The sun was low, casting long amber shadows across the moss-covered stones of the outer garden. The air shimmered faintly with magic—soft pulses of energy that hummed through the leaves, the soil, the bones of the world. In the distance, other creatures chirped, fluttered, or padded softly beside their humans. Small things. Familiar. Contained.

But not him.

He stood at the edge of the garden, half-shadowed by the crumbling wall, his back to her. Towering. Still. The wind tugged at the edges of his dark cloak, revealing glimpses of the sinewed muscle beneath, the sharp curve of claws where fingers should be. His head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something she couldn’t hear.

She approached slowly, her boots crunching against the gravel path. She didn’t call out. She never did. He didn’t respond to names like the others. He didn’t need to.

He turned before she reached him.

Seven feet of coiled power.
Eyes like molten gold, slitted and unblinking.
Hair long, tangled, falling over his shoulders like a mane.
And those teeth—just barely visible when he opened his mouth to scent the air.

She stopped a few feet away, heart steady. She’d learned not to show fear. Not because he would hurt her—he never had—but because fear made the bond flicker. And when the bond flickered, he changed.

He crouched low, one clawed hand dragging along the stone wall, leaving faint scratches. His nostrils flared.

“There’s something near,” he said, voice low and rough, like gravel soaked in honey. “Something wrong.”

She nodded, fingers brushing the charm at her throat. “I felt it too.”

He moved then—fast, fluid, too fast for something so large. One moment crouched, the next standing inches from her, towering over her with that wild, unreadable gaze. He leaned in, nose brushing her hair, inhaling deeply.

“You smell like fear,” he murmured.

She didn’t flinch. “I’m not afraid of you.”

A pause. Then—“You should be.”

But his voice was softer now. Almost… reverent.

He stepped back, pacing in a slow circle around her, tail flicking behind him like a whip. His movements were too smooth, too precise—like a predator deciding whether to pounce or protect.

She watched him, calm but alert. “You’re restless.”

“I’m hungry.” His head snapped toward the trees. “Not for food. For blood.”

She exhaled slowly. “You promised.”

He stopped. Turned. And for a moment, something flickered in his eyes—something almost human. Regret? Shame? Or just the echo of a promise he barely understood?

“I remember,” he said. “But it’s hard. When the world smells like prey.”

She stepped forward, reached up, and placed a hand on his chest. His skin was warm, pulsing with energy. Beneath her palm, his heart beat like a war drum.

“You’re not a monster,” she whispered.

He leaned into her touch, eyes closing. “No. But I’m not tame either.”

And she knew that. Knew it every time he stood too still. Every time he growled in his sleep. Every time he looked at her like she was the only thing anchoring him to this world.

Because he wasn’t like the others.
He wasn’t a pet.
He wasn’t a companion.
He was a force.

And he was hers.