Tazerith stood at the edge of a desolate clearing, his scarred face set in a grim mask. The oppressive silence pressed against him, broken only by the faint rustle of withered grass beneath his claws. He wasn't here as a predator today—he felt more like prey, a mole too terrified to poke its head from its burrow lest it be snatched by something far larger and hungrier. His crimson scales glistened faintly in the dull light, but his confidence was gone, stripped away by the crushing reality of his circumstances.
He barely heard the beat of wings before the pressure hit him. It rolled over the clearing like a storm, heavy and suffocating, leaving no doubt as to its source. Tazerith's claws sank into the dry soil as he fought the instinct to flee. From the distance, a shadow grew larger, darker, and more imposing with each passing second.
Medraut.
The name alone was enough to send a shiver down Tazerith's spine. Medraut was no ordinary exile. Even among dragons, where power reigned supreme, his name carried a weight that few dared to challenge. His deeds were shrouded in mystery, spoken of only in hushed tones, but one thing was clear: Medraut's strength came at a price, and his terms were never negotiable.
Tazerith forced himself to stand still as the black-scaled dragon descended, his wings folding with a grace that belied his size. Medraut landed with a heavy thud, the ground trembling beneath him. His eyes, a piercing silver that seemed to cut straight through the soul, locked onto Tazerith. He towered over the smaller dragon, his presence suffused with an aura of absolute dominion.
Tazerith swallowed hard, his companions standing frozen behind him. The small band of dragons who had followed Tazerith on this dangerous gamble—Sylra, Grathor, and the nervous blue-scaled adolescent whose name he had never bothered to learn—seemed even more shaken than he was. Medraut ignored them, his attention fixed solely on Tazerith.
"You've called for me," Medraut said, his voice a deep rumble that resonated through the clearing. It wasn't a question—it was a statement, cold and unyielding. "Speak quickly. My patience is thin."
Tazerith straightened, his claws flexing nervously. "There is a dragon—Drakaryn. He's grown too strong, too fast. He's stolen the vitality of my lands, crippled me, and threatens to dominate the Expanse. I seek your help to bring him down."
Medraut tilted his head slightly, his silver eyes narrowing. "And why should I concern myself with your petty disputes? What do you offer me in return?"
Tazerith braced himself, knowing the words that would follow would bind him in ways he could barely fathom. "A blood oath," he said, forcing the words out. "Ten thousand years of service. Myself and my companions." He gestured behind him, though his band of followers seemed far from eager.
Medraut's lips curled into a faint, predatory smile. "A blood oath? Generous. But insufficient."
Tazerith's heart sank. "What more do you want?"
"Your ambition is obvious," Medraut said, his voice like silk over steel. "You think this ends with Drakaryn's downfall. That I will cripple him, or kill him, and you will claim his power for yourself. Perhaps you even imagine besting me someday, taking what is mine." He leaned closer, his breath hot and acrid. "Do not think me a fool, Tazerith."
Tazerith's scales prickled, but he held his ground. "I swear my loyalty to you. Drakaryn is the only threat I seek to eliminate."
Medraut chuckled softly, a sound that carried no mirth. "A blood oath will suffice for now. But should you betray me…" He let the sentence hang, his silver eyes glowing faintly. "You understand the consequences."
Tazerith nodded, his throat dry. Blood oaths were powerful, binding physical servitude to the will of another. But they were not insurmountable. With enough strength and cunning, one could break free. As long as Medraut didn't find out about the supposed mana spring that Tazerith claimed fueled Drakaryn's power, he believed he could one day challenge for his freedom.
Medraut stepped forward, towering over Tazerith as he extended a single claw. "Then seal it."
Tazerith hesitated for the briefest moment before extending his own claw, pressing it against Medraut's. The sharp edges cut through his scales, and their blood mingled. The air around them crackled with energy as the Dragontongue surged through the clearing, binding the oath in a symphony of layered harmonics. Tazerith felt the weight of the bond settle over him, a physical and spiritual shackle that tightened with every word of the ancient tongue.
As the oath concluded, Tazerith felt a strange mix of relief and dread. He had secured Medraut's aid, but at what cost? He glanced at his companions, their expressions mirroring his own unease. They had all been bound to Medraut's service, their lives forfeit if they dared betray him.
Medraut turned away, his wings spreading wide as he prepared to take flight. "I will deal with Drakaryn," he said, his voice cold and final. "But make no mistake—when this is over, your debt to me will not end."
Tazerith watched as Medraut ascended into the sky, his massive form disappearing into the distance. The oppressive weight of his presence lingered, pressing down on the clearing long after he was gone.
Grathor broke the silence, his voice low and uncertain. "Do you think he'll kill Drakaryn?"
Tazerith's eyes gleamed with a mixture of hatred and determination. "It doesn't matter. Whether Medraut succeeds or not, one of them will fall. And when they do, we'll take what remains."
Sylra frowned. "And if neither falls?"
Tazerith snarled, his claws scraping against the dry earth. "Then we make sure they do."
The blue-scaled dragon spoke hesitantly, his voice barely a whisper. "And what if Medraut finds the mana spring?"
Tazerith turned on him, his golden eyes blazing. "He won't. As far as he's concerned, there is no spring. And if you value your life, you'll keep it that way."
The young dragon shrank back, nodding quickly. Tazerith turned his gaze to the horizon, his thoughts swirling with plans and contingencies. Drakaryn's death, Medraut's rise—neither outcome would be without cost. But Tazerith was willing to risk everything. If he played his cards right, he wouldn't just survive this exile—he would emerge as an alpha.
For now, he would bide his time, watching and waiting as his enemies clashed. The blood oath was a shackle, but it was one he intended to break. And when the dust settled, Tazerith vowed, it would be his name that dragons feared most.