#dragon!reader

You could understand that the military saw dragons as high value asset, but you had no where near the skills or experience necessary to be part of a Task Force...

You didn't even take two step out of the transport that you were getting smoke blown directly in your face. Your instincts caught onto it quicker then you did; dragons. At lest one other, you couldn't quite see through the smoke.

And poor little you. You had never seen other dragons, never learn how to properly be one yourself, so you had no clue what getting covered in someone else's smoke meant. Had you offended someone? Where you invaliding their territory without knowing?

But there wasn't any growls or snarls, just four (well, really three) friendly faces waiting for you as the smoke dissipated. Four other dragons. More then you thought you would ever see in your life.

Two "true" dragons, the Captain and the masked one, with large powerful wigs on their backs. A clearly excited drake sporting a mohawk, sturdy and looking like he couldn't be knock off balance. And a calmer but just as happy wyrm, more precisely a very beautiful sea serpent, clearly agile but just as strong as the others. With you being a wyvern, it made quite the diverse group.

It doesn't take long for them to explain that, yes, they know you're not on their level. Bringing you on a operation whit them would be suicide. They didn't exactly got you transferred to be on the team, but more so you wouldn't be taken advantaged off somewhere else and to make sure they would be the ones training you.

"There's so little of us out there. Better to stick together and form a strong pride." They had said.

They had stared at you in surprise when you had ask, very nervously, what a pride was. You found yourself quite stupid once they had said it was like a herd or a pack, but for dragons. And they realize they had a lot more then military training to go through with you.

None of them where wyvern, but they would make damn sure to show you what it meant to be a dragon in general.

Price took over most of the military stuff and flight. Not that you didn't know how to fly, the reserve had place you with aves hybrid to make sure you would learn from them. But that was the problem in Price's opinion. You knew how to fly like a bird, not a dragon. Your arms are sore from all of the practice, but John always take the time to massage the knots out of your tired muscles.

Ghost decided he was going to teach you about hoards. You had never understood the whole gold and jewels thing, it had never called to you. And you understood why once you saw his knife collection. Hoards are personal, the gold thing had always been an over generalization. Ghost was hoarding weapons, for Price it was cigars and alcohols, Soap was going for drawing supplies and Gaz... Well they all weren't sure about Gaz, but they thought it might have to do with the enormous amount of skin and scales care product he had. All to say, Simon was there to help you figure out what you wanted your hoard to be.

It didn't even take a week for Gaz to get rid off whatever dark waxy material you where using to cover your scales. You had some on all the time. That was bound to be bad for you. You explained you where doing it for safety, because the hidden scales and the fact the your wings were connected to your arms thanks to being wyvern meant most people assumed you where a bat hybrid at first glace and not something as valuable as you truly where on the black market. That only got him more determined. You where part of their pride now. You didn't have to hide; they wouldn't let anything append to you.

You truly didn't expect him to be so easily able to manhandle you, but the next thing you knew, you where in the shower room. You genuinely got anxious as he started revealing bright orange, opalescent scales. Normally, only wyrm had that type of shine to their scales. As far as you were told at the reserve, dragons were proud hybrids. Would they no longer want anything to do once they realize you were a mixed breed? You didn't worry long because Kyle looked down right ecstatic. That meant you where a tad bit like him and he loved it.

Soap tried to help you whit your breath. You knew you could make sparks at the back of your throat, but you had never managed to spit fire. It took a lot of explanations and demonstration before you managed to do... something. It had been small and quick, but very encouraging. And when Johnny encouraged you to try again, he was left speechless to see not fire coming out of you, but a wild electric arc. (Kyle was even more excited because you where turning out more and more like him.)

What you still couldn't understand though was why they still wrapped you in clouds of their smoke once in a while. Why you would sometimes wake up with some of their scales nudged between yours sometimes. Or why they would always pulled you close to rub their necks against yours the moment they could. They always seemed to doge the questions when you asked...

Nikador’s layer—once a crucible of roaring flame and clashing wills—had fallen into a strange, watchful stillness. The air still burned, faint embers drifting like dying stars, but the presence that once dominated this domain was gone. In its place lingered something older. Something that did not bow to absence, nor mourn it.

Something that watched.

Mydei stepped forward, armored boots scraping against scorched stone. His cape stirred in the heat-laced wind, and his eyes narrowed, scanning the molten ridges and fractured pillars that marked the battlefield of a fallen god.

“I know you are here,” he called, voice steady, carrying through the cavern like a challenge rather than a plea. “Nikador is gone. His war is over. But Amphoreus still burns.”

A low rumble answered him.

Not from the ground—but from everywhere.

Flame gathered, coiling, rising—not wild, but deliberate. Controlled. It spiraled upward into a towering inferno before collapsing inward, condensing into form.

You emerged from the fire.

At first, it was the shape of a beast—vast wings folded in embered arcs, scales like molten gold and obsidian (feel free to change the colors), eyes burning with ancient, knowing fury. A creature forged not merely for battle, but for strife itself. Then, as the flames receded, your form shifted—shrinking, refining—until you stood before him in something closer to human shape.

Still, not entirely human.

Your eyes retained that same burning intensity. Your presence, that same suffocating weight.

“So,” you said, voice layered—human, yet echoing with something deeper, older. “The Last Prince walks into a grave and expects an answer.”

Mydei did not flinch.

“I did not come expecting anything,” he replied. “I came to ask.”

A faint, humorless smile tugged at your lips.

“We do not answer to kings. Not anymore.” You took a step closer, heat rippling with your movement. “We followed Nikador because he was worthy of being followed. Because he proved it.”

Your gaze sharpened.

“And you are not him.”

“I have no desire to be.”

That answer came too quickly to be rehearsed—and that alone gave you pause.

Still, you circled him slowly, like a predator deciding whether something was prey… or something worth testing.

“You want us to follow you into this ‘Flame Chase Journey.’ To fight for your cause. Your people. Your war.” Your voice dipped, quieter now, more dangerous. “Tell me, prince—why should a Beast of Strife kneel to you?”

“I did not ask you to kneel.”

Mydei turned to face you fully, posture straight, unwavering.

“I asked you to stand with me.”

Silence stretched between you—thick, heavy, pressing.

Then, softly, you laughed.

It wasn’t mocking.

It was interested.

“Then prove it.”

The words barely left your lips before the air exploded.

You moved first—faster than most mortal eyes could track. Flame burst beneath your feet as you lunged, fist already wreathed in searing heat. Mydei reacted on instinct, raising his arm to deflect, the impact ringing through his armor like a struck bell.

He slid back a step—but did not fall.

Good.

You pressed harder.

The fight was not chaos—it was precision. Every strike you delivered tested him, not just for strength, but for instinct, for adaptability, for will. You shifted forms mid-motion—claws flashing where hands had been, wings flaring to alter your momentum, flame bending to your command.

And still—he endured.

More than endured.

He adapted.

Mydei did not fight like a man trying to win. He fought like a man who had already lost everything—and refused to lose again. Each movement was measured, each counter deliberate. He learned you as you attacked, reading your rhythm, your shifts, your intent.

When you drove him back, he did not resist the motion—he used it, pivoting, closing distance instead of retreating. When you shifted into your more monstrous form, he did not hesitate—he stepped forward, into the heat, into the danger.

Into you.

The clash ended as suddenly as it began.

Your claw—halted inches from his throat.

His blade—resting, steady, at your side.

Neither of you moved.

The flames around you flickered… then stilled.

For a long moment, you simply looked at him.

Then—slowly—you withdrew.

The fire receded from your body, your form settling once more into that human-like shape. You exhaled, something quieter now, something almost… thoughtful.

“You’re not the strongest,” you said.

Mydei lowered his weapon, unoffended.

“I never claimed to be.”

“You’re not the fastest.”

“No.”

A pause.

“But you didn’t yield,” you continued, eyes narrowing slightly. “Not once. Even when you should have.”

His gaze met yours, steady as ever.

“If I yield now,” he said, “there will be no one left to stand later.”

That answer lingered.

It settled somewhere deeper than the fight itself.

You turned away from him, glancing toward the distant, dying glow of Nikador’s domain. For a brief moment, something unreadable crossed your expression—something like memory… or loss.

Then you sighed.

“…He would have liked you.”

Mydei said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

You looked back at him, that faint smile returning—this time, not sharp, not testing.

Certain.

“Very well, Prince of Nothing and Everything,” you said. “You have our respect.”

A flicker of flame curled around your arm, then dissipated.

“We do not kneel,” you reminded him. “But we will walk beside you.”

For the first time since entering that scorched domain, something in Mydei’s expression eased—not relief, not quite—but something close.

“Then walk with me,” he said.

And this time—

You did.

Naturally, he is curious. He is meant to be the last of his kind. Beyond himself, he has never seen a dragon before. You confuse him a little.

Another part is protective, how quickly would you become a subject, threatening his existence just by being studied for yours.

And a soft part of him becomes a child again. Seeing himself alone to the changes of his body, alone to becoming a monster, alone to live out the rest of his days…

So when he got word from Laswell that your ETA was just over half an hour, he had the boys reconvene to the airstrip, watching the aircraft carrying you land not too far from them, the rotors slowing to a steady thrum. The anticipation that bubble din his chest made this moment crawl at a snail’s pace, the ramp lowering too slowly for his liking and the droning sound of the aircraft’s irking his ears. Then, seconds after the ramp fully dropped, he caught sight of blue horns, tines growing from a singular robust beam, segmented like those of a scale. Your head, covered by a custom made helmet to let your antlers peek out and sit comfortably on your head (at least you wore something, unlike his constant frustration with finding one that wouldn’t bother his horns), followed after you walked out, decked in your gear and a bag slung over your shoulders. 

You weren’t what he was expecting, not exactly. He read that you had a masterful experience in hydromancy, stealing water from the air and humidity and contorting it to cause havoc in the field and cutting through the enemy. He and the others shared their theories, one possibility made you into a water witch, a leviathan, or one of those creepy monsters from the deep sea. Not what… whatever you were. You had elk-like horns painted in the deepest blue he’d ever seen and a tail covered in scales of the same shade, glistening under the light like it was wet with tufts of hair - or was it fur? - crawling down the base of your fourth limb to create a silky and soft end with long, slowing locks. 

What were you? What was that smell? It got sweeter the closer you got, a softness that clung to his nose and made him salivate. He wondered how strong it must be for the Soap and König who’s noses were more enhanced and sensitive than any others, they’d probably sniff the source - you - out and answer his undying question.

“Captain Price,” you nodded your head, a small smile gracing your lips, your slitted eyes narrowed in greeting, “Hope I didn’t make you wait too long.”

That sweetness lingered around you and stuck to his hand when you shook hands, giving him a firm shake and stronger grip that he could admire for the strength you showed. Had you face been as bright as it was a few seconds before? Perhaps it was the musk that oozed off you, it was uneasily addicting and pleasing to his lizard brain, slowly moving the cogs of hos old machine. He watched you take a step back, making some distance between his Task Force and you, and his mind got clearer, nose less stuffy and cheeks wash away the slight flush. Then it hit him, the sweetness, the dazed perception of you and the growing need in his body, he was reacting to you. 

“Sorry, I was told I’d be off for the week once I landed,” you cocked your head, sharing an apologetic smile, “My cycle follows the Lunar year.”

Ah, everything made more sense now, the gracefulness of your beautiful tail, the glistening of your scales and the sharpness of your horns. He had agreed to welcome another dragon to his Task Force, he was fortunate that Asian dragons were calmer and benevolent than his European counterpart.