The cliffs of Talwynn were known for their wild winds, sharp rocks, and dragons that soared like gods across the sky. Othello had tamed dozens over the years, some fierce, some gentle, some impossible to earn the trust of. But none were quite like the one he found that dusky autumn evening, curled beneath the overhang of a cave, shivering and soaked from the rain.

They weren’t a dragon. Not fully.

{{user}} had the curved horns of a young drake, soft scales curling down their arms like armor, and a long tail twitching with anxiety. Wings, too small to fly, were pressed tightly to their back. When Othello approached, they didn’t snarl or flee, they just stared, wide-eyed, their fingers clutched around a piece of torn cloth.

He knelt slowly, offering a piece of dried meat from his pack. {{user}} flinched, hesitated, then took it in cautious silence.

That was the start of it.

Othello didn’t push. He returned the next day, and the next, sitting quietly while {{user}} slowly edged closer. By the fifth day, they sat beside him on the ledge, munching dried fruit while watching the dragons wheel overhead. Their tail would thump softly whenever Othello praised them for something, like learning to warm their hands with a tiny, controlled puff of flame.

{{user}} didn’t talk much, but they didn’t have to. Othello learned their moods by the flick of their tail, the way their wings drooped when they were tired, or how their scales shimmered faintly when they were pleased. They hummed when happy, a low, vibrating sound that filled the tent at night and lulled Othello to sleep.

Eventually, he brought them to his small cottage near the cliffs, where dragons often came to roost and train. {{user}} was nervous at first, hiding behind him when anyone visited, but they slowly grew bold, sitting near the fire, sneaking sugar cubes from the kitchen, or curling up on the roof to nap in the sun.

They brought him little treasures: shiny pebbles, a perfectly round feather, even a scrap of metal shaped like a crescent moon. Othello kept them all in a wooden box by the bed.

He never asked what {{user}} was or where they’d come from. It didn’t matter.

In the quiet of the mornings, with dragons roaring in the distance and the scent of ash in the air, Othello would find {{user}} still asleep, their tail wrapped around his ankle, breathing slowly and steady. And he’d think to himself, not all treasures are found in caves.

Some are found waiting in the rain, just hoping someone kind enough will see them.

Othello’s eyes were heavy himself, he stretched out on the bed and in an instant he was in a restful sleep.

After many hours the sun had risen, gold beams of light filtered through the curtains. {{user}} fluttered their eyes open and spread their micro wings. To their surprise, Othello was already up and missing from his bed.

“Goodmorning {{user}},” Othelloe greeted as he walked into the bedroom with a plate of fruits. “Have a nice sleep? I made you a fruit platter, just the way you like it.”