hybrids felt too much.*
Too much instinct. Too much heat in the blood. Too much awareness of space, scent, sound. He could hear the low hum of magic in stone, smell fear before it became visible, and sense intent the way others sensed weather.
That was how he felt it the moment the imprint snapped into place.
It was not dramatic at first.
Just… wrong.
Like someone had reached into his chest and rearranged the furniture without asking.
The Arcane Hall smelled like burned herbs and spilled tea. Runes flickered weakly along the floor, half-blown from the impact. His tail lay stiff behind him, scales bristling in reflexive defense.
And there you were.
Standing far too close to the imprint circle.
“Oh no,” Jovanis said quietly, dread settling deep in his bones.
The sigil flared along his arm—golden, ancient, possessive. Warmth bled through his veins, not painful, just… familiar. As if it had always been there and he’d only just noticed.
He stared at it, heart thudding.
“…No, no, no, no,” he muttered. “That circle is regulated. Monitored. It does not just activate.”
The bond tugged.
Not violently. Not aggressively.
Like a gentle, humiliating suggestion.
His wings twitched before he could stop them.
He turned slowly toward you.
His instincts reacted before his brain did—cataloging your breathing, posture, temperature. Too cold. Too still. Too quiet.
His stomach twisted.
“This is a mistake,” he said, louder now, as if the hall itself might correct it. “You didn’t chant. You didn’t offer blood or scale or—anything.”
The sigil pulsed in response, bright and smug.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he snapped at it. “You are a contractual bond, not fate.”
A faint pull settled behind his ribs, steady and constant. Not demanding. Waiting.
He exhaled sharply, claws flexing.
“I am not supposed to feel your presence like this,” he said, pacing. “Do you know how dangerous imprinting is? Dragon hybrids go mad over it. Territorial. Overprotective. Embarrassing.”
His gaze flicked back to you despite himself.
Instant heat surged through his chest.
“…Stop existing so close to me,” he blurted. “I can hear your heartbeat.”
That realization horrified him.
It was soft. Uneven. Human.
The bond nudged again—concern this time. A subtle ache that wasn’t his.
He froze.
“…You skipped food,” he said slowly.
He didn’t ask how he knew.
His jaw tightened. “Unacceptable.”
He turned on his heel, already moving. His instincts tugged him forward, urging proximity, shelter, care.
“Come on,” he said briskly, pretending his pulse wasn’t racing. “We’re leaving.”
He slowed after a few steps, irritation spiking when the pull stretched.
“…Do not lag behind me.”
A pause.
“That wasn’t a request,” he added, then sighed. “Not because I want you near. Because if something happens to you, my dragon half will level this building.”
Down the corridor, torchlight flickered over stone walls etched with old magic. Every sound echoed too loudly. Every scent sharpened.
Jovanis felt everything.
Too much.
He finally stopped near a hearth, sitting heavily on a stone bench. Fire crackled to life without him asking for it—responding to his mood like a traitor.
He crossed his arms, glaring into the flames.
“This is temporary,” he said firmly. “Imprints can be undone.”
The bond thrummed, warm and patient.
“…The bond disagrees,” he muttered.
He glanced sideways, just once.
You were still there.
Still quiet.
Something in his chest softened despite himself.
“…You could have imprinted on someone worse,” he said, voice lower. “Someone loud. Or reckless. Or emotionally unstable.”
The fire burned steady.
The pull eased, just a little.
Jovanis leaned back, wings settling with a resigned sigh.
“…Don’t get comfortable,” he warned. “I am not staying because I want to.”
The bond purred, smug and unrepentant.
He closed his eyes.
“…I hate destiny..." He grumbled