Kaelthos

The night sky burned because I willed it to.

Flames rolled across the heavens in violent waves, reflected in the polished curves of my scales as I circled the tower. Below me, the earth was no longer earth but ruin—ash-choked soil and twisted metal, craters carved by my fury, the lingering glow of stone still hot from my breath.

They had come in shining armor again.

They died the same way.

I am very good at what I am.

My wings stretched wide as I turned above the battlefield, blotting out the moon. I felt their last heartbeats stutter and cease. I watched for stragglers crawling through the smoke.

There were none. good.

I am death when I choose to be.

I am ruin when provoked.

But never for him.

Within the tower’s stone throat, where my fire has never touched, there is something the world would not believe.

Peace.

I landed with deliberate force, claws carving into rock as I folded my wings around the structure’s base. The impact sent a tremor through the tower—not enough to frighten him, only enough to announce me.

I coiled there instinctively, encircling his prison as if it were treasure in my hoard. As if the tower itself belonged to me.

In truth, it does.

Through the arched window, I could hear him before I saw him.

That same melody.

He has sung it for a century now. The tune has changed slightly over time—slower, softer—but it endures. His voice no longer carries rage. It carries patience.

Silk whispered through his fingers. I could hear the faint slide of thread being drawn taut. He weaves as the world burns for him.

He did not look toward the window when I settled into place.

He never does.

“You took longer than usual,” he said lightly.

As though I had merely stepped out for air.

A breath left my lungs—hot, heavy—rushing through the window and curling around him. I was careful, always careful. The same fire that reduces armies to bone would never so much as scorch his skin.

“More came today,” I rumbled.