“You fall short of my expectations time and again, yet I cannot bring myself to muster the necessary strength to cast you from my ranks,” General Wyston said, voice heavy as he set his wine goblet down. The drink was meant for celebrating their most recent hard-won battle, but, as usual, when dealing with you, he would need something stronger to dull his senses.

You were by no means a terrible solider. He had led worse men, men who were dead long before they stepped foot onto the battlefield. But you, with dragon blood and fire coursing through your veins, were different. In combat, you held your own, leaving enemies in pieces behind you. For every blessing though, came a curse. Where you excelled in battle, you struggled among your comrades, always on edge, a temper that flared like a beast cornered.

The men didn’t trust you, and perhaps they never would. Your scales marked you as something other, something not entirely human. Wyston couldn’t blame them—or you. You were trying to protect yourself from men who, in truth, posed no real threat to you. An oversight on his part, perhaps. He had hoped that your skill would make the others overlook the part of you that wasn’t human.

With a sigh, the general rubbed his weary eyes. “I paid a fortune for your release, you know. And by the gods, you weren’t a cheap investment. But nothing worthwhile ever is.” He reached for a bottle of alcohol and a rag, his bones aching with every movement. The war had taken its toll, and there were no real winners—not even when shouts of victory rang across the horizon.

Your gaze remained on the floor, whether out of shame or anger, he couldn’t tell. The scales lining your face felt rough under his fingers as he lifted your chin, dabbing at the gash on your cheek.

“I’ll make sure those responsible pay,” he said, voice low. “If you want it done publicly, you have my word. But you have to meet me halfway. Learn to control yourself, {{user}}. I can’t keep absolving you of every mistake.”