#wyrmvault

He was perched on the rock, his gaze fixed ahead. He made no move to acknowledge the voice, nor did he divert his eyes from the horizon where the sky was stained a deep, bruised purple. The rock beneath him was a jagged shard of basalt, ancient and frigid.

YET HE SENSED THE EARTH'S VIBRATIONS LONG BEFORE THE STRANGER'S FOOTSTEPS ECHOED ON THE PLATEAU.

To the intruder, he appeared as a young man cloaked in heavy black, his long blue hair dancing in a wind that seemed to caress nothing else. Yet beneath that calm exterior, something colossal lay coiled.

A DORMANT TEMPEST OF SCALES AND MALEVOLENCE that found the mountains' current silence nearly bearable.

He shut his eyes and released a slow, rhythmic breath that resonated like the distant crash of a collapsing mountain. THE SOUND WAS LADEN WITH A BOREDOM THAT TEETERED ON THE EDGE OF DISDAIN. He didn't need to open his eyes to perceive the figure standing ten paces behind him, a delicate creature, reeking of ink and aged parchment, its heartbeat echoing to him like the frantic ticking of a malfunctioning clock.

The remark about his appearance was trivial, a mere pebble cast into an ocean of loathing.

“What exactly, where you expecting to find here?”

"Sake …" He murmured, the term slipping awkwardly from his lips. He observed the pale liquid dance within the ceramic cup, a stark contrast to the oppressive, shimmering gold of the desert that sprawled toward every horizon. He was no longer in Essos, NOR IN THE LANDS HE HAD FANTASIZED ABOUT CONQUERING. Instead, he found himself in a realm where the sand seemed to vibrate with a hum that resonated in his very teeth, and the shade he occupied was cast BY A ROCK FORMATION THAT DEFIED GEOMETRIC LOGIC, creating a shadow that felt chillier than a winter morning in the North.

“Hm.”

He hesitated, the ceramic pitcher hovering precariously over the second cup. For a fleeting moment, an old instinct ignited, the urge to hoard the lion's share for himself, to regard his companion as a servant who ought to be thankful for the scraps of his attention. He glanced at Selene, who reclined against the surreal, jagged rock with an expression of deep ennui, as if the vast, humming desert were merely a tiresome backdrop to her evening. WITH A SLOW, INTENTIONAL MOTION, HE TILTED THE VESSEL, ENSURING THE SAKE REACHED THE BRIM OF HER CUP WITHOUT SPILLING A SINGLE DROP. It was a gesture of courtesy he hadn't practiced in years, a peculiar display of the nobility he had always claimed to embody but had seldom known how to perform.

He extended his arm, the ceramic cup gliding across the flat surface of the rock with a dry, grating sound that reverberated too loudly in the stillness. It was a minor act, a simple transfer, yet he felt an unusual tension in his chest, as if by offering the drink he were relinquishing a fragment of his sovereignty. HE WATCHED HER FINGERS, SLENDER AND STEADY, ENCIRCLE THE WARMTH OF THE VESSEL. For the first time in his life, he wasn't bellowing for a servant or demanding a tribute; he was simply a man in a wasteland, presenting a drink to a woman who regarded him as if he were nothing more than an intriguing insect.

“Drink then, I don’t have much supplies on my travels.”

"The logistics of a soul are seldom so orderly, you ask for the impossible, how very human of you."

He responded, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to resonate through the very shale beneath his feet. He stood motionless, like a statue hewn from obsidian against the stark backdrop of the wasteland. The wind swirled his high-collared cloak around his legs, bringing with it the acrid scent of sulfur and ancient ash, yet his gaze remained locked on Selene.

HE REGARDED HER NOT AS AN EQUAL, BUT AS AN INTRIGUING ANOMALY, A FLEETING SPARK OF LIGHT IN A REALM HE HAD LONG DEEMED BETTER SHROUDED IN DARKNESS.

Still Selene’s proposition lingered in the atmosphere, dense and transactional. To offer a life in exchange for balance was a human instinct, a desperate effort to exploit a loophole in the harshness of fate. He found the idea amusingly naive. He recalled a time when he too had faith in the scales of justice and the hope for restitution, back when he roamed the earth as a healer with gentle hands and a heart brimming with optimism.

NOW, THOSE HANDS WERE ADORNED WITH GOLDEN RINGS AND STAINED WITH THE BLOOD OF COUNTLESS KIN, AND THE ONLY BALANCE HE SOUGHT WAS THE COMPLETE OBLITERATION OF THE DRACONIC LINEAGE.

As he rolled his eyes, a slow, calculated motion that dismissed her entire ideology with a single act. He never engaged in deals; such agreements suggested a weakness, a desire for something the other party held, or a willingness to negotiate the terms of his own existence. To forge a pact was to concede that the current state of the world was lacking. For him, the world was precisely as it ought to be: a hunting ground where the prey eventually ran out of places to conceal themselves.

HE HAD NO DESIRE FOR A CHILD, A SACRIFICE, OR A STAND-IN FOR FORGIVENESS. WHAT HE CRAVED WAS THE SILENCE THAT FOLLOWS THE FINAL SCREAM.

“I am rather, disappointed. I am not in the habit in making deals.”