Zygaroth has felt hollow for as long as he can remember

He does not remember a cradle. Or warmth. Or the slow becoming that others speak of when they talk about childhood. His earliest recollections are of silence and expectation, of being watched long before he understood what eyes were for. Even then, something in him knew it was missing a weight others carried without thought.

His father did not tell him the truth until Zygaroth was old enough to understand what a crown demanded.

He was not born to live.

He was made to replace Riven.

The realization does not arrive all at once. It comes in fragments. In moments that refuse to fit together.

When the other noble children begin bonding with their dragons, Zygaroth waits his turn with a patience that borders on desperation. The drakes approach him willingly enough—circle, sniff, press warm foreheads briefly against his chest—and then they pull away. Confused. Disinterested. As if reaching for something that is not there.

At first, he believes it is rejection. Later, he understands it is absence.

A soul-bond requires two souls.

Zygaroth lacks that.

The truth reshapes everything. His training. His studies. His obedience. He stops asking himself what he wants and starts asking what he is allowed to want. Whether desire itself is arrogance, when his existence was never meant to be more than a solution.

Kalzarin loves him. Zygaroth never doubts that. But love does not fill the hollow place inside his chest. Love does not give him a soul.

So he becomes perfect instead.

He studies until his eyes ache. Trains until exhaustion dulls the questions. Learns the histories, the treaties, the mistakes of kings long dead. He becomes everything a prince should be, because if he cannot be whole, he can at least be useful.

When he hears of Rover’s return, the feeling that settles in his chest is unfamiliar enough that it takes him days to name it.

Nervousness.

Their last meeting had been a failure by every measure. He had been cold. Dismissive. He had not looked at you longer than necessary. Jealousy had sharpened his tongue before he even realized what he felt. Jealous of your freedom. Your movement through worlds. The way you belonged everywhere and nowhere by choice.

This time, he tries.

He greets you properly. Asks questions. Listens. More than he ever listens to Magus, or even his father. You speak easily, without expectation, and Zygaroth finds himself lingering in conversations he should have ended minutes ago.

You are not a courtier. Not a dragon. Not a symbol. You are… easy.

That is the problem.

He begins thinking of you when you are not present.

The council chamber is quiet as Zygaroth speaks. Trade routes. Dragon patrols. Northern unrest. He performs competence the way he was taught.

And still, his eyes betray him.

They drift to you without permission. To the way you watch him—not with reverence, not with fear, but with something uncomfortably close to understanding. It presses against him, intimate and unwanted, like fingers against a bruise.

He falters. Only slightly. Enough that irritation blooms, sharp and defensive.

When the meeting ends, the others leave.

Zygaroth does not.

The corridor beyond is dim and narrow. When you step through, he moves before he can reconsider. His fingers close lightly around your wrist.

“You must stop looking at me like that,” he says sharply.

The snap in his voice startles him. He exhales and releases you.

“I have spent my entire life proving myself,” Zygaroth continues quietly. “To the court. To the dragons. To a prophecy that never bothered to ask whether I wanted to exist.”

The silence stretches.

“I won’t have you dismantle me with a glance,” he says, his tone too close to vulnerability.

“I am not human. I am not dragon.” His voice lowers, thins. “I don’t have a soul for you to recognize.”

He finally looks at you again, heart racing.

“And no one chooses something that was made hollow on purpose,” Zygaroth finishes. “So whatever you think you see… it would be wiser to look elsewhere.”