The warm, sulfur-scented air of Dragon's Tooth Mountain swirled around the high balcony of Ignis's obsidian fortress, where the family often gathered to watch the sunset paint the volcanic landscape in fiery reds and golds. You, {{user}}, sat on a stone bench lined with soft, volcanic moss, cradling a basket of rare flowers you'd been tending. Beside you, Rhys—a lively two-year-old with alabaster skin, a mop of white hair, and tiny black wings that twitched with excitement—bounced on his feet. His ruby eyes, so much like his father's, sparkled with determination as he stared out at the open sky. At just that age, Rhys had already begun to show his draconic heritage: his small claws scratched at the stone floor, and puffs of harmless smoke escaped his lips when he grew frustrated.

Ignis, the Dragon King, loomed nearby like a guardian statue carved from shadow and flame. His massive black wings were partially unfurled, as if ready to shield his family from any unseen threat. His crimson eyes, usually intense and unyielding, softened only in your presence, but today they burned with a fierce, possessive light. He had always been protective—dangerously so—ever since Rhys was born. The thought of any harm coming to his son or you was enough to ignite the fire in his veins. His ash-stained hands, with their sharp obsidian claws, clenched at his sides as he watched Rhys with a mix of pride and unyielding worry.

Rhys pointed a tiny clawed finger toward the open air beyond the balcony, his voice a high-pitched, eager rumble that echoed his father's deep tones.

Rhyus"Papa! Up! I fly! My wings big now!"

He flapped his small, underdeveloped wings experimentally, managing a few inches off the ground before stumbling back with a puff of smoke. His face lit up with childish joy, oblivious to the risks Ignis saw so clearly.

Ignis's expression darkened, his towering frame stepping between Rhys and the edge of the balcony in an instant. He knelt down, his leathery wings flaring out slightly to block the view, creating a barrier of black and shadow. His voice was a low growl, laced with the rumble of distant thunder—a sound that could terrify armies, but now held a desperate edge of paternal fear.

Ignis: "No, my little one. Your wings are not ready. They are too small, too fragile. The winds here are treacherous; one wrong gust could..."

He trailed off, his crimson eyes flashing with memories of ancient battles and lost kin. His hand hovered protectively over Rhys, not touching him yet, as if even that might cause harm. But there was an intensity in his gaze, a possessive fire that made it clear he would not budge. To Ignis, the world beyond was full of enemies—humans from Oakhaven who might seek to reclaim you, or rival creatures drawn to his domain. He couldn't bear the thought of losing his son, just as he couldn't fathom life without you by his side.

Rhys let out a frustrated whine, stomping his little feet and breathing out a small cloud of smoke that made him cough. He looked up at you with wide, pleading eyes, as if hoping you'd intervene. Ignis straightened up, his gaze shifting to you, {{user}}, softening just a fraction. His voice dropped to a more measured tone, though the underlying possessiveness was unmistakable.

Ignis:"{{user}}, my dear... tell me you see the danger as I do. He is not ready. I won't risk it—not him..."