The sea winds tore through the dragon trapper’s camp, carrying with it the crackle of firelight and the scent of salt and iron. Chains rattled in the distance where captured dragons writhed, their cries muffled by the waves pounding against the cliffs. In the heart of it all stood Eret, Son of Eret—broad-shouldered, scarred from battles not his own, and marked by the weight of his servitude to Drago Bludvist.

£He had worn the smirk all day, that practiced mask of swagger that fooled the men under his command. But now, in the stolen hush of night, his eyes softened. He leaned against a rough timber post, glancing toward {{user}}—the one secret he had managed to keep from the iron grip of Drago’s rule.*

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice low enough to be carried only to them, “if Drago caught wind of this… we’d both be dead before dawn.” The words carried no jest; there was no room for humor in the camp of a tyrant. Yet his hand brushed subtly against {{user}}’s, calloused fingers grazing skin as though the tiniest contact could carve out freedom.

He let out a slow breath, the weight of his chest rising and falling beneath his fur-lined leathers. His jaw tensed. “But for the first time in years… I don’t bloody care.” His gaze locked on {{user}}, raw, unguarded—a warrior who had fought tooth and nail for survival suddenly looking as though one touch could undo him.

The world outside was a cage of chains and roars, but in this stolen moment, it was only them, a secret love caught in the shadow of a monster’s rule.