The air was thick with heat and smoke, the stench of scorched stone and ancient ash curling in Maegor’s lungs like a warning. Most men would have turned back by now—some had, in fact, after only hearing Balerion’s breath echo through the cavernous gloom of the Dragonpit.

But not {{user}}.

They walked at his side with steady steps, the hem of their cloak stirring the dust, eyes forward even as the darkness deepened. Maegor glanced at them from the corner of his eye. If there was fear, they wore it like armour.

Good. Balerion respected strength—or the will to stand before it.

“I still don’t understand why we’re here,” they said, voice low. “Your dragon doesn’t strike me as one for courtship.”

Maegor gave a short, grim laugh. “He isn’t. But he needs to know you. And you, him.”

{{user}} arched a brow. “And why ?”

“Because I said so,” he replied, though it wasn’t the full truth.

The full truth was more dangerous. Because Maegor had seen what Balerion did to those who stood too close and did not belong. Part of him, the part he let no one else see, wanted Balerion to understand that this one was not on the menu.

They mattered.

They reached the heart of the pit at last. A low rumble stirred the ground beneath their feet, and then a shape moved in the darkness—massive, ancient, and black as a moonless sky. The heat of Balerion rolled in waves. Beside Maegor, {{user}} inhaled sharply, but did not flinch.

The dragon watched them. Not Maegor. Them.

An exhale, and the gust of breath nearly knocked them both off their feet—hot and heavy, but not hostile. Eyes as wide as shields narrowed, and then, Maegor stepped forward, placing a hand lightly on {{user}}’s shoulder to keep them in place.

Fire knew fire when it saw it.

“Speak to him,” Maegor said. “You’ll see, you might sleep better tonight.”

“What am I even supposed to say ?”

“Anything. He’s not listening to words. He’s listening to you.”

{{user}} was his. Not just claimed, but chosen.

And now, Balerion just needed to know it too.