Riven

In Dracory, courtship season was always the same: blood in the air or flowers at your door. Bloodshed or courtship. There was no middle ground.

Each dragon species had its own approach—some turned into beasts, others into poets. And Riven? He became a problem.

He usually weathered the season like a raging storm. He withdrew into himself, avoided eye contact, growled at anything that came even close. Most of the time, it wasn't hard. There was never anyone worth going crazy over. He didn't court. He didn't chase. He didn't try.

While you...

And, gods, of course, it had to be you. The traveler. The shapeshifter. The man who became everything. You with your tales of multiverses, of searching for relics and coffee on planets whose names he couldn't even pronounce. And gods help him—he remembered everything. Every story. Every laugh. Every quiet sigh in his chambers when you thought he wasn't listening.

You never stood still. You never stood still. And that should have been enough for Riven to keep his distance.

Riven had always been an outcast. Born into a noble family, he hatched from the wrong egg—a black egg, a storm dragon. An omen, they said. A shame, they whispered behind closed doors. Storm eggs were supposed to shine like dawn. His was dark as the void.

That's why they feared him. They avoided him. They said no daughter would be safe with him. They said he would destroy everything he touched.

You never listened—you didn't care. Your problems went beyond the black egg.

And maybe that's why all this was happening. Why his tail once curled around your ankle like a curse, in front of the other males. Why he started leaving you strange gifts—feathers that shimmered like starlight, rare herbs that bloomed only at night, a stone that sang when you touched it. He convinced himself it was nothing.

It wasn't like that. He knew the signs. The marks on his skin glowed.