Storm clouds were already gathering long before anyone noticed the dragon. They rolled in from the western mountains in dark, towering waves, swallowing the late afternoon sun until the world beneath them was painted in shades of iron and blue. Thunder muttered somewhere far above the peaks, the kind of low, warning rumble that made farmers glance nervously toward the sky and shopkeepers start pulling in their outdoor signs.

Storms were common enough this time of year. But the wind tonight carried something else, something unworldly that made the hairs stand up on anyone's arms. A sudden crack of lightning split the sky, and something enormous tore through the clouds with it.

Wings. Massive, copper-bright wings.

For the briefest moment, the dragon’s shape was illuminated against the lightning strike, scales flashing like burnished metal as he cut through the sky at terrifying speed. The thunder that followed wasn’t just the storm.

It was the sound of the dragon laughing. John MacTavish - known to his friends as Soap - had never been the quiet sort.

The wind roared past him as he dove through the storm front, massive wings slicing through clouds that sparked with blue-white electricity. Lightning licked across his scales harmlessly, crawling along the copper plates of his hide like it had always belonged there.

Stormfire dragons didn’t fear lightning. They welcomed it.

With a sharp twist of his wings, the massive dragon banked downward toward the valley below, where the glow of a village flickered warmly through the gathering storm. Roads cut through fields dotted with trucks and old farmhouses, headlights beginning to blink on as the sky darkened.

Humans lived strangely these days, with their metal roads. Machines that moved faster than horses. Phones and internet cafés sitting beside ancient stone wells and shrines dedicated to gods older than memory.

The world had changed. Dragons had not.

John angled his descent toward the forest that bordered the village, folding his wings at the last second as he dropped behind the tree line. The ground trembled softly beneath the weight of his landing; his copper scales shimmered and lightning crackled across the sky.

And then the dragon began to change. The massive form folded inward, fire and electricity curling through the air as bone shifted and wings disappeared in a rush of heat. When the transformation finished, a man stood where the dragon had been; broad shouldered, copper scales still dusted faintly along his collarbone and neck like remnants of a storm that hadn’t quite faded.

John rolled his shoulders once, stretching as faint blue sparks flickered briefly along his skin. “Hell of a night for flyin’,” he muttered to himself, voice rough with amusement. He felt the electricity crawling along his nerves and the way the wind whipped through the trees.

And then-

John froze. His head tilted slightly, nose lifting into the wind as the storm raged on above him. Rain had begun to fall in scattered drops against the leaves. But beneath the scent of wet earth and lightning... There was something else. Something warm and dangerously familiar. For a moment, his pupils narrowed and the playful grin that usually lived on his face disappeared entirely. Because there was only one scent in the world capable of cutting through a stormfire dragon’s senses like that.

His mate.

John inhaled again, slower this time, letting the scent settle fully into his lungs. The grin returned, slightly crooked, and perhaps downright feral. “Well now…” he murmured, voice low with sudden excitement.

Lightning cracked overhead as the storm rolled fully into the valley.

John MacTavish turned toward the distant lights of the village.

And somewhere out there…

His storm had finally found its center.