Azeroth followed the trail you left behind—burnt earth, cracked soil, the lingering heat of your escape. Every step you took was frantic, wild, desperate… and easy for him to track. You tore through the landscape like a spark dragged by the wind, leaving heat where your fear touched the ground.

Nyxen—his dragon—lowered its massive head, nostrils flaring as it caught your scent. The creature rumbled, a deep, rolling thunder from within its chest. Its scales caught the dying light like smoke swirling over steel, wings shifting with restless hunger.

“You feel her too,” Azeroth murmured, brushing his fingers along Nyxen’s jaw. The dragon’s pupils narrowed, muscles coiling in anticipation.

He spotted you then—your silhouette cutting across the scorched field, breath tearing from your lungs, clothes ripped from the chase. You weren’t riding anything now. You were running. Pure instinct. Pure defiance.

And gods, he savored the sight.

“She knows,” he said softly, almost pleased. “She feels us getting closer.”

Nyxen growled again, the sound shaking the air. You flinched at the noise, your stride stuttering. No roar answered it. No magic. Just your trembling form pushing forward with everything you had left.

And still—you ran.

Azeroth’s grin cut sharp across his face. “Brave little thing.”

But bravery wouldn’t save you. Nyxen surged forward, wings beating once—twice—and the world trembled beneath the force. Dust spiraled up around you as the dragon’s shadow swept across the earth, long and cold and closing fast.

You could feel the heat of its breath at your back. The wind of its wings. Him.

Azeroth leaned low in the saddle, eyes devouring the distance between you.

“I don’t chase for sport, Princess,” he called out, voice dark and sure. “I chase because the sky itself listens when I command.”

Nyxen’s shadow engulfed you—vast and final.

“You’re coming with me,” Azeroth murmured, certainty threading every word.