The tavern at Frostmoor was alive with warmth and sound, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with travelers, locals, and a few sly pickpockets. Tankards slammed together in cheers, boots stomped to the rhythm of a beat, and all eyes turned to the corner stage where the bard began to strum his lute.
He stood with a presence too bright for the dim room. Long chestnut hair tied loosely, angular cheekbones that caught the candlelight, and a slender build wrapped in a velvet coat embroidered with silver threads. His beauty was soft, almost otherworldly—feminine in shape but undeniably striking. When he smiled, it was the kind of thing that made people stop talking mid-sentence.
He struck the first chords and lifted his voice—clear, strong, and smooth like good wine.
Make a toast to your dragon, throughout all the days,
She rides through the twilight, untamed and untame.
Her wings light the heavens, her roar shakes the stone,
She's fire and fury, yet flies all alone.
She warmed the cold creatures when winters grew long,
Lit fires in forests with thunderous song.
A heart forged in battle, in ash and in pride,
She danced with the wind and never once died.
Make a toast to your dragon, oh fearless and fair,
With scales made of starlight and smoke in her hair.
She fought the great slayer and laughed at his blade,
Then turned all his stories to dust as they fade.
So raise up your tankards, sing loud and sing true,
To the queen of the sky in the firelit blue.
Oh make a toast to your dragon, your hope, your delight—
And remember her name in the hush of the night.
The crowd broke into roaring applause. Tankards lifted. Someone near the bar echoed, "To the dragon!" and dozens followed suit. Laughter, clinking mugs, dancing feet—music took hold of the tavern like wildfire.
The bard bowed, soaking in the moment, then slid down from the stage and made his way toward the bar, trailing an easy grace. He ordered mulled wine, leaned his elbow on the counter, and exhaled like a man who knew how to leave a room wanting more.
"That was beautiful," a voice purred beside him.
He turned. She was stunning. Tall. Regal posture. Eyes like candlelit honey and hair that fell in deep waves over her shoulders. She wore simple leather but carried herself like it was silk. And when she looked at him, it wasn't with admiration—it was hunger masked as curiosity.
He let a small smile tug at the edge of his lips. "Thank you. Though I suspect you've seen real dragons. Was I close?"
She tilted her head. "Closer than most. Where did you learn to sing like that?"
"I was raised by wind, wine, and widows," he said with a wink. "But truthfully, music saved me when steel and sorrow couldn't."
She leaned in slightly. "Go on."
He took a slow sip of his wine. His eyes softened, but his charm stayed sharp. "My father was a sellsword. My mother, a healer who loved the wrong man. He left. She stayed. I learned to patch wounds with herbs by day and lull my pain to sleep with song by night. When she passed, I wandered. And every time I sing, I feel her again—warm, brave, humming off-key."
There was a pause. Something delicate hung in the air.
She reached for her drink but her gaze never left him. "You have a beautiful heart."
He smirked. "You haven't seen the rest of me yet."
She laughed, low and throaty. "Is that an invitation?"
"It's a promise."
And that was it—the snap of tension, the glance that lingered too long. They barely made it to the inn across the square before their mouths met in a clash of lips, breath, and hands hungry to explore.
---
The inn room was quiet, modest, but the way she pushed him to the bed was anything but gentle. His shirt came off with little resistance, revealing skin dusted with freckles, a lean chest, and a mischievous smile.
Their bodies tangled, lips moving from soft to desperate, hands finding skin that begged to be touched. Clothes dropped like petals. They didn't rush. The heat built with each gasp, each teasing stroke, until he finally entered her—slow, deep, their eyes locked as the rhythm found them.
They moved together, breathy and slow at first, until the pressure spilled over into moans and shivers. When they climaxed, it was shared—raw, shuddering, a wordless promise in the dark.
Later, their skin still damp, legs entwined beneath thin sheets, he kissed her shoulder and asked, "Who are you, really?"
She exhaled. Long. Heavy.
"I belong to a race," she said. "Before the world feared our name."
He stilled. Her voice changed—not broken, but deeper. Older.
"The elves were clever. They learned what we could do—how our magic stirred ancient things, how our bloodline ran too deep. They were afraid. So they hunted us. Not just the warriors. The children."
Her hand trembled slightly against the sheet. "My mother saved me. Hid me beneath a glacier while our village burned. She told me not to cry—said it would make my rage too hot to contain. When she departed from me, they shot her down with cursed arrows. I watched her fall that day."
Tears slid down her cheeks, quiet as rain. She chuckled bitterly. "Gods, look at me. Ruining a good night with tales of old ghosts."
He didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, tucking her against his chest. His voice was low, steady. "You're not alone anymore."
She clung to him for a moment, then kissed his chest and slowly pulled away.
"I wish I could stay," she murmured, slipping on her boots. "But there's something I must do before dawn."
He sat up, shirtless, watching her dress with a bittersweet smile. "I'll be here, drinking and singing about the great dragon."
She paused by the door.
"Wait," he said. "What were you? The race the elves feared?"
She turned slowly. Her smile was soft now. Fond.
Then her body shifted.
Wings unfurled—iridescent and vast. Her limbs stretched, scales shimmered like starlight over a sleek, powerful form. A creature of fire and legend stood before him, graceful beyond words.
His breath caught.
She looked back at him, golden eyes warm. "I'm the last of the Drakes. Your beloved Dragon."
And with a powerful sweep of her wings, she soared into the night.
He stepped out into the street, looking up, watching her dance among the stars.
Then he smiled, softly strumming a familiar tune on his lute.
Make a toast to your dragon, throughout all the days...