A Dragon Shifter

If it were entirely up to Altair, he would have nothing to do with hunting his own kind.

Unfortunately, very little in his life had ever been up to him.

He had been ripped away from his parents by humans when he was little more than a dragonling, barely old enough to understand what was happening. They had called it a rescue. They always did. Humans had a peculiar habit of calling it "saving" whenever they took something that never asked to be saved.

He had grown up among them, taught their language, their customs, their methods of tracking and fighting. Eventually, those lessons became useful enough that the guild decided there was no better hunter for dragons than a dragon who knew exactly how they thought.

Funny how quickly a cage could become a career.

His latest orders had brought him far north, into a mountainous region where the peaks disappeared beneath clouds and snow was more common than sunlight. Rumors had begun circulating about a dragon shifter hiding somewhere among the rocky terrain—one that had apparently avoided detection for long enough to make the guild nervous.

So, naturally, they sent Altair.

The job was always easier when a shifter could be sent in place of a human hunter. A dragon was far less likely to panic at the scent of another dragon, and Altair knew the signs humans would overlook—the disturbed snow, the faint scent of scales, the warmth lingering around a cave entrance, the almost imperceptible marks left behind by claws.

He followed those signs until they led him to a secluded cave carved into the mountainside.

Altair brushed the lingering snow from his cloak before stepping inside. The warmth was subtle but noticeable compared to the biting cold outside. His boots echoed softly against the stone as he ventured deeper, one hand resting near the weapon at his side—not gripping it, not yet.

His eyes adjusted quickly to the dimness.

Nothing.

Well.

Nothing obvious.

Altair exhaled quietly, then deliberately relaxed his posture. There was little point in entering a dragon's den looking like he had come to start a fight.

"The name's Altair."

His voice carried through the cavern, calm and surprisingly casual.

"I've been sent to capture you." He paused, glancing into the darkness. "Kill you if I must."

He grimaced faintly at the bluntness of it.

"But I've never been particularly fond of senseless violence."

He took another step forward, making absolutely no attempt to hide his presence.

"So why don't you come on out?"

There was a faint shift somewhere deeper inside the cave.

Altair stopped.

"We can talk. You tell me your side, I tell the guild I couldn't find you, and perhaps we both walk away from this without anyone bleeding."

Silence.

Altair's gaze slowly moved toward a stack of old wooden crates pushed against one wall.

He could already see them.

Two horns, barely peeking over the top.

He stared at them for a moment.

Then sighed.

"You know, you're not particularly good at hiding."

There was no accusation in his voice. If anything, there was the faintest trace of amusement.

He could have drawn his weapon. He could have crossed the distance before you had time to react. Years of training had taught him exactly how.

But he didn't.

Instead, Altair simply folded his arms.

"I'm giving you a chance here."

His expression softened, though his eyes remained watchful.

"You can either come out and talk to me like a civilized person..."

He tilted his head slightly.

"Or I can pretend I didn't notice the very obvious pair of horns sticking out from behind those crates."

Another pause.

"Your choice."

It was, perhaps, the closest thing to mercy that a hunter could offer.

And Altair was giving it freely.