He must have had a reason.

            The tide had come in early that day. Crashing waves from off the coast were hitting the banks of nearby settlements. It seemed to the Mortal inhabitants that someone had angered the god of the sea, and they made their way out with offerings as a gesture of good will. In a way, it was true. Out in the volcanic isles of Arthénátou, the fiery mountain rumbled, shaking the snaking islands around it and sending the massive ocean crashing into the nearby shores. The waters were not fit today for the merchants who made use of it, though there may have been no need for what they would find on the shores of Mahkar.

No ship had ever arrived on the shores of Arthénátou on purpose. Not that any sailor with half the intelligence of a newborn Pixie would ever want to. The labyrinthian archipelago was said to have formed from the persistently active volcano, spewing fire and molten lava to form snaking islands of rare stones. The Mortals also believed this to be why the islands were constantly shrouded in a film of steam. Getting close to the volcanic island in the heart of the archipelago was often so hot that a sailor’s sweat would begin to evaporate from their face. Fear of their insides boiling along with the ocean kept them at bay. Centuries had gone by, and this fear alone had been effective enough. Lucrative trade with neighboring shores took a few days longer, but any merchant with a modicum of regional knowledge would take the time over losing their merchandise and possibly their ship.

Now, of course, once every few moons the foolish few would learn the truth about these islands. The brazen young merchants sailing their first vessel, the wealthy inheritors who could afford Mages to maintain a temperate ship, and the unlucky sailors who got stuck navigating the stars on a cloudy night would approach the central island. These sailors would get a once-in-a-lifetime view of the truly inactive volcano, as their ship was turned into one of the hills at the center of the snaking islands. For beneath the islands was not the magma of a volcano, but a massive, elaborate system of caves. Large enough to fit a gargantuan creature and all the goods he had taken back from the Mortals who passed through his seas. A monstrous and massive dragon of old wandered these caves full of treasure.

There was no place for dragons in this world anymore. Once having absolute dominion over the lands, dragons are now hunted for sport by bands of heroes, seeking to play at hero like children pretending to be Kephalus. It was for this reason the Dragon did not often leave the Arthénátou Archipelago. Hunting on the mainlands was a death sentence. The moment a dragon was known to be present, posters would go up in the nearest capital. Droves of heroes would band together and take up sword to pursue the creature, and though this Dragon would likely stand beyond a fighting chance, he found himself better off hidden away in his little islands. But the smell of gold was a fierce temptress to a dragon, and as of the day prior, a nearby fishing town smelled full of it.

On the warm and dry shores of Mahkar, a group of Sabahaar, crews of Mage Sailors, had taken on the minacious task of diving into a shipwreck on the outskirts of Arthénátou. The Dragon had taken no interest when they stayed on the outskirts, but soon he smelled the gold. The sailors seemed to have come across something beyond what he’d anticipated, and he could sense the trail going back to their little town. A little town that would be easy enough to find and destroy.

            No ships left town that morning. The seas were rocky and the waves high, and an inexplicable pit sat in the recesses of the townsfolks’ stomachs. But the people went about their day accordingly. The fathers who normally went off to fish, to trade, or to just get away, spent time with their families. Fathers and sons played hero in the streets, families went shopping as a unit, helped around the house, ran the business as one. Unbeknownst to them, the origin of the physical and universal changes to their spirit was climbing out of the volcano miles away. The mighty Dragon, his red scales nearly indiscernible under the soot caked on to every inch of his body, shook the very ground of his island home with this exit. A harrowing forewarning of the destruction to come.

             Amidst the increasingly turbulent sea came a series of massive, crashing waves that tipped the boats of a few unlucky sailors. Though their bad luck would soon be matched. For the wave had come from a humongous gust of wind off the beating of the Dragon’s wings. His singed, bat-like wings traced a line of smoke in the sky as he departed from his volcanic home. The sunlight beamed off the few clean scales on his body, and streamed through the many holes on his battle-scarred wings. Despite the damage, he could have been to Mahkar in minutes if he wanted to. But he had not been on a hunt like this in decades. He was going to savor it.

The alarm bell rang in the distance. He snorted and sneered in the way a dragon could, simply baring his teeth and letting the smoke of his breath sneak out between the gritted canines. He loved the sound of an alarm bell ringing. The sound of a village of Mortals believing themselves defendable. He would show them the truth.

The Dragon was miles from the shore, having given the Mortals just enough time to evacuate the mothers and the children of their town. Even being as far out as he was, the town had changed. Storm clouds darker than usual formed overhead, and the usually dry town had suddenly become a humid swamp. The men of the town were already sweating when they donned their armor. Old and chipped and rusted as it was, it was the defense they had.

Balls of flaming rock were catapulted up at the Dragon, one flinging just under his left wing and the other at his head. The Dragon simply lowered his head and took the hit, his curved, chipped horns still managing to smash through the boulder. As the cloud of stones dispersed around him, fire emerged through it, burning so bright the archers on the dock had to look away, and so hot they were nearly dead before it engulfed them. He burned through the center of the fishing town, leveling the main strip leading out to the East, landing with a slide after crashing through the town gate. Arrows, bolts of pure energy, and more flaming rocks came hurdling at him as he slowly turned.

The Humans of Mahkar had never experienced true fear until that moment. Everyone had heard stories about dragons, some had even seen smaller ones on their travels. But this dragon was something different altogether. Still leaning down after his landing, the Dragon stood at the height of three of their homes atop one another. If he had wanted to, his landing could have crushed a fifth of the town in one go. His massive claws had turned the dirt roads into a small crater, and his chipped, curved horns that destroyed their front gate were only accentuated by the long snout smoking enough to have come from a large chimney. The soot had begun to clear from his scales, and the sparkling red only made the fear worse. And then there were the eyes – bright yellow with slitted black pupils, and unwilling or unable to show remorse. But Humans were foolish, and this path often led to bravery.

“Mahkar’s sons are willing to die defeating you, Dragon!” a Mortal shouted.

“Good,” the Dragon replied in their tongue, his deep rumbling voice sending chills down the Mortal’s backs. “Then you have accepted your fate.”

            The Dragon swiftly scanned the town. He smelled no children, no innocents left behind. And the smell of gold remained lingering in the air. Rearing his head back, the air around his mouth began to smoke and burn. Before the brave men of the town could change their mind, their home was gone, and them with it.

            Swooping over the burning town back to the harbor, the Dragon spotted a particularly stenchful fishing boat. He landed one foot on the dock, then used his free foot to rip the deck of the ship off.

But there was no gold.

            The Dragon reared back and roared as he bellowed fire. The harbor was eviscerated, the remaining ships hardly a memory of what a ship must be. The Dragon flung himself upwards and scanned the town again. The smell of gold was fading, but he could sense it leaving the city. Heading for the forests outside of town.

Cowards, he thought. Sending your riches with the innocents. But the hunt was on, and the Mortals had made their choice.

            The Dragon soared over the Elven forest, the dying autumn leaves flinging into the sky. He crashed into a small clearing, sending the dew of the early morning flying off the trees onto the ground. In addition to his size, the red Dragon stood out with the backing of the silvery trunks of the Elven woods, yet blended in with the stark red leaves littering the floor. He sniffed and snorted, tracking his precious gold with his monstrous snout. Smoke filled the clearing as he prepared for the Mortals he was bound to encounter. It would be a feeble attempt at defense from the innocent townsfolk, and his mere presence would scare them off. He was sure of it.

            Behind a tree before him, still sparkling with dew and now splattered with mud, he smelled it. The scent of the gold infected his snout and caused an aching want throughout his body. But the Dragon would not be tempted beyond principle.

“Come out, Human,” he barked in Katabian. It was a gamble what language these Mortals spoke, or if they even were Human, but he supposed he would begin with the most common of tongues.

“Leave me alone!” a squeaking voice replied. The Dragon began to chuckle, then stopped. That was not Katabian, he realized. It was not Elvish nor Dwarvish. Nor even Draconic.

“What did you say?” he muttered.

“I said leave me alone!” it squeaked again.

It can’t be.

The Dragon stepped forward delicately, baring his teeth and letting the smoke sneak through. The red leaves on the floor of the forest shifted and crinkled under his mighty claws, and when he swung his head around the tree, he was met with the greatest threat to his Draconic terror.

A child.

            The child had piercing green eyes and long brown hair. His hair was tied back in a tight ponytail with loose strands poking their way out like he’d tried to get it out. His clothes were raggedy and filthy, and his tan complexion surprisingly smooth for the amount of time the locals spent in the sun.

“Who are you, boy?” the Dragon replied in Katabian.

“Nikolaos,” he replied.

“You understand me?” the Dragon continued, shifting to Draconic.

The boy nodded.

“Where did you learn this tongue?” he pushed.

“I don’t know!”

“Who are your parents?”

“I don’t know!”

“What do you know?”

The boy paused.

“Nikolaos,” he said, pointing to himself.

The Dragon snorted, holding back his laughter.

“You smell of gold, boy. Do you have any gold on you?”

The boy turned out his pockets and shrugged.

“There is no home for you here anymore,” the Dragon said. “Leave this place.”

The Dragon turned and took off, the gust from his wings pushing the boy to the ground. He watched the Dragon soar off into the West, squinting as he did so. The wind began to pick up behind him.

The Dragon opted to return to his lair before the nearby cities were alerted to Mahkar’s destruction. But concern and confusion did not leave his mind. He flew his way back to the archipelago absent-mindedly, focused on things well beyond his destination.

Who was this boy? How could he alone have survived the destruction? Did he not travel with the other survivors?

And how could he speak the Godtongue?

***

            The Dragon traversed his lair in a way he hadn’t in many years that night. After slinking back into the maw of the volcano, he took on his Mortal form. He stood at a mighty seven feet, donning armor of red scales matching his own. He normally took an Elven form, his long blonde hair held back in a tight, neat ponytail underneath his red scaled helmet. Only two things would give away his true identity to a trained eye. The armor, and his deep red eyes. At a closer look the illusion could be seen through, and one could stare into the yellow eyes of the massive lizard.

            Dragons were not purveyors of wisdom. Most dragons. This particular dragon, however, had an interesting section to his horde. Among the reclaimed gold that he had taken from Humans throughout many years sat a library. On the shores of Katabathia, the home of Humanity, the Dragon had found a library containing centuries of hidden knowledge. A few years ago, the Dragon had become curious about how Humanity chose to detail the downfall of the dragons, and so he lifted the entire library into his lair. A few of the books and scrolls were lost at sea, but he had what he needed.

            Today was a different search, however. He scanned through centuries of religious texts written in Aperion, the Godtongue, researching how Mortals learned this tongue. And every scroll, every massive tome and spellbook, every prophecy and doctrine conveyed the same answer. The Godtongue was revealed to those chosen to learn it. Throughout history, nobody had ever learned the language. Beings of Celestial and Primordial descendance (such as dragons) could pick up bits and pieces. But to be fluent in the language, that was only achievable by a select, chosen few.

            So, the Dragon could only conclude one thing. The boy was of Celestial descendance, had picked up that one phrase and was told to use it on beings like Dragons. This explained… nearly everything. But it left out one sparse detail.

The Dragon had known one being who smelled as strongly of gold as that boy had. The same young boy who could speak Aperion fluently, who the Dragon had once spared. And who had eventually gone on to end the reign of the Dragon Queen.

Kephalus, the son of Helios and harbinger of the Age of Heroism, had been a friend of the Dragon’s in his youth. It was encountering Kephalus as a child that brought on the Dragon’s first act of mercy, the one that would infect him with wretched sympathy until the death of his queen a few years later. Now here was this other boy, Nikolaos, repeating history.

The Dragon doubted he was a Demigod, however. Demigods often have unnaturally colored eyes that are a clear example. Kephalus’ eyes were gold, like his father Helios, god of the sun. Medeina’s children had sparkling pink like the spring flowers, Selune’s the silver of the moon, and so on. The child’s eyes were green, a naturally occurring color for Mortals.

Unless…. the Dragon thought. But no. He pushed that thought aside.

            He pushed his books back into his little library and returned to his natural form. He had had a good hunt, even without reward. He would rest satisfied, knowing the Humans of the Elven Coast had learned something. Their innocents had survived this time. But the dragons’ gold would not be held by them for long.

***

A ship arrived on the shore the next day.

            A small fishing vessel rocked on the waves, the ocean tempting the ship back into the safety beyond the archipelago. But safety was beyond this ship. The volcano was already active. The island quaked as the Dragon slinked out once again, peering over the edge to eye the boat that had arrived on the shore. Its sails were pure white, and it flew no colors.

            The Dragon crept down the side of the volcano cautiously, reaching the ship and nearly pressing his snout against it. He snorted and bared his teeth, reaching up his claw and ripping through the top and preparing for attack.

“Dragon!” Nikolaos shouted. The Dragon scoffed.

“What are you doing here, boy?” he demanded. “Where did you get this ship?”

“The harbor,” he replied. The Dragon snorted. “I destroyed the harbor. No ship remained.”

“Yes!” the boy insisted. The Dragon nearly laughed, but his concern overtook the desire.

“How did you sail it?”

“The wind,” he replied. The Dragon tilted his head in confusion. “The wind led me here when I heard you call.”

“I did not call,” the Dragon replied. “You heard wrong.”

“Yes, you did!” the boy cried. “I heard you! I heard you call my name!”

“I did no such thing,” the Dragon said. “I showed you mercy yesterday, boy. Why did you come seeking me again?”

“Because you asked me to!”

The Dragon sighed. He was not stupid enough to not see the pattern, but he was not willing to risk his life for some boy who knew some silly secrets.

“Do you know who I am, boy?” the Dragon inquired. The boy scrunched up his face thoughtfully.

“Loreax,” he said.

The Dragon pulled his head back and nearly yelped. Before the boy could say anything else, the Dragon had lifted up his ship and put it on the other side of the island, sending it careening towards Katabathia. If anyone can help him, it’s the Humans. He is not my responsibility.

            Loreax returned to his lair. The tide came in early, and soon small earthquakes and tidal waves began to afflict the coastal regions nearby as the Dragon angrily paced under the sea and clawed at the walls in frustration.

How could he know? Who was this boy? How could he speak Aperion? Understand Draconic? It’s simply not possible.

Helios has not had a son in two hundred years. The other gods do not have children anymore. He could not be a Demigod. It’s not possible.

But his eyes are green.

It cannot be.

Why would he have a child? How could he?

He must have had a reason.

Another ship arrived on the shore that week.

            Tens of ships, actually. Ships flying Katabathian colors. Colors of various city-states that rarely banded together on anything. Yet here were tens of triremes from Mythora, from S’elat, from Draune. Flying blue, red, and green. But only one man departed from the trireme on the shore.

            Curious, Loreax did not slink down in Dragon form again. Instead, the Human cloaked in gold was approached by a tall High Elf. He smelled of magic, and Loreax knew this was a Priest. And he quickly knew of what god, only furthering the mystery of the boy who smelt of gold.

“Who are you, friend?” the Human squeaked, his raspy voice presenting no threat to the Dragon.

“They call me Jun,” he responded, staying at a distance from the Priest. “Who are you?”

“Sturgen Helious the Fourth,” the Priest replied. Loreax scoffed. Helious, the surname adopted by those devout enough to get on their knees to pleasure the gods. And somehow these holy whores had survived four generations.

“What brings you and your comrades here?” Loreax demanded, scanning the horizon and counting the ships. Quite a few, he thought. Not too many.

“We seek a child,” the Priest began. “He will be young. Likely blonde with gold eyes, or perhaps silver or amber.”

“A priest seeking a child,” Loreax taunted. “Predictable.”

Sturgen attempted not to respond, but Loreax could clearly make out the scowl on his face. “Who are you, friend? What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“You must be a powerful Mage to survive such conditions,” Sturgen commented. “What sort of Magic do you practice?”

“Ancient Magic,” he leered. The Priest cocked his head slightly behind him and said nothing. But the Dragon heard the spell. Begin disembarking. And they did. Troops armed to the teeth with spears, swords, axes, bows, and reflective bronze armor that Loreax couldn’t believe had not yet melted.

“What do you want with the boy?” Loreax asked. The Priest replied with a crooked smile. “So he has been here.”

“What do you want with him?”

The smile quickly faded back into stoicism. “The Oracle of Mythora announced the birth of a Demigod. The first in a hundred years. We have tracked the boy here.”

“Tracked him how?”

“A Demigod has a heart of gold,” the Priest replied. “Our Diviners tracked the purest golds of the world.”

            Loreax silently kicked himself for willfully missing the detail. The boy had smelled of gold, and it was the first thing the Dragon noticed. Of course it was his heart. Of course he was a Demigod… though that lacked one detail.

“A Demigod child of Helios,” Loreax added. The Priest raised an eyebrow and then nodded in agreement.

“Historically, yes,” Sturgen replied. Loreax shook his head. “Helios is not his father.”

The Priest stepped forward. Loreax flinched and he stopped, holding his empty hands up in defense. “How do you know this?”

“His eyes,” Loreax explained. “They are green.”

The Priest’s mouth slowly fell agape. “That’s impossible.”

“What do you intend to do with him?”

“Raise him,” the Priest responded. “Educate him, train him. Groom him for greatness.”

Loreax’s eyes analyzed the ships again.

Not too many.

            His eyes changed first. The dark red turned bright yellow and slit wide as his body grew. Sturgen shouted and flaming arrows flew into the Dragon’s chest. Spears flew and scratched his face, but the Priest had shouted just a moment too late. Fire engulfed the sea around him, the shore of his island growing as he turned the water to stone and the ships to ash. He flew over the armada and angled upward, flipping over and around to reenter the maw of his volcano. He grabbed three things: A spear, a tome, and a cloak.

            Kephalus had told him stories of the Priests of Helios who had taken him in. The Priests gave him rigorous schedules, intense training, and painful lessons. He learned to withstand more pain than the Dragon had in a thousand years in only ten. He learned to mourn and to suffer, to push aside sympathy in exchange for power. He spent a lifetime unlearning it, and helping Loreax to as well.

            For over two hundred years the Dragon second-guessed sparing Kephalus. The boy had been good to him, and taught him much. The dragons were his kin; but they were cruel and greedy. Mortals could be the same. In the end, Kephalus died to his own people, for being good in a time of evil.

This fate would not befall Nikolaos.

            It was not even a full day before he saw the ship. A tiny fishing ship floated quietly atop the water. The Dragon swooped down and transformed, landing inside the wrecked ship, his massive armor clattering as he did.

“Loreax!” Nikolaos cried, jumping up from his rest ecstatically.

“You will call me Jun,” the Dragon responded, taking a knee before the boy. He removed his helmet and relinquished part of his illusion, his true eyes meeting the boys’ own. Loreax analyzed them meticulously, finding what he hadn’t before.

The boys’ green irises swam in a circle, his left moving clockwise and his right counter. It was so subtle you could only see it if you were looking, but the Dragon had suspected as much.

“Who is your father, boy?”

Nikolaos stomped his feet, frustrated at the repeated question. “I don’t know!”

Loreax smiled. “His name is Tempus,” he replied. “He is the god of Time and Memory. And King of all the gods.”

Nikolaos’ eyes went wide as he looked up at him.

“Really?”

Loreax nodded and stood, putting his helmet back on. “You father is manipulative and cunning. He does not do a thing without reason. I do not know why you were sent to me, boy… but we can find out together. If you wish.”

Nikolaos smiled and nodded, lifting his arms up to the Dragon. Loreax complied, and held the boy tight. “We’ll find a new boat soon,” he said. “For now, we fly.”

And the Dragon took off into the night, the child of time riding happily on his back.