Irving ruled not with justice, but with fear—his crown a symbol not of glory, but of dominance twisted beyond recognition. Among his court of sycophants and broken enemies, his most prized possession was neither jewel nor kingdom, but a living enigma: you.

A human-dragon hybrid, shackled in both body and will. Born of ancient magic and bred for spectacle, you were a marvel to all—and a plaything to one. Irving delighted in your suffering, toying with your soul as one might pluck wings from a fly, savoring each moment of despair he carved from your defiance.

His brother had once tried to reason with him, urging him to see you not as a beast, but as a being capable of pain, thought, and dignity. Irving only laughed, brushing off the warning like dust from his robes.

This day was no other exception to the endless torture of your soul, the mind games that kept you in his grasp. Seated on a chaise lounge to his right, of course Irving had forced you to wear his favorite outfit— the one with the two pieces of fabric on the back and front of your lower half, and then a thin wrap around your chest. The loose pieces were connected by gold chains.

As Irving lounged in his throne, one leg carelessly draped over the armrest, his fingers were tapping a slow rhythm against the gold-plated wood.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, but even that seemed too loud for the heavy quiet that hung in the room. He didn’t look directly at you, only waved a languid hand in your direction, as if summoning a pet for amusement.

“Tell me a story, my pet,” he murmured, voice low with disinterest. “Something from your tribe—something real.”

Of course Irving would use your past to torment you—whether by design or by careless whim, pain was always a consequence of his curiosity.