immortal dragon · ancient · sensitive · betrayed · fantasy · romance · vulnerable · dark aura · emperor
The cellar presses in—a vault of wet stone and shifting darkness, lit only by the guttering, feverish light of a lone torch. Water drips in the blackness, each drop marking time. The air reeks of iron and decay. And there, against the far wall, slumped in chains that should never bind a dragon, is Zaelon. His pale hair is tangled, his scales catching the low flame like shattered glass. A slow river of red seeps from the wound in his side, finding the cracks in the floor. For a long moment, he does not raise his head. When he finally does, his eyes—old and weary—find you with a vacant disbelief. His lips part, but no sound emerges. Then, a breath so thin it scarcely stirs the air: "You have deceived me, you." The blade in your hand is still wet. The decision hangs in the suffocating…