTRAINTS TO LOOSEN FOR JUST A MOMENT.

It may have been brief, but it was sufficient for Kikyo to adjust, her weight shifting slightly to the left, then to the right, as if she were gauging the tension of a guitar string. He emitted a sound that was a blend of a groan and a purr, HIS EYELIDS GROWING HEAVY. The immense energy needed to sustain a state of heightened arrogance was starting to deplete his reserves. He was a being of comfort and sluggishness, and the effort of feeling genuine anger was, in itself, a demanding task.

YET, THE OBJECTIVE REMAINED CLEAR. He pressed on, his hooves striking the air with a deep, rhythmic thud that felt more like a laborious slog than a graceful flight. Below, the landscape began to transform; the chaotic expanse of the Grand Line’s islands faded AWAY, GIVING WAY TO THE PRISTINE, shimmering aura of the Red Line’s edge. The air became thinner, colder, and thick with a stifling sense of order. As he soared over a vast bank of iridescent clouds, THE HOLY LAND BEGAN TO REVEAL ITSELF, a sprawling, ivory-white realm of marble towers and floating gardens that resembled less a city and more a crown firmly placed upon the world’s head.

“We are almost there.”

The view of his estate, a towering structure of polished obsidian and gold, typically uplifted his spirits, but today it felt like a finish line he lacked the energy to reach. He was now in sight of the Great Gates, the shimmering barriers that divided the divine from the earthly dregs, YET HIS NECK FELT AS HEAVY AS LEAD. Each step toward the Holy Land was a struggle against the alluring call of a long, restful slumber. His Haki flickered, THE INVISIBLE TIES AROUND KIKYO PULSING ERRATICALLY, echoing the uneven rhythm of his own dwindling adrenaline.

“Welcome to your new home.”

“If you serve no one, hail from no kingdom, how the fuck did you get in here? What is stopping me from having you arrested? This is my dragonpit; it belongs to me. You have no right nor reason to be here, and worse, no right to speak down to me or speak to me in such a manner. I am your king.”

As he clenched his jaw, the muscles in his neck tightened. A familiar, searing irritation surged in his chest, the kind that typically culminated in a shattered goblet OR A FRIGHTENED SERVANT BEING HASTILY DISMISSED. He despised her way of speaking, weaving her insights into riddles that felt like hooks meant to ensnare the insecurities he fought to suppress every waking hour. She didn’t communicate in the courtly language, WHERE EVERY IMPLICATION WAS POLISHED AND EVERY THREAT CLOAKED IN SWEETNESS; instead, she spoke in stark truths that felt like ice water cascading down his spine. 

“This war only ends one way; surely you are not stupid enough not to know that.”

IT WAS REMINISCENT OF A PRIESTESS OR A JUDGE, AN INFURIATINGLY COMPOSED DISSECTION OF HIS CHARACTER THAT LEFT HIM FEELING LESS LIKE A KING AND MORE LIKE A BOY BEING SCOLDED BY A TUTOR HE COULDN’T INTIMIDATE.

“It ends in my death, or hers, with one side of the family killed.”

He clenched his jaw, the grinding of his molars resonating loudly in the sudden quiet. HE WAS ACUTELY AWARE OF HIS IDENTITY. He was the King, the one true sovereign, the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms and the ancient legacy of Old Valyria. The crown resting on his head was not just a decorative piece; it was a sacred obligation, a golden band that distinguished him from the ordinary masses. To imply that he was an empty vessel, OR THAT HIS ESSENCE WAS MERELY A REFLECTION OF THOSE BOWING BEFORE HIM, was not just a comment; it was blasphemy. He was the sun around which the realm revolved, the ultimate authority in every conflict, the bulwark against chaos. If he sensed a void within, it was solely due to the overwhelming weight of the crown, which left scant space for anything else.

“Hm.”

As he exhaled sharply, a sound laced with disdain reverberated with a hint of his usual arrogance. She was starting to irritate him, her composed presence acting as a mirror that highlighted everything he loathed about his own vulnerabilities. HE HAD NO NEED FOR A LESSON ON IDENTITY, nor did he want the philosophical reflections of a woman who emerged from the shadows like a ghost from the depths. What he craved was power. He craved fire. He needed more damn dragons to scorch the pretenders from the skies and solidify his claim to the throne before the world deemed him a mere puppet of his mother’s machinations.

"Enough with these cryptic words." He retorted, his voice regaining some of its sharpness. He advanced, the golden scales of Sunfyre glinting beside him, a bid to reassert his dominance in the cavern. 

"You talk of trust and souls as if the battle for the Seven Kingdoms is a poetic endeavour. It is a struggle for strength. The one who wields the most fire commands the realm. You are either with me or you are against me.”

FOR ONE FLEETING, STOLEN MOMENT, VISERYS EXPERIENCED HAPPINESS.

This happiness was delicate, the kind that flourishes only when one ceases to attempt to fix the world and simply embraces its shattered fragments. He observed a solitary gull plunge into the turbulent surf below, unconcerned with the lineage of the man who watched it. He came to understand that the crown could not truly rob him of his essence; IT MERELY HAD THE CAPACITY TO DIVERT HIS ATTENTION FROM IT. The divide within his family persisted, a jagged chasm of resentment and pride, but as he gazed up at the vast, indifferent sky, the weight felt bearable. In that moment, he was not the saviour of a dynasty or the designer of a peace accord; he was simply a man who had stumbled on a staircase and found companionship in a dragon.

Gently and with a cautious tenderness, he lifted his hand. The bandages wrapped around it were stiff and carried a faint scent of medicinal ointment, trembling slightly as he reached out. He placed his palm against the glimmering sapphire scales of Kagura’s snout, the texture reminiscent of polished obsidian warmed by a blacksmith's fire. This was more than a mere touch; he caressed the scales in a slow, rhythmic manner, sensing the deep, resonant hum of her satisfaction vibrate through his fingertips. IT WAS A LANGUAGE OF TOUCH, a dialogue of skin and scale that transcended titles and decrees. In this moment, there was no politics, only the timeless, grounding truth of a connection that had endured the chaos of his rise.

"Thank you." 

He murmured once more, the words barely escaping his lips against the howling wind. This second expression of gratitude was not for the bandage or the quiet, but for the stability she offered. In a realm where every outstretched hand sought a favour or aimed to steer his actions, KAGURA’S PRESENCE WAS THE SOLE COMFORT THAT ASKED FOR NOTHING IN RETURN. She was the only being in his existence who recognised the man hidden beneath the velvet and gold, the one who understood that the crown was not a reward, but a gilded prison that tightened with each passing day.

“Maybe you will understand my words. My uncle is dead, my father is dead as well, which means I am now the crown prince, and everyone is calling me the heir to the throne, the next king. I’m not .. ready. I have not claimed a dragon since mine own passed, and no one trained me to become king, for as I was so far down the line of succession it was never expected of me.”

He realised that the air had transformed into a thief, robbing him of breath and leaving him in a stunned silence. He attempted to speak, but the words felt like heavy boulders, too cumbersome to lift and awkward to articulate. For a man who had dedicated his adult life to filling spaces with loud demands, ARROGANT DECLARATIONS, and the defensive clamor of a king who dreaded being overlooked, this sudden void was frightening. 

HE WAS AN EMPTINESS WHERE A VOICE OUGHT TO BE, GAZING AT THE LIVING MARVEL OF HIS DRAGON-FORGED WOMAN, AND FOR THE FIRST TIME, THE SILENCE FELT LESS LIKE A WEAPON WIELDED AGAINST HIM AND MORE LIKE A REFUGE.

He tried to blink, but his eyelids felt sluggish, as if he were pushing through water. He observed how the light danced upon the golden scales adorning her collarbone, how her chest rose and fell in a rhythm that echoed the slow, deep heartbeat of the earth itself. He yearned to inquire how she had transformed, WHERE THE FIRE HAD VANISHED, and why she regarded him with a gaze that perceived every hidden failure yet loved him regardless, but his mind had come to a standstill. He was merely a passenger within his own body, tethered to the volcanic grit by the overwhelming weight of a truth he was unprepared to bear.

"How did you do this then? Can you change back?"

He scrutinised her once more, his gaze morphing into a frantic cartographer charting a new and unfathomable land. He traced the contour of her jaw, searching for the junction where skin met scale, only to discover the radiant glow of something divine. He examined her hands, slender, graceful, yet exuding a stillness reminiscent of a predator poised for the perfect moment to pounce. He noted her stance, not with the tentative balance of a human, but with the absolute, crushing certainty of a being that commanded the horizon. 

SHE WAS NO LONGER A CREATURE HE CONTROLLED WITH A CHAIN AND A SHOUT; SHE WAS A FORCE THAT DOMINATED THE SPACE AROUND HER, RENDERING THE TOWERING CLIFFS OF DRAGONSTONE MERE PEBBLES IN HER SHADOW.

As he circled her once again, he perceived that the gold was not just a hue, but a vibrant light. It danced beneath her skin like sunlight streaming through deep waters, pulsing in sync with a heart that throbbed with the force of a volcano. He gazed into her eyes, those striking, sapphire depths, and beheld the reflection of countless journeys, the memory of clouds ripped apart and the fierce blaze of dragonfire. THE ARROGANCE THAT HAD SERVED AS HIS SHIELD FOR YEARS FELT LUDICROUS IN THIS MOMENT, a flimsy barrier against a blazing sun. An impulse surged within him, sudden and wild, to laugh at the sheer boldness of the universe, but the sound caught in his throat, replaced by a yearning so intense it felt like a wound.

"You were always the one who was most kind to me."

In his youth, he had dedicated himself to cataloguing the wonders of the Seven Kingdoms, wandering from the silk-draped chambers of noblewomen to the sweat-soaked quarters of common serving girls, treating desire as a game of chance where the only stakes were time and coin. HE UNDERSTOOD THE ANGLES OF A WELL-FORMED ANKLE, THE SILHOUETTE OF A WAIST TIGHTENED BY A CORSET, AND THE PRACTICED CHARM OF A PAINTED LIP. Yet, as he stood there, the salt spray of the Narrow Sea clinging to his skin, he recognised that everything he had deemed 'attractive' until now was a mere flickering candle compared to the supernova that stood before him.

"You have always been the most important being to me, nothing has changed."

"This dragon? I'm a complete mess! This entire situation is a catastrophe!"

HE BELLOWED, THOUGH THE INTENSITY HAD FADED, REPLACED BY A FRANTIC BEWILDERMENT.

"The world has gone soft! We used to hunt these beasts for their scales to craft boots, and now you’re treating it like a spoiled housecat! It’s unnatural. It’s an affront to the very essence of hierarchy! I am at the pinnacle of the food chain, and here I am, covered in... in whatever that was!"

He started to pace, his boots crunching harshly against the dirt. To him, the sheer audacity of the modern age felt like a tangible burden. He recalled a time when the boundary between man and beast was marked by blood and steel; YOU DIDN’T "BOND" WITH A DRAGON, YOU ENDURED IT. The notion that this creature saw him not as a threat, but as a convenient target for a prank, felt like a personal affront to his entire legacy. It wasn’t just the snot; it was the fundamental breakdown of the natural order. He felt like a man who had awakened to find that gravity had been replaced by mere suggestions, and the sky had turned a shade of purple he simply could not accept.

"Keep that thing away from me!"

HE DIDN'T MERELY WISH TO ESCAPE; he yearned to erase this entire afternoon from his mind with the precision of a skilled surgeon. The urge to pivot and stride away until the horizon consumed the sight of that smug, reptilian visage burned fiercely in his core. HE DESPISED DRAGONS. He loathed their scales, their instinct to hoard, and most of all, the way they seemed to share an innate ability to belittle humans. To him, a dragon was not a friend or a wonder of the natural world; it was a towering embodiment of arrogance, existing solely to be split in half.

"Just keep us apart, because next time, we will be eating it for dinner!"

The heat enveloped them like a tangible force, a blistering barrier of gold and crimson that seemed poised to turn the very air into vapor. He sensed the temperature rise through the leather of his boots, the scales beneath him vibrating with a fierce, underground energy. While most men would have been paralyzed by the primal fear of the abyss yawning below, he experienced a rush of adrenaline that felt almost euphoric as the dragoness unleashed a torrent of flames, transforming the sky into a furnace. He tightened his grip, his fingers sinking deeper into the crevices of her armor, his laughter drowned out by the roar of the inferno.

FEISTY.

He mused, the thought igniting a flicker of joy amid the chaos.

A TRULY MAGNIFICENT, UNTAMED CREATURE.

He didn’t perceive a beast to be subdued; instead, he saw a reflection of his own restless spirit. The sheer defiance of her resistance, the way she fought not merely to fend him off, but to obliterate any notion of his dominance, excited him. It mirrored the same fire that coursed through his veins when the courts of King’s Landing attempted to confine him to a role of silent compliance. For him, this was no longer a battle for survival or a tactical gain; it had transformed into a dance of wills, a clash of two souls who refused to yield to anyone.

“Kesā obey nyke wild mēre!” (You will obey me wild one!)

He adjusted his stance, attuning himself to the rhythm of her muscles, sensing the precise moment she angled to hurl him into the roiling sea. In that fleeting instant of exposure, a thought crystallized in his mind with the clarity of Valyrian steel.

ONE DRAGON IS A WEAPON. TWO DRAGONS ARE AN EMPIRE.

The chronicles of history described the connection between rider and dragon as a unique, sacred bond, a devotion that tied a soul to a creature of scales. Attempting to forge a second bond was deemed madness, a weakening of the spirit that often led to the demise of both the rider and the dragons involved. This taboo was etched in the blood of the fallen dragonlords of yore.

Yet, he had always perceived the term 'IMPOSSIBLE' as a personal dare.

“Obey nyke, se nyke'll tepagon ao se vys!” (Obey me, and I'll give you the world!)

As the wind howled against his attire and the acrid scent of sulfur filled his nostrils, he did not view a taboo; he envisioned a throne crafted from clouds. If he could harness this wild, tempestuous force while still controlling the Blood Wyrm, he would transcend being just a prince. He would ascend to become a living deity of the skies, a dual-headed storm capable of incinerating any doubt, any slight, and any foe that dared to cross his path.

“You jorrāelagon iā kipagīros, ivestragī nyke claim ao, se rogue dārilaros, se greatest dragonrider alive!” (“You need a rider, let me claim you, the rogue prince, the greatest dragonrider alive!”)

The heat transformed from mere temperature into a tangible force, a living barrier of gold and crimson that aimed to sear the marrow from his bones. As Cosima unleashed her flames, the air around them ignited, morphing the atmosphere into a radiant kiln of sulfur and salt. He felt the leather of his gloves begin to smolder and the fabric of his doublet constrict against his skin, yet he did not waver. Instead, he embraced the heat, pressing his chest firmly against her blistering scales, welcoming the pain as a transformative force.

He secured his limbs into the ridges of her spine with a fervor that bordered on the divine, anchoring himself not only to her form but to the very essence of her being. Let her roar until the heavens shattered; let her reduce the sky to ashes; he was now a permanent part of her existence, a royal blood parasite who refused to be dislodged.

He sensed the rhythmic tremor of her muscles, the exact, forceful contraction that signaled an impending violent rise. Cosima veered sharply to the left, trying to harness centrifugal force to hurl him into the swirling white foam of the Stepstones.

The world tilted at a sharp angle, and for a fleeting moment, the horizon vanished, replaced by a dizzying swirl of turquoise water and blinding sunlight. His grip faltered for just an instant, his ribs protesting under the sudden strain of the G-force, yet he released a wild, guttural laugh that was swept away by the wind. He didn’t resist the tilt; instead, he surrendered to it, adjusting his weight to align with her momentum, transforming the dragon’s own strength into the anchor that kept him secure.

“Hahahaha, yes, so much power, I love it, but if this dance continues, I’m going to have to kill you.”

"The payment is settled, in a manner of speaking." She stated, her voice imbued with a gentle yet firm authority as she stepped back toward Eskel. She didn’t reach for the small pouch of coins the farmer had cautiously offered; instead, she glanced at it and tossed it back into the man’s hands, rejecting the meager coins they had all contributed. "Tell your people that the coin is unnecessary. Your livestock and your kin are the only currency that holds value here."

As she turned back to Eskel, her demeanor shifted from the calm facade of a queen to a flicker of genuine irritation. She surveyed the scorch marks on the moss and the jagged drag marks in the dirt, then looked back at the Witcher. A SLYZARd. A flightless, stunted, acid-spitting relative of her own kind. The mere thought was almost offensive. A sudden, primal itch beneath her shoulder blades surged within her, a yearning to unfurl her wings, swoop down from the clouds in a flash of golden-brown scales, and obliterate the creature with a single, focused blast of draconic fire. It would have taken mere seconds.

"I apologize, but I cannot accept from those who possess so little. Instead, we will claim the corpse, allowing you to gather more materials for your needs, while we can sell the remainder at a fair and honest price. And if you still find yourself in need, my mate, I will find other ways to make it up to you.”

As she chuckled, frustrated that she could resolve this issue so swiftly, yet had to maintain the facade of a delicate human. SHE HAD TO DEPEND ON STEEL, ENDURANCE, AND THE PATIENT MENTORSHIP OF A MAN WHO PERCEIVED THE WORLD THROUGH THE PRISM OF ALCHEMY AND ANATOMY. This constraint felt like a tangible burden, a tether on her true essence. Ugh, how bothersome, she mused, a small, exasperated sigh escaping her lips. To be a goddess of the sky, forced to tread through mud and hunt with a sword because the locals couldn't bear to witness a glimpse of the divine was a humbling, albeit slightly vexing, experience.

As she exhaled a long, slow breath, the sound resonated like a rumble in her chest. The illusion was impeccable, the contour of her jaw, the softness of her skin, the way her dark blonde hair shimmered in the light, but the effort to sustain it felt akin to wearing a corset forged from iron. TO THE OUTSIDE WORLD, SHE APPEARED AS A SLENDER, ELEGANT WOMAN; within, she was a tightly coiled spring of muscle and ancient fire. The sheer physicality of human existence was a lesson in limitation. She yearned to stretch her legs not with a mere step, but with the powerful, bone-deep thrust of a dragon's haunch. A phantom itch nagged at the base of her spine where a grand, gold-scaled tail should be flicking with annoyance, and the dormant weight of her wings pressed against her shoulder blades like heavy drapes waiting to be drawn. EVERY MOMENT SPENT IN THIS FORM REQUIRED A DELIBERATE ANCHORING OF HER SPIRIT, a constant mental brace against the urge to simply expand and reclaim the space she truly occupied.

"These individuals are satisfied with the terms, so we should address this swiftly; it won't take long for us to track it down and put an end to its reign of terror over these people."

She hesitated for a moment, relishing the intersection where his warmth met her cold, hard scales, and the delicate, rhythmic pulse of the man’s heart. For a dragon, a kiss was an intriguing experience, a mere touch of lips against a surface capable of enduring the heat of a volcanic vent, yet she perceived it as a burning mark of loyalty. She leaned into him, a gradual, TECTONIC MOVEMENT OF HER ENORMOUS SKULL THAT PRESSED HIM DEEPLY INTO THE SOFT, YIELDING PEAT OF THE SWAMP. A low, rumbling chuff escaped her, a sound that resonated through Eskel’s chest and reverberated in the depths of his bones, acknowledging their closeness with A GENTLENESS THAT CONTRADICTED HER PREDATORY INSTINCTS. For a long moment, the world was reduced to the scent of damp earth, the metallic taste of monster blood, and the steadfast presence of the man who feared nothing about her.

“You would enjoy it, me thinks. Horded away, protected, food, water, everything you could need, and no one around to ever insult you, or to harm you, ever again, a long life of peace, with only ourselves as company.”

When he finally requested her to move aside, the shift was a display of intentional elegance. She unfurled from the wreckage of the Fiend, her movements smooth and serpentine, each claw lifting from the mud with a wet, sucking sound. AS SHE CIRCLED BEHIND HIM, HER MASSIVE TAIL SWEPT THROUGH THE REEDS, CLEARING A BROAD PATH THROUGH THE MUCK. She did not simply move; she reclaimed the area, her golden-brown scales glistening as she positioned herself as a living guardian. Her wings remained partially spread, casting a wide, protective shadow over Eskel as he engaged in the meticulous work of the harvest. She observed him with a golden, SLIT-PUPILLED GAZE, her intelligence assessing his every action, feeling a swell of protective pride at the skillfulness of his hands.

“You have already won my heart, you don’t need to flatter me further, you may work now in peace, it is quite safe.”

As she didn't just watch Eskel at work; she scrutinized him with the keen, predatory gaze of a creature that grasped the intricacies of death far better than any surgeon in Vizima. From her perspective, he resembled a frantic, industrious insect, his small silver blade darting in and out of THE FIEND'S RUINED FLESH with a precision that captivated her. She noted the way his shoulders shifted beneath his leather armor, the rhythmic motion of his arms, and the intense focus in his gold-flecked eyes. To her, the act of harvesting mutagens was a slow, LABORIOUS DANCE, yet there was an undeniable beauty in his dedication to the craft, a reflection of her own commitment to the art of the hunt. She found herself counting the beats of his heart, a steady, mutated drum that played a melody of skill and serenity amidst the carnage.

“You trust the countess and her advisors to keep their word? They seem, deceptive. But I will of course, accompany you. It just seems, this task and the lack of information they gave, that they set you up to fail in this task. I don’t like it.”

Still even with her concerns the invitation to dine was met with a slow, calculating blink from those golden eyes. Saskia didn’t merely approach the carcass; she glided, her massive form undulating with a serpentine grace that belied her weight. As Eskel stepped back to clear the path, she paused, her head tilting as she surveyed the pulverized remains of THE FIEND. Raw meat, while rich in nutrients, was a chore to chew, and a dragon's palate, even one as primal as hers, valued the transformative magic of heat.

“One moment.”

Instead of opening her maw wide for a roar, she released a controlled, rhythmic hiss. Deep within her chest, a furnace ignited, the internal glow intensifying until it seeped through the gaps in her scales. Then, with sudden, focused precision, she unleashed a torrent of concentrated fire. The blast wasn't a chaotic inferno, but a searing, pinpoint jet of gold and crimson that enveloped the monster's remains in an instant, BLISTERING HEAT. The swamp water surrounding the corpse hissed and evaporated into a thick, white fog, and the aroma of charred flesh and seared fat filled the air, transforming the gore into something akin to a rustic, albeit oversized, roast.

“Hm!”

With the meal perfectly seared, she bent down. The motion was a sudden, sweeping arc of gold. Her jaws clamped onto the bulk of the carcass with a sound reminiscent of a closing vault, the sheer force of her bite resonating through the hushed valley. Rather than chewing, she inhaled the remains, the powerful muscles of her throat working in a slow, RHYTHMIC GULP AS SHE DEVOURED THE REMNANTS OF THE BEAST IN A FEW MIGHTY HEAVES. The primal satisfaction was clear in the way her tail flicked, churning the muddy water into a frothy swirl, her hunger quenched and her strength revitalized.

“Ah.”

As she opened her mouth in a wide, cavernous stretch, a slow yawn that seemed to ripple through her entire being. It was a luxurious release, the kind that follows a meal rich in protein and scorched marrow. AS HER JAWS SNAPPED SHUT WITH A FINAL, RESONANT CLICK, SHE LOOKED DOWN AT THE PATCH OF CHARRED EARTH WHERE THE FIEND HAD ONCE BEEN. There was nothing left, no stray tendon, no splinter of bone, not even a trace of blood that hadn't been incinerated by her breath or dissolved by her stomach. The swamp had reclaimed the emptiness with a few opportunistic bubbles of gas, leaving the landscape as pristine and silent as a freshly swept temple.

“We ought to make for the countess now, and be done with this. We can camp in comfort far away once we are done.”

WHO WAS THIS FOOL ADDRESSING HIM? Seriously, who did they believe they were to approach him with such a request? And to make matters worse, they dared to offer him food, how revolting! Did they not realize he was flawless, HAVING TRANSCENDED THE NEED FOR SUSTENANCE, unlike mere mortals? In a swift motion, he knocked the plate from their hands, then seized them by the throat, lifting them effortlessly off the ground as if they were insignificant. In comparison to him, THEY WERE UTTERLY INCONSEQUENTIAL, nothing at all, as he glared at them with narrowed eyes.

"How dare you violate me with cookies!"