Page 3 of Don't Fae With Dragons

Chrysthinia waves their hand, as if to swat away my compliment. At that, I do smile. They roll their eyes gently and ask, “What was your dream?”

I tell them in somewhat vague terms about my nightmare: the Moon, the daggers, the silent intrusion. I tell them how it cut my hair, and kept me from screaming; I tell also how I woke up clutching myself so tightly that I couldn’t breathe. Chrysthinia’s face reveals nothing of their thoughts, which I take some relief in. If the dream does not bode well, at least I don’t have to face it while I’m reliving my terrible night.

Once I finish, Chrysthinia says, “Hm.”

“Well, what?” I react.

“I never liked the lunar forces much, and certainly not those where I hail from.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is a warlock caste,” says Chrysthinia, “who follow the Moon. I am of the wizardborn caste who follow the Sun. There were not many solar wizards in my home village. We were so far East, always in such constant contact with the Sun, that many children were dissuaded from bitter parents from pursuing a solar path and instead ended up following the Moon.”

“You chose the Sun over the Moon?” I ask.

Chrysthinia waves a hand again, brushing my question off. “Never mind. The Sun was too harsh for many, anyhow, and too ... available, I suppose you could say. A land polluted with ambition will never choose the direct route. I am a simple soul. I did choose the simple path. I do not regret it. Still, I had to leave.”

I furrow my brow at this. Chrysthinia never talks about their past, so why now?

“I speak too much,” they say.

“No, it’s just that you often speak toolittle,” I reply. “Go on.”

“No more about my past,” they respond, frowning. “The Moon is ambitious as my homeland was. They are polluted with fancies of boundless power. I suppose you have caught their eye, if we’re under the impression that your dream was something real.”

“Like what?”

“Not a dream. A warning.”

CHAPTER 2: CORY

I’m not out of breath. I’m running, but I never run out of breath when I’ve shifted in dragon form. My claws scrape brutally on the volcanic rock, digging deep with each lunging step forward.

This mindless sprint around my volcano palace is how I clear my mind. Like pacing, but more reasonable. How the hell is walking slowly in a straight line meant to calm you down? I much prefer the breathless, wild launching of my body from turret to turret, hall to hall.

Run, run, run, I think to myself. I hear the voice of the cinder cone whispering, too:Run, Corinthian, run.Who am I to dismiss the whims of the volcano? I open my jaw, wide, fangs bared, and let loose a ferocious roar. The volcano shifts beneath me, but I don’t mind; my shift allows me to express myself in raw form, as breath, heat, scales, and rock. Earth bending howls and scorching fire, never soft growls and gentle flames. That’s too delicate, too formulated – too faery-like.

I have nothing against faeries, per say – I just think they could stand to loosen up a little. Especially the specific faery causing my current torment. Milica is her name, everyone knows her, she takes care of the townspeople. That’s all I really know about her and actually I never thought much about heruntil recently. There was no need to think of her, we have been coexisting at an arm’s length distance with no real need to interact at all - a balanced ecosystem continuing on for centuries. Lately something’s changed. A whiff of change is everywhere in the air. Has she changed? All I know is what the wind has brought to me, shards of her intensified scent, puzzle pieces of her odor and energy. She carries a tantalizing fragrance, a sultry blend ofmagnolia and lavender, lingering in my volcano like a secret invitation. It makes my cock twitch, even in dragon form,especiallyin dragon form.

I’ve started to feel her lately. She’s tense now. I don’t know why, and perhaps I won’t find out anytime soon. It’s been a rule in my family line, for as long as the history goes back: don’t venture into town. We preside over Ethelinda, in a way. We’re like a silent threat: stay the hell in line, or dragons will burn everything down. I don’t plan on following through on that historical threat, but you never know.

Anyway, since I’m not a rebellious fool (I may be wild, but I havesomedecorum) I haven’t gone to check on her. Still, the smell of her has grown stronger, piercing through the energies of the rest of the faeries and carrying her scent to me like a beacon.Find me, find me!it says. But just imagine me casually flying into town, just to say hi. Being inconspicuous isn’t exactly my forte.

I frown at the thought. She’s a powerful spirit, but mild. Someone gentle and kind more than strong and brash. I know, too, that she’s in some sort of peril. It awakens something in me, something sharp and demanding. I want to go to her, to sweep her out of her troubles and keep her safe with me. Theurge to cover her with myself, shield her from harm, is almost overwhelming. It’s my alpha instincts taking over.

I’ve never wanted to storm out of this godsdamned volcano as badly as I do now.Find me, please!her scent cries out. I smash a wall of sharp obsidian and watch it shatter into a thousand black daggers. That may have been a mistake, but the future me can deal with it later because the present me has other things on his mind.

I roar again and fly up through the central cone of the volcano, launching a cylinder of massed fire through the opening, up to the open air above. The blaze travels up the volcano’s snout and spirals up into the sky, and I watch.

Having finally exhausted myself, I pant heavily and shift back into my human form. I stretch my hands, finding new scratches running up and down my palms. I guess I earned the injuries, like battle wounds, though I should have a better story than ‘I fought a hallway’; Speaking of, I look back at the hall I just stormed through and find it’s abitworse for wear.

I’ll deal with all that later, I suppose, once I’ve had a moment to compose myself. At least my heart isn’t racing with so much lust and rage anymore. It’s a lethal combination, as any dragon would attest to; angered passion has led to more than one civilization’s destruction.

I’m not a destructive force though, I’ll confess –I’m much more inclined towards using my strength to build and fortify what matters to me. Still, the smell of this faery, thiswoman... it clouds my thoughts and it burns my insides. I feel like a more volatile version of myself while she’s not in my sights, while she’s not somewhere I can protect her.

I stare again at the smoldering and shattered hallway flooring and walls and sigh. I suppose it’s time to clean up. While I walk to request assistance from the volcano’s shadow guardians (no way can I clean this entire mess myself), I catch glimpses of myself in the obsidian slabs along the hall; there’s a flash of my lazily-trimmed blonde hair going straight into my hazel eyes. My hair’s messy and full of sweat which for once, seems to fit very well with my old scar that runs vertical along my left cheek. I hate that scar. I got it as a teenager. Lesson learnt they called it. Anyway, at least my strong nose survived my sprints without a scratch and stands tall on my square face, while my broad shoulders swing about with force.

As I’m walking, though, I suddenly smell something. It’s cold, the type of cold that burns. I sniff, confused, and follow the sharp odor up to the volcano’s core again; once I’m there, I stare up the cylinder at the Moon. It’s radiating something, frosty energy billowing out like an aura. I smell it, too, strong and potent as the ocean, or the fire. This is something different, though; it feels dangerous, unstable.

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