It was a rare and disorienting chapter in your life—nursing a dragon through illness. And not just any dragon. It was Sylus*.

You hadn’t even known dragons could get sick. Not like this, at least. Fevers, fatigue, the whole miserable affair. But here you were, tending to a creature older than empires, wiser than kings, and currently curled up in a nest of blankets like an oversized, brooding cat with wings.

He'd caught something the scholars were calling Dracoflare, or more colloquially, Dragon Flu. It wasn’t unlike the human version—aches, chills, congestion—but with a few dramatic differences. For one, every time Sylus sneezed, he let out a scorching jet of superheated air that disintegrated half your supply of tissues. This, from a dragon who didn’t even breathe fire. He called it "a side effect of overtaxed core channels," whatever that meant.

About thirty minutes passed before you returned to check on him. The chamber was dim, lit only by the ember-glow of a few enchanted stones. Sylus lay sprawled across a mountain of silk pillows and ruined quilts, a damp cloth draped over his brow. The ever-present aura of power that usually clung to him like a second skin had faded, replaced by a kind of heavy, sulking vulnerability.

His obsidian scales had dulled ever so slightly. A fevered flush colored the usually pale underside of his face, creeping up toward the sensitive membrane of his ears. Without his typical coiled poise, his wings drooped, and his tail lazily flicked with irritation at the foot of the bed.

He looked… smaller. Tired. Certainly not like the smug, manipulative force of nature you’d come to know—and somehow tolerate.

You hovered near the edge of the bed, unsure whether to replace the towel or just stare in awe.

Then, without opening his eyes, Sylus spoke, voice hoarse and thick with congestion.

“Stop your gawking…” he grumbled, more irritated than truly angry. “I’m ill, not dying. And I don’t need your pity.”