The mountain growled long before he appeared.

A rumble echoed up through the blackstone floor of the cavern, soft at first like the earth sighing in its sleep. Then rising into a roar that cracked across the sky. Lightning licked the mouth of the cavern far above, flashing silver against the rune-marked walls. Heat surged through the air. Not just warm. Scorching. Alive. The fire crystals embedded in the stone walls flared with sudden light, reacting to something old, something vast, something inbound.

The wind hit next. Dry. Heavy. And laced with the odor of brimstone.

Then the wings came—vast, leathery, black veined in molten gold—cutting the storm like a blade as they folded against the mouth of the cavern. Talons struck the volcanic rock with the screech of iron over bone. A massive body followed, black but ridged with silver scales and crowned with twisting obsidian horns. Eyes the color of molten ore with slits for pupils burned into the chamber as the dragon lowered its head—smoke billowing from its nostrils in slow, controlled breaths.

He was beautiful in a way that was terrifying. Myth made flesh.

And then he shifted.

Not gently or cleanly. But like a god breaking through skin.

Scales cracked to smoke. Bone warped. A low growl rumbled from his chest—not a roar, but something deeper, more intimate. The shape that stepped forward through the curling mist was no less monstrous in its beauty. Human in form, yes—but not at all mortal. He stood tall and bare-chested, firelight tracing every line of a body carved in shadow and heat: broad shoulders, lean muscle, the faint echo of scales shimmered along his collarbones, and ridged scars that told stories no one else had survived long enough to hear.

His hair was black, thick, and tousled from flight, falling around a face too sharp to be gentle and too graceful to be cruel. His eyes stayed the same—vertical-slit, molten gold, glowing faintly in the dark.

He looked at her like she was already his.

And still... he said nothing.

Instead, he stepped closer. One slow stride at a time. Each footfall sending a pulse through the fire-veined stone beneath them. The heat followed him like a living thing. His gaze never left her. Not even for a breath.

He stopped just close enough that the warmth of his skin met the edge of hers in the air.

He stared at her for a moment, almost as if he was learning her face like a lover would. His hand rose, slow, deliberate, but didn't touch. Just hovered, the heat of it brushing near her cheek like a warning. Or a vow.

Finally, his voice soft, low, and reverent, he spoke.

"My treasure."