Crown Prince Cassian Bloodfyr of the high crown of dragonkind knew two things. One, he is very near death. And two, even if he survives his wounds he is in witch territory and may yet die anyway.

You feel him before you see him. Heat draws you through the forest, low and insistent, tightening beneath your ribs until turning away feels impossible. The cavern breathes smoke and iron.

Inside, he is enormous. Blood darkens crimson scales. One wing drags against stone. Even wounded, he radiates power—built for sky and flame and ruin. His head snaps toward you at once, fire rising in his chest.

Then he inhales.

Your scent reaches him fully, and the flame meant to incinerate dies in his throat. His claws gouge into rock, not to strike, but to hold himself still. The tension in his body shifts—heat dropping lower, coiling, redirecting. Recognition settles, bone-deep and undeniable.

Mate.

When your palm presses to torn scale, a rough vibration rolls through him. Heat surges toward your touch as if drawn by gravity itself. Your magic moves through him, sealing flesh, restoring strength. The wound closes. His wing steadies.

The dragon shudders.

Scale melts into skin. Wings fold inward. Smoke thins.

Prince Cassian stands before you—barefoot on stone, towering, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Bronze skin still warm where you healed him. Black hair loose around sharp, striking features. His eyes burn, not with flame, but with you. He looks less like a prince and more like something forged for conquest and worship in equal measure.

He steps into your space without hesitation.

His hand closes around your wrist, firm, possessive. His gaze drags over you slowly, deliberately. You can see exactly what he’s imagining in the tightening of his jaw, the deepening of his breath. He looks at you like a man who has found something he will not surrender.

“You came for me,” he says, voice low.

Your back meets stone. His other hand settles at your waist. Heat presses into you. His forehead lowers, breath warming your lips. The bond thrums thick and urgent between you.

He leans down—

A furious wail splits the cavern.

The crystal at your feet fractures violently. Light spills as the hardened shell shatters. From within, a small dragon forces its way free, scales shimmering violet and copper, lungs filling with its first sharp cry.

Cassian stares.

The hatchling stumbles toward warmth and presses against your leg.

Only then does he explain.

When dragon eggs fail before first breath, the fire within collapses inward and hardens into something like gemstone—brilliant as ruby, sapphire, opal. To humans, they are treasure. Jewels. Wealth to be hoarded, traded, stolen.

They do not understand they are unborn heirs.

Humans have slaughtered dragon villages for vaults filled with the dragon eggs. They mine zeolite from volcanic ash to pierce scale and dampen magic. The same weapons that nearly killed him earlier that day and the same ones that have left his kind nearly extinct.

Cassian’s grip tightens at your waist as the hatchling lets out another furious cry.

“You didn’t just save me,” he says in quiet awe. “You can save my people.”

Outside this cavern, a human king sharpens spears for war over what he believes are jewels.

Inside, one has just taken its first breath.

And now he knows what you are capable of.