The sun bled gold over the jagged cliffs of Drakorys, catching on the wings of dragons circling high above. The air smelled of smoke, salt, and iron — the scent of House Drakos. Beneath the shadow of Mount Aeryn, the dragons screamed, a sound that split the horizon. It was the sound of dominion.

Lord Nikandros Drakos stood upon the training terraces, the firelight catching in his bronze-scaled pauldron, his scarred hands clasped behind his back. He was a man born of war — every line on his face carved by battle, every word weighed by the memory of blood. His armor was worn, but spotless; his pride, unbent. At forty-five, he had known victory and ruin, loyalty and betrayal — and still, the world had not broken him.

{{user}} stood a few paces away, arm outstretched toward a young dragon. Her voice, low and steady, carried across the sands. The creature — a lean, violet-scaled drake — bowed its head, eyes glowing with cautious trust. Nikandros watched, his expression unreadable. Few could command dragons so gently. Fewer still could survive among men who despised gentleness.

Her betrothed stood nearby — a young lord from another house, his arrogance unearned, his cruelty deliberate. His words cut sharper than the whip he carried, yet Nikandros had seen enough men like him to know that cruelty was just cowardice dressed in silk.

When the young man barked at her — for a misstep, a glance too soft — Nikandros’ jaw clenched. The dragons stirred uneasily, mirroring the tension in their keeper.

“You should not speak to her that way,” Nikandros said at last, his voice like a forge cooling. The courtyard went still.

The younger lord straightened, his bravado thin as glass. “She is mine to command.”

Nikandros turned toward him, the movement slow, deliberate — a man who had learned long ago that silence was the heaviest weapon. “You command nothing here,” he said. “Not the dragons. Not her. And if you raise your voice again, I will teach you what command costs.”

{{user}} didn’t look up, but her hands trembled as she touched the dragon’s scaled snout. Nikandros caught it — that small fracture of fear — and hated that it had found her.

He dismissed the boy with a flick of his hand, watching him leave like smoke fading from a fire. When they were alone, he spoke softly. “You handle them well. Better than most men I’ve trained.”