Page 3 of Thauglor
But his dragon wants to wait for its mate instead of accepting some substitute, some pale imitation of the bond that should burn between true partners. I can smell the conflict on him—the acrid scent of fear mixed with the bitter tang of self-doubt. It’s a stench I recognize because I’ve worn it myself during my darkest moments, when the loneliness becomes a living thing that claws at your insides.
Honestly, I agree with his dragon completely. The romantic in me—recoils at the idea of settling for anything less than the soul-deep connection I’ve dreamed of for centuries. I will not accepta female who doesn’t make my heart race and my blood sing, someone who isn’t worth dying for. I’d rather allow insanity to claim me, would gladly let madness drag me from this plane of existence before I’d buy a bride like she’s some prized livestock at market.
The thought of Klauth’s crystal dragon waiting in her pretty nest, probably painting her nails or preening her scales while actual warriors bleed and die in these mountains, makes my stomach churn with disgust. She’ll never understand the weight of the crown he wears, the burden of the choices that have carved lines into his face like battle scars. She’ll be a decoration, not a partner. A pretty bauble to display, not the fierce mate who should stand beside him as his equal, ready to tear apart anyone who threatens their territory.
Outside our cave, the wind howls through the peaks like the cries of the damned, carrying with it the promise of storms and the distant sound of something large moving through the night. We’re not alone out here, and every instinct I possess screams we should keep moving despite our exhaustion. But dawn is still hours away, and flying exhausted in these treacherous mountains is just another way to die.
The night stretches before us like an eternity of waiting, each hour bringing us closer to a meeting that might change everything. Tomorrow, we collect his bride. Tonight, we sit in this tomb-like cave and pretend he’s not making the biggest mistake of his life.
Chapter Three
Morning comes far too soon,dragging us from our restless sleep in the cave that still reeks of old death and mineral deposits. We launch ourselves into skies that threaten violence with every gust of wind. The storm clouds from yesterday have settled into a persistent, low-hanging threat that makes visibility treacherous. As we head northeast through air that tastes of copper and ozone, the wind carries with it whispers of green vegetation, the cool aroma of distant water, and the unmistakable, musky tang of other dragons. But there’s something else riding the breeze—something that makes my scales prickle with unease.
The scent signatures are all wrong. Instead of the powerful musk that should mark a strong territorial claim, I detect something weaker, more diluted. It’s like smelling watered-down wine when you’re expecting pure spirits. My instincts scream warnings I force myself to ignore for Klauth’s sake, though every fiber of my being rebels against flying deeper into what feels increasingly like a trap disguised as a sanctuary.
Klauth tilts his massive head back and unleashes a mighty roar, a sound that rolls out like distant thunder and announces our arrival to anyone within fifty miles. My chest vibrates powerfully with each reverberation. The echo bounces off ancient, rugged cliffs that rise around us like the walls of a natural amphitheater. The sound carries farther than it should in this terrain, announcing our presence to any enemies who might track our movements. A heartbeat later, a softer, almost hesitant roar answers from below—the vocal equivalent of a trembling whisper when it should be a confident challenge.
My pulse quickens with anticipation and growing dread, each beat a reminder that negotiations with any dragon flight are always fraught with tension, but this feels different. Worse. The response roar lacks the authority and strength that should mark a proud bloodline. It sounds more like permission requested than permission granted, and that weakness makes my jaw clench with frustrated anger.
Circling their courtyard twice in a wide reconnaissance pattern, I scan the pale, timeworn stone buildings below with the tactical eye of someone who’s seen too many battlefields. The architecture speaks of wealth but not warfare—decorative rather than defensive, built for beauty instead of survival. I catch the furtive shuffle of scurrying feet and hushed whispers as the inhabitants react nervously to our presence, their movements panicked rather than organized. No coordinated response, no battle formations, just scattered panic that would make them easy prey for any real threat.
Finally, Klauth angles downward with practiced precision, extending his powerful back talons, and lands with a muted, resonant thud in the center of the courtyard. His claws scrape across the cool marble tiles with sharp, staccato echoes that fillthe enclosed space like the sound of swords being drawn. He flares his wings wide, using the spiked tips for balance, and lets out a low, rumbling huff that stirs up fine motes of dust around him like a localized sandstorm.
What feels like an eternity later, he finally shifts back to human form and moves out of the way, his transformation leaving him temporarily vulnerable in this exposed position. I honestly don’t care what terror I strike into the hearts of these lesser dragons and land almost violently in the courtyard, my massive form hitting the delicate marble with enough force to crack several tiles. The sound reverberates through the enclosed space like thunder, and I feel a savage satisfaction at the way the watching crystal dragons flinch at the display of raw power.
I move my horned head from side to side in a serpentine motion, studying the inhabitants with predatory intensity before shifting back to human form. My transformation is deliberately aggressive, bones cracking like breaking timber, muscles bulging and reforming with a violent precision that makes several observers stumble backward in alarm. Once I’m on two feet, I flare my wings wide in an unmistakable threat display, making my intentions crystal clear. I don’t want to be touched, talked to, or even approached. I’m here with my best friend while he makes the biggest mistake of his existence, and my patience for pleasantries died somewhere over the hostile mountains we just crossed.
“Klauth, always a pleasure to see you arrive,” comes a resonant greeting that carries the practiced smoothness of someone accustomed to diplomatic lies. I turn to see a male striding toward us with confidence that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His crystalline scales glinting even in human form like chips of colored glass embedded in pale flesh. He extends his hand witha practiced, disarming smile that makes my lip curl with barely concealed disdain.
“Thank you, Leviathan,” Klauth replies, clasping his hand firmly before withdrawing with swift efficiency. I watch the interaction with the intensity of someone cataloging potential threats and weaknesses. “This is Thauglor, my ally,” he says, nodding toward me with what I recognize as a subtle warning in his tone. “Thau, this is Leviathan—the drake who sired my betrothed.”
I incline my head slightly in the barest acknowledgment of his existence, my wings draped casually over my arms as I deliberately avoid extending a handshake. The message is obvious—I don’t consider him worthy of even basic courtesy. “Pleasure,” I respond in a flat tone that drips with barely concealed sarcasm. My voice carry a quiet, cautionary note that makes several nearby crystal dragons step back nervously. The shifting leather of my wings produces a soft, rasping sound reminiscent of dry leaves rustling in a light breeze, or perhaps the whisper of scales across stone just before a strike.
“This way, gentlemen,” Leviathan directs with forced cheer, gesturing toward an archway carved with intricate, swirling patterns that evoke the layered beauty of crystal formations. Pretty, but utterly useless in a siege. As we follow his lead through corridors that smell of perfume and weakness, the gentle scrape of my boots against the polished floor resounds—a stark contrast to the powerful clamor of my claws on rough stone only moments before.
The very air in this place makes my skin crawl. It’s too clean, too soft, lacking the honest scents of sweat and steel that mark a proper warrior’s den. Instead, it reeks of lavender oil and other feminine nonsense that no self-respecting dragon should tolerate. My gut feeling about this place seems devastatinglyaccurate. We are definitely wasting our time here, possibly endangering ourselves for nothing more substantial than a political fantasy.
I don’t sense any males of significant strength within these walls, and that absence rings alarm bells in my head like a battle horn. Where are the guards? The warriors? The defenders who should be challenging our presence or at least evaluating us as potential threats? The silence where there should be strength tells me everything I need to know about this pathetic excuse for a dragon den.
We step into a spacious room that makes my stomach turn with its obvious weakness. The walls and floors are softened by plush pillows in hues of pale blue and shimmering white—colors that would show blood beautifully when this place inevitably falls to enemies with actual spines. In one corner, several females huddle together like sheep awaiting slaughter, their wide eyes betraying more than a thin veil of terror. I catch the faint, unsettling odor of their fear—a blend of stale sweat intermingled with a metallic tang that twists my stomach as I watch them cling to each other with desperate fingers.
The romantic part of me, the part that dreams of a strong mate who could stand beside me in battle, recoils in horrified disgust. These creatures couldn’t protect a clutch of eggs from a determined house cat, let alone survive the wars that rage across our territories. Bahamut save me, what has Klauth gotten himself into? The urge to torch the entire place rises in my throat like bile, my dragon roaring for release to cleanse this mockery of dragonkind from existence.
“You have to forgive my daughters,” Leviathan explains softly as he stops near a long table at the room’s center, his voice carryingthe indulgent tone one might use with frightened children. “They don’t see outsiders very often.”
The admission hits me like a physical blow. Sheltered. Protected. Weak. Everything a dragon should never be in our unforgiving world. I swallow a low, guttural growl as their palpable fear both irritates and disgusts me beyond measure. These quivering females seem hardly fit to bear the weight of anyone’s bloodline, let alone that of the most powerful dragon on the continent. I smirk and flare my nostrils in a silent testament to my scorn, letting the acrid scent of my displeasure fill the room. This nest is a disgrace to dragonkind, an insult to everything our species represents.
“How well do they fight?” I inquire, my tone heavy with impatience and barely restrained violence. The question hangs in the perfumed air like a sword waiting to fall. “Maybe I might even take one home with me.” The words taste like poison on my tongue, but I need to know just how deep this well of weakness goes.
At my words, the girls recoil as if I’ve struck them, sniffling in alarm as the mere suggestion of a black dragon claiming one of them sends visible shivers through the room. Their terror is so acute I can taste it on the air—sharp, metallic, nauseating in its intensity. The romantic in me dies a little more with each whimper, each flinch, each pathetic display of helplessness.
“Our females don’t fight. Do yours?” Leviathan retorts, his question hanging in the air like a challenge he has no hope of backing up. Despite the tension crackling between us like electricity before a storm, there’s a certain misguided pride in his voice as he defends the ways of his brood. Pride in weakness. Pride in failure. Pride in creating creatures so fragile they’d shatter at the first actual test of strength.
Klauth launches into an explanation about how our species work, and I watch the fear in the females’ eyes magnify tenfold with each word. Their faces go pale as moonlight as they learn the truth about black and red dragons. We are war faring creatures, harbingers of death and decay who rain literal hellfire down from the sky when provoked. The romantic part of my soul weeps for what Klauth is about to bind himself to. While the warrior in me calculates how quickly these creatures would die in a real conflict.
“You can try to teach my daughter to fight, but we are not built that way, I’m afraid,” Leviathan concedes, a subtle unease creeping into his otherwise polished demeanor like cracks appearing in a facade. The admission is the final nail in the coffin of my respect for this place and everyone in it.
That’s when Klauth loses what remains of his composure. The air in the room grows thick and dangerous as his rage builds, his human form barely containing the inferno that wants to break free. He was lied to by Leviathan, sold a fantasy instead of the strong mate he was promised. They go back and forth in increasingly heated voices about the female in question, their argument punctuated by the smell of sulfur and the crackle of barely contained fire.
