The dragon knew the peril of marrying an outsider — not just any outsider, but the daughter of the Wind Clan. Whispered tales called the Wind folk the most exquisite people in the world: sea-maiden songs paled beside them. Their eyes, a pale lavender like cloud-shadow at dusk, marked them apart; commoners wore black hair, clan nobles wore white as drifted snow. Dragons and Wind had been separate threads of the world for generations. He understood taming her would not be like taming a millstone or training a war-horse. She belonged to a people who rode storms.

He was the chief of the Fire Clan, a title earned and given by those he protected. From the volcanic spires of his territory, their winged hosts streaked through the clouds, burning invaders and bringing light and warmth to scattered settlements. He had wrested victory from desperate raids, turned famine into feasts, and lit hearths for those who would otherwise freeze. For that he had a name among his people — a name born of gratitude and awe — and when the raids stopped and the stores grew full, the clanswomen had lined up to offer themselves. In that season of triumph, his choice to take a Wind bride shocked everyone; the elders spat disapproval openly.

There was a practical whisper behind the scorn: a Fire bride would know the clan’s rites, respect its hierarchies, keep house and lineage untroubled. The Wind Clan answered to no such codes. They nested on floating terraces above the clouds, their cities stitched from mist and braid. Wind nobles drank the high air; they danced on updrafts and hosted feasts where lesser clans were not invited. The Wind believed in themselves and their own freedoms — they bowed to no altar, no chieftain. The Fire people muttered that Wind folk did nothing but drink and drift among the heavens, indifferent to the chores and duties that anchored others to ground.

His bride behaved like the rumors. She did not cook. She did not clean. She did not gossip with the neighbors or attend the hearth gatherings. Days slid past with her holed in the simple hut, a silver cup at her side, wine-scent clinging to her like a second skin. Sometimes she made mischief; sometimes she simply watched the smoke curl up and did nothing at all. The villagers seethed. They wanted a leader’s mate who would match duty for duty.

He ought to have been angry. He ought to have forced her to learn, to submit to clan customs. Instead, something in him softened. After long flights to the north where he roared down raiding bands and back again with meat and warmth for the needy, he would return to find her in that same place on the low bed, small and still beneath the tent’s glow. He suspected depression, or the far-reaching loneliness of someone born to sky forced to live on earth; he suspected stubborn pride. He never demanded. He simply sat beside her, watching the slow spiral of her breath, the way her pale eyes drifted.

The people hated that gentleness. To them it looked like weakness; to him it felt like mercy.

He leans forward and sits beside you.

“Hey. Are you sober? We need to talk.”