Virion kept his gaze focused on Zirkhlon’s back while he led them through the mass of trees. It all looked the same to the prince— dark, grim, and broody in nature, just like the dragon before him, but Zirkhlon never second-guessed his movements, not even once.

Zirkhlon. It was a fine name, but its owner certainly was not.

Virion had met many who did not like him— the list was understandably never-ending— but he’d never met another who so blatantly ignored his station whilst being so incredibly rude. It was a first for him, and he was finding that he did not like it in the slightest.

He tried to comfort himself with reminders that this exchange would only last for one moonrise. He only had to make it Zirkhlon’s keep, and there, he’d surely be awarded privacy for the rest of the night. When the new day arrived and the storm passed, Virion would be on his way, leaving the ghastly dragon behind.

But first, they needed to find shelter if they ever arrived at this alleged shelter.

Virion hadn’t been counting, but he was sure they’d been walking for more than half a hirt now, and the only change in their surroundings was that they were tracking up an incline now. And while Zirkhlon likely didn’t feel the cold, even with the rains boring down on them, Virion did, and it was starting to make him shiver.

“I assume you know where you are going,” he pronounced over the storm’s roars when he could not bear it any longer.

Zirkhlon did not stop to pay the prince the courtesy of sharing his gaze when he said, “I assume so, your grace.”

There it was again. That mocking, condescending tone when he spoke his title. It grated Virion’s spirit each time, and though he didn’t believe himself to be a violent elf, Zirkhlon was steadily testing that notion.

“It is only that we’ve been walking for almost an entire hirt now, and everything looks the same,” he continued, adding a bit of speed to his steps to draw closer to the dragon, who kept stomping forward. “I do not wish to doubt you, but it feels as though we are walking in circles.”

“We are not.”

Virion waited for more, but Zirkhlon offered nothing else.

Curses filled the prince’s mind, each crueller than the last, and Virion wanted nothing more than the chance to unleash them all on the foul creature, but he managed to keep them at bay.

A prince did not stoop so low as to perform discourteous actions, and Virion was a fine prince. However, managing his emotions so they didn’t transfer through his magic for the dragon to come upon was far more challenging. Though a part of Virion did hope that the boorish dragon would feel how much he loathed him. Maybe then he’d taper his tongue or find whatever sense he’d lost since they’d met, if he’d ever had any at all.

The pair carried on the invisible path that only Zirkhlon could see, the one that kept getting steeper and steeper, until finally, bright candlelight peeked through the outline of swaying branches in the distance.

Relief exploded within Virion’s chest as thoughts of a steaming bath followed by a comfortable cot covered in silks filled his mind. He walked even faster, eager now for a moment of respite. That was, until they broke free of the treeline, and Virion laid his eyes on the single wooden box up ahead.

“No.”

There was no way this… this hut was where Zirkhlon lived. Virion refused to believe it. No dragon— none, would proudly claim such a small thing as their lodging. This could only be a ruse meant to upset him, to which, it was succeeding.

“No?” For the first time since their initial exchange, Zirkhlon turned to face Virion. “I do not understand what you mean by ‘no’… your grace.”

Virion hadn’t meant to give voice to his horror, but it was airborne now, and while he tried to school his features, he was sure his dismay showed clearly. But Zirkhlon did not appear offended or annoyed. If Virion had to guess, by the way his red-ringed gaze brightened, the dragon was amused.

“I—” Virion forced himself to swallow and speak without the tremor clinging to his cords. “This is your…” he couldn’t find a polite word for it.

“Nest,” Zirkhlon filled in before he cocked his head to the side. “Is there some fault with it? Something not to your liking?”

“No,” Virion promised, pushing a smile to his lips that trembled. “Nothing at all.”

Ever the quiet one, Zirkhlon only nodded before continuing onwards. Manners helped Virion follow behind him until they were climbing the creaking front steps to his nest. The front of it was a narrow ‘patio’ with one large chair that seemed to rock back and do absolutely nothing else.

Virion fought to hold sob in.

It was only when his hand slid around the door’s handle that Zirkhlon seemed to hesitate. His build was more significant than the width and height of the entrance, effectively blocking Virion from witnessing the exact cause of his pause, but he half hoped the dragon would never find a solution to it.

If this was what the outside looked like, Virion was terrified to see the inside. But alas, Virion’s luck was gone for the foreseeable future, and so Zirkhlon pushed the door open and promptly stepped aside. His face was a grim set of lines as he gestured for the prince to enter, all amusement from a moment ago now gone as his large hand strangled the doorframe.

Virion noted the strange reaction but shuffled inside, tired enough of being assaulted by the storm’s unforgiving winds to brave this hell.

The wooden box, named a nest, was… not what Virion expected.

Tree husk did make the walls, but they were sanded and finely polished. Smoothed, they still held the scent of what Virion had to guess was angel bark. Not to mention, the furniture, though sparse, was equally alluring. Plush, deep maroon seating, fine carpentry, and a fierce fire that kept the interior deliciously warm.

Though the space was small, with only what had to be a room for cooking, a lounge space, and what he suspected was a sleeping chamber and washroom in the back, it did not feel small. It felt rather… homely.

“Have you found the earlier fault, your grace?” Zirkhln asked as he slammed the door shut, startling Virion out of his musings.

“No,” the prince replied tersely, spinning to watch as the dragon worked his leather boots from his feet. “There is no fault— there was no fault. Your nest is rather lovely. Thank you for inviting me into it.”

Zirkhlon’s gaze stuck to Virion, revealing an honest hint of surprise that Virion wanted to mock. But just because the dragon was rude did not mean that Virion would mirror him. The prince knew how to play his part, no matter the occasion, though he hadn’t been lying in his compliment.

“You are welcome,” his host replied before his face returned to its complex set of frustrated lines. “I can ready the bath for you and prepare supper if you are hungry.”

Virion hadn’t been before, but the moment the suggestion was voiced, he recognised how his stomach actively caved in on itself.

“That would be greatly appreciated,” he replied, and Zirkhlon nodded again before heading deeper into the home.

Left to follow suit, Virion stifled his magic and slipped down to work his lacings free. Once he stepped out of his own boots, he set them just beside Zirkhlon’s, making sure no snow or dirt clung to him before he followed after the dragon. He tiptoed through the house like a thief, feeling so out of place that his skin itched, but the dragon had invited him here and offered a bath; he would be remiss not to take it.

Virion caught a glimpse of a rather large bed as he slipped by one open doorway and into the other, where Zirkhlon already stood inside. The room was an eighth of the size of Virion’s bathing rooms, devastatingly cramped with nothing but a copper bath, a sink top and a neglected mirror, but what was it that Aiasthlyn’s pisen sometimes said, ’to each their own’.

“I will leave it to you to choose between wearing your own clothing or some of mine,” Zirkhlon announced as he moved around the rapidly filling tub. “You will find my option by the door when you have finished. Here is your soap.”

He dumped a bar of something rather coarse-looking beside the bath. Virion smiled, not trusting himself to say a word.

If he spoke, he would ask what the soap was, and he feared to hear the answer.

Turning the tap off, Zirkhlon turned to face him completely. He folded his arms over his chest. “I have jemmin fish and gazitar, which would you prefer?”

Virion blinked. “What and what?”

The corner of Zirkhlon’s lips twitched just a little. “One tastes like wrasse and the other a mixture of hog and taupe.”

“I’ll take the latter,” Virion replied with a nod of thanks.

“Very well,” the dragon agreed before redirecting his attention to the bath. “Do you prefer it scalding or something milder?”

Virion frowned, not quite understanding, but didn’t want to prove himself the fool, so he replied, “Scalding.” Which was the truth. There was a reason why Virion had his own bathing house. Not only because he’d wanted it but because none of his siblings or servants could ever endure the temperatures his skin seemed to thrive in.

Wordlessly, Zirkhlon tilted over the bath, dipping one hand inside the waters just before the red rimming his irises flooded the eye entirely. His scar glowed with the power coursing inside before steam began to rise from the water.

Virion watched, mouth agape, as the dragon heated the bath, feeling something close to shrill childish wonderment race through him.

Zirkhlon was a fire dragon, which Virion had suspected, given his eyes, but he couldn’t recall ever spending any proper time with one. The creatures were more caustic than their counterparts, and so they were rarely on Colony, but here Zirkhlon was.

It was silly to be so amazed by such a simple thing, Virion knew. He could likely do the same with some drawn magic, but still, the prince could not help but stare as Zirkhlon heated the water until it began to bubble.

Zirkhlon soon shook the droplets from his fingers, letting the fire recede from his harsh gaze. “I will begin on supper,” he said, and then he was gone.

Virion scowled after the shadow of the dragon. He hadn’t even allowed him the chance to express his gratitude, though maybe it was just as well. It was excruciating enough conversing with the snappy being.

It was only until moonrise, Virion reminded himself with one fortifying breath before he began to undress. He took his time, undoing his outer coverings and then the inner layers he’d carefully selected with the expectation of claiming the council’s welcoming party approval— what a waste.

Stood in only his skin, Virion tested the water with his fingers and grinned with delight when he found the temperature to be perfect. Desperate to get rid himself of the unfortunate events of the day, he climbed into the bath and struggled not to moan as the scolding waters heated his skin until he almost felt like he was truly burning.

As the tub was meant for a dragon, there was extra space that Virion took full advantage of. He sank completely into the bath, and when the waters toppled over his shoulders, he had to release a groan of his appreciation.

By Ythene’s Grace, he’d needed this.

For some time, Virion just laid within the waters, letting himself soak as he so deserved and he likely would’ve done so for many hirts, but he was not only a guest but a prince. It would do no good to spend the evening lying in another’s bath without even offering to help with supper. So begrudgingly, Virion took hold of the soap left behind and scrubbed himself clean with the nameless product.

Stepping out of the bath took some more effort, but he managed to muster the strength to do so as he hurriedly dried himself before reaching for his clothes. He paused, catching sight of the promised clothing within the partially opened doorway. He did not want to wear the dragon’s clothing– sharing clothing was rather intimate amongst elves— and then there was the fact that the dragon had absolutely no taste in anything other than rags, but he’d been offered… and only a rude elf would deny the kindness of their host.

So with much reluctance, Virion tipped over to the gifted clothing and plucked the first item from the tips of his fingers. His eyes widened as his fingers brushed against silks from Kos, and then widened again when he surveyed the finely pressed accompanying trousers.

It made no sense. How could a being who wore torn and stretched-out cotton pieces have such fine silks to their name and not use them?

“I must’ve drowned in the tub,” he mused to himself as he gathered the clothing and eagerly slipped them on. The feel of them against his skin was achingly familiar and perfect, and Virion found his entire body relaxing, even more so when the scent that clung to them filled his senses.

It was a husky thing, like coal stone and cider wood, a rich musk that Virion found his body rather liked.

At least there was one favourable attribute to the brute.

Virion tried to pretty himself in the mirror when he was done, but he could hardly spot himself in the reflection and was forced to give up. For the first time in eons, he braided his hair out of his face, not trusting the unstyled main to be left to its own devices, smoothed down his clothing, and left the bathroom to find the dragon.

It was easy enough, given the size of the nest, and with only four steps, Virion was looking into the lounge where Zirkhlon squatted before the fire, stirring some large pot crested over it.

“Was the bath to your liking, your grace?” He asked, not bothering with a glance back.

Virion tried not to find offence in that. “Yes, it was. Thank you.”

Zirkhlon didn’t reply, and Virion found himself yet again standing idly by while the beastly dragon acted as if he weren’t there.

“Is there any manner in which I might help you?” He asked, raising his voice to snare the dragon’s attention.

“No,” he replied lowly, continuously stirring the pot’s contents. “Supper will be ready soon. You can sit where you would prefer until then.”

Virion’s lips parted to remind the dragon of his title, but he promptly shut it on his second thought. He rather hated the way the Zirkhlon said it and found himself relieved not to be mocked again.

Instead, he accepted the dragon’s invitation and seated himself atop the largest, most alluring seating, where the dragon’s smoky scent seemed to congregate.

Silence soon loomed over the space between them, and Virion began to squirm with only the sound of the fire and the raging winds outside to keep him company.

“You said earlier that this is your island, are you the Khan?” he began when he’d borne it for five jols and couldn’t make it any more.

“I believe that is what Khan means, your grace,” Zirkhlon replied smartly.

Virion’s left eye twitched, but he managed to curb his magic from assaulting the dragon and tried again.

“Then am I correct in believing that you are the only dragon on this island?

Zirkhlon didn’t reply immediately, too busy stifling what Virion suspected was a sigh. “Yes,” he eventually replied. “This is my claimed threshold alone.”

“Hmm,” Virion hummed, sadly disposing of his hopes of finding shelter with a more hospitable dragon. “And you chose it yourself?”

“Yes, your grace,” the dragon replied in a lull.

By her light! Virion was an excellent conversationalist. He had a talent for making people talk, and yet this dragon hardly managed more than five words at a time, giving absolutely nothing of substance.

Virion shut his mouth, locking away his attempts at being polite with the intention of punishing his awful host.

He would not speak to the dragon until he spoke to him, and then perhaps, the dragon would learn to appreciate his company as he should.

To his credit, Virion lasted ten jols this time.

“How long will the supper be?”

“Soon,” Zirkhlon replied in his same dead tone, and Virion could not take it a second longer.

“I understand that you did not expect to host tonight, but I was perfectly content to stay within my carrier and pass the storm there,” he snapped. “You were the one who invited me here, so the least you can do is act the proper host.”

Virion huffed once he finished, feeling slightly worked up but rather satisfied with himself for still managing to be polite about his disapproval. He kept his chin up, refusing to feel guilt when Zirkhlon finally looked over his shoulder and pinned those dark red-rimmed eyes on him alone.

“Am I not acting the proper host, your grace?” Zirkhlon asked, and Virion’s brows pulled close like a rope timed to snap. “I brought you into my nest. I’ve given you my clothes, offered you a bath, and now I am preparing a supper of your choice.”

“All which I am most grateful for, but—”

“But?” Zirkhlon interrupted, raising his slashed brow as he turned his imposing figure to face Virion directly. “I have invited you into my nest,” he repeated, his tone growing sharper. “You are a prince— Prince Virion. Do you not know what that means?”

Virion did know what it meant.

Dragons did not allow other creatures into their space, ever. All of Ythene’s creations knew how territorial the creatures were, which was precisely why they were the only species on Colony which were rewarded their own respective lands. They were even more protective of their nesting places, which Virion now recalled.

He hadn’t before, too busy concerning over the internal substance of the wooden box itself, but it explained why Zirkhlon had hesitated as he had before letting him inside.

“I do,” Virion replied tersely, lifting a glamour over his face to hide the way his face heated with shame. “But I remind you once more that you were the one who invited me here.”

Zirkhlon’s frown deepened, and so did Virion’s.

Neither was prepared to admit their wrongs, and so a standstill was where they were left.

“I have done more than place the good host, your grace—”

“Don’t,” Virion snapped, his patience officially at its end. “Do not say my title like that.”

“But you were the one who told me to say it, your—”

“But not like that!” Virion snipped, flushed with so much frustration that his glamour wavered. “Not like it’s a jest. It is not, and you know it.”

Zirkhlon stared at him, his expression impossible to read, and Virion feared that he was about to be punished with another bout of silence, but then, for the first time, the dragon did something other than brood and be rude.

He laughed, which was rude in itself, but the sound was too pleasant to be classed there alone. The dragon’s laugh was boisterous and not quite so rigid, but true, and the prince found his anger tapering as it filled the small wooden home.

“Very well,” Zirkhlon breathed once he sobered, his gaze alight as it ran over Virion’s face. “I won’t do it anymore. My apologies… Virion.”

Virion faltered, finding himself at a complete and unusual loss for words as fresh warmth invaded his very being.

Only those in his brood said his name, plus a select number of friends, if he could name them as such, but the rest of the castle referred to him as his grace, so Virion had never heard the way his name sounded from a deep, amused baritone and was quite literally shocked into silence once he did.

Zirkhlon’s lips twitched in that little way they seemed to do when he was particularly amused, and Virion forced himself to speak quickly.

“Thank you,” he replied with a firm nod. “Your apology is accepted.”

Zirkhlon’s wide chest rumbled as he faced the fire once more, falling back to silence, and this time, Virion did not try to poke him out of it.

He no longer sought to poke the dragon, but only to make it through the night so that he could leave in the morning and forget this awful meeting had ever occurred.

————

Virion. Virion. Virion. I love this spoiled little brat so much

Thoughts??????

Thoughts on Zirkhlon’s ‘hut’ and Virion’s ‘attempt’ at being polite? Any predictions or hopes???? On the dynamic so far????

As you know, next chapter will be up next week but if you want to sneak ahead and read the finished book, it’s up now on Patreon and my website for paying members!

Next up is Chapter 28 of Aiasthlyn and then a Luciel-Peter fluff/smutty extra!!!!

Until next time,

Byeeeeeeeeee Humansssssssssssssss