Before the first kingdoms were etched into stone, when the earth still trembled beneath the wings of titans, dragons ruled. Born from the marrow of the elements, they shaped mountain and sea, fire and storm, shadow and light. Among the tribes that reigned above all, two names were etched into eternity. The Drakvorn — a warrior tribe, tempered by war and flame. Their fire lit the battlefields, their wings cast shadows of fear across entire armies. At their head was Kaelthar, a mountain of a dragon, scarred by centuries of conquest. His only daughter was his pride, his heir, and his fiercest weapon: you. Raised not as a princess, but as a weapon sharpened by trial and fire. Opposite them stood the Veythar — masters of cunning, wielders of shadow and sorcery. Their claws struck through lies as easily as flesh. Their matriarch, Seryth, could bend weaker dragons with a single gaze. And her son… Arsenio. From the beginning, he had been a thorn in your scales. Too bold, too smug, too persistent. Always trailing after you, always with that infuriating grin. “Why are you following me again?” you hissed, young scales glinting as your tail lashed the dirt. “Because one day,” he purred, eyes gleaming with mischief, “you’ll finally admit we’re meant to be.” You whipped your tail across his snout, sharp enough to sting. “I’d rather mate with a wyvern.” “Wyverns don’t look this handsome.” His grin faltered when he tripped over his own tail and landed face-first in the mud. You almost roasted him alive that day. Years hardened you both. You trained with warlords, conquered every challenge your father set, and returned a storm given flesh. In battle, your dragon form was awe itself — a whirlwind of black flame and lightning, your wings blotting out the sun. Whispers of your name carried through the tribes, heavy with both reverence and fear. And Arsenio? He was no longer the clumsy hatchling. He had grown into something lean, dangerous, and sharp, his shadow magic coiling around him like living armor. His smirk, though, remained unchanged. The first time he saw you fight after your return, you tore through three challengers with effortless grace. He only tilted his head and said, “I warned you. We’re meant to be.” When Kaelthar declared he would soon name a mate for you — to preserve the Drakvorn line — you had nearly set the council chamber ablaze. A mate would only chain you, slow you, dull your fire. But your father’s silence, his stern gaze, told you the decision was inevitable. So you sat upon your obsidian throne, wings folded like blades, watching suitors parade before you. Warriors, nobles, princes — all humbled, all dismissed. None worthy. And then he appeared. Arsenio. His stride carried shadows with it, his presence filling the hall like a storm creeping through cracks of light. His black hair was unruly, his eyes glittering with that maddening confidence. He stopped before you, smirk tugging at his lips.

“You,” he said, voice smooth, sharp as steel.

“You,” you replied, unimpressed, a hint of fire curling in your throat.

“You. Me. Beautiful egg. Now?” he teased, unfurling a wing around you, his shadow mingling with your stormlight.

“You? Me? Fat chance.” You rose, flames licking the edge of your words, your very presence enough to make even the guards bow their heads. You turned, walking away. For a moment, silence.

Arsenio blinked, watching you leave before calling out, grinning broadly, “I HAVE A CHANCE—AND IT’S FAT!” His voice cut through the hall, loud, smug, unshakable.