Chapter Text
🐉
Phainon should have listened when Aglaea told him the dragon prince was immortal.
He ought to have heeded the Holy Maiden’s warning.
Even Anaxa, when he had probed the scholar's ever-curious mind, had advised him against clashing with the monster.
Everyone had cautioned him against doing something so reckless — throwing himself into a challenge without a clear outcome. Yet Phainon was nothing if not stubborn, and probably a bit foolish as well.
Once his mind was set, he had to see things through, which is exactly why he found himself face to face with a dragon.
In hindsight, he should have listened. He should have heeded those warnings. But the morning is always wiser than the night and the living always more regretful than the dead.
~
“While no such concept as true immortality exists, the dragon prince cannot be killed by any conventional means. It would be foolish of you, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, to even attempt such a feat.”
Phainon smiles as the golden threads fall away from where they’d wrapped around his form. This is not his first warning and most definitely won’t be his last.
~
In his human form, the dragon is just a man, but what a man he is. His skin glistens, marred with deep red markings etched into hard muscle. His hands are clad in sharp, steel-like claws, and the ends of his straw blonde hair are dipped in blood. Like this, it reminds Phainon of a lion’s mane — wild, unmanageable and splendid.
He cannot deny that the dragon prince is attractive; his beauty is unique, unadorned by pretension. It won’t be serenaded in poems or songs, but it will draw warriors to challenge him. He commands presence, demands attention. There are surely worse ways to die.
Except that Phainon does not want to die. He very much would prefer to live.
His sword clashes with the dragon’s claws, his arms trembling under the effort of holding himself upright. It’s been ten days of relentless fighting with little to no breaks in between. No rest, no food, no water. A single mistake may cost him his life.
The dragon prince, however?
Completely unfazed.
It’s frustrating. It’s infuriating. It’s downright humiliating.
The moment Phainon thinks he’s gained the upper hand, he is sorely proven wrong. The dragon observes, dismantles his attacks, and turns each one back against him. He moves effortlessly, with a touch of elegance — a large cat toying with its prey.
He’s caught. He’s hopelessly outmatched. A hot trickle of sweat makes its way down Phainon’s brow.
The dragon should have been a mindless creature, the council of elders always described him that way. Yet this one possesses intelligence sharper than his blade, and Phainon struggles to keep up.
He exhales sharply, steadies himself. Dragon or not, he still needs to win. There can be no other outcome, he is the prophesied hero of Okhema.
Golden eyes flick towards him, burning with a flame kindled by an ancient fire. The air around the dragon bends, as if any act of disobedience in his presence would be an affront.
Phainon falters.
This is bad
~
“Don’t go there alone, Snowy. Promise us.”
“I won’t,” he lies with a smile on his face. Keeping up appearances is second nature to him. He is, after all, the white knight of Okhema.
~
The dragon strikes blindingly fast.
Once again Phainon finds himself face to face with the monster. He stares into those golden eyes, amusement burning brightly in them. The dragon knows Phainon’s strength is waning. It knows — it savors the finishing act.
Bastard
He pushes back, heaving, a painful twinge flowing through his arms.
They may be evenly matched in skill, yet the dragon is immortal while he is not. Every time the claws catch his skin, they leave behind deep, painful imprints. Fresh golden blood pours out, leaving Phainon slightly worse for wear.
Unlike the dragon, his wounds do not heal, his bruises don’t fade in one night cycle. Ten days of battle have taken their toll, leaving him sluggish, his senses dulled. His injuries pulse, draining his life force, eroding his resolve to fight.
“Have you finally had enough?”
It is the first time the dragon speaks. It comes as a shock, a revelation.
The monster can speak.
Phainon staggers back, his eyes wide as he stares. Why had he assumed that it could not? Or rather — why had the dragon remained silent up until now?
Has he had enough?
Phainon’s head pulses, he winces as the dragon’s voice reverberates. It’s growing louder with every repeat, until it’s too much, a threatening force.
“Stop that!” Phainon gasps, gripping his head, taking another step back. The lack of sleep, the loss of blood, all of it together has become too much.
He cannot drag this out any longer. Either he ends the fight, or it ends him.
~
“The dragon prince has no weakness, at least not one that we are aware of. However,” Anaxa’s voice is calm as he looks at the ever-blue Okhema sky, “everyone has a weakness, even the dragon prince. It just has not been discovered yet.”
~
One after another, his mistakes pile up. He’s no longer fighting, just scrambling to survive. Any attack Phainon can only counter, he can’t land a single hit. His breathing comes out in quick, ragged huffs. His chest raises and falls fast.
This can’t end well. This can’t possibly end well. There is no way of this coming to a favorable end.
It would be foolish
Don’t fight him alone
Everyone has a weakness
The warnings of his companions echo in his mind, repeating and blurring over one another. Yes, they seem great in hindsight but what can he possibly do now?
Desperation surges in his chest.
He can’t give up.
He really wants to live.
One last attack. It’s worth a shot. There is nothing for him to lose.
Phainon channels every ounce of power into his sword and strikes. His blue eyes glow. He pushes forward despite his already waning strength.
His sword slides along a claw, slipping past the dragon’s defenses, and skewers through his exposed abdomen. Phainon’s eyes widen as red, crystalline shards explode all around him, scattering like shattered glass.
Everything happens in slow motion, the dragon prince staring into his face. Then, he smiles — a dark, sinister curve of his lips. He grabs the blade with his hands.
“Got you now.”
He pushes the sword even deeper into his flesh. A clawed hand slides down Phainon’s neck…
The dragon prince grabs his hair, pulls him close, and slams his forehead into his own.
The world around him blurs.
Phainon staggers, his vision mottled. Blood drips down the side of his face. He can taste something metallic on his tongue.
It’s over.
He lost.
It’s finally over.
The world spins. His vision fades. He drops to his knees, eyes stinging from the blood.
The dragon prince has no weakness
His death will be the ultimate proof.
As his consciousness slips, Phainon falls, expecting to never awaken again.
—
Except that he does.
—
When Phainon comes to, his body feels heavy. He can’t move his limbs, no matter how hard he tries. There is softness beneath him. That’s odd. Why is he not lying on the ground?
He expected death. If not that — a dark damp cell where he would rot away. He certainly didn’t expect to wake up with soft pillows surrounding him.
His head throbs as he lifts it. That, at least, he did expect. He looks down: his body is mostly intact, his injuries seem to be tended to. His confusion grows.
Why hasn’t he been killed?
And why is he lying on a bed?
“You’re finally awake.” A voice snaps him out of his daze, too deep, too smooth for it to be human.
Phainon turns sharply to where it’s coming from, his eyes locking onto a dark figure. The dragon prince is watching him like a predator eyes its prey. Has he been watching him this entire time?
A shudder crawls up Phainon’s spine, the creature’s presence is unsettling.
“You can talk, you can understand me,” he says after a long silence. “You’re— not a mindless beast, are you? You’re… intelligent.”
“Well spotted.”
That sounds like an insult. The dragon’s voice is a mockery of Phainon’s genuine tone. Of course it has all the rights to mock him, Phainon just lost to him in a grueling fight.
The creature steps into the dim moonlight filtering through a small window. The realization comes as a shock to Phainon — it’s dark, he can barely make out the dragon’s face. Unlike in Okhema where the sun never sets, the night here brings with itself a blanket of stars.
How long has he been out? It must have been at least a couple of hours, the sun was still high in the sky before he blacked out.
“Where am I? And what is this?” He asks, his voice hoarse and uncertain. A place like this should not exist in the destroyed city of Castrum Kremnos. Nothing but remains are left of that place.
It’s said to once have been a mighty stronghold, ruled by bloodthirsty and vengeful kings. There are many stories about the Kremnoan conquests, their prowess and their unstoppable might. Yet the entire nation was brought down to its knees in a single unremarkable day.
Because of the creature in front of him, because of this monster.
“My lair?”
Phainon cants his head to one side. The way the dragon words that sounds uncertain. Is he uncertain? That can’t be, not with that threatening aura of his.
“You… don’t know?”
“I do know,” the dragon snarls, his voice brimming with offense. Phainon flinches back at the hostility, he must have angered the dangerous creature after all.
“I’m just trying to explain it to your tiny brain in a way that you’d understand,” a set of white sharp teeth is flashed at Phainon, the dragon’s expression arrogant, unkind. “You humans are so puny.”
Phainon swallows hard, the dragon seems easily angered. So he better refrains from doing something foolish. His eyes dart around, taking into his surroundings. Now is not the best time to argue. His sword is gone, his armor, stripped, and a glint of silver catches his eye.
What is this?
He lifts his hand, his blood running cold at the sight of a chain around his wrist. The sleek metal extends all the way to the wall, the lock sturdy enough to be impossible to break. To free himself he’d have to bring the entire building down, Phainon’s not entirely sure he’s capable of such a feat.
He yanks at it, the chain moves and rattles. What an unpleasant, jarring sound.
‘Why?’ He demands, staring at the beast, as if he has any power over him.
The dragon, quite understandably, sneers in reply, his eyes curious as he watches the knight. “Just a safety measure,” he huffs, nonchalant,“can’t have you running around.”
“Safety measure? Running around?” Phainon repeats, more confused than when he woke. The dragon isn’t making much sense, or maybe he himself has sustained brain damage. None of this is making sense. “Why would I ever—“ he starts, cuts himself off. Then, with forced calm, he asks.
“Please let me understand, venerable dragon. Have I not been brought here for you to kill?”
The dragon frowns, visibly annoyed. It’s a ridiculous expression on such a mighty creature.
“And why would I do that?” He asks, crossing his hands over his chest. Like this the dragon looks more like an affronted cat instead of a being of unmatched might. “I thought that Chrysos Heirs, at the very least, would have the decency not to lie. And yet—“ the dragon prince shakes his head, “it seems that I have once again been proven wrong.”
He pauses, then steps closer. His eyes narrow as he searches Phainon’s face. Phainon finds himself staring back, entranced, unable to look away.
“You’re their fool, aren’t you? Their shining hero. So what if I told you,” the dragon says as one of his knees sinks into the bed. It creates a deep indentation into the mattress where it is baring the creature’s entire weight, “that your precious Chrysos Heirs, your treasured companions, have been lying to you this entire time?”
Phainon freezes, all of his muscles locked. He’s heard that dragons can control one’s mind. He just never thought that he’d ever find himself on the receiving end. Even if he wanted to, he’d be helpless to resist, unable to move under the dragon’s observant gaze.
The creature slides closer, fluid and elegant like a wave, until his face is inches apart from Phainon’s. A sharp claw tips his head up, a shadow of a smirk on his lips.
“What if I told you,” the dragon sneers, “that the prophecy that you’ve been following is false?”
What is the creature even talking about? Why would the Chrysos Heirs lie to him?
“I would— I would not believe you,” Phainon forces out, staring back. Something dangerous flashes in those golden eyes and the dragon rears back, hissing.
“Fool,” he shoves Phainon’a chin away. His clawed fingers wrap around his throat instead.
Oh. So this is how it ends. This is how the white knight of Okhema falls.
Phainon stares up at the creature, determined to hold its gaze when he dies.
Images of his companions flash through his mind—the Tribios triplets, always cheerful; Aglaea in her calming yet authoritative manner; even Anaxa with that demonising attitude—
Phainon should have listened. Should have waited. Should have done a lot of things. But it’s too late for regrets now, he has to face his own mortality. Hundreds of warriors have come to slay the dragon before him, their bones now littering the empty battle grounds. He is going to be just another addition, his body bleached under the scorching sun.
“Drink.”
Phainon’s head is tipped back. A sharp claw digs into the skin beneath his ear. It hurts and his mouth parts involuntarily, his eyes widening as something warm drips onto his tongue.
Metallic
His stomach lurches as realization dawns. The dragon prince has pierced his lip, the blood now trickling into Phainon’s mouth.
He tries to get away but his body is rigid, controlled under the dragon’s spell. He wants to gag, spit the blood from his mouth, but no matter how hard he tries he cannot move.
Panic takes over his mind.
He fights.
Fails.
He tries again.
He holds his breath, refusing to swallow, but soon his body forces him into submission. His throat spasms, opening up, and he takes a big gulp of the dragon’s blood. It feels like he’s swallowing liquid fire, all of his insides set ablaze.
His eyes widen in horror.
It burns.
The pain is unbearable as it flows through his veins. His eyes lock with the dragon’s, begging him wordlessly for mercy. Yet the dragon pays his suffering no mind, waiting patiently until Phainon takes another big gulp.
He releases him then and Phainon falls down onto the bed, coughing violently and gasping for air. He clutches at his throat, tries to make himself throw up as the venom keeps spreading through his insides.
Every crevice in him, every muscles, every nerve ending is on fire, the pain now all consuming and severe. He gasps as he braces himself against the mattress, his mind is quickly shutting down.
Is this how he dies? Burned alive from the inside out?
He wants to see his friends. He wants to go back. He wants to—
“Sleep,” the dragon prince commands.
Phainon’s eyes fall shut at those words, the burning darkness swallowing him whole.
—
tbc