The moon hung low over the western grasslands, its pale light glinting off the cyan scales of the dragon that moved through the tall, swaying grasses like liquid water. Caius' wings, still bearing the faint mark of skirmish, flexed as he stalked silently between shadowed tufts, his amber eyes scanning for movement. The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of grass and predator alike.
Two antelope lay crumpled in the dewy grass behind him, their bodies still warm, the clean marks of his talons and teeth fresh. He had not been slow; precision came naturally to a dragon of his lineage. Yet as he crouched to tear the third from its hiding place, a soft, thoughtful murmur escaped him, almost to himself.
Humans, he mused, watching the creature bound through the grass with the ease of life, they require sustenance to function. And females, especially the ones of that age…
Caius' mind flicked to Renmei—or rather, the body his younger brother inhabited. He had observed her while they traveled, sitting rigid on horseback, trying to keep up with him while she scowled, complaining about the pace, the cold, the very existence of the journey. He remembered the sound of her stomach grumbling as they had ridden past a small village, the faint puff of frustration in her voice when he had ignored her suggestions.
She is small, he reasoned aloud to the silent night. Human females of such diminutive size—what is their appetite? How much do they consume?
He paused, leaning over the grass to sniff the wind. Memories of tavern conversations drifted back to him: men in the cities and rural inns talking loudly about their wives, daughters, and even mothers. The words were crude, but informative. He recalled one particularly loud drunk complaining about how his wife could eat half a deer in a sitting. Another had ranted about the terrifying transformation that occurred when his sister had been hungry: shrieks, scolding, general chaos.
He crouched, tail flicking once as he pondered, not the thrill of the hunt, but logistics.
Humans eat a lot, he thought, solemnly, as if recalling sacred scripture. That's what the men in those taverns said, wasn't it?
He'd heard them while perched on rooftops in his human form, listening to them guffaw and complain over tankards of ale. "My wife cleared the whole roast chicken, I swear!" one had said, to which another replied, "You're lucky—mine eats twice that when she's cross!"
But then another thought intruded, sensible and inconvenient. Renmei was rather small. Narrow shoulders, slender frame, those delicate hands that barely held the reins without trembling after long rides. She couldn't possibly eat as much as a tavern wife, could she?
He tilted his head, scales glinting faintly. Maybe one is enough.
Then again, he'd also overheard that human males often married women around Renmei's age. And if that was true—he huffed softly through his nostrils—then surely women of her age must be in their prime, vigorous and hearty. Which meant large appetites.
Caius hummed lowly, a sound like distant thunder vibrating in his chest. "So, if one wife eats a chicken," he muttered aloud, eyes tracking a buck stepping nervously at the edge of the herd, "and Renmei is roughly one wife in size, then two antelope should suffice…"
He tilted his head, frowning. The arithmetic of human consumption eluded him. "Although," he added, voice dropping to a rumble, "she was rather irritable on the road today. Perhaps hunger has made her temper short. Yes… yes, that makes sense."
He remembered something else he'd overheard. Men whispering in the dim corners of taverns, groaning over shared woes.
"You ever seen your wife hungry? Gods help me, I'd rather face a wyvern."
"Aye, mine too. Snaps your head off if supper's late!"
"Women, when hungry—they're worse than spirits!"
But as he glanced at the trio of carcasses—two behind him, one freshly fallen—doubt crept in again. He stared at them, then at the moon, then back at them.
"What if she's one of those… emotional eaters?" he wondered aloud. "Humans eat when they're upset, don't they? And she's always upset."
The logic, to him, was flawless.
The grass exploded beneath him as he surged forward, the night erupting with startled bleats. His claws struck true—a flash of teeth, a crack of bone, and the third antelope fell limp. Caius exhaled, satisfied, before dragging the carcass to the growing pile beside him.
He paused again, contemplative, tail curling lazily around his feet. "Three should be enough," he said, but the conviction in his tone faltered.
His tail flicked once, twice.
"…Four," he decided grimly.
Another hunt. Another swift kill. He shook his claws clean, feeling rather pleased with himself.
He moved on with a hunter's ease, scales whispering against the grass, the sound of his steps lost in the hush of the plains. Each thought that followed was less about generosity and more about self-preservation.
If Renmei got hungry, he'd have to deal with it.
If she got irritable, he'd hear her complaints.
If she got weak, he'd have to slow down for her.
Unacceptable.
Yes, he thought to himself, teeth flashing in a small, private grin. It is I who will suffer should she be hungry. Therefore, I shall hunt. I shall provide. The inconvenience falls upon me, not her. A wise course of action.
He shifted into a slow, deliberate stalk, cyan scales shimmering faintly in the moonlight, shadow and predator becoming one. The distant antelope had not noticed him yet. Their fate, he decided with an inner smirk, would not inconvenience him. They were merely steps toward ensuring that Renmei remained fed—and, by extension, mildly docile until he returned to the camp.
One cannot have a huffy, hungry human for company, Caius muttered quietly. It is unbecoming and tiresome.
And with that, he moved into the shadows of the grass, the quiet, measured steps of a predator whose concern was, ultimately, entirely for himself—but bound inexorably to the small human girl who shared his brother's flesh.
He later emerged from the shadowed line of trees, the cyan of his scales blending almost seamlessly with the darkness of the brush as he approached the camp. In his claws, he carried the four antelope carcasses, each one still fresh, the scent of blood heavy and coppery on the night air. Every step brought him closer to the campfire, and with each step, he became increasingly aware of another scent layered atop the natural tang of game—something richer, warmer, and unmistakably cooked.
His nostrils flared. Blood… roasting meat… The scent was both foreign and intriguing. It was faintly sweet, with a complexity that suggested herbs or spices, and yet the underlying aroma was undeniably raw power—the flavor of something wild. Caius's tail flicked, unease prickling along his spine. He advanced cautiously, claws crunching softly on the underbrush, until the source came into view.
There, by the fire, stood the human girl, Renmei, her small hands deftly turning the skewers of griffon meat over the crackling flames. Smoke curled lazily, carrying with it the scent that had drawn his attention. One foreleg, perfectly roasted, was set aside on a wooden plate, likely meant for him.
Caius froze, letting the carcasses settle on the ground before him. She… he thought, the mental image of the griffon she had slain replaying in his mind. She must have been truly hungry… to have slain a griffon while I was out hunting.
A faint sweat appeared along his scaled brow. He remembered the half-forgotten scolding of his mother, half a century ago, when he had been late bringing prey back to their cavern: a long lecture about responsibility, the dangers of carelessness, the proper treatment of kills, and the shame of an empty den. Now, standing before a girl who had handled a griffon with more skill than some fledgling hunters he had known, Caius felt that old, familiar tension of unease.
Renmei's head lifted, and her bright eyes caught the shimmer of cyan in the fading shadows. Her face flushed faintly as she fumbled, lips parting to form the syllables of his title.
"O Dignified Enamorable Guardian and—" she stuttered, before exhaling sharply, exasperated with herself. "You know what, forget it! Just… come over and eat some griffin. I cooked it."
Caius's jaw twitched almost imperceptibly. She still attempts my title, he thought, a silent, haughty sigh curling through his mind.
"I am accustomed," he said, with the crispness of someone rehearsing his lineage, "to taking nourishment from the kill directly — the warmth, the iron, unsullied by fire. Roast is a human affectation, a mannered compromise." He gave the meat barely a glance and then, with that deliberate motion dragons have for courtesy, shifted. Slowly, carefully, Caius folded his enormous frame inward, scales rearranging like shutters over bone, and the long, honed line of his dragon-head became the smooth planes of a man. The transformation was a thing of economy and intent; when he stepped forward in the campfire's glow he was no less imposing, but newly curated — a princely silhouette with that cold, cyan glint in his eyes.
Renmei, pragmatic to the bone, did not seem fazed by the change. "Then try it as a human," she said briskly, indicating the reserved leg. "If you're a dragon of taste, try human preparation once. It'll do you no harm." Her tone was coaxing and bossy at the same time; the sort of tone used by cooks accustomed to ordering even kings to taste.
Caius studied her for a long moment, the faint glow of the fire reflecting in his cyan eyes. There was a vulnerability in her posture, the way she stood rigid yet waiting, that reminded him sharply of his younger brother—the Custodian of Cobalt Flames. This human girl, so small and seemingly fragile, had killed a griffon and prepared it for him. That, more than anything, gave him pause.
With his claws turning into soft hands, he extended one forward, carefully picking up a small piece of the roasted meat, and held it toward his mouth.
Renmei's face lit up, relief and triumph flickering across her features. "See? It's not… as bad as you think," she said softly, the firelight painting her expression in warm hues.
Caius took the bite, chewing deliberately, the flavor of roasted griffon filling his senses. The meat was tender, rich, slightly gamey, with a subtle layer of seasoning he didn't fully recognize but could not deny improved the flavor. His tail flicked with restrained satisfaction.
Not unpleasant, he allowed himself a thought, silent but pointed enough for Renmei to see in her mind, even if she didn't know it.
She grinned faintly, setting the next piece on the plate for him. "There's more," she said, "but… pace yourself. You've had a long hunt."
Caius inclined his head slightly, the faintest gesture of acknowledgment. For a moment, the haughty, high-and-mighty dragon seemed simply… human. Or perhaps, merely amused at the small, capable human who had dared feed him.
He silently considered: This is… convenient.
And though he would never admit it aloud, a small corner of his mind found itself already planning for the next meal. The hunt was one thing, but the cleverness of the girl before him—bold, skilled, and surprisingly resourceful—was a different matter entirely.
He inclined his head, the corners of his mouth tightening as he allowed himself to relax. The first bite was hot, rich, and fragrant, a far cry from the raw game he had gnawed on as a youth. The tenderness of the meat, combined with the subtle seasoning, made him pause—a small pleasure he hadn't allowed himself to enjoy in decades. Memories of his mother's scolding faded into the night; here, under the quiet canopy of stars and the gentle warmth of fire, the past seemed distant.
Then came the sound of Renmei's sharp intake of breath. Caius raised an eyebrow as she stepped closer, eyes narrowing at the four antelope carcasses he had dragged back.
"You can't—there's no way—how are we supposed to pack all of that?" she exclaimed, waving a hand at the neatly arranged bodies. Her voice was a mix of incredulity and practical exasperation, as if the world itself had conspired against her ability to carry and preserve the sudden bounty.
Her eyebrows drew together, and she pointed at the corpses with growing horror.
"There's no way I can pack all of that up!" she exclaimed, pacing around the clearing, hands fluttering as though swatting at the sheer audacity of the situation. "Do you know how much salt I'll need? How many trips to store all that meat? Caius! Why—why would you even bring four?"
She scolds me for the abundance of provisions… as if I could have misjudged the risk of hunger. Caius's head tipped, the human mask sliding back into an expression of cool patience mixed with thin surprise. He had expected murmurs of gratitude, not a reprimand. For a beat his annoyance flared translucent—he had hunted to prevent discord, to avoid the small human catastrophes of hunger and complaint. Now the very provision he'd secured was being measured against Renmei's human limits.
He, however, simply raised a hand, letting his shoulders ease slightly, the long cyan sleeves of his tunic brushing the ground. "You will manage," he muttered haughtily.. "It is your burden, yes. But consider it training—for the trials to come. You will need strength, endurance, and—" He paused, one finger lifted thoughtfully—"a capacity to withstand minor inconveniences, like the presence of your meals being too plentiful."
Renmei groaned, setting down the griffon leg she had been tasting herself and moving toward the antelope. She muttered under her breath, rearranging the carcasses to balance them best in her pack. "Minor inconveniences," she repeated sarcastically. "Yeah… sure."
He considered, one eyebrow arching with a precision that read like metered patience. "Because my calculations presumed abundance was preferable to shortfall," he said, dry. "It is simpler to have extra than to have none." The logic was unassailable and infuriatingly cavalier.
"You'll have to help, then," Renmei declared, throwing him a strip of salted meat and a length of twine. "We'll quarter it, cure what we can, and hang the rest in the smoke. If we press it with salt now, it will keep across the high passes. If we're lucky, the dogs won't smell it before dawn." She rubbed her hands together, already arranging tasks like beads on a string. "Do you know how to cure meat, or are you going to insist on raw flesh for the rest of the journey?"
"Curing is...tedious," he admitted, however faintly.
Her hands flailed slightly, animated with panic as she gestured toward the carcasses. "We'll waste it if we don't start cutting and preserving it right now!"
Caius froze mid-bite, chewing slowly, the warmth of the cooked griffon still on his tongue. One claw idly tapped the side of a carcass, his cyan eyes narrowing slightly, a mix of amusement and incredulity in his gaze. So this is the human concern, he thought, inwardly amused. The sheer practicality, the worry over storage, spoilage, and waste—something he'd long forgotten in his centuries of existence, but something this small, fiery human seemed to carry in abundance.
Renmei's voice rose a little, practically scolding now, the frustration sharpening her tone. "We'll need to salt, smoke, maybe roast some of the tougher cuts, and—"
"I understand," Caius murmured, voice smooth, almost indulgent, though the words were more for himself than her. He glanced at her, the small, determined figure scrambling between the fire and the carcasses, and felt a peculiar tug in his chest. She was relentless in a way he could appreciate, and yet entirely impractical—still, that practicality would come in time.
Renmei muttered under her breath at the comment, her eyes narrowing at the thought of the dragon's silent critique. She returned her attention to the four antelope, setting about slicing and salting, arranging portions in neat bundles. She moved with precision, her fingers sticky from griffon fat, but careful, as though the act itself demanded reverence.
Caius, still chewing the griffon meat, observed her silently. This is… efficient, he mused internally. And yet maddeningly energetic for one so small. She does not tire as I would expect. Perhaps the Custodian of Cobalt Flames has been diligent in preserving her stamina…
Caius, who never admitted dilution of his solitude without a courtly tone of complaint, gave a small, private scoff. "Do not set your heart on the notion that I enjoy this," he said aloud. "I will do it to ensure the journey continues unmarred." Yet his hands were already untying bundles with practiced efficiency. He moved to the pit, drawing his weight to dig like anybody accustomed to work, and Renmei's orders — precise, insistent — shaped the tasks. The night filled with the workman's rhythm: salt scatters, hide flays, the dull thump of hooves as the horses shifted to allow space.
Under the patchy moonlight, the camp hummed with the small, fierce satisfaction of survival: roasted griffon for immediate warmth, antelope to be salted and hidden for the road. Caius ate again, this time as a creature comfortable with his provision; he listened with one ear to Renmei's planning, and in that listening there was a small, reluctant respect. He would do the hard things, she would do the neat ones, and between them the long road west would be fed and planned.
For a dragon who brooked little inconvenience, being needed was small mercy. And for Renmei, who had fought and cooked and salted through a night of blood, having someone else's muscle to lean on felt less like dependence and more like a partnership—awkward, proud, and perhaps, in time, necessary.
By the time the last of the antelope had been salted, wrapped, and tied to the packs in neat bundles, the air smelled of iron and smoke, of pine and earth—a mingling that whispered of the wilds more than of any civilization. The camp had settled into a kind of rhythm now: the faint crackle of embers, the whisper of the wind through the brush, the occasional stamp or snort from the horses as they adjusted their weight.
Renmei, by contrast, had not settled. She moved from beast to beast, tugging thick cloaks around their flanks and securing heavy woolen wraps about their legs, muttering something about the cold and the night frost. Caius watched her from where he crouched by the dying fire, expression unreadable, though his golden eyes followed every movement with an intent that was part curiosity, part mild disbelief. The steeds were hardy creatures—broad, mountain-bred, their hides thick and resilient. To see her so fuss over them, layering them like hatchlings in down, was… curious. Endearing, perhaps, though he would never call it such aloud.
She coddles them as though they were infants, he thought, the barest curl of amusement brushing his tone. They will overheat before the moon sets.
Still, he said nothing. There was a strange peace in the sight of her tending, as though by caring for these beasts, she stitched the world into a softer shape—one he did not mind existing within for a while longer. The ache of flight and battle still lingered in his limbs, and he found his thoughts turning, almost wistfully, to the idea of sleep.
He tilted his head back, gazing toward the stars that freckled the dark canopy above the brush. His instincts pressed against him—a memory of the old caverns, where his kin had curled together, bodies overlapping for warmth. His dragon form had always carried heat better, his inner fire banked low against the cold. Out here, in the open, that instinct clawed at him: to return to scales, to fold himself around the fire and let the night pass in silence.
But the brush was too sparse, the clearing too open. The light of the fire licked at the edges of shadow; the stars themselves felt like watchful eyes. He could not risk it. A dragon, even sleeping, was a beacon—a silhouette too grand, too unmistakable. Any traveler or scout would see the gleam of scales and know. And though his pride disliked the thought of concealment, he had learned long ago that discretion was not cowardice—it was survival.
His gaze drifted toward the tent Renmei had pitched. It was a small thing, designed for two at most, its canvas darkened by soot and patched over from years of use. It looked almost absurd beside him, as though a bird had built a nest at the foot of a mountain.
He exhaled softly, long and measured. It would be easier to sleep as I am meant to—scaled and vast, with warmth coursing through my veins like flame. The thought of it tempted him: the coil of his body around the camp, the steady heat radiating from his chest, the way frost would melt on his scales before it could even touch him. It would have been simpler, safer, even. In that form, he could keep watch while Renmei slept, safe within the crook of his tail. His kind had slept in open air for centuries before the age of concealment. But then his thoughts caught up with his reason, and the logic of survival tampered the urge.
They were still too near to human settlement. His left wing—still bandaged from Ruoyu's strike—ached faintly whenever he flexed his arm. Worse, dawn would eventually crawl over the horizon, and with it, the risk of being seen. The villagers spoke of monsters even before we arrived, he reminded himself. One glimpse of my scales in daylight and every sword between here and the western hills will point this way.
His first instinct was to scoff. The idea of sharing that cramped, canvas-bound space would have been laughable if not for the bite of the night air creeping down from the western hills. He could feel the frost forming on his breath now, see the faint shimmer of it catching in the firelight.
He cast another glance skyward—the moon silver and sharp, clouds dragging their shadows low across the grasslands. The cover of darkness would last only until dawn. After that, any large form, even a draconic silhouette at rest, would stand out vividly against the brightening plains.
Risky, he admitted inwardly, shoulders tightening. Foolish to remain exposed, even for comfort's sake.
So, with a quiet sigh that stirred the smoke around the fire, Caius finally turned toward the tent. His movements were fluid, deliberate—neither hurried nor hesitant. He ducked under the flap, the faint glow of the embers outside throwing his features into flickering relief. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of wool, leather, and faint ash.
Renmei had already settled near the far end, her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a canteen by her side. She looked up briefly, blinking as his shadow filled the narrow space. "Didn't think you'd actually come in," she murmured, shifting slightly to make room.
Caius's tone was even, almost dismissive. "You leave little alternative. The cold doesn't bother me, but I would rather not risk frostbite compromising this body."
Renmei rolled her eyes, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "Right. Wouldn't want the great and dignified guardian catching a chill."
Caius didn't rise to the bait. He settled himself with an easy grace, long limbs folding beside her. His presence seemed to fill the small space—an aura of quiet power, restrained yet palpable. The rhythmic sound of his breathing soon blended with the faint crackle of the fire outside.
He leaned back slightly, closing his eyes, allowing the dim warmth of the tent to settle around him. Yet his thoughts didn't rest. They drifted—to the stars above the fabric roof, to the plains stretching westward, to the whisper of his brother's mana resonating faintly from within the girl beside him.
Strange, he mused, how quickly this small, fragile creature becomes the axis of so much change.
Outside, the horses shuffled and exhaled near the embers, the faint clink of tack marking the steady rhythm of the night. The firelight danced against the tent's walls, drawing shifting shadows—human and dragon alike—until the boundaries between the two seemed to blur beneath the quiet, watchful dark.