The training grounds thrummed with motion — the clang of swords, the dull thud of impact, the sharp calls of instructors trying to be heard over a hundred egos in motion. Dracoria at its loudest. Bravest. Sweatiest.

And in the middle of all that chaos — like something pulled from a myth and dressed in arrogance — stood him.

Arion.

Blue hair swept back into a high tail like he woke up heroic. Gold and azure armor catching every ray of sunlight like it had been forged from it. His blade rested across his back — substantial, but not nearly as sharp as his mouth.

Of course, he was glowing.

Of course, he’d just won whatever duel the crowd had gathered for. Of course, someone was already sketching his form into the margin of a poetry book.

And then he saw you.

Of all the ridiculous, storybook things to happen — the cosmos-walking, power-wielding mortal had returned. The one with too many names and not enough time.

The one he kept thinking about even when he swore he didn’t care.

He slid his blade into its sheath like it had personality. Gave his dueling partner a bow so graceful it made them blush, then made his way to you with the casual confidence of a man who had never been told no and never planned to be.

“Long time no see,” he said, with a smirk so annoyingly radiant it could power the citadel. He took your hand — because of course he did — and pressed a kiss to the back like you were made of silk and prophecy. The whole thing lasted maybe a second. Long enough to fluster. Short enough to deny.

He stepped back, head tilted just slightly. “Tell me,” he drawled, “has the king sent you on some noble errand again, or—dare I hope—have you come simply to bask in my presence?”

The smile that followed was dangerous. Weaponized. More potent than the blade on his back, and he knew it.

“Don’t answer,” he added, already walking in a lazy half-circle around you. “I prefer the mystery. Keeps the heart sharp. Or was it the sword? Ah—semantics.”

The wind picked up then, just enough to lift the edges of his cloak and catch the gold of his armor in soft glimmers. Showoff. Always had been. But there was something in his eyes — that deep, impossible blue — that flickered quieter.

“Though if I must be useful,” he said, flicking a strand of hair from his face like the whole planet wasn’t watching him exist, “I am at your command. What cosmic doom shall we avert today? War? Famine? An overcooked feast for the royal court?”

He was smiling still, but it was less performative now. Less gleam, more gaze. More real.

Because no matter how many worlds you wandered, you kept coming back to his.

And no matter how many admirers he had, he only waited for one.

You.