I woke up to the sound of a thousand birds performing some early morning opera right outside my window. My head throbbed like someone had slammed a drum inside it, and… why was everything so loud?
Then it hit me. Not a headache. Not a hangover. Hearing. My hearing. Every tiny creak of the floorboards, the distant clink of a cup in the kitchen—it was all way too clear.
I groaned, rolling over, only to freeze mid-motion.
"…Wait. What the hell…?"
My hair. It wasn't short anymore. It brushed past my shoulders, soft and uneven. I reached up and brushed it back, then froze again.
Scales. My image reflected in the mirror infront of me.
Brown scales. Brown dragon scales. Right behind my ear. Tiny, perfect, glinting under the morning sunlight like molten bronze.
I rubbed my neck. Warm. My pulse thundered in my chest, and I swear I could feel it in my fingers, my toes… hell, probably my brain.
…and my eyes.
Red. Pastel. Bright enough to make me blink twice, then grin slowly.
"Okay…" I muttered to myself, tilting my head in the mirror. "…So that's what you meant, Pixie. Gifts from a pact, huh?"
I flexed my hands experimentally. My reflection shivered in the light. The heat under my skin was… pleasantly alarming. Stronger and sharper. Damn, I felt good. Really good.
Then—knock.
"Y-young master," Argos's voice floated from the door, calm as always, "it's morning… your mother—"
I didn't even get a chance to cover myself before the door creaked open.
And froze.
I could practically hear his soul leaving his body.
Poor bastard.
I stood there. Naked. Shoulder-length hair, glowing eyes, faint dragon scales behind my ear. And somehow… I looked terrifyingly good.
"…Argos," I said, trying to sound casual. "…Close the door. Or get me a robe. Preferably before either of us dies of embarrassment."
He stammered, muttering something about scales and morning routines, and slammed the door shut like it was about to explode.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair and flexing my eyes in the mirror.
"Fantastic. First, I drink dragon blood. Then I get dragon powers. And now I'm flashing my butler before breakfast. This is peak Yurio."
I leaned closer to the mirror, inspecting the scales, the glow in my eyes, the heat pulsing under my skin.
"…Still worth it," I whispered, smirking.
Because let's be honest: I looked terrifyingly hot. And terrifyingly powerful. And I wasn't even awake yet.
***
The morning sunlight spilled over the rose garden like it had a personal vendetta to blind me.
Petals glimmered, dew sparkling like tiny stars. I gritted my teeth and stepped lightly across the stone path, trying not to trip over my own legs—or my new dragon senses.
Every flutter of wings, every distant birdcall, even the tiniest rustle of leaves, hit me like someone cranked the world's volume to eleven.
And there she was. My mother. Lady Geisel.
Green hair cascading like ivy, eyes a pastel so soft they could make clouds blush. But today… today those eyes lingered on me differently. Like she was seeing not just me, but everything I'd become.
The pastel glimmer had a faint, fiery red hint flickering through—my bloodline, the Darava pulse.
She smiled. Warm. Proud. Sad. All at once.
"Yurio," she said, voice like a gentle breeze through leaves, "you've awakened."
I froze.
A part of me wanted to sass her back.
Another part—okay, fine, a big part—just wanted to soak in the way she looked at me.
Like I was finally… something. Something more than the brat who almost failed at dragon taming.
"You… your eyes," she murmured, reaching out a hand. "They carry the blood of your father. Strong, fierce… beautiful. Just like him."
I huffed. "So that's what's happening…
Mother, your compliments are melting me like wax on a candle."
She laughed, a sound like wind through the treetops, and shook her head. "Don't let that arrogance of yours get carried away, son. But yes… I am proud. And… yes, a little sad too, that I didn't get to shield you from all the burdens of your bloodline sooner."
I swallowed. Her words hit differently today. Maybe it was the dragon blood in me, maybe the heightened senses, maybe the fact that I was starting to feel more than I had in years.
"Enough melancholy," she said, breaking the moment, "we have more pressing matters. Come with me to the boutique. The suits I hand-picked for you must be finalized."
I blinked. Suits. Royal banquet in a week.
Right, that thing.
"You mean… dress me up like some civilized prince while my dragon powers are raging inside me?" I asked, voice dripping sarcasm.
She ignored the jab and began walking down the path lined with roses, petals brushing her fingers as if greeting an old friend. "You will wear them. And you will look like the heir of Dravara, Yurio. Not some half-awake, blood-drunk mortal brat."
I muttered under my breath, "Half-awake, blood-drunk… excellent descriptors."
But as I followed her, I couldn't help but notice how perfectly her hair glinted in the sun, and how… familiar the pastel in her eyes felt. Like looking in a mirror, but a mirror I hadn't realized I'd been holding all my life.
"…Alright, mother," I said finally, straightening my shoulders. "Lead the way. Let's see what human tortures the boutique has in store for me today."
And as we stepped into the path toward the carriage, I couldn't shake the feeling that the roses themselves were whispering: This is just the beginning, young Darava. Just the beginning.