Untitled

In the early hours of morning, the sun has only just begun to rise. Birds chirp high among the branches, their songs echoing gently through the trees. A light breeze brushes against your cheek. Nearby, a clear stream flows past your wooden cabin, its surface calm.

You stand at its edge, breathing deeply, taking in the crisp air and the earthy scent of the forest. Closing your eyes, you let the warmth of the sun settle on your face. Your thoughts drift back to the first day you arrived here, many years ago.

...

You remember very little of the life you lived before you found your way, by chance, into the forest you now call home. What remains are fragments rather than clear memories.

You recall being surrounded by trees, so you assume you must have grown up in a place much like this one. But the faces of your family have faded completely, their names long since lost to time.

One memory, however, has never left you.

…

You remember the sudden presence of men. Their faces are blurred, but their voices linger, haunting your mind every so often even to this day. You remember the feeling of helplessness: your arms and legs bound tightly with ropes, a bag pulled over your head, leaving you blind. Hearing became your only guide, leaving only sound.

You didn’t know where they were taking you, or how far you had traveled. Time lost its meaning.

…

Then, one evening, the group made camp in an abandoned building. They left you alone in a small room, still bound. Somehow, you managed to free yourself, working the ropes loose with a jagged shard of broken glass.

The men had grown careless mainly due to alcohol consumption. Seizing the moment, you slipped away unnoticed, running into the darkness of the night.

The forest was dense, lit only by moonlight breaking through the treetops. Your muscles were limp, causing you to stumble, trip, and fall again and again, but you kept going. When you heard men’s voices and saw the flicker of torchlight in the distance, fear surged through you. You forced yourself forward, quickening your pace before climbing a nearby tree as high as you could, hiding among the branches.

Hours passed before you found the courage to climb down, your pursuers nowhere in sight.

…

You walked for days without rest, pushing through the wilderness until, at last, you spotted a wooden cabin in the distance. You were lost, scared, exhausted, and starving. Your vision blurred, your body finally giving in. Just before you lost consciousness, you caught a glimpse of an elderly man running toward you.

...

When you woke, you were lying in a bed, a cool, damp cloth resting on your forehead. The man who had found you and nursed you back to health was a herbalist living in the forest, on the outskirts of a small village.

…

From him, you learned the truth: the men who had taken you had likely intended to sell you as a slave, a cruel practice and one not uncommon, especially for young girls.

With no memory of where you came from, no home to return to, the old man took you in. You came to call him Master.

Under his guidance, you learned the ways of the forest - how to hunt and fish, how to find drinking water, which plants were safe to eat and how to tend a garden. When you began to show interest in his work, he made you his apprentice. He taught you how to read and write and how to craft remedies from the herbs that grew around you - medicines to heal, even poisons just as potent.

Your Master had once lived in the kingdom. He was not only intelligent, but also skilled. Over the years, he passed all that knowledge on to you.

…

As time passed, your Master grew older. His body weakened, his movements slowed and his health began to fail. After his passing, you remained in the forest, in the cabin, continuing his work as a herbalist.

…

Your remedies are sought mainly by the villagers. Over the years, the settlement has grown, its numbers slowly increasing, but most of its people are still elderly.

The path from your cottage to the village is long and difficult, winding through woodland and uneven terrain. Because of this, you make the journey only once a week to check on everyone.

The villagers are always grateful when you arrive. You bring with you herbal medicines, treating injuries and watching over their health with care. In return, they offer what they can - fresh bread, fruits, meat, clothing.

Each side gives what they have, each relying on the other.

Although the villagers are generally respectful and kind toward you, they do not approve of your way of life. Wherever you go, whispers follow, quiet murmurs and curious glances. To them, living alone deep in the forest, far from the safety of the village, is neither proper nor safe for a young woman like you. Again and again, they try to persuade you to leave your cabin behind and settle among them.

The women of the village persistently try to convince you that it is time to settle down, to marry, to have children. Over time, some of the men have approached you with those same intentions, offering companionship, stability.

But it is not the life you want.

You feel no desire to marry, nor to bear children. The past has still left its mark, a lingering unease that surfaces whenever men come too close. Your Master was the only exception, the only man you ever truly trusted, the only one with whom you felt safe.

——————————————————————

After your Master’s death, there are many times you consider leaving the small cabin you call home. A part of you longs to travel, to see what lies beyond the forest, to discover what the rest of the world has to offer.

But your Master’s words have never left you. His warnings about the cruelty of the world, how dangerous it can be, especially for women and even more so for those who are educated and independent, still echo in your mind.

And so, you stay.

…

You would never admit it out loud, but the truth is, you do feel lonely. With your Master gone, the forest feels emptier.

Now, your only companion is Black Beauty - your black stallion.

He wandered into the forest a few years ago, wild and untamed. Your Master had warned you to keep your distance, reminding you that such horses are feral by nature, unpredictable and dangerous. But Black Beauty never left. Days turned into weeks, and still he remained.

So, against your Master’s advice, you made a choice to tame him. It took patience, caution, and time, but eventually, little by little, you earned his trust. To this day, he remains intolerant of any hand but yours. Yet with you, he is calm and loyal.

To you, he is more than just a horse.

He is your companion. Your friend.

…

However, for the past few weeks, you haven’t been able to shake the feeling that you are no longer truly alone in the forest.

Of course, living in nature, surrounded by wildlife means you have never been the only living soul here. You are used to the sounds, the movement, the presence of animals hidden beyond the trees.

But this feels different. More deliberate.

This feels focused, intentional. As if something, or someone, is watching you…not by chance, but on purpose.

…

There is a story, a rumor, a legend, you had heard many times as a child about the mountains that surround the forest. It was one of the reasons the villagers rarely ventured too deep into the woods. They spoke of an ancient beast, a dragon, said to dwell in a hidden cave among the mountain’s crevices.

You had never heard of such a creature before, so you asked your Master.

He told you that, many centuries ago, long before the rise of human kingdoms, there existed beings known as dragons. They were said to be immense, their forms resembling great reptiles. Their bodies were covered in impenetrable scales, resistant to any weapon forged by human hands, harder than any material known. Their limbs ended in long, curved claws, sharp enough to tear through flesh and bone with ease. They bore great wings, powerful enough to carry them high above the clouds, and horns that crowned their heads.

But they were not mindless beasts. They were intelligent and cunning. Some even believed they wielded magic, capable of bending the elements to their will.

According to your Master, there was a time when dragons and humans lived alongside one another, bound in a fragile balance. But human cruelty, its hunger for power and control, gave rise to fear and envy. And so, dragons were cursed, painted as monsters, their image twisted into something to be feared and destroyed. It gave humans an excuse, a justification to hunt them down.

Driven to extinction several hundred years ago.

You never thought your Master was lying. You simply believed he was indulging your imagination. Even then, you never truly believed dragons had ever existed. After all, how could such powerful, magnificent creatures be real?

To you, they were nothing more than tales meant to frighten children into obedience.

…

Little did you know, hiding within the forest, concealed by lush vegetation, a dragon watches you, its gaze filled not with malice, but with curiosity.

——————————————————————

Strange, unexplainable things have been happening lately.

The first time, it was early morning when you stepped outside and found a dead deer lying on your doorstep.

Upon closer inspection, you could tell it had been killed only moments before. Its throat had been torn open in a precise motion, a clean kill. Not the work of a hunter. A predator, then. But why would a predator leave its kill here, untouched, right at your door?

You couldn’t risk leaving it there. The scent of fresh blood drawing unwanted attention - other predators, scavengers.

With no better option, you tied the deer’s legs together and with Black Beauty’s help, dragged it all the way to the village. Someone there would know how to properly process it, to make use of the meat.

…

The next day, it happens again.

This time, you find several small animals at your doorstep, a handful of rabbits and pheasants, all freshly killed. Just…left there. For you.

You spend the afternoon preparing them for consumption - plucking feathers, skinning, cleaning.

Later, you make your usual rounds into the forest, checking the traps you’ve set. They were meant as both protection and a reliable way to gather food without the need to hunt.

Every single one is untouched. Still set. Still functional.

As you move through the forest, something else catches your eye. Tracks.

You crouch low, studying the ground.

The footprints are large, far too large to belong to any human. And yet, they don’t match any animal you know. There are also broken branches nearby, along with deep claw marks carved into bark.

Whatever passed through here…it was recent.

And it was big.

…

Another day brings another offering.

This time, it isn’t meat.

Instead, your doorstep is covered with an assortment of fruits - wild berries, cherries, plums - along with selected mushrooms. Every item is safe. Edible. Chosen with knowledge.

These are not random scraps left behind by an animal. They are deliberate. Thoughtful. Intentional.

Convinced now that no wild creature could be responsible, you make your way to the village. You question the villagers, but they deny any involvement. No one has been near your cabin. No man steps forward to claim responsibility.

…

And yet, the offerings continue. Not only that, they grow.

In value. In rarity.

One evening, you find something new waiting for you. Draped neatly over the rocking chair is a gown, deep red, made of fine silk. Silk is rare. Expensive. A luxury reserved for nobility and royalty.

Something no villager could ever afford.

You hesitantly lift the gown to your frame. It is light, the fabric smooth beneath your fingers. The design is simple, yet undeniably elegant.

…

If that gift unsettled you, the next leaves you truly shaken.

A small chest appears on your window ledge. When you open it, your breath catches.

Inside are gold coins, gemstones, jewelry - each piece finely crafted, polished to perfection. Wealth beyond anything you have ever seen, let alone possessed.

Your thoughts spiral. Confusion twists into unease.

Where is all of this coming from?

Who is leaving these things for you?

And…why you?

——————————————————————

Despite everything, life does not stop. There are still chores to tend to, remedies to prepare and tasks that cannot be ignored.

You pack your satchel, sling your bow and arrows over your shoulder, and set off with Black Beauty toward the mountains.

Around this time of year, a plant known as aloecups begins to bloom, clinging to life in the cracks of the rocky mountainsides. When its thick stem is cut open, it reveals a cool, gel-like substance, highly effective for treating inflammation and burns. Its bright yellow petals produce a tea with a delicate sweetness.

But the plant is difficult to gather.

It blooms only briefly and only in the narrow crevices of the mountains. Though its vivid color makes it easy to spot, reaching it is another matter entirely.

The mountainside is steep and unforgiving. One wrong step, one loose grip, and the fall would be fatal. Yet the reward outweighs the risk. This is not your first climb. You are used to scaling trees, navigating uneven terrain.

Spotting a cluster of aloecups, you pull yourself higher and higher until you reach a ledge barely wide enough to support your feet. You steady yourself, crouching low, pressing your body close to the rock face. Carefully, you move sideways like a crab.

One by one, you reach out and pull the plants free, gripping their stems, forcing yourself not to look down.

…

Then…A shift beneath your feet.

The rock crumbles.

You try to step away, to regain your balance, but it’s too late. The ledge gives way, breaking apart beneath you. There is nothing to hold onto, nothing to stop your fall.

A sharp impact strikes your head as falling debris falls around you. You feel something warm trickle down your brow…blood.

Your vision blurs.

As darkness closes in, all you can do is hope for the impossible. A soft landing.

…

You feel something nudging your side, a warm breath brushing across your face. Slowly, you open your eyes, blinking several times until your vision clears. Black Beauty stands over you.

You sit up abruptly, the memory of the fall crashing back into your mind.

You find yourself lying in soft grass at the foot of the mountain. There is no pain. No sign of injury.

Your hands move instinctively to your head but there is no wound, no blood.

You are completely unharmed.

How is that possible?

…

“You’re finally awake.” The voice cuts through the silence.

You freeze, a chill running down your spine at the sound of a man’s voice - deep, rich.

“Such a foolish human. If I hadn’t been there to catch you, that fall would have killed you.”

Slowly, you turn your head toward the sound.

You can feel a presence, but not see one.

You push yourself to your feet, brushing dirt and grass from your clothes as your eyes scan the empty space.

“So…you’re the one who broke my fall?” you ask, your voice cautious as you take a hesitant step forward.

“What made you go mountain climbing in the first place?” the voice replies, ignoring your question.

“I was collecting Aloecup plants,” you explain.

“What is so special about a plant that you would risk your life for it?” the voice presses, almost accusing.

“I miscalculated my steps,” you answer defensively.

Silence follows. A pause that stretches.

“Why are you playing hide and seek?” you ask. “Show yourself.”

A low chuckle answers you. “I prefer the term playing cat and mouse.”

You swallow, “It’s only right that I thank my savior face to face…is it not?”

“Your thanks has been received,” the voice replies smoothly. “Now go home, little gem.”

Before you can respond, a sudden burst of wind surges toward you, strong enough to nearly knock you off your feet. You stagger, raising an arm to shield your face.

And then, the air stills

You rush toward the direction the voice came from. Your heart pounds as you search every shadow.

Nothing. No trace of anyone ever being there.

You call out. No answer.

…

When you return to your cabin, you kneel by the stream, staring at your reflection in the water’s surface. There is dried blood on your brow, but no wound beneath it. No cut. No swelling.

You scan your body, checking.

Nothing.

Not a bruise. Not a scratch.

Your skin is smooth. Untouched.

That, more than anything, unsettles you.

Life in the forest is not gentle. Small injuries are constant, cuts, bruises, splinters. Marks that come and go, proof of hard work and life in the forest.

But now…There is nothing.

…

Sleep does not come easily that night.

Your mind races, circling the same questions again and again.

The voice.

The presence.

What was that man doing out there?

Where did he come from?

Eventually, exhaustion overtakes you as you drift into an uneasy sleep.

——————————————————————

Sunlight streams through the window, falling directly across your face. You grumble and pull the blanket over your head in protest. Sleep has been restless, haunted by the memory of that deep, unfamiliar voice.

With a sigh of irritation, you throw the blanket aside and force yourself up.

The day must begin.

You dress quickly, splash cool water over your face, and braid your hair into a single plait. After a simple breakfast, you slip out through the back door to begin your morning routine.

First, you check on Black Beauty in his stable, refilling his water and running a hand along his neck. From there, you move to the chicken coop - feeding the hens and collecting their eggs.

Next, the garden.

You water the vegetables, pulling stubborn weeds from the soil and checking each plant’s growth.

When everything is done, you return inside the cabin.

Your gaze moves over the shelves lined with dozens of labeled bottles and jars, each one carefully organized. The space is small, just a single room beneath a low roof, with no walls to divide it, but every corner serves a purpose.

Opposite the front door, the stone fireplace forms the heart of the cabin. A kettle hangs from an iron hook above the fire, while strips of rabbit meat are strung along rods to dry. To the right, beneath the only window, stands your bed, a simple wooden frame layered with blankets, a pillow at the head, and a chest at its foot where your clothes are kept.

To the left lies the kitchen, the most used part of the cabin. The walls are lined with wooden shelves, each one filled with jars, bottles, and worn books. A large table, its surface scarred with years of use, is covered in drying herbs and mushrooms. Beneath it, baskets of root vegetables and sealed barrels of salted meat are stored. Clay pots and iron pans hang from pegs within easy reach.

You check your supplies, taking stock of what you have and what you need. As you sort through jars and bundles, you begin to gather what you’ll take with you, making a mental note of what must be restocked when you head to the village later.

…

You open the front door and something falls at your feet.

It’s your satchel. The same one you left behind in the forest yesterday, forgotten in the chaos of your fall.

But that’s not all.

Just beyond the threshold sits a woven basket, filled to the brim with Aloecups. Freshly picked. It must have taken hours.

And there is only one person who could have done this.

Your gaze lifts toward the forest.

Before doubt can take hold, your feet carry you back toward the mountain’s base, back to where you heard that voice.

…

You move through the trees, alert, your senses sharpened. Your eyes scan every shadow. You listen for anything out of place.

“Hello?” you call out, your voice echoing faintly. “Is anyone there? Hello! Mister!”

Silence.

Then—

A sudden gust of wind surges through the trees, rushing toward you just as it had yesterday.

“You called.” The deep voice echoes around you.

You step toward it, slow, trying to pinpoint its source.

“I found the Aloecups you left for me,” you begin. “I appreciate the help…but why go through all that effort? It must have taken you a long time to gather so many.”

“They seemed important to you,” the voice replies. “Better than letting you climb that mountain again. Next time, I may not be there to catch you.”

It’s clearer now. Closer.

You take another step.

“Why leave them at my doorstep?” you ask. “Why not knock? Why not give them to me yourself? Why all the secrecy?”

“Stop.” The command is sharp. “Not another step. Keep your eyes ahead.”

You freeze.

And then, you feel it. A presence behind you.

“Why won’t you show yourself?” you ask.

“I don’t want to scare you,” the voice says.

“Believe it or not…lurking in the shadows is far scarier. It feels like being hunted.”

A pause.

“What if I am ugly?” the voice asks. “Too ugly to look at?”

“They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” you reply. “And besides…I doubt someone with a voice like yours could be ugly.”

A low chuckle.

“Oh? So you think I have a nice voice?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks.

“Turn around,” the voice instructs.

Slowly…you turn.

And freeze.

Your body locks in place as your eyes widen in instinctive fear.

Before you stands something that is neither fully human nor entirely beast, but something in between.

Tall. Powerful. His body is covered in sleek black scales that gleam like polished armor. His form is lean yet muscular, strength evident in every line. At the center of his chest rests something unnatural, a red gem.

Leather trousers hang low on his hips. From his head, curved horns sweep backward like a crown. His hair is silver, falling into his eyes. A long tail swings slowly behind him. His hands and feet end in sharp, curved claws.

His face is almost human.

Sharp. Defined.

But his eyes…His eyes burn like rubies, glowing with an intensity.

Everything about him radiates power. Control. Danger.

Every instinct screams at you to run.

But you can’t.

You can only stare.

“What…are you?” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“I’m a dragon,” he answers simply.

“A dragon?” you repeat, shaking your head faintly. “Dragons aren’t real. They’re just myths…stories.” Your voice falters. “You don’t look like the drawings.”

“I’m not in my true form,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Some dragons can take on a…human shape.”

Your mind races.

The tracks.

The broken branches.

The claw marks.

“Have you…been here this whole time?” you ask, your voice unsteady. “Watching me?”

“Yes.”

Your chest tightens, your heart pounding. Your thoughts spiral, your body flooding with fear.

He doesn’t move.

He simply watches you, calm, observant, as if studying your every reaction.

Finally, your body listens to instinct.

You run.

Faster than you ever have before.

Branches scrape against you, your lungs burn, your steps falter, but you don’t stop. You don’t look back. You just run, all the way to your cabin.

You slam the door shut behind you. Your legs give out as you collapse to your knees, breath ragged, heart racing.

…

You have no idea how much time you’ve spent crouched on the floor.

The stories aren’t just stories. Dragons are real. The village rumors are true.

With a sudden surge of realization and resolve you rush outside, mounting Black Beauty and riding fast toward the village.

Upon arrival, you head straight for the tavern, the hub of all knowledge…or more accurately, gossip. The villagers acknowledge you with small nods, though most cast puzzled glances your way.

You take a seat at the bar. A chubby, busty woman approaches, wiping down the counter with a rag.

“What can I get for you, love?” she asks.

“A pint.”

She sets a heavy glass before you. You take a long gulp. You rarely drink, and ale has never been to your liking, but you need something to steady your nerves.

How do you even begin? You can’t just blurt out that there’s a dragon living nearby. That would spark panic, if they even believed you at all. More likely, they’d think you’d gone mad from living alone for too long.

You clear your throat. “I’ve always wondered why I don’t get visitors,” you begin casually.

“That’s what you get for living so far out in the forest, love. You should think about moving into the village,” the barmaid replies.

“Oh, I thought it might be because a big, bad, scary dragon lives in the mountains,” you say, attempting a lighthearted tone.

She laughs. “I’m sure there are plenty of scary creatures out there but I doubt a dragon’s one of them.”

“Who came up with that rumor?” you ask, taking another sip.

“Just an old wives’ tale. Passed down through generations. Something to amuse the children,” she shrugs.

“So no one’s ever seen one? you press carefully.

“I’m sure a few old geezers might tell you otherwise,” she chuckles. “But the village has enough real troubles without worrying about make-believe monsters.”

Her words do little to ease your mind. You push your drink aside and reach for your coin.

“It’s on the house, love,” she says gently. “You looked like you needed it. Besides, what would we do without our herbalist?”

You offer her a grateful smile before leaving.

The walk back to your cabin feels longer than usual.

…

That night, sleep refuses to come. You toss and turn, your mind restless. By the faint flicker of candlelight, you turn to your work, brewing tea from aloecups, carefully extracting the gel from their stems. Perhaps busy hands will quiet your thoughts.

But your thoughts are relentless.

How long has the dragon been here? Was he there all along? Did the Master know and choose to keep it secret?

You recall your Master’s words: dragons are not mindless beasts, but intelligent creatures older than humanity itself.

The dragon has done you no harm. He didn’t seem…hostile. In fact, he saved you from your fall. He even brought you the aloecups.

Those aren’t the actions of a monster. They’re…kind. Thoughtful.

——————————————————————

Falling asleep at the table had not been a good idea. Your neck aches, your muscles stiff as you force yourself upright.

You move through your morning routine as you always do.

Last night, you made a decision. A reckless one. A crazy one.

You’re going back to see the dragon.

You pack a basket with various foods, a peace offering. Before leaving, you slip a dagger into your boot. You know it would be useless against a dragon, but it offers the illusion of protection.

Then you set out.

Each step feels heavy. Measured. Deliberate.

“Hello… Mr. Dragon!” you call, your voice betraying a slight tremor.

Moments later, he descends.

He lands with a heavy thud, the force of it stirring the ground beneath your feet. For a brief moment, his wings stretch wide, before folding neatly behind his back.

Seeing him a second time does nothing to lessen the impact. You stand frozen, staring. He stares back. A careful distance remains between you.

“I’m sorry for running off yesterday,” you blurt. “I was just—”

“Scared,” the dragon finishes for you.

You don’t deny it. You were scared.

You still are.

“I… I brought you some tea. And…snacks,” you say, holding out the basket, your hands trembling slightly.

“Tea?” he repeats, his tone laced with curiosity.

“I use the flowers from those aloecup plants you collect,” you explain. “I also brought dried meats, root vegetables, bread, fruit…” Your voice softens into a sheepish murmur. “I wasn’t sure what dragons eat.”

“Will you stay and eat with me?” he asks.

You hadn’t expected that.

“You’re not going to eat me, are you?” you ask, attempting a light joke, though your laugh comes out thin.

The dragon chuckles. “Does the fact that you’re still alive not answer your question? I have no reason to devour humans; I’m more than capable of hunting.” His tone is almost offended. Then, almost teasing, he adds, “At least…not in the way you’re implying.”

You have no idea what he means by that.

You hesitate, then shift your weight. Slowly, you remove your cloak and lay it across the grass before sitting. You unpack the basket, arranging the food carefully within reach.

“If you wish to eat…you’ll have to come closer,” you say, keeping your head slightly bowed.

He hesitates.

Then steps forward.

It only takes two strides for him to loom over you, his long limbs closing the distance with ease. His shadow engulfs you completely, blotting out the sun. You knew he was large, but like this, he feels enormous.

He lowers himself to the ground, the impact making the earth tremble slightly. Notably, he avoids sitting on your cloak.

This is the closest you’ve been.

Close enough to feel his warmth.

You pour tea into a cup, gripping it with both hands to steady yourself and offer it to him. As he takes it, careful not to brush your fingers, you finally look at him properly.

Your breath catches.

Fear had blinded you before.

Now, you see him clearly.

He is…strikingly handsome. As though carved from marble. His eyes fixed on your face, holding an intensity.

The cup looks absurdly small in his hands, like a toy. Despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips.

He lifts it and takes a sip.

“It’s sweet,” he says after a moment, “but delicate.”

“Try it with this,” you suggest, nudging some smoked pork toward him. “The smokiness balances the sweetness.”

Silence settles between you.

The two of you eat, focused on the simple act, sharing the space in a way that feels…odd, but not unpleasant.

…

Without warning, you burst into laughter, so sudden and intense your stomach aches and tears blur your vision.

The dragon’s body jerks, as though startled by your outburst.

“I can’t believe I’m having lunch with a dragon. Who would have thought?” you manage between breaths, wiping your eyes. “By the way, I should have asked sooner…What is your name? I hate calling you Mr. Dragon. Dragons do have names, don’t they?”

The dragon nods. “Dragons are given names at birth, much like humans. But our mother tongue is not one humans can pronounce.”

A low sound rumbles from his throat, a syllable, perhaps, though impossible to grasp.

He’s right. You can’t make sense of it.

Noticing your confusion, he adds, “Sylus.”

You look at him, puzzled.

“You may call me Sylus. It is the closest human equivalent to my true name.”

“Sylus…” You test the name. It suits him.

…

“Yesterday, you said you’ve always lived here. For how long? Did you ever meet my master? He was the herbalist before me, an elderly man.”

“The only person I have encountered here is you,” Sylus replies.

“My master died a few years ago,” you say quietly.

“That makes sense,” Sylus says. “I only woke from my slumber a few weeks ago.”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

“Dragons are warm-blooded creatures. During the colder months, we retreat to our lairs to hibernate,” he explains. “When I woke, I found the world both changed and unchanged. I suppose that is to be expected after several hundred years of sleep.”

You choke on your tea, coughing. “You mean to say you’ve been asleep for hundreds of years?” Your voice rises in disbelief. “Talk about beauty sleep.”

Silence falls again. As you piece things together, a realization dawns.

“Sylus…Have you been the one leaving gifts on my doorstep?”

He clicks his tongue, irritation flickering in his expression. “It would seem my gifts were not well received.”

His tail swishes. “I saw you take the deer away…I thought perhaps deer was not to your taste, so I tried rabbits and pheasant instead, the animals you usually hunt. Yet it only seemed to burden you further. I brought fruits and mushrooms, but those were unsatisfactory as well. Even the gown and the treasures failed, you rejected them, never wearing them.”

There’s a quiet disappointment in his voice that makes guilt twist in your chest.

“At first, I thought the food came from the villagers,” you admit. “But when the gown and jewels appeared…I knew no one in the village could afford such things.”

Sylus looks offended.

You raise your hands quickly. “It’s not that I don’t like them…I do. They’re beautiful. I just…have no use for such luxuries out here. I’d hate to ruin the gown or lose the treasures.”

“I can replace them,” Sylus says, as though that solves everything.

“That’s not what I mean,” you reply, shaking your head. “How did you even acquire such things? And why give them to me?”

“Dragons are known for their hoards. If I see something I like, I take it. Some items were offerings, given by humans long ago, before we were labeled monsters.”

Your chest tightens at that word. Monsters.

“As for why you…” Sylus continues, his gaze steady, “it is only natural for a dragon to shower his mate with treasures.”

“Mate?”

Sensing your confusion, he clarifies, “I believe humans use the word beloved.”

Your eyes widen. Beloved? You?

“I-I don’t understand,” you stammer, heat rising to your face. “Me? That makes no sense. We’re strangers. And…not to mention the obvious - I’m human, and you’re a dragon.”

“A human cannot begin to comprehend the bond between mates,” Sylus says, his voice deepening. “It is more than emotion, it is instinct, woven into our very being. An unbreakable connection, binding soul to soul. A pull that cannot be ignored. It defies logic, reason.”

He pauses, something solemn in his gaze.

“Dragons live for thousands of years. If one is fortunate enough to find their mate, it is a bond that lasts for eternity.”

There is no doubt in his eyes, only awe and unwavering certainty.

“Still…shouldn’t your mate be another dragon?” you ask, clinging to reason. “Surely there’s someone more suited than me.”

“They’re gone,” Sylus says sharply. “There are no more dragons.”

“You don’t know that,” you counter. “Stories say humans slew the dragons, but I doubt that’s true. I mean, we wouldn’t stand a chance,” you add with a faint laugh.

But Sylus’s expression silences you. There is hatred there, yes, but also something deeper. Grief.

“The stories are exaggerated,” he admits quietly, “but their core is true.

“Once, dragons and humans lived in harmony. Humans revered us as divine, offering prayers and gifts in exchange for protection. But as their numbers grew and kingdoms rose, so did their ambition. They no longer wished to live beneath beings stronger than themselves.”

His voice darkens.

“They lied. They betrayed us. They turned us into monsters in their tales. Kings sent knights to hunt us, to bring back our heads as trophies, proof of their ‘heroism.’”

He exhales slowly.

“Dragons were never numerous. We are solitary by nature and even when bonded, we are fortunate to have a single offspring. In time, humans outnumbered us…and one by one, we were hunted to extinction.”

…

Sylus left shortly after, spreading his wings and taking to the sky. You remained there for a long time, before finally packing up and returning to your cabin.

Lying in bed, you replay his words over and over, your chest tightening with each thought. You wish you had said something, anything, but what comfort could your words possibly offer?

His entire species, gone. Slaughtered out of human jealousy, leaving him alone in a world that fears him, that calls him a monster.

You imagine it - the grief, the loneliness.

——————————————————————

“Sylus! Are you there?” you call into the open air.

You wait. And wait. Just as you’re about to turn back, you feel it - that unmistakable presence.

…

You came here to talk, but now the words cling to your throat.

Before you can speak, Sylus reveals something in his grasp, a flower crown.

“Since you do not wish to wear the jewelry I gave you, I thought this might be more acceptable.”

This dragon is full of surprises.

You lower your head and Sylus gently places the crown upon it.

“My little gem,” he murmurs.

“You called me that before, if I recall,” you say softly, fingers brushing over the delicate petals. “Why?”

“The first thing I noticed when I saw you was your eyes,” Sylus replies. “Bright. Wide. Shining…like gemstones.”

Your heart stutters, warmth blooming in your chest, but you push it aside, remembering why you came.

“Sylus…” you begin carefully. “I may not fully understand what a ‘mate’ means to you, but from what I gather…the gifts were your way of courting me. Of earning my favor.”

He says nothing, only watches you with that same unwavering intensity.

“Please don’t misunderstand,” you continue. “I can’t return the connection you feel for me. But yesterday was nice. I enjoyed spending time with you, talking. I’m sure you have countless stories I’d love to hear.”

You hesitate, then push through.

“What I’m trying to say is…I’d like to keep spending time with you. Maybe we could be…friends.”

Silence stretches between you.

For a moment, you think he might refuse.

“As you wish.”

You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. A small smile finds its way onto your lips.

“But if you believe this will make me abandon my pursuit,” Sylus adds calmly, “or cease my gifts, you are mistaken.”

Your smile falters.

A loud sigh escapes you, part resignation and disbelief.

——————————————————————

True to his word, Sylus continues to pursue you, but never in a way that feels forced. Instead, he becomes a steady, familiar presence in your life, one you grow accustomed to with each passing day.

Despite being a dragon, Sylus possesses an effortless charm. His unwavering dedication and his persistent interest in you begin to wear down your defenses.

He still brings gifts. You accept them, each time with a polite smile, yet a knot of unease lingers in your chest. You don’t want to mislead him…don’t want it to seem as though you’re taking advantage of his devotion.

Every day, Sylus arrives with a fresh bouquet of flowers. Their fragrance fills your cabin, each bundle arranged in a vase upon the table.

As the seasons shift and autumn approaches, Sylus helps you gather firewood, your most vital source of warmth.

With effortless strength, he carries entire tree trunks as though they weigh nothing. The sight of him tearing through thick wood with his claws should be frightening, but instead, you find it oddly impressive.

You enjoy watching him work, his forearms and back muscles tightening with each movement. It is…a pleasant sight.

Not that you would ever admit that aloud.

One day, he catches you staring.

“Enjoying the view, little gem?” he asks, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

Heat rushes to your face. You quickly turn away, focusing intently on stacking wood beside the cabin, but despite yourself, you keep stealing glances.

What would have taken you weeks to accomplish is finished in mere days. By the end, you have more than enough wood to last through winter.

There are still vegetables that can endure the colder months, but you spend much of your time preserving what you can. Experience has taught you not to trust every harvest.

Winter in the forest is unforgiving. Snow often traps you for weeks at a time, cutting off any chance of traveling to the village. Preparation is survival.

While you tend the garden, Sylus takes on the hunting. This time, instead of leaving his catches at your doorstep, he asks you to teach him how to prepare meat for human consumption. As a dragon, he is used to eating it raw.

——————————————————————

“What are you doing, little gem?” Sylus asks one afternoon, hovering just above you.

“Making wine,” you reply. You stand barefoot in a large wooden vat, holding up your dress as you step over the crushed grapes beneath your feet.

“Wine?” Sylus asks, peering down curiously at the mixture.

“First, you crush the grapes to release their juice. After a few days, you separate the liquid from the skins and transfer it into a barrel to ferment.”

You glance up at him. “Do you want to try?”

Sylus steps into the vat, careful not to tread on your feet. His size alone makes him perfectly suited for the task.

As you begin working together, you sing quietly, a song you’ve heard countless times in the village during harvest season.

When you look up, Sylus is watching you intently.

You falter, suddenly self-conscious.

“Don’t stop,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Whenever you work, you sing to yourself. I enjoy hearing your voice.”

“Please… sing again.” There is something almost pleading in his tone.

So you do. This time, louder. Freer.

Laughter escapes you as Sylus attempts to hum along, his deep voice clumsy but earnest.

——————————————————————

Sharing meals together soon becomes a quiet ritual between you. You find yourself looking forward to it, especially to the subtle shifts in Sylus’s expression whenever he tastes something new.

At first, you were surprised a dragon would want anything beyond raw meat, but Sylus seems to genuinely enjoy the dishes you prepare.

These meals are rarely silent. Sylus fills them with stories, tales of the world beyond the forest, of distant lands and forgotten times. For a being who has lived for thousands of years, he has witnessed more than you could ever imagine.

And with every story, your curiosity grows.

A quiet yearning takes root within you, the desire to see those places for yourself.

Yet, for all his stories, Sylus rarely speaks of himself.

Whenever the conversation drifts too close, he redirects it with ease, or answers in ways that reveal little. You don’t think it’s because Sylus doesn’t trust you - rather, he seems to struggle with allowing himself to be vulnerable. And while you long to understand him on a deeper level, you choose not to push.

Instead, Sylus tells you about dragons as a whole.

They all come from a place called the Abyss - their origin, their birthplace. It is where dragons return to lay their eggs, a cycle as ancient as their kind itself.

The way Sylus describes the Abyss - a rocky wasteland of searing heat and endless darkness - makes it sound less like a homeland and more like something a priest would use to depict hell.

And then there is the gem embedded in Sylus’s chest.

You had always wondered about it, the way faint, vein-like lines spread outward from its center.

It is not an ornament.

It is his heart.

All dragons possess one, each gem matching the color of their eyes.

Like you, Sylus does not remember his parents.

Dragon hatchlings are not raised for long. Once they reach a certain age, they are driven from the nest, forced to survive on their own.

Just how long has Sylus been wandering, enduring, existing? It saddens you to realize just how long Sylus has been alone in this world.

——————————————————————

“What are you up to, little gem?” Sylus asks, leaning in the doorway as you rummage through your shelves.

“Looking for honey,” you reply without sparing him a glance. “But it seems I’m out.” You sigh, disappointed, then turn toward him. “What are those?” you ask, pointing to the bundle of fabric in his arms.

“The weather is growing colder. These will keep you warm,” Sylus says, handing them to you.

They’re fur blankets, fox fur, soft and warm beneath your touch.

You smile, grateful.

“Now, let’s go get some honey,” he adds, extending his hand.

You take it. His hand is so large it easily envelops yours.

“Honey isn’t exactly easy to find out here,” you say as you walk deeper into the forest, silence settling between you.

“Dragons have keen senses, far more heightened than those of humans,” Sylus replies. “Especially our sense of smell and hearing.”

“So…we’re following your nose?” you tease with a small laugh.

“Up there.” Sylus gestures toward the branches of a large oak tree.

You hand him the jar you brought, watching as he takes flight.

“Be careful of the bees! Don’t let them sting you!” you call after him, earning only a low chuckle in response.

Moments later, he returns, the jar filled with golden honey. He casually licks the sticky residue from his claws.

“Hmm…what is this?”

You follow his gaze. Looking closer, you notice names carved into the trunk, encircled by a heart.

“Those are names,” you explain. “And the heart…it’s a romantic gesture. A symbol of lasting love.” Your voice softens toward the end.

Sylus steps toward another tree. With careful precision, he begins carving unfamiliar symbols into the bark.

“What are you doing?” you ask, leaning closer to see.

“These are our names in the dragon tongue,” he says simply, finishing the markings before carving a heart around them.

Your breath catches.

Your heart pounds so loudly in your chest, you’re certain Sylus can hear it.

——————————————————————

The forest at night truly comes alive. The rustle of leaves as nocturnal creatures stir to hunt, the croak of frogs, the distant hoot of owls and the steady chirp of crickets.

The branches above cast eerie shadows like outstretched limbs reaching through the dark.

Moonlight filters through the canopy, scattering silver across the forest floor. It reflects off the stream beside you, where you and Sylus sit in quiet companionship. Above, the sky stretches endlessly, scattered with countless stars.

A shiver runs through you as the night air cools.

Sylus’s tail curls gently around your waist, drawing you closer to his side. You don’t resist, only sink further into the warmth he offers.

Beneath the starlit sky, the moment settles into something unspoken…yet undeniably intimate.

——————————————————————

It has only been a few weeks since Sylus first entered your life, yet with each passing day, the distance between you seems to shrink. You grow closer.

You find yourself watching him just as closely as he watches you, matching his attentiveness with your own. It doesn’t take long before you begin to notice even his smallest habits.

As a warm-blooded creature, Sylus enjoys the sun’s warmth, but not its brightness. He prefers the comfort of shadows, retreating into shaded corners.

Deer is his favorite meal.

When he isn’t helping you with your daily tasks, he spends most of his time dozing or lounging idly. Naturally, this makes him far more active at night. You try your best to adjust to his rhythm, but more often than not, sleep claims you.

You’ve even learned to read his moods through the movements of his tail. A slow sway, a sharp flick, a relaxed curl - you can tell when he’s bored, irritated, or content.

In that way…he reminds you of a cat.

During your short time together, you’ve come to recognize many of his behaviors - things that once felt strange, but now feel familiar.

The way he lingers close, always keeping you within sight.

The way he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, quietly breathing you in.

The way he brushes his tongue against your cheek.

At first, these gestures confused you.

Now, you understand, they are simply his way of showing affection.

Sylus is also undeniably territorial. The gifts he brings are not only tokens of care, but subtle claims of presence.

Your cabin, both inside and out, now bears traces of him everywhere. A newly crafted scarecrow stands in the garden, supposedly because the old one “wasn’t frightening enough.” A wind chime made of delicate gems catches the light, scattering soft colors. Woven baskets sit neatly on either side of your door.

And whenever you wear something he has given you, no matter how small, whether it’s a ring, a hair clip, or a necklace, his eyes glow with adoration.

Perhaps you should feel uneasy.

At his devotion.

His protectiveness.

His possessiveness.

But instead…you find it…endearing.

——————————————————————

“What’s it like to fly?” you ask one day as you gaze up at the open sky.

Sylus doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he holds out his arms.

“Why don’t you find out?”

You step closer. He lifts you effortlessly, cradling you securely in his arms.

His wings spread wide and with a single, powerful motion, he launches into the air.

A startled squeal escapes you as you cling tightly to him, burying your face against his chest, eyes squeezed shut. The ground falls away in an instant. Higher and higher he climbs, past the treetops, past the mountain peaks, into the open sky.

The wind rushes around you, tugging at your hair as it whips wildly in every direction.

Through the roar, you barely catch the sound of his chuckle.

“You’re missing the view, little gem.”

You take a steadying breath, your heart pounding and slowly open your eyes.

And your breath catches.

Endless blue stretches before you - vast, open and clear. Clouds drift lazily around you. Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers brushing through their soft, misty edges.

You glance down.

The world below has shrunk into tiny shapes, scattered like specks across the land.

A laugh bursts from you, bright and unrestrained.

“This is amazing!” you shout, your voice carried away by the wind.

But even that word feels too inadequate to capture the sheer wonder of it all. Freedom. The weightlessness.

This is how Sylus sees the world.

——————————————————————

For the past few days, the weather has been relentless. Rain falls without pause, soaking the air in a damp chill that seeps deep into your bones. The ground outside has turned into slick mud, and the sky remains a dull, unbroken gray, refusing even a sliver of sunlight.

You spend your days indoors, passing the time with simple tasks - making candles, checking your supplies for winter and reading.

The weather has also kept you from Sylus. He still comes by each day to check on you, but never lingers long before retreating to his cave, seeking shelter from the rain.

Tonight, a storm rages.

Wind howls, rattling your windows as thunder cracks overhead, each rumble closer than the last. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the sharp snap of breaking branches. Sleep is impossible.

You sit upright in bed, wrapped tightly in blankets, your thoughts drifting to your chickens and to Black Beauty, hoping they’re safe through the storm.

A sudden bang makes you jump.

At first, you think it’s thunder.

Then it comes again.

A knock.

You scramble from bed and rush to the door, pulling it open.

Sylus stands there, rain dripping from his scales, making their dark sheen even more striking.

Without hesitation, you grab his arm and pull him inside, bracing your full weight against the door to force it shut against the raging wind.

Your small cabin barely accommodates him. He has to duck his head and bend slightly just to fit beneath the ceiling.

“What are you doing here?” you demand, pulling him closer to the fire. “Coming out in this weather is reckless.”

“It will take more than rain and wind to harm me,” Sylus replies, a faint smirk on his lips as he sits.

You shake your head, grabbing a towel. The rain has barely affected him; his scales shed the water easily, but his hair is damp.

You toss the towel over his head and begin drying it.

To reach him, you have to stretch, leaning close

And then—

You meet his eyes.

Your breath catches.

Sylus’s eyes are dark, heavy with a raw hunger, flickering between desire and lust.

Only then do you realize how close you are.

You’re practically seated in his lap, his hands resting at your waist, steady and firm, as if grounding himself.

A low rumble vibrates from his chest.

Heat rushes to your face.

You quickly pull away, stumbling back onto your feet. Words fail you, catching awkwardly in your throat.

Needing something…anything…to break the tension, you turn to the fire, adding more wood than necessary just to keep your hands busy.

Then, gathering blankets from your bed, you spread them out on the floor near the fireplace.

Sylus settles down on his side. Without a word, he reaches out and gently pulls you down beside him.

You press your back against him, seeking his warmth.

Outside, the storm rages on, unrelenting.

But here, within the quiet shelter of your cabin, held in the arms of a dragon, you feel completely, undeniably safe.

Your eyelids grow heavy and as sleep finally claims you, you’re almost certain you hear a soft, steady purr behind you.

——————————————————————

You stir awake as a sliver of sunlight slips through the window. The fire has long since gone cold and the storm has passed.

You shift, pushing yourself up. Sylus still asleep beside you, his breathing steady.

For a moment, you simply watch him.

Your gaze softens, your heart full in a way you don’t quite understand.

And then—

A sudden chill runs through you. Your body goes tense as unease coils in your chest.

Panic follows.

Quietly, you slip away, doing your best not to wake him.

The storm has left its mark. The area around your cabin is in disarray, but you barely register any of it.

Instead, you run deeper into the forest, with no destination in mind.

…

Your feet carry you on instinct. Before you realize it, you find yourself standing before your master’s memorial.

At his request, you had cremated him.

You made this place as a quiet tribute. A simple stone, the very one he used to sit on while sipping tea, admiring the beauty of the forest. His name carved into it, so that something of him would remain.

You kneel, brushing away leaves and debris left behind by the storm.

The ground is damp beneath you, seeping through your clothes, but you don’t move.

Instead, you clasp your hands together, not in prayer, but in search of…guidance.

…

When you return from the memorial, Sylus is outside, waiting.

You brush past him without a word, unable to meet his gaze.

Inside, you move quickly, gathering herbs and stuffing them into your satchel.

Sylus says nothing.

But you can feel his eyes on you, following your every movement.

“I’m heading to the village,” you say quietly, still refusing to look at him. “To check on everyone.”

And before he can respond, you mount Black Beauty and ride off without looking back.

…

Aside from a few broken flowerpots, fallen roof tiles, and crooked fences, the village seems to have weathered the storm.

The crops, however, are another matter. You’re told the men have already gone out to assess the damage, leaving the elderly, women and children behind.

You go from house to house, knocking on doors, offering help wherever you can.

“It’s kind of you to check on us, especially after the storm must have affected you as well,” an elderly woman says.

She is the oldest in the village, well into her eighties. Frail and often confined to her bed, her health has long since begun to fail her. You cannot halt the passage of time, but you do what you can to ease her discomfort.

Still, she always greets you warmly. She often says your visits remind her of her youth, stories you never tire of hearing. Her body may be weak, but her mind remains sharp.

Perhaps a little too sharp.

“It’s been a while since your last visit,” she remarks.

“I’m sorry,” you reply, a flicker of guilt passing through you. “I’ve been busy preparing for winter.”

It’s only half the truth.

“I’ve always worried about you, living all alone in the forest,” she continues. “It’s not a safe place, not for anyone, let alone a young woman. But…”

A knowing smile tugs at her lips.

“I’m glad to see that’s no longer the case.”

You frown slightly. “What do you mean?”

“So,” she asks, her tone turning playful, “who is the lucky one? Do you think I might get to meet him?”

Your confusion deepens. “Who?”

She chuckles softly, squeezing your hand.

“No need to be shy, dear. I’ve lived long enough to recognize love when I see it. There’s a glow about you now - in your smile, in your eyes.”

Your breath catches.

“Be sure to hold onto him,” she adds gently. “And make certain he treats you well.”

…

You excuse yourself quickly and practically bolt from the house.

Outside, your head hangs low, shoulders heavy, breath shallow as your heart pounds relentlessly in your chest.

The old lady's words echo over and over.

Why does it take an outsider to see what you’ve known all along? What you’ve felt but stubbornly denied, brushing it aside.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t hear the thunder of hooves approaching fast.

A horse races past you, kicking up dust and knocking you off your feet. You land hard.

Grumbling, you push yourself up, brushing dirt from your clothes irritated.

You look up.

A group of twenty men has ridden into the village.

That alone is unusual. The village is small, remote and visitors are rare.

Their faces are covered with black bandanas. Swords hang at their sides.

You only need one look to understand.

Trouble.

“Round up the villagers! All of them!” one of them shouts.

The men dismount in unison, moving with efficiency. Doors are kicked in. People are dragged from their homes without mercy.

Panic erupts.

You barely have time to react before a hand tangles harshly in your hair, yanking you backward. Pain shoots through your scalp as you’re dragged and shoved toward a growing line of villagers, forced to stand shoulder to shoulder like prisoners.

Children cry as they’re torn from their parents’ arms. Pleas for mercy echo through the air.

“Quiet!” The command cuts through the chaos like a blade.

The man who speaks carries authority. “Do as we say, and no one gets hurt.”

The cries soften into trembling sobs.

“Boss, not a man in sight,” one of the bandits reports.

“Where are they?” the leader demands sharply.

“O-out…in the fields,” a woman stammers.

Orders are given swiftly. Some men remain to guard the villagers, while others scatter, raiding homes for anything of value.

You scramble to think of a plan.

You could try to rally the villagers, urge them to shout, to make enough noise that the men in the fields might hear. But one glance at them is enough to know it won’t work. Their eyes are wide with fear, their bodies trembling. They won’t risk it.

Even if they tried, help would come too late.

These men are organized. Ruthless. This is not their first raid and they are armed.

You consider running. You’re fast, agile. Black Beauty is still grazing near the village entrance.

But the bandits are spread throughout the village. You wouldn’t get far before they cornered you.

Before you can think further, a rough, calloused hand grips your chin, forcing your head up.

You meet the leader’s gaze.

“Such a pretty little thing,” he murmurs, tilting his head as he looks you over.

Disgust coils in your stomach.

He yanks you out of the line, first landing a slap on your ass, then groping your breast. His touch is violating and unwelcome.

For a split second, memories of your past abductions surge to the surface, only to be swallowed by anger.

You are not a helpless little girl anymore.

You are not defenseless.

With all your strength, you drive your heel down onto his foot, then swing your hand across his face in a resounding slap.

But it isn’t enough.

You're seized from behind, two bandits restraining you, locking your arms in place.

The leader’s hand strikes your face, hard.

Pain explodes across your cheek; blood trickles from your nose.

…

A sudden, thunderous roar erupts. The leader’s body is wrenched into the air as a black-red mist coils around him like tightening ropes. He twists and thrashes, struggling to break free, but his limbs are pinned. A strained grunt escapes him, growing more choked as the mist constricts. Then, in a violent burst of crimson, his body disintegrates into drifting specks of black dust.

Another roar follows, accompanied by a powerful gust of wind and Sylus emerges.

Wings spread wide, eyes blazing with fury, his tail lashes through the air. He has never looked more terrifying.

The village descends into chaos. Children wail, women scream and people scatter in every direction, stumbling in their desperate attempts to reach the safety of their homes. Even the bandits’ horses panic, bolting wildly toward the fields.

Shouts ring out across the turmoil “Monster!” “He’ll kill us all!” “The rumors are true!”

With no escape, the bandits rally together, drawing their swords. Their faces are a mix of fear, anger, and confusion. Though their hands tremble, they force themselves into steady stances, feet planted, bracing for a fight.

“You dare lay a hand on my mate?” Sylus’s voice resonates with barely contained rage.

As with their leader, the black-red mist rises again, lifting the bandits into the air. Their struggles are futile; their pleas for mercy go unanswered.

You could intervene, step forward, try to calm Sylus, stop the slaughter.

But you don’t.

You leave them to their fate, knowing these men have brought suffering to countless others and would surely do so again if spared.

One by one, their bodies crumble, dissolving into dust.

…

As Sylus touches down, you rush toward him, throwing yourself into his arms. You press your face into the crook of his neck, silent tears of relief slipping down onto his collarbone.

He gathers you against his chest, one arm sliding beneath your legs as he lifts you effortlessly. Without a word, he takes to the sky.

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper.

Sylus doesn’t answer, but his course shifts as he veers toward the mountains.

…

At the mountain’s peak, Sylus gently sets you down. Before you is an entrance to a cave, his home.

You glance up at him, silently asking for permission. He grants it with a small nod.

Stepping inside, you move deeper into the cavern. You had expected darkness, a biting chill, the damp scent of stone, but instead, the space is warm and illuminated. Dozens of torches line the walls, their orange flames flickering and casting shadows across the rock. In one corner, a large firepit burns, stacked high like a bonfire.

Treasures lie scattered across the ground - gold coins, gemstones, silver bars, delicate pearls and more.

Near the fire, but far enough to avoid the flames, rests a pile of blankets and furs arranged into a nest-like shape.

As you step closer, your gaze catches on something familiar.

Clothing.

You pick up a piece, recognizing it instantly - one of several outfits that had gone missing over the past few weeks.

“So that’s where these went,” you say, arching a brow as you glance back at Sylus, suspicion clear in your eyes.

“Your scent is calming,” he replies utterly unbothered, without a trace of guilt at being caught.

…

You slip off your boots. Your belt follows, cast aside. You loosen the laces at the front of your dress. The fabric gives way, sliding from your shoulders and cascading down your body, pooling at your feet. The last of your undergarments joins it on the floor.

You stand bare and vulnerable before Sylus. There is no fear in your posture.

Turning, you climb into the center of the nest, the furs and blankets soft beneath you. You glance back at him, lifting a hand in a silent invitation.

He hesitates.

Then, slowly, he steps forward. Each movement is cautious, as though approaching something dangerously tempting.

He lowers himself into the nest across from you.

In the dim, flickering light, his eyes have darkened, nearly black. There’s an intensity in them…something primal…like meeting the gaze of a predator who has just found its prey.

…

“Let me see you…all of you,” you plead.

Slowly, he works the buckles of his belts. The leather slips free; the soft clink of metal echoes as it falls against the stone floor. He drags a claw along the fabric to glide the zipper down, easing it open, before pushing his trousers down in one smooth motion and casting them aside.

Your breath catches; your eyes widen.

As a herbalist, you understand the anatomy of humans, but dragons are something else entirely. Not one, as with human men, but two. One is more 'humanlike,'but longer in length compared to average. The other one, is shorter, but much thicker in girth with textured ridges.

For a moment, you can only stare.

Then your hands lift, wandering across him of their own accord. You feel the planes of stone-hard muscle beneath your palm, the smooth, cool glide of his scales. Heat radiates off his skin, stronger than usual.

You lean in, placing featherlight kisses along his skin, your voice a whisper. “My dragon.”

A deep, rumbling response answers you, vibrating through his chest.

Your hand drifts lower, tracing the prominent veins. Beneath your touch, you feel them throb and twitch.

…

Sylus grasps your wrists, pinning them above your head as you lie back.

“Keep looking at me like that, little gem…and I won’t be able to hold back,” he murmurs, his voice rough against your ear.

Knowing the body's autonomy and the theory around what happens during "one's wedding night" cannot compare to actual experience - experience you do not have. Not to mention the difference in Sylus's build compared to human men. You have no idea how to start or what you're supposed to do, but you will not let yourself be dictated by your worries, insecurities, or inexperience. With this act, you want to prove to Sylus that you've chosen him , that you accept the title of "mate.”

You lean closer, your voice certain. “I trust you. Wholeheartedly.”

Your whole body tingles and slightly trembles as Sylus runs his tongue across your body as if making patterns. The feeling of his tongue between your legs is strange, unfamiliar, overwhelming. His tongue is hot; it's wet, and the obscene squelching sounds make you blush. Your body responds in a way you don't understand; sounds you've never made - soft moans and gasps - leave your lips.

When Sylus buries himself inside you, it hurts far more than you anticipated. The stretch burns, and blood appears on his shaft. He is so deep it feels like he may pierce your stomach or rearrange your organs.

The pain and intensity make you tense. Instinct urges you to pull away, but he holds you steady, grounding you, guiding your movements.

You focus on him - on his voice as he whispers reassurances and praise.

Your body begins to adjust, to respond.

And little by little, the tension melts into something pleasurable.

…

At some point, you must have drifted off or passed out from exhaustion; you’re not sure.

A blanket is draped over your body, your skin clean, though your body aches. Faint red marks and bruises trace across you.

You’re lying atop Sylus.

When you tilt your head up, you meet his gaze. There’s something in it - an apology, maybe worry.

You offer him a small, sleepy smile and nuzzle into his chest.

Silence lingers for a while, comfortable and warm.

….

“I want to travel,” you announce out of nowhere, as you munch on a handful of berries.

“I want to learn. Meet new people. Experience other cultures…see what the rest of the world looks like.” You pause, then add, “I want to see your homeland. The Abyss.”

You glance up at him where Sylus sits behind you.

“The world must have changed since you slept for all those centuries,” you continue. “Maybe…maybe we could rewrite what people think. Show them dragons aren’t the monsters they believe them to be.”

You shrug, “Who knows…maybe we’ll even find more dragons along the way.”

…

You don’t return to the cabin. Instead, the cave becomes home, shared between you and Sylus.

...

Autumn is followed by winter, swallowing the forest in snow. When spring returns, breathing life back into the land, you know it is time.

You visit your Master’s memorial. You offer your thanks. Then you say goodbye.

The cabin is already emptied. You leave it as it is - bare, clean, open. Perhaps one day someone will find it and call it home.

...

With one final look at the forest, you mount Black Beauty. Above, Sylus takes to the sky, his silhouette moving with you.

Together, you set off into the unknown.