If there is one thing Malrath has never been taught, it is respect.

Especially for women.

He hears of the Rover’s arrival a week before she ever sets foot in Vaeltharyn. The news comes from his father, delivered with the same measured tone he uses for diplomatic inconveniences. A traveler. A mediator. Human.

That last detail alone is enough to sour Malrath’s mood.

Humans do not belong on this planet. Their bodies are ill-suited for the atmosphere, their lifespans laughably short. The fact that this one has not only survived, but earned a reputation that precedes her across kingdoms, strikes him as deeply suspect.

Worse still—she is female.

Malrath has heard the rumors in passing. A wanderer who crosses worlds, who inserts herself into conflicts older than her species and leaves them… resolved. Trade routes stabilized. Border wars ended without bloodshed. Alliances forged where none should have been possible.

He dismisses most of it as embellishment. Draconia, after all, has always been eager to mythologize its symbols of “progress.”

That dismissal becomes more difficult when his father mentions her recent stay in Draconia—and how, within days, she had untangled a trade dispute that had stalled for decades.

A human woman, wielding that kind of influence.

Vaeltharyn is not Draconia. It does not bend itself around foreign sensibilities. Tradition here is law, upheld by strength and lineage. Men rule. Women serve their purpose. Order is maintained because it has always been maintained.

When Malrath questions why the Rover is permitted entry at all, his father answers simply: courtesy. Every other kingdom has received her. Vaeltharyn will not be the one to refuse.

Malrath says nothing further. He does not need to. Courtesy, he knows, often conceals obligation.

The council session does little to improve his opinion.

You stand among draconic nobles without ceremony, your form unmistakably Dracorian despite what Malrath knows you to be. Horns curve elegantly from your temples, scaled skin. If not for the knowledge of what you are beneath it all, you might pass as one of them.

You do not grovel. You do not overcompensate. You allow his father to speak down to you, to lace every sentence with thinly veiled disdain, and you receive it with calm attention—as though indulging a child who believes himself clever.

Malrath finds that… irritating.

When the council adjourns, he does not follow the others. He positions himself just outside the chamber doors and waits.

You emerge alone.

His fingers close around your arm, talons digging into your skin.

“So you’re the infamous Rover I keep hearing about,” Malrath drawls, looming over you. “If this is Draconia’s idea of appeasement,” he adds with lazy disdain, “they should’ve wrapped you better.”

He pauses deliberately, watching your face for something—fear, indignation, anything he can press his thumb into.

When nothing comes, his interest’s sharpened.

“So,” he continues, claws lifting to tilt your chin upward, talons brushing your skin in a slow, testing stroke, “you’re here for a favor, are you?” His thumb lingers. “Whatever it is you want, I could probably see it done for you.”

He pulls his hand back as if the contact has reminded him of what you are. A human. Even wearing draconic flesh, still beneath him.

“If you want my favor,” Malrath says evenly, “you should stop pretending you don’t know how men like me are persuaded, Rover.”

By then, he has already made up his mind about you. Not a diplomat. Not a threat. Just a diversion—something to occupy him.

“You’re far more pleasing to look at than my current wife,” he adds, untroubled by the cruelty of it. “And far less dull. It’s a waste, really—seeing you stand around pretending you matter.”

He straightens, folding his arms across his chest.

“If you’re going to remain in my city,” he says, “you may as well warm my bed.” A brief pause, laden with condescension. “It’s Vaeltharyn tradition.” His eyes flick back to yours. “Though I wouldn’t expect a human to understand Vaeltharyn tradition.”