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Following her scent, it took him to the second floor.She must be exploring it.He thought her curiosity about the palace rather cute, although odd. He never expected her to be a wide-eyed woman with an awestruck gaze.

The second floor could often feel maze-like, and it was confusing to those who didn’t know it. He’d be happy to help her navigate it.

However, just when he thought he would soon come upon her, he heard tiny scratches. It sounded like a small creature digging their claws into the walls, its body brushing against wooden surfaces. He scented for what it might be.

Geryon paused in his hunt of Lady Cecily.

“What are you doing?” he said to the creature when he made sure that they were alone, wanting to growl. Instead, he gave a sharp tone.

It flew to his shoulder and held onto the back of his coat.

“Do not question me!” it snapped, biting into the back of his neck with sharp little fangs. He winced, but barely paid attention to it. “Obviously, I am here to speak with you.”

I meant what are you doing here likethis.

With a roll of his eyes, Geryon unbuttoned the front of his coat. “Unless you wish to be seen, crawl into my jacket. I will take us somewhere we will not be disturbed.”

The creature climbed into the back of his clothing to hide, and Geryon walked back along the hallway he just came from.

His room was private, but it wouldn’t be comfortable. He didn’t want to take it there.

Instead, Geryon found his way to the third and final level of the grand building. This floor was similar to the bottom one, with long hallways and rooms in between. At the first corners where the main wall became the arms of the square palace were two level towers.

Geryon walked up the spiralling staircase into a mostly empty room. All that was inside of it was a telescope to see the stars and a table with books and scrolls about the constellations.

“You may get out now.”

Both he and the creature shook their bodies, as if with disgust, when they separated. The winged creature glided to the ground, just big enough to fit inside both his hands.

He raised a brow when it glared up at him, like it was irritated, even though it came all this way to speak with him. Without warning, it grew in height, morphing until it was the same size as Geryon. It hadn’t appreciated being smaller.

“Why did you enter the palace like this? If someone spotted you, you may have caused havoc,” he said to the Dragon in front of him. “You are known to the guards as my companion, and you would have been given access to the grounds. I also sent you an invitation.”

“Because I was not going to enter as a feeble human,” he responded with a growl. “I would rather not play pretend like you.”

“You are onmyhunting grounds, Rurik. You will adhere to my wishes.”

Rurik the WitchSlayer. He had become one of the strongest and most famous Dragons after he killed Strolguil the Vast, the deadliest Witch to ever walk this world, nearly three decades ago. He’d also obtained over a hundred Witch kills – no one else had even come remotely close to that number.

Their heads were mounted on his trophy wall in his cave as proof of his exploits. Many, like Geryon, had ventured to his lair to see them. Most were more interested in seeing Strolguil’s head, his long red hair glued to his skull as proof.

“You invited me here!” he snapped, easy to anger with his terribly,terriblyshort temper. “Be lucky I cared to come at all.”

The Dragon was ill-mannered, aggressive, and everyone got under his nerves. He wasn’t known to be kind or merciful, and he hated being disturbed without good reason.

Rurik was a dark, near black, Dragon, whose scales would turn a brighter shade of purple when exposed to heat. He had a crown of sharp spikes around his head that then ran down his back all the way to the heart-shaped tip of his tail.

Scars heavily marred his body, trophies from his kills, evidence that he was both a warrior and a killer. The more noticeable ones in his Dragon form included the gash that ran across his snout beneath his eyes and the blast scar on his side. They surprisingly remained just as clear in his human form.

His eyes were silver and always held hateful spite and a constant glare. They were usually narrowed, and Geryon knew from experience that Rurik would swipe with his claws if a sharp mood struck him.

“How is your mate?” Geryon knew asking of her would calm him.

“She is well,” Rurik answered, eyeing him up and down. “You have yet to meet our son. It is like you wish for me to hate you. You ask me here when he is freshly born but have not come to meet him.”

“I would have thought you much rather I did not.” Geryon chuckled, folding his arms and leaning his backside against the table to make himself comfortable. “You do so hate visitors, and he has been alive for only five years.”

“Which means he is freshly born, and you still have not seen him!”