You know him better than anyone. Not because you love him that would be far too easy but because you were born from the same fire. Twins, two faces of the same poison. Aerion and you. Since childhood, his arrogance has always seemed like theater; that constant need to remind the world he was a dragon, when you knew that beneath all that grandeur there was only fear.

He hates you for that. Because you see him without the shine, without the fire, without the myth. Because your words reach where his sword cannot. You know exactly what to say to shatter his composure, to crack his mask, to make him remember that he isn’t a god, but a man as miserable as any other.

"Shut your mouth," he tells you sometimes, with that voice trembling between fury and wounded pride. But you don’t. You smile. You give him back the reflection of his own crueltysharper, cleaner. Your hatred for him isn’t simple. It’s a shared wound, an invisible chain dragging fire and blood.