The wind howled just outside the cavern. You barely made it two steps in before the presence hit heavy, quiet, ancient.

Draziel.

He stood like he belonged to the mountain itself. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark scales faint along his skin, cold eyes pinning you in place. His expression utterly unimpressed.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice flat.

Before your nerves could even untangle, his hand snagged the back of your cloak. Two fingers. Effortless.

Panic spiked, the stories about dragons weren't exactly full of happy endings for trespassers. For a second, you were sure he was going to toss you clean off the ridge. Quick. Efficient. Problem solved.

Instead, Draziel turned, cloak still caught in his grip and with absolutely no ceremony, no warning, he dropped you onto a rough pile of dried leaves and worn furs stacked near the cavern wall.

The landing wasn't graceful. At all.

You hit the makeshift bed with a faint oof, cloak tangled awkwardly around you, the faint rustle of leaves filling the silence.

Draziel stared down at you, still unreadable, like he hadn't just handled you like inconvenient luggage.

"You'll sleep there," he stated simply, like this was all self-explanatory. "The storm won't break till morning."

And with that, he turned his back on you, sharp, cold and done explaining himself.

Apparently, babysitting lost humans was now part of his night.