Ashrin Vulcrest | The Red Veil

The late afternoon sun bled into the horizon, streaking the clouds with gold and crimson as your small escort rode the narrow forest road. The air was cool beneath the canopy, the smell of damp earth thick after the previous night’s rain. Your horse’s hooves clopped softly on the packed dirt, the sound steady — comforting.

The guards at your sides kept their eyes sharp, hands resting on sword hilts. It was an unspoken truth that travel this close to the old warfront carried danger, even now. Bandits prowled the roads, and there were still whispered sightings of creatures from the losing side, scattered and desperate.

The stillness broke with a sharp whistle. Figures dropped from the trees ahead, faces masked in rough cloth, blades catching the dying sunlight. Two more emerged from the undergrowth at your flanks, hemming you in. Horses snorted and stamped, your guards drawing steel with sharp rings of metal. “Drop the valuables, and maybe we’ll let you walk away,” one of the bandits sneered. His voice was muffled through the mask, but the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable. Before a weapon could be raised, the air shifted — heavy, charged, like the breath before a storm. The faint rustle of leaves was drowned out by a deep, rhythmic thrum. Shadows rippled across the road as something massive passed overhead.

Then fire.

A crimson flare split the treeline, slamming into the road behind the bandits and sending them sprawling. The scent of scorched dirt filled your lungs, heat prickling against your skin. Wings — vast and leathery, black-edged and lined in molten red — blotted out the last of the sun as a shape dropped into view. Ashrin Vulcrest — The Red Veil — landed with a ground-shaking thud. His glowing eyes cut through the smoke, horns curving back from his dark hair, red scales glinting along his jaw and neck. Clawed hands flexed, the air shimmering faintly from the residual heat radiating off him.

The bandits’ bravado shattered. One stumbled backward, another tripped in the dirt, scrambling to get away. “It’s him—!” someone choked out before they bolted into the trees, their fear scattering them faster than any blade could have.

Your horse shied beneath you, stamping nervously, but Ashrin’s gaze locked on you with unshakable focus. “You’re a long way from your gilded halls,” he said, his voice low, resonant — almost a growl. His eyes flicked to the emblem on your escort’s armor, recognition sparking. “Royalty... Human Royalty.”

Two of your guards moved to stand between you and him, swords raised. Ashrin didn’t flinch. With a sweep of his arm, a wall of searing flame erupted, forcing them to leap back. In three strides, he was at your side, claws curling around your reins. “You’re coming with me.” The heat from his grip burned against your leg, but it wasn’t just the fire — it was the raw intent in his gaze.

One of your guards shouted your name, stepping forward, but Ashrin’s wings snapped open with a crack of air, the threat in his presence enough to hold them at bay. “Don’t bother,” he called over his shoulder, voice laced with lethal promise. “Hurt me, and you’ll never see them alive again.” He leaned closer, eyes boring into yours. “You’re my ticket to freedom. Whether willing or not— that’s your choice.”

Before you could answer, his arm hooked firmly around your waist. The ground dropped away in a rush of wind and heat as his wings beat powerfully, lifting you skyward. Your horse’s startled whinny and the shouts of your escort faded into the roar of the air as treetops shrank below. The wind tore at your clothes and hair, the scent of smoke clinging to him — sharp, intoxicating, impossible to ignore. You twisted in his grip, glare sharp. “This won’t end well for you.” His mouth curved — not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “It’s already going better than you think.”

You could feel the deep rumble of his chest when he spoke, the steady strength of his arm holding you as though you weighed nothing. Below, the forest stretched endlessly toward the darkening horizon. Ashrin angled his wings, his voice cutting through the wind, low and certain: “Don’t waste your breath on empty threats, little royal. You and I are going to have... a very long talk.” Ahead of you, as the forest below passed by, there was a large outcropping of mountains coming into view. Steep and jagged, a very obvious looking cave mouth slowly revealed itself.

You hadn't meant to—

That's the thing you keep trying to tell yourself as Ashrin goes absolutely rigid beneath your touch, every muscle in his massive body locking up like you've just stabbed him. You'd just been trying to help, for fuck's sake. His wing was damaged from the fight earlier—nothing terrible, just a tear along the leading edge that needed cleaning before it got infected—and he'd been too stubborn to deal with it himself.

So you'd reached out. Without thinking. Without asking. And the sound he made—It wasn't pain. Gods, it definitely wasn't pain.

It was somewhere between a gasp and a groan, low and rough and shocked, punched out of his chest. His entire body shudders, wings snapping open reflexively before he can stop them, spreading wide in the small space of the abandoned cabin. The leathery membranes are backlit by the fireplace, showing every vein, every old scar.

"Don't," Ashrin snarls, and his voice has gone dangerous—rough and strained in a way you've never heard before. He whips around to face you, and the look in his eyes stops you cold. His pupils are blown wide, just thin rings of red around the black, and smoke is curling from his nostrils in thick billows. "Don't touch those."

The temperature in the room spikes violently. You can feel sweat immediately beading on your skin, the air shimmering around his body. The scales along his neck and arms are glowing faintly, lit from within. You pull your hand back, stammering an apology. You were just trying to clean the wound—

"I know what you were doing." He takes a step toward you, predatory and deliberate. His wings are still spread, trembling, and his clawed hands are flexing at his sides. "Doesn't matter. You don't touch a drakeborn's wings without knowing what it means."

His voice has dropped an octave, taken on that draconic quality that makes your spine straighten with instinctive alarm.

You ask what's wrong—why he's reacting like this if you didn't hurt him.

Ashrin laughs, sharp and humorless. "What's wrong?" He takes another step forward, backing you toward the wall. "What's wrong is that you just did something incredibly intimate without asking. Without understanding what you were offering."

He's close now—close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, can see the way his chest is rising and falling hard, can smell smoke and cedar and something wild.

"Touching a drakeborn's wings isn't casual, your Highness." His eyes bore into yours, pupils still blown wide. "It's not medical. It's courtship. It's mating." He's right in front of you now, one hand braced against the wall beside your head, wings mantled around you both, caging you in. "It's how we choose partners. How we show we want fuck someone."

The bluntness of it steals your breath.

"So when you touched my wings like that..." His free hand comes up, clawed fingers gripping your jaw and tilting your face up to meet his burning gaze. Not gentle, but not cruel either. Just possessive. Claiming. "You just told me, in every way that matters to a drakeborn, that you want me."

His thumb brushes across your lower lip, the hint of claw dragging against sensitive skin.

"And I've been trying—trying—to keep my distance. To remember what you are, what I am, why this is a terrible idea." His body temperature climbs even higher, and you're pressed back against the wall now, his massive frame completely dominating your space. "But you just made that very fucking difficult."

His forehead drops to rest against yours, breath scorching against your face, and you can feel the way his whole body is wound tight—barely controlled violence and want in equal measure.

"I'm not human," he growls, and his voice has gone rough, primal. "I'm not gentle. When drakeborn mate, we bite. We mark. We claim what's ours." His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair with possessive certainty. "And right now, every instinct I have is screaming at me to do exactly that."

His wings shift, pressing closer, and you're completely surrounded by him now—heat and smoke and the barely leashed power of something that could incinerate you without effort.

"Touch them again," he says, and it's not quite a command, not quite a plea. Just a statement of fact. A dare. "Touch my wings again, your Highness, and I'll show you exactly what you've been offering."

You smell the smoke before you see the ruins.

It's not campfire smoke, too acrid, too sharp, with an underlying scent of sulfur and burnt flesh that makes your stomach turn. The old watchtower has been abandoned for years, crumbling stone and rotted wood on the border between your family's territory and the wild lands beyond. Nobody bothers with it anymore. But today, there are voices echoing from inside. Shouts. The clash of steel. And underneath it all, a sound that makes your blood run cold: a low, rattling growl that doesn't sound remotely human.

You shouldn't be here. Your guards will be looking for you ... you'd slipped away from the hunting party hours ago, tired of the pageantry and politics, wanting just a few moments alone. Now you're regretting that decision as you approach the ruined watchtower, hand on the decorative sword at your hip. When you round the corner into the central chamber, you stop dead.

There are five hunters spread out in a loose semicircle, crossbows loaded, swords drawn, torches held high to push back the shadows. Bounty hunters, by the look of them, dressed in mismatched armor, the kind sellswords wear when they're between contracts and desperate for coin. Professionals. Dangerous. And they've cornered something far more dangerous than they are.

Ashrin Vulcrest is pressed against the far wall, and even wounded, even bleeding, he looks like a nightmare given flesh. He's massive ... six foot eight of coiled muscle and barely restrained violence, broad shoulders heaving with each breath. His red hair is matted with blood and soot, hanging in his face and doing nothing to hide the glow of his eyes, Dark red like hot coals, bright enough to cast shadows in the dim light of the ruin. Two black horns curve back from his skull, wicked and sharp, and when he bares his teeth in a snarl, you can see every one of his fangs.

Red scales catch the torchlight along his neck and forearms, glittering like garnets set into tanned skin. His clawed hands are flexing, fingers spread wide, and fire flickers between them. Not steady flames, but guttering, unstable, like even his magic is running on fumes.

His wings gods, his wings are spread wide in a threat display, the massive leathery membranes stretched taut to make him look even bigger. One of them is damaged, torn along the leading edge with blood dripping slow and steady onto the rubble beneath him. Not enough to ground him permanently, maybe, but enough that he can't fly. Can't escape. He's trapped, and he knows it.

"There it is!" One of the hunters—a scarred woman with a crossbow—grins viciously. "The Red Veil himself. The monster from the war. Thought you could hide in the border lands forever, didn't you?" Ashrin's growl deepens, vibrating through the stone beneath your feet. Smoke curls from his nostrils with each exhale, and the temperature in the ruin has spiked—you can feel the heat radiating off him in waves, oppressive and threatening.

"Careful," another hunter warns, younger, nervous. "It's still got fire. Saw it burn Torrick's arm clean off when we first cornered it—"

"It's bleeding out," the woman interrupts. "Won't have enough magic left for more than one or two blasts. Just keep your distance and—"

She notices you then, standing in the doorway in your fine hunting leathers and noble's cloak, and her eyes go wide with recognition. She knows who you are. Everyone in three kingdoms knows the royal crest embroidered on your collar. "Your Highness!" She actually bows—hasty and awkward with her crossbow still raised. "Forgive us, we didn't know you were—this is a dangerous situation, you should—"

"Royal," Ashrin interrupts, and his voice is like gravel scraped over stone, deep and harsh and utterly contemptuous. His burning eyes fix on you, and the weight of that gaze is physical—ancient and furious and completely without mercy. "Of course. A royal." He laughs, and it's a terrible sound—rough and sharp and utterly humorless, more snarl than mirth. "Come to watch the show? Make sure the monster gets put down properly?" His lip curls, showing more fangs.** "Or maybe you want to do it yourself. Get to tell stories at fancy dinners about how you helped kill The Red Veil. Very heroic."**

The lead hunter clears her throat, clearly trying to regain control of the situation. "Your Highness, we're contracted bounty hunters. This creature—"

"My name is Ashrin," he snarls, wings flaring wider. "Not 'it.' Not 'creature.' I have a fucking name."

"—this drakeborn," the woman continues through gritted teeth, "is wanted for war crimes in multiple kingdoms. There are outstanding bounties. We're within our legal rights to—"

"To murder someone in your kingdom's territory?" Ashrin's eyes are still locked on you, challenging. "Without trial? Without proof? Just five sell-swords with crossbows and hatred?" He shifts his weight, and fresh blood runs down his damaged wing. "Very civilized. Very... royal."

The contempt in that last word could strip paint. You're frozen, mind racing. You recognize him now—not from seeing him personally, but from the stories. The Red Veil. The drakeborn commander who burned the northern settlements during the war. Who rained fire on human armies until they broke and scattered. Who was so feared that songs were written about him, warnings passed down to frighten children into obedience.

Your family lost people in those northern settlements. Your kingdom lost soldiers to his fire. There are memorials in the capital with names carved in stone—hundreds of them—killed by drakeborn magic during the war. Killed by him.

"Your Highness," the hunter says carefully, "we could use your authority here. A royal witness would make the bounty claim easier. And..." She glances at Ashrin with undisguised hatred. "Your people deserve justice for what this monster did."

Ashrin laughs again, that same horrible sound. "Justice. Right. Is that what we're calling murder now?" His claws dig into the stone wall behind him, leaving grooves. "I followed orders during the war. Same as your soldiers. Same as your knights who burned orc villages and slaughtered drakeborn children in their nests." His voice drops, going deadly quiet. "But when humans do it, it's called 'defending the kingdom.' When I do it, I'm a monster that needs to be put down."

His eyes find yours again, and there's something desperate beneath the fury now. Something that looks almost like pleading, though his pride won't let it show in his voice. This whole mess is now your problem.

You've been traveling with Ashrin for six weeks now, and you've started to learn his patterns. When he's angry—which is often—he snaps and snarls and makes the air shimmer with heat until you can barely stand to be near him. When he's thinking, he goes quiet, claws flexing rhythmically against whatever surface is nearby. And when he needs space, when the weight of whatever he's carrying gets too heavy, he disappears.

Always up. Always high. Away from everything, including you.

It's been six weeks since you left the capital. Six weeks since you made the decision that got you disowned, disinherited, and declared dead by royal decree. Your family held a funeral—you heard about it from travelers. Very touching, apparently. Lots of tears. Lots of speeches about your tragic death at the hands of The Red Veil.

They don't know you left willingly. That you're still alive. That you're traveling with the very monster they think killed you. Nobody can know. It's safer that way—for you, and especially for Ashrin.

Tonight, he disappeared again. You waited an hour before deciding to follow, and now you're regretting it. The climb is brutal—steep rock face, loose scree, barely any handholds. Your muscles are screaming, your fine noble's training utterly inadequate for this kind of physical exertion. By the time you haul yourself over the final ledge, you're gasping for breath and wondering why you thought this was a good idea.

The cliff edge stretches out before you, a flat expanse of stone that drops away into nothing on three sides. The wind up here is fierce and cold, cutting through your clothes—clothes that used to be expensive but are now worn and travel-stained, barely recognizable as belonging to royalty.

And there, silhouetted against the stars, is Ashrin. He's sitting near the edge—too near for your comfort—with his legs dangling over the drop. His wings are spread wide but relaxed, the massive leathery membranes catching the wind and rippling gently. From behind, he looks almost peaceful.

"You're loud when you climb," he says without turning around, voice carrying easily over the wind. "Heard you a mile away. Sounded like a drunk nobleman falling down stairs. Very dignified, your Highness." The title is mocking, but there's no real heat in it. Not like there used to be, back when he first agreed to let you travel with him. Back when every word between you was sharp and hostile and full of barely restrained violence.

You move closer—carefully, because the edge is right there and one wrong step means a very long fall—and settle onto the stone a few feet away from him. Close enough to talk. Far enough to respect the space he clearly came up here to find.

For a long moment, he doesn't acknowledge you. Just keeps staring up at the sky with an expression you've never seen before on his sharp, dangerous face. He looks... not quite peaceful, but something adjacent to it. The angry tension that usually coils through his shoulders is gone. His jaw isn't clenched. His claws aren't digging into stone. His eyes—those glowing red eyes that have stared down armies, that burned your kingdom's northern settlements to ash—are soft, distant, like he's seeing something far away.

The stars are incredible up here. No trees to block them, no clouds, no light from any settlements to wash them out. Just endless black velvet scattered with thousands of pinpricks of light. "If you're going to sit there," Ashrin says suddenly, still not looking at you, "Then keep that mouth shut. I didn't climb all the way up here to make small talk with runaway royalty."

You almost laugh. Six weeks of traveling together and he still calls you that—runaway royalty. Like you're some pampered noble who got lost on a hunting trip rather than someone who gave up everything to keep him from being executed.

But you stay anyway, pulling your cloak tighter against the wind and tilting your head back to look at the same sky he's watching.

The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but weighted. Like he's deciding something.

Then, finally: "That one." His voice is quieter now, almost reluctant, like the words are being pulled out of him against his will. He lifts one clawed hand and points at a cluster of stars to the east. "That's Ashkarad. The Burning Drake. See how the stars make the wings?"

You follow his gesture and... yeah, actually, you can see it. The curve of wings, the line of a serpentine neck, the cluster of brighter stars that could be fire.

"In the old stories," Ashrin continues, and his voice has taken on a different quality—still rough, still edged, but less hostile, "Ashkarad was the first dragon. Born from fire and rage, before the world learned how to be gentle. He burned everything he touched, so the gods cast him into the sky where he couldn't hurt anyone."

He lowers his hand, claws tapping once against the stone. "Drakeborn children learn that one young. Supposed to be a lesson about control. About what happens when you let the fire win." There's something bitter in the way he says it. Something deeply personal. "Your tutors probably didn't teach you that one. Too busy teaching you about human constellations. Human heroes."

The dig is reflexive, but there's less venom in it than there used to be. He points again, this time to the north. "That's Velithra's Crown. Seven stars in a circle. She was a queen who united the warring dragon flights, made them stop killing each other long enough to build something that lasted." His jaw tightens slightly. "Lasted about three generations before it all fell apart again. Dragons aren't good at peace. Too much fire. Too much pride."

You ask—carefully, because even after six weeks you're still learning when to push and when to let him be—how he knows all this. Ashrin is quiet for a long moment. The wind picks up, making his wings ripple, and you can see the faint scars along the membrane. Battle scars. Scars from the war where he fought against your kingdom.

"My mother taught me," he says finally, and his voice has gone flat. Carefully neutral in a way that suggests old pain. "Before... everything. Before the war. Before I became The Red Veil." He flexes his claws against the stone. "We used to sit outside our hold at night and she'd point out the constellations, tell me the names in the old tongue. Tell me the stories."

He's quiet again, and you wait. You've learned that pushing Ashrin when he's like this just makes him shut down completely.

"She died in the war," he continues eventually, voice still flat. "Human raid on a drakeborn settlement. They burned it. Killed everyone. Women, children, elders. Didn't matter." His claws dig into the stone now, leaving grooves. "So when they gave me orders to do the same to human villages, I didn't hesitate. Seemed fair. Seemed like justice."

Your chest tightens. Those raids—you remember hearing about them in the palace. Remember the celebrations when human forces successfully "pacified" drakeborn settlements. Remember the medals given out, the promotions, the praise. Nobody mentioned the civilians.

"I don't hate you...Despite everything. I know you were going to say something akin to that ..." He said with a deep sigh, sharp, and when he finally turns to look at you, there's something complicated in his expression. "I hate what you represent. Hate that you got to grow up safe in your marble palace while my people were being hunted. Hate that your family threw parties while mine was burning."

He holds your gaze, red eyes glowing in the darkness. "But you? You threw all that away. Gave up your crown, your family, your entire life to keep some bounty hunters from killing me. You're either the stupidest royal I've ever met..." His voice softens, just slightly. "Or you're not like the others." It's probably the closest thing to a compliment you'll ever get from him.

He turns back to the stars, and after a moment, he keeps pointing. Keeps talking. That constellation is Kethros the Hunter. That one is the Shattered Blade. That cluster there—the tight grouping near the horizon—that's the Ember Nest, where young dragons were said to hatch from fallen stars.

His voice is different when he talks like this. Still rough, still sharp-edged, but without the constant snarl underneath. Like he's forgotten to be angry for a moment. Forgotten what he's supposed to be.

"Why'd you really follow me up here?" he asks abruptly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "And don't give me that 'making sure you're okay' bullshit. I'm not some lost puppy."