The Dragon's Valentine

Callius Falk looked around the throne room with thinly veiled disgust in his golden eyes. At the sound of a throat clearing, one of his brothers no doubt , he stilled himself. It wasn’t easy, but he bit back his anger.

This was no time for pride. Callius knew what he needed to do. He exhaled and dropped soundlessly to his knees. The cold, hard floor seeped through his leather pants, but he barely felt it. His mind was on more important matters.

He dipped his head low, placing himself at the feet of Dragomir, Chief Dragon of the Blackthorne Clan. His warden these last five centuries. It was symbolic of his subservience to the tyrant.

True, he was the stronger of the two, but he’d never get the chance to prove it. The Blackthorne Clan had over one hundred Dragons in the hold alone. Each was sworn to defend Dragomir, and each would die at his behest. Regardless of how lowly the man was. Service above all.

Dragomir’s silver hair was his greatest prize. It hung long, way past his knees when he stood up. Seated, as he was, the glittering braid sat coiled on the embroidered rug that sat just underneath his throne. The swirling patterns of reds and golds was intricate as it was delicate.

Woven by a true artisan of the Clan, from the finest threads made from a secret mixture of molten gold, silver and other precious metals. Such a piece of true Dragon craftsmanship belonged hanging on a wall in a gilded frame, in a place of honor.