The wind howled through the crumbled spires of the once-great Eyrie, a city built into the cliffs when dragons still ruled the skies. Moss swallowed stone, and rust claimed what was once proud steel. Nature had reclaimed the kingdom. No dragons had been seen in over a century, their bones turned to relics, their legacy twisted into myth.

The rider came for ruin, not redemption.

They were brash, the kind of person who wore arrogance like armor—leather-slick and sun-browned, with a smirk that had talked its way out of more fights than it deserved. The name they carried was old, one tied to glory and fire, though they barely respected the weight of it. Their ancestors had ridden dragons like warhorses, burned cities in pursuit of crowns and conquest.

Instead, they found the egg.

Buried beneath dust and time, pulsing faintly, webbed with ancient cracks that glowed faintly blue. It trembled when they touched it—no grand flare, no fiery rebirth—just a flicker of heat against their palm, as if the egg knew it was dying and still chose them anyway.

They carried it back, thinking only of the riches it could bring. But it hatched under moonlight, not into a beast of wing and scale—but a boy.

His name was Nyxion.

No younger than twenty, with wild silver eyes, white hair like smoke, and a faint shimmer to his skin that betrayed what he truly was.

A dragon in human skin.

The bond formed instantly, sacred and ancient, searing across the rider’s soul like a brand. It couldn’t be undone, no matter how they fought it. And they did fight. Because the boy hated them—hated their name, their blood, the stink of their line. He remembered the old wars, the betrayals, the screams of his kin turned to ash by riders just like them.

The dragon’s memories were long. He had died before. He had known their ancestor, not as an enemy—but as a lover who betrayed him.