Dragon lord

The stench of cologne from the princess's room still clung to Elaraion's clothes and skin as he slipped back into the House of Usher after the long free ride.

The once-grand halls, now dim and unwelcoming, felt colder than the princess's bossom.

No servants scurried to greet him. No family member emerged to question his whereabouts, or even to acknowledge his presence. Their contempt, once palpable, had become a wall of silence, thicker and more suffocating than ever.

They had seen his rusted crown, his disgrace. He was an embarrassment, beneath even their scorn.

He went to his room, a small, neglected chamber at the back of the manor and collapsed onto the worn, dusty window seat.

As an afterthought, he sat beside the window. His gaze fixed on the dirt road that served as the sole entrance to his despised household. He was expectant.

He sat for hours, the dragon's roars still echoing in his ears, Isolde's pleading gaze burned into his mind, and Hera's icy fury a tightening noose around his throat.

How to beat Hera? The question hammered in his skull. An immortal queen, capable of transcending his time-stopping magic, was now actively hunting him. He was a mortal (mostly), armed with a trickster god's power, facing a primal force of divine retribution. The odds were impossibly stacked.

Get the dragon. Sire it. The thought, audacious and desperate, ignited a spark of perverse hope. A dragon. The ultimate weapon. If it could be compelled, truly loyal...

Two hours. Two agonizing hours of silence, of mounting dread. Then, a gleam. A flash of gold on the distant road. A golden chariot, pulled by four magnificent white horses -- That represwnted the king's order.

Panic clawed at his throat. They were here. Isolde must have recovered, broken free of the arrow's immediate thrall, and reported everything to the King. They were here for him.

He knew he couldn't face them. Not yet. Not like this. Not with Hera involved.

He took the back stairs, quiet as a shadow, then slipped out a rarely used servants' entrance. He didn't look back.

He ran. Branches whipped his face. Roots tripped his feet. He ran deeper into the ancient, whispering woods. I left for the palace to make my household proud. Now, I have made enemies.

He imagined what his household would feel again. If the news reached his father... That he had been bedding the princess.

As he went, he cried. He couldn't wish to be back as Andreas. Both he character he stood for were under attack, within and without.

The dragon. Kael had said it was magical, from Ravenwall, ridden by a wizard named Otto. It was his only chance. He pushed himself harder, moving away from the city, towards the eastern cliffs where the beast had been seen.

Days passed.

The forest grew denser, the trees twisting into gnarled, ancient forms. The ground became uneven, rising sharply into rocky inclines. He scrambled, tearing his hands on jagged stone, pulling himself up sheer rock faces. The air grew colder, tainted with a metallic, acrid scent he now recognized as dragon-fire.

Then, he heard it. A low, guttural rumble, a sound that vibrated through the earth and rattled his very bones. He peered over a rocky outcrop. Below him, nestled in a vast, natural caldera, was the dragon's lair.

It was immense. Colossal. Its scales, the color of obsidian, shimmered even in the faint light, like polished night. Its head, horned and massive, rested on a mountain of hoarded rock and soot-stained bones. Smoke curled lazily from its nostrils, a silent testament to the devastation it had wrought. One eye, the size of a carriage wheel, was half-lidded, a burning ember of molten gold.

Fear, cold and absolute, seized Elaraion.

His hands trembled, the Bow of Affection suddenly feeling inadequate. This was no mere beast; this was a force of nature, a living, breathing cataclysm. Could his arrow truly affect something so ancient, so terrifying?

He took a shaky breath, forcing himself to focus. He pulled a grey arrow from his quiver. He knew the risk. If it didn't work, if it merely angered the beast, he was dead. Incinerated. But if it did...

He nocked the arrow, his fingers surprisingly steady despite the tremor in his body. He drew the string back, aimed at the colossal eye, the only exposed part of its armored hide he felt confident hitting. He released.

The grey arrow zipped through the air. It struck the dragon's massive eyelid with a soft thump.

The dragon twitched. Its immense eye, a burning golden orb, slowly opened fully. It blinked, then its gaze, heavy and ancient, settled on Elaraion. A low growl, like grinding stone, rumbled in its throat, shaking the ground.

Elaraion swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. He walked forward, his legs like lead, towards the colossal beast. Every instinct screamed at him to flee, but the hope, the desperate, unyielding hope, pushed him on. It twitched. It didn't incinerate me. It worked.

He was just a few paces from its head when a voice, sharp and imperious, echoed through the caldera. Not from the dragon, but from above, from a shadowed ledge high on the cliff face.

"Syrax, Yol!"

The command was in a language Elaraion didn't understand – Dovahzul, perhaps? – but the dragon's eye immediately narrowed.

Its massive maw began to open, a deep, crackling warmth building within its throat.

Then the voice changed, laced with a sudden, furious confusion.

"What have you done to my dragon?!"

Elaraion turned, his gaze sweeping the shadowy cliffs. He still couldn't pinpoint the speaker, but the voice was male, raw with anger.

"I sired it!" Elaraion shouted, his own voice surprisingly strong despite the trembling in his limbs. "I need it!"

The dragon's golden eye, which had begun to glow with an infernal light, now wavered. It looked from the cliffs to Elaraion, a strange, bewildered intelligence in its gaze. The building fire in its throat sputtered, then died.

"Syrax is mine now!" Elaraion said with a smile.