Threads Tangled Together

"No one had informed me that this would be a simple task -"

The battle for the crown was indeed brief. It began and concluded within just a few months. While both factions gathered their armies and fleets, securing allegiances from lords and ladies across the realm, the outcome hinged not on the size of their forces but on the people's choice. This was troubling to him; he had never desired such a fate. Not once had he envisioned himself as the one to seize this power and occupy the throne of seven kingdoms, with countless subjects now looking to him. To label him king.

The cost was not measured in blood or lives lost; no one had perished. Instead, it was far worse, the family had been fractured, a deep wound inflicted that would not heal easily. It was irreversible; nothing could mend the rift now that it had been opened. He had usurped the throne from his cousin, and their bond would never be the same. It was damaged beyond repair, and no words or actions could change that. This was the price he paid for the crown and the throne: his family, the one thing he cherished above all else, was now split in two.

Perhaps it could be mended. Someday. But for now, he would have to accept the title of the man who took the throne from someone who truly deserved it.

"So much anguish - all for a crown and a throne."

As he sits there, extending his hand to her and allowing her to bandage it, he reflects on his pain, not stemming from the brief skirmish with his brother who was rallying armies, nor from his cousin doing the same. It wasn't from the loss of his father, the absence of his uncles, or the disintegration of his family.

Now, the crown would be his, simply because he was the right person at the right moment, as he exhaled deeply. No, he hadn’t suffered while riding his dragon, nor had he been injured on horseback, aboard ships, or in the camps set up for what was escalating into a war across the lands. His wounds were inflicted by his own failing health, as he slipped and tumbled down the steps in Dragonstone, cutting his hand on a ledge while trying to regain his footing before anyone noticed.

The young prince, destined to be king, was not as robust as he seemed.

"Thank you, my friend."

Kagura watched him in silence from where she rested upon the windswept cliffs of Dragonstone, her great cobalt-blue form curled around the ancient black rock as though she had become part of the island itself. Her scales shimmered beneath the gray afternoon sky, each one reflecting deep shades of sapphire and storm-dark steel whenever the light managed to break through the heavy clouds overhead. Salt carried itself upon the wind, slipping easily between the ridges of her folded wings before disappearing into the warmth gathering beneath them. She had stood upon these cliffs for centuries, long enough to watch kingdoms rise from ambition and crumble beneath the very weight of it. Crowns changed hands with remarkable frequency, and dragons remembered them all.

Her crimson eyes followed the prince with patient attention as he spoke, the quiet exhaustion in his voice reaching her long before the words themselves did. Humans fascinated her in that peculiar way only creatures with vastly different lifespans could understand. They struggled endlessly toward positions they claimed never to desire, sacrificing peace in pursuit of burdens they insisted had been forced upon them. Kings lamented becoming kings. Warriors mourned the victories they had earned. Families shattered over chairs carved from wood and iron while mountains continued standing exactly as they always had. Kagura had never understood why humans insisted upon carrying sorrow like another piece of ceremonial armor.

The scent of blood reached her before she noticed the bandages wrapped around his hand. It was a small wound, insignificant by draconic standards, yet he treated it with the same quiet acceptance one might reserve for something far more grievous. Her massive head lowered slightly, nostrils flaring as she regarded the cut with thoughtful curiosity. This was not the smell of battle. It carried none of the smoke, steel, or fear that usually accompanied injured rulers. Instead, it smelled faintly of cold stone, weathered steps, and the simple misfortune of misplaced footing. The realization stirred something almost resembling amusement deep within her chest.

A low rumble escaped her throat, so deep it vibrated through the hall itself beneath her claws rather than the air itself. The dragoness had left the cliffside to be by her rider's side as she snarled a warning to everyone nearby, which caused them to back away. To humans, the sound often resembled distant thunder rolling across the sea. Among dragons, it was something softer, a quiet acknowledgment that required no words. She had watched him return from councils where kingdoms balanced upon every sentence spoken, only for the greatest injury he carried to come from tumbling down his own staircase. There was irony in that, though dragons possessed no instinct to mock it. Fate, she had learned, often preferred absurdity over grandeur.

As the prince thanked her, Kagura slowly lowered her enormous head until it rested only a short distance away, one brilliant scarlet eye regarding him with ancient patience. Gratitude was an unusual thing for humans to offer dragons. Most offered commands, bargains, or fearful prayers disguised as respect. He offered simple thanks, absent of ceremony or expectation. She understood enough of humanity to recognize the difference. Warm air escaped her nostrils in a slow breath, carrying the scent of rain and distant oceans as it stirred the edges of his cloak. Her tail shifted lazily across the volcanic stone behind her, the heavy scales producing a quiet scraping sound before settling once more.

She could not mend the fracture within his family, nor could she lessen the weight resting upon his shoulders beneath that newly claimed crown. Those were burdens no dragon's fire could burn away. They belonged to the fragile, complicated world of humankind. Still, Kagura remained beside him because long before crowns, banners, and divided bloodlines, he had simply been the quiet boy who spoke to her without demanding anything in return. Centuries had taught Kagura many truths, but one remained unchanged above all others. A throne might determine who ruled the realm. It never determined who deserved a dragon's loyalty.

“Do you serve the greens, the blacks? Human affairs no longer interest me.”

He had done his lot. The recollections of the knights were hazier, mere flashes of steel and screams that faded beneath the heat of his breath. He had fulfilled his duty; he had embodied the king's shadow and the kingdom's dread. Yet, as he gazed at the silver-blue dragon beside him, the harshness of those memories felt like a distant life, a tale belonging to another. The fire that once marked him as a conqueror had transformed into a gentle, humming warmth that sought not to annihilate, but to nurture.

“Who are you?”

He tried to shift his weight, and for the first time in ages, there was no searing pain in his wing. He extended his neck, feeling the supple strength returning to his muscles, and exhaled, igniting a small, golden ember in the dim cave light. He turned to Kikyo, whose scales glimmered with a soft, lunar glow, and experienced an unfamiliar sensation: the urge to protect something that had already shielded him. He leaned forward, nudging her shoulder with a clumsy, affectionate bump that nearly sent her off balance.

"My gratitude, extended."

The last memory etched in his mind was the taste of the Queen’s blood before everything faded to a dull grey. He could still sense the visceral, metallic flavor of her throat, the frantic snap of his jaws as he tore through the royal lineage, a final, jagged act of rebellion in a war that had already devoured all. He had been the Golden Beast, a tempest of fire and scale that shattered the pride of his kin, leaving behind a wasteland of charred earth and broken aspirations. Yet, the price of triumph was a slow, torturous decline. He recalled the escape from the screams, his wings tattered like ancient parchment, his heart faltering as he descended toward the jagged cliffs, convinced that the silence of the stone was the only mercy left for him.

FOR AN ETERNITY, HE HAD AWAITED THE DARKNESS TO CLAIM HIM.

He had embraced it, allowing the cold to seep into his very bones, convinced that a being forged in the fires of conquest deserved nothing less than a solitary grave. But then, light emerged, not the blinding, destructive gold of his own breath, but a gentle, shimmering silver that tasted of moonlight and timeless patience. He felt the jagged wounds in his side mend, the shattered pieces of his ribs sliding back into place with a soothing, rhythmic warmth. The pain that had been his sole companion for years began to fade, replaced by a buoyancy that felt almost foreign. He was no longer the shattered remnant of a fallen dynasty; he was being reassembled by a specter.

As the final remnants of the deep tremors faded from his body, he found himself gazing at the silver dragon. Kikyo was weary, her sides rising and falling in a slow, labored rhythm, her pearlescent scales dulled by the immense energy she had expended on his behalf. He observed the way her eyes fluttered, how she rested her head against the cool volcanic rock, not from weakness, but from a deep, selfless tranquility. Throughout his life, he had been a symbol of might, a weapon in the hands of men who regarded him as an extension of their own divine authority. To be seen not as an instrument of battle, but as a living being deserving of redemption, filled him with a strange, unfamiliar weight in his chest.

"Stay."

The term was foreign to the way men communicated, yet the feeling resonated through the cavern in a series of deep, vibrating pulses. He adjusted his immense form, the golden scales of his chest scraping against the volcanic rock, producing a sound reminiscent of coins gliding over silk. He didn’t merely offer the space; he asserted his claim to her place within it. With a slow, intentional motion, he leaned his heavy head forward and pressed his muzzle firmly against the curve of her neck. It began as a gesture of gratitude and transformed into a plea, a tactile connection that conveyed to the silver dragon that the isolation of the cliffs was no longer a punishment, but a refuge they would share.

As he continued to nuzzle her, aware that they were the last of their kind in a world that had turned its back on them. He pressed his weighty, golden jaw against the gentle curve of her neck repeatedly, as if trying to tether her to the physical realm through sheer tactile insistence. It was a desperate kind of affection, a stark realization that the horizon had become desolate. Beyond the charred cliffs and the salt-kissed shore, the skies had transformed into a silent abyss where the thunder of wings once echoed. For centuries, humans had crafted crowns and erected monuments to their own fleeting glory, all while weaving a web of steel and politics that gradually choked the magic from the earth. They had harnessed the dragons to carve borders into the land, then gazed upon these magnificent creatures with a blend of greed and fear until the flame of dragon-kind had dwindled to a mere flicker.

“It is not safe now, the humans, have branded us a danger and have slaughtered our kind, stay here, with me.”

Kikyo remained still as Sunfyre’s words settled over the cavern, carried not through a human tongue but through the resonant cadence of dragon-song that rolled between them like distant thunder. She listened to the sorrow hidden beneath every vibration, to the names of colors and kings that meant little beside the immeasurable grief they had carved into his spirit. Green, black, banners, crowns—they were scents washed away by the tide, fleeting things invented by creatures whose lives burned as briefly as sparks. Dragons had been born beneath the same sky long before men learned to sharpen iron, yet they had allowed themselves to become vessels for mortal hatred until brother turned upon brother. As his memories poured into the silence, Kikyo saw not a conqueror, but a survivor whose soul had been chained to a war that had never truly belonged to him. She lowered her great head in quiet acknowledgment, mourning not only the dragons who had fallen, but the one who had been forced to remain.

When he asked who she was, Kikyo answered with a soft, melodic croon that shimmered through the cavern like moonlight upon still water. She had no name given by kings, no crest burned into banners, and no rider whose heartbeat dictated her own. The forests had known her before castles pierced the horizon, while rivers had whispered to her long before thrones rose and crumbled beneath ambitious hands. She belonged to the mountains, the rain, the wind that wandered wherever it pleased without asking permission from crowns or kingdoms. Her silver-blue scales caught the faint light filtering through the stone, glowing with the quiet radiance of frost beneath a winter moon. The answer she offered was simple, carried through a gentle rumble that needed no translation: she was merely Kikyo, a daughter of the wild places that men had forgotten.

His clumsy nudge rocked her sideways, and for the first time in many seasons, amusement stirred within her ancient heart. A warm trill escaped her throat before she leaned back into the touch, steadying both herself and the golden dragon with effortless grace. Gratitude among dragons was rarely spoken; it lived within shared warmth, lowered heads, and the trust of vulnerable silence. Sunfyre’s awkward affection carried all three, untarnished by pride despite the majesty that still lingered within his battered frame. Kikyo brushed the side of her muzzle against his cheek in return, the gesture feather-light despite the immense strength coiled beneath her muscles. She hoped he understood that no debt had formed between them, only the beginning of a bond neither conquest nor bloodshed had forged.

Then came his plea for her to remain, and the cavern itself seemed to hold its breath as his great head rested against the curve of her neck. Kikyo felt the weight of him, not as a burden, but as living proof that loneliness had become a wound every bit as deep as those she had healed. His heartbeat no longer stumbled with the uneven rhythm of death; instead, it echoed steadily against her scales, timidly relearning the cadence of life. She closed her eyes and answered by curling her long neck around his, their horns passing one another without challenge or dominance. It was the embrace dragons offered only to those they trusted completely, one that left the throat exposed and every instinct surrendered. In that quiet exchange, she accepted both his gratitude and the fragile hope hidden beneath it.

His warning about humanity drifted through the cavern with the bitterness of old smoke, and Kikyo understood more than the words themselves. She had watched villages grow into kingdoms and kingdoms dissolve into forgotten ruins swallowed by vines. Men always feared what they could not command, and when command failed, fear inevitably reached for the spear before extending an open hand. Dragons had once ruled the heavens without rival, yet now their songs had become whispers hidden in forgotten valleys where even memory hesitated to wander. She mourned that loss, not because dominion had ended, but because harmony had been traded for ambition. Resting her brow gently against Sunfyre’s once more, she released a low, soothing hum that promised she would not become another shadow slipping beyond his reach.

When at last she lifted her head, the silver dragon turned her gaze toward the mouth of the cavern where sunlight spilled across the sea in brilliant ribbons of gold and sapphire. Beyond those waters lay the world that had nearly destroyed him, a world still chasing crowns while believing dragons belonged only in stories and graves. She held no illusions that mankind would welcome their return, nor any desire to prove their existence to those who had forgotten reverence. Instead, she settled beside him beneath the sheltering stone, folding one great wing loosely over his scarred shoulder until silver feathers of light mingled with tarnished gold. Her answer came not as a refusal nor surrender, but as a promise woven into the oldest language either of them possessed. Then let the world believe you dead, her gentle rumble sang, and let this forgotten shore become the place where two dragons remember how to live instead of how to wage war.

PAIN BECAME HIS SOLE COMPANION, a relentless, pulsing presence that throbbed in sync with the magma deep within the earth. He recalled the battle's roar, the acrid scent of burning cities, and the fierce, desperate loyalty he had felt for the young king who had ridden him. Now, only the silence of the hollow remained, accompanied by the slow, TORTUROUS APPROACH OF DEATH. He had anticipated fading away into the darkness, his golden flames extinguishing into a grey abyss, but the internal fire of a dragon is a fiercely stubborn thing. It clung to his heart with a wild determination, refusing to let him perish even as his muscles wasted away and his scales dulled.

WHEN THE WARRIOR NAMED BANKOTSU DEPARTED, he left behind more than mere corpses; he ignited a spark. For the first time since the skies had fallen, he felt a flicker of something beyond sheer exhaustion. He fixated on the spot where the man had disappeared, the image of the massive blade, Banryū, seared into his memory. The warrior hadn’t perceived a broken creature; HE HAD SEEN A FIGHTER. That acknowledgment, delivered with a casual, arrogant smirk, served as a catalyst. He shifted his weight, a groan of pain escaping his throat, and dragged his shattered wing further across the volcanic stone, the friction burning the remaining healthy flesh.

The corpses were not merely a banquet; they marked the start of something new. His eyes wandered to the pile of shattered men left behind by Bankotsu, discarded fragments of a battle that had brought neither honor to the warrior nor compassion for the fallen. A GNAWING HUNGER ROARED WITHIN THE DRAGON'S BELLY, a chasm that threatened to devour his dwindling strength before his wounds could ever begin to heal. With a strained effort that sent a flurry of ash swirling into the air, he pulled his massive form forward. He felt no remorse for the act, only the raw instinct driving him; he sank his jaws into the frigid flesh and iron armor, devouring the protein and the salt of their blood to fuel the slow, RELENTLESS PROCESS OF HIS RECOVERY.

In the days that followed, he fell into a steady rhythm of eating and resting, scavenging the remaining carcasses until the hollow was bare. Each meal became a triumph, a small act of life snatched from the dead to nourish the living. As the nutrients flowed into his body, the fire in his belly transformed from a flickering spark to a steady blaze. HE BECAME FIXATED ON TENDING TO THE EDGES OF HIS WOUNDS, using the rough volcanic stone to scrape away the decaying grey flesh, revealing the tender, pink newness beneath. He was no longer passively awaiting death's embrace; he was actively pursuing a rebirth, reshaping his shattered form into something tougher and leaner than the pampered being he had once been in the courts of King’s Landing.

THE RIDGE BECAME A GAUNTLET OF GOLD AND GORE.

For every opportunistic scout or seasoned sellsword who ventured into the volcanic haze seeking a trophy, the mountain claimed a new tribute. He no longer waited for the carrion to come to him; he learned the art of the ambush, lying belly-deep in the grey ash until the scent of oiled leather and nervous sweat drifted upon the wind. He would let them see only a glimmer of gold, a deceptive lure, before his jaws snapped shut with the force of a closing vault. He tore through plate armor as if it were parchment and swallowed the screams of "DRAGON-SLAYERS" who discovered too late that a wounded god is still a god.

EACH MEAL WAS A CALCULATED INVESTMENT IN HIS OWN RESURRECTION.

The iron in their blood seemed to fortify his scales, and the marrow of their bones knit his shattered wing back together with a jagged, frantic speed. He became a ghost of the crags, a living legend whispered about in the villages below, THE GOLDEN DEATH OF THE RIDGES. He did not hunt for sport or malice, but with a singular, driving hunger for the strength that would allow him to fly once more. Every snap of a femur and every gulp of warm salt was a step closer to the man who had looked at him not with pity, but with expectation. As days, weeks, months, he was healing, getting stronger, eating more and more meat, until he knew, he would be able to fly again and when he could, he would seek out that interesting human.

Bankotsu wandered the mountain trails with Banryū balanced across his shoulder, boots crunching over loose volcanic stone as he searched for something that might finally break the monotony. Months had slipped by since he had left the wounded golden dragon to recover, and he occasionally found himself wondering whether the beast had survived or simply become another skeleton hidden among the ridges. Either answer would have been acceptable, though he preferred the former if only because an unfinished challenge lingered in the back of his mind like an itch begging to be scratched. A grin tugged at his lips as he imagined meeting the dragon again with both of them standing at their absolute best. He had no idea that unseen golden eyes had already settled upon him from high above the mountain.

A shadow passed overhead, swift enough to blot out the sunlight before racing ahead of him. Bankotsu instinctively glanced upward, expecting little more than a passing cloud, only for his eyes to widen at the unmistakable silhouette of vast wings stretching across the sky. The dragon was flying. Not merely surviving, not dragging himself across ash, but soaring with powerful strokes that stirred the mountain wind into violent gusts around the cliffs. Before Bankotsu could even laugh in approval, the golden beast folded his wings and plunged earthward with startling precision. Instead of opening his jaws or breathing fire, the dragon extended one massive foreclaw toward him.

His instincts screamed that he should, yet another part of him recognized the strange restraint in the dragon’s approach. The enormous talons closed around him with astonishing care, firm enough that escape became impossible but controlled enough that their points never pierced flesh. His boots left the ground in a rush as the dragon beat his wings once, then again, lifting both of them effortlessly into the air. A sharp bark of laughter escaped him despite the dizzying height as cliffs and forests rapidly shrank beneath his dangling feet. “Well,” he called upward with unmistakable amusement, “this isn’t exactly how I pictured our rematch.”

The wind roared past his ears as the dragon climbed ever higher. Bankotsu expected to be carried toward some isolated battlefield where their promised duel could finally begin, but the beast made no move to throw him aside or attack. Instead, the dragon maintained a steady course through the open sky, occasionally tilting one golden eye downward as if confirming that his unexpected passenger remained exactly where he belonged. There was an intelligence in that gaze that reached far beyond animal instinct, forcing Bankotsu to reconsider everything he thought he understood about dragons. He rested Banryū comfortably across one shoulder despite the awkward position, refusing to struggle against a grip that had yet to show true hostility. “You’ve got terrible manners,” he muttered with a crooked grin, “but I’ll admit you’ve got style.”

Bankotsu could feel the immense power rippling through the dragon with every beat of those restored wings, and satisfaction settled deep within his chest. This was the creature he had wanted to face all those months ago, not the broken survivor lying half-dead among the ash. Whatever hardships the dragon had endured since then had forged him into something even more formidable than before. Bankotsu found himself laughing again, not because the situation made sense, but because it delighted him. “Now that’s more like it,” he declared to the endless sky. “You’re finally worth chasing.”

Only one question remained, and it refused to leave his mind no matter how spectacular the view became. If the dragon intended to honor their agreement, why carry him away instead of dropping him onto an open field with a roar and a challenge? Bankotsu searched the golden profile ahead of him, but the beast betrayed nothing beyond calm purpose as he continued flying toward some destination known only to himself. The realization slowly dawned that he had been captured without violence, taken without injury, and carried with a care that made no sense between two warriors who had promised each other a future battle. Rather than feeling insulted, Bankotsu’s curiosity only deepened, for mysteries were often more entertaining than straightforward fights. With a broad grin spreading across his face, he settled comfortably within the dragon’s grasp and decided to see exactly where this bizarre turn of events would lead.

He let out a long, shuddering breath that rattled in his chest, the sound more of a wet wheeze than a sigh. He stayed there for a moment, cheek pressed against the cold, grit-covered concrete, staring at the distorted reflection of the neon signs in a greasy puddle. He looked at Kikyo, her silhouette blurring in the dim light, her posture shifting into something that mirrored his own tragedy.

Kikyo remained remarkably still despite the chaos unfolding before her, though stillness no longer came as naturally as it usually did. The transformation had not spared her. Where slender fingers had once rested against the cold pavement, now stood dark, cloven hooves planted uncertainly beneath a body that no longer answered to familiar proportions. Every subtle adjustment of her balance felt foreign; her center of gravity shifted forward until each movement required conscious thought rather than instinct. The weight of coarse fur against her skin, the unfamiliar length of her ears, and the persistent swish of a tail she had never possessed before were impossible to ignore. It was unsettling, but panic would accomplish nothing.

"I’m being overly dramatic, but you’re the one gallivanting on a dragon, you big-chested fool!" He shouted. Dragons were terrifying beasts, and he had slain enough of them in his time. Then, decades ago, they went and tamed the lesser dragons, turning them into pets, what on earth were they thinking? "You’re insane, utterly insane for riding that creature! What was it he said? Game of Thrones? Yes, the sage shared a tale from his world about such nonsense; you can’t ride those beasts!" He rubbed his eyes, exasperated. Damn it, he was an old man, even if he didn’t appear to be one, blessings had kept him in his prime despite the years that had slipped by. But time was slipping away; he had done everything, seen it all, fought every battle, and vanquished every foe. It was high time for another sword saint to emerge, perhaps one of his brother’s grandchildren or the countless bastards he had scattered about, finding them was easy, as only his family sported crimson hair.

"Ugh-huh." He picked his nose while she rambled on about all the amazing things her dragon could do: fast, intelligent, able to sense danger, ugh-huh. He fanned his mouth and stifled a yawn; she was lulling him to sleep.

"Perhaps the next sword saint will share your views and indulge in your nonsense, embarking on adventures with you while riding that creature. But as for me, I'd rather slay it and prepare a delightful feast."

He yawned again, his gaze fixed on her, just as the damn dragon let out a sneeze, sending snot and dirt flying right into his face. He flicked his tongue out in disgust and wiped his drenched face with his hand, a scowl forming as his eyes widened and narrowed in disbelief. No way was he, the world's greatest hero, the sword saint, the dragon slayer, and a connoisseur of voluptuous women, going to be sneezed on by something he had hunted and killed.

"IT DID THAT ON PURPOSE!"

Kikyo's lips parted ever so slightly before a quiet sigh escaped her, though it carried far more resignation than exasperation. Her gaze drifted from the thoroughly offended hero to the dragon standing several paces away, whose enormous golden eyes blinked with unmistakable innocence or at least an impressive imitation of it. Kaede had already lowered her head, looking almost pleased with herself despite attempting to appear oblivious. Unfortunately for the dragon, Kikyo had known her companion long enough to recognize the subtle twitch at the corner of her muzzle whenever she found something amusing. It was the same expression she wore moments before stealing fruit from market stalls or splashing unsuspecting travelers with her tail.

"I know," Kikyo said calmly, her voice carrying the same gentle composure she seemed incapable of losing even amid complete absurdity. She stepped toward Kaede without haste, resting a hand against the dragon's broad jaw as the creature leaned ever so slightly into the familiar touch. "It was on purpose." There was no hesitation in her admission, nor any attempt to defend what had happened. Instead, she lightly brushed away a stray leaf caught between one of Kaede's scales before giving the dragon an unmistakably disapproving look. "Which is precisely why I told her that wasn't nice."

Kaede responded with a low, rumbling noise that sounded suspiciously like a complaint rather than remorse. Her saddle shifted against her sides as she turned her head away with all the theatrical offense of a child who had been scolded after being caught misbehaving. Kikyo simply regarded her for a long moment, entirely unimpressed by the performance. "Don't pretend you don't understand," she continued, her tone remaining patient despite the dragon's obvious attempt to avoid eye contact. "You waited until he looked directly at you before you sneezed."

Only then did Kikyo glance back toward the drenched hero, whose expression suggested he was debating whether dragons were worth driving back into extinction after all. For a fleeting moment, the corners of her lips threatened to rise despite every effort to remain composed. She lowered her gaze briefly, disguising the almost imperceptible smile before lifting her eyes once more. "For what it's worth," she said with quiet sincerity, "Kaede rarely behaves that way toward strangers." A small pause followed as she considered her next words. "Usually she reserves practical jokes for people she finds interesting."

The realization earned another indignant snort from the dragon, who shifted one enormous claw against the earth before looking away with exaggerated innocence once more. Kikyo could only shake her head, the gesture small but fond, having long accepted that Kaede possessed a mischievous streak no amount of training had ever succeeded in removing. "That should not be taken as encouragement," she added, directing the remark squarely at her draconic companion. "Nor should you mistake curiosity for permission to antagonize someone simply because they disagree with you." Her fingers gave the dragon's jaw one final pat before folding neatly within her sleeves again. "You owe him an apology, even if I suspect neither of us expects one."

[ peck ] a quick, light kiss on the partner's lips or cheek [ french ] a deep, passionate kiss with the use of tongue [ forehead ] a gentle kiss on the partner's forehead, conveying care and affection [ spiderman ] an upside-down kiss, just like in the movie [ mistletoe ] a playful or romantic kiss under a mistletoe [ hand ] a chivalrous kiss on the back of the partner's hand [ lingering ] a long, slow kiss filled with emotion and desire [ neck ] a kiss or gentle sucking on the partner's neck [ nape ] a kiss placed at the nape of the partner's neck [ teasing ] a light brushing of lips against a partner's skin without fully kissing [ earlobe ] a light nibble on the partner's earlobe [ tango dip ] a kiss shared while one partner is dipped backward [ celebration ] a joyful and exuberant kiss to celebrate an achievement or milestone [ stolen ] a quick, stealthy, and impromptu kiss snatched in secret [ bite ] a playful kiss that involves some light biting [ goodbye ] a heartfelt kiss when parting, showing affection and fondness [ rain ] a romantic kiss in the rain [ scars ] a gentle kiss on the partner's scar(s) [ injury ] a careful kiss on a partner's wound to make it all better [ wedding ] a romantic kiss shared during a wedding ceremony [ comfort ] a tender kiss to provide comfort or reassurance [ sunset ] a kiss shared during sunset, often romantic and serene [ butterfly ] a light fluttering of eyelashes against the partner's skin [ seductive ] a deep, slow, and deliberately intense kiss filled with passion and desire [ shoulder ] a tender kiss on the partner's shoulder [ knuckles ] a kiss on each individual knuckle of the partner [ slow motion ] a kiss in slow motion, accentuating every moment and sensation [ reunion ] a longing kiss shared after being apart for a while [ passionate ] an intense and fiery kiss, expressing raw desire and strong emotion [ underwater ] a kiss shared while submerged in water [ wrist ] a tender kiss on the inside of the partner's wrist [ wake up ] a loving kiss to wake the partner up [ apology ] a kiss offered as a way to apologize or make amends [ hummingbird ] a series of light, rapid, and fluttery kisses on a small area [ trail ] a trail of kisses along the partner's jawline or collarbone [ blowing ] a kiss in the air and send of the gesture towards the partner [ surprise ] a sudden kiss to catch the partner off guard [ hickey ] a kiss that's supposed to leave a mark on the partner's skin [ single lip ] a sucking or nibbling of one of the partner's lips [ nose ] an affectionate gesture where partners rub their noses together