Page 18 of Beneath Scales and Shadows
“Zalaya. Another one of our clan’s healers and creator of magical items,” he explained, moving to retrieve a soft cloth from nearby. “She’ll bring what you need.”
The beaded curtain chimed moments later, announcing Zalaya’s arrival. The harpy entered with practiced dignity, her magnificent wings folded elegantly against her back, feathers transitioning from midnight blue to silver at the tips. The silver streaks in her elaborately braided dark hair matched her wing tips, while taloned feet clicked softly against the stone floor. Despite her avian features—sharp eyes that missed nothing, a slightly hooked nose, and delicate feathers in place of eyebrows—her face carried a distinctly feminine beauty, weathered by age but no less striking.
“My king,” she greeted, bowing slightly before turning curious amber eyes to Sora. “And the twice-born.”
Sora sank deeper into the water, discomfort evident in her posture.
“This is Zalaya,” Ignis introduced. “She has served as healer and artificer to the Dralux Clan since the beginning of my reign.”
“The last of my tribe,” Zalaya added, her voice melodic with the faint undertone that all harpies carried. “When humans slaughtered my people for our feathers and magic, King Ignis offered sanctuary. I serve willingly where once I believed I would never bow to any creature.”
She placed a wooden box at the pool’s edge, her taloned hands moving with practiced efficiency as she arranged bottles of various sizes.
“Cleansing oils from our fae allies in the eastern forests,” she explained, uncorking a vial that released the scent of mountain herbs. “And a sleeping robe woven from silk traded with the spider folk of the elves in northern valleys. Your transformation follows the ancient patterns—faster than most, but that is to be expected of the first chosen by the Moon Goddess herself.”
Her head tilted as she studied Sora with centuries of practiced wisdom. “The scale patterns along your shoulders—they match the constellation of the Dragon Mother that appears when the white moon covers the blue. A significant omen.”
“When you’re ready, I should examine you,” she continued. “The transition between worlds can leave... complications. Soul-memories that conflict with your physical vessel, dreams that feel more real than waking life. The mind struggles to reconcile two existences merged into one.”
“Complications?” Sora echoed, glancing between them.
“Later,” Ignis interjected, sensing her rising anxiety. “Rest first.”
“As you wish, my king.” Zalaya nodded, understanding the unspoken command. “Sleep well, Luna.” She bowed once more before departing, the beaded curtain singing her exit.
Alone again, Ignis returned his attention to Sora. “May I?” he asked, holding up the cloth and a bottle of cleansing oil.
Her hesitation was brief but noticeable. “I can do it myself.”
“You could,” he acknowledged, tilting his head. “Or you could allow me to care for what is mine.”
Her eyebrows rose. “I don’t belong to you.”
“Not yet,” he conceded, the words carrying absolute certainty. “But you will. The question is not if, butwhen.”
Something flickered in her eyes—not fear, but a recognition that ran soul-deep. She studied him for a long moment before sighing, offering a slight nod.
“Just... be careful,” she murmured. “I’m not used to being touched by someone, especially someone with claws.”
Her confession pleased him.
Ignis approached with deliberate slowness, settling behind her on the stone ledge. He uncorked the bottle, pouring fragrant oil into his palm before setting it aside. With careful precision, he gathered her wet hair, working the oil from roots to ends with gentleness that belied his powerful form.
Soft mewls and moans slipped from her lips, stoking the fire in his veins.
“The merfolk trade us these,” he explained, retrieving a loofah sponge from Zalaya’s supplies as he tried to distract himself from her delicious sounds. “They harvest them from coral reefs beyond the eastern sea.”
He worked the sponge across her shoulders, following the emerging pattern of scales with reverent attention. Each stroke revealed more of her true nature—silver scales catching the cavern’s dim light, transforming her skin into living artwork.
“Your heritage emerges more rapidly than I anticipated,” he observed, tracing a particularly vibrant cluster along her spine. “The sacred waters accelerate the process.”
“Is that... good?” Her voice wavered between curiosity and concern.
“It’s inevitable,” he replied simply. “Fighting your nature only prolongs the discomfort.”
Under his ministrations, she gradually relaxed, her body yielding to his touch. When he reached the sensitive skin behind her ears, she made a long soft sound—half sigh, half moan—that sent heat coursing through him anew.
“Dragons are tactile creatures,” he explained, focusing on the task to maintain control. “Touch affirms bonds, establishes hierarchy, expresses devotion.”
