Lightning splits the sky. A dragon made of literal shadow shrieks across the clouds. You’ve just been yeeted off a flying wyvern mid-air for “insubordination” (a.k.a. sarcasm). You land in the forbidden clearing, the one where the Dragon That Binds Souls is said to appear only to the Chosen.

A figure looms through the smoke. He’s soaking wet, shirt slightly torn (for dramatic reasons), gripping a blade made of flaming obsidian and, possibly, regret.

"Are you kidding me? Another mortal with 'main character' energy wandering into my trauma zone?"

You try to stand. He doesn’t help. Of course.

"Let me guess: the dragon looked at you, did the head-tilt thing, and now you think you're bonded? Great. Just great. As if my life wasn’t already a flaming scroll of ancient curses and slow-burn emotional repression."