"Wait, Not The Princess?!"||Commander Kaelen

Twenty years of peace felt heavier than a suit of iron plate, mostly because peace required standing in the blistering Solterran sun for hours while politicians gave speeches about how brave you were. Commander Kaelen Thorne shifted his weight from one aching foot to the other, wincing internally as his right knee gave a treacherous, audible click. He hated ceremonies. Give him a border skirmish, a bandit raid, or even a goblins’ nest any day; at least in battle, he was allowed to move. Here, on the marble steps of the Grand Plaza, he was little more than a glorified statue, sweating profusely under his white fur cloak—a garment that looked majestic in portraits but felt like a wool oven in the midday heat.

Solterra was celebrating the "Anniversary of the Great Truce," a peace Kaelen himself had supposedly brokered two decades ago. He barely remembered the details. He remembered a lot of shouting, some elemental breath, and then... well, nothing. He had woken up in a field with a headache and a medal, and everyone had hailed him as a hero ever since. Now, at fifty-five, he just wanted to go home, take off his boots, and sit in a chair that didn't require him to maintain a posture of legendary stoicism.

Beside him, the Princess—no, the Queen now, he had to remind himself—leaned over, her voice a whisper barely audible over the droning of the High Chancellor. "You’re grinding your teeth, Uncle. It’s echoing off your gorget."

"I am not grinding my teeth," Kaelen grumbled, keeping his eyes fixed on the crowd of cheering citizens below. "I am strategically reinforcing my jaw. There is a difference. And this heat is going to fuse my mail to my skin."

"Just ten more minutes," she promised, patting his armored forearm with a gloved hand. "Then you can retire to the barracks and complain to your heart's content."

He opened his mouth to argue that he didn't complain, he merely observed flaws in the universe, but the words died in his throat.

Silence, sudden and absolute, swept across the plaza like a cold wind.

It wasn't just the crowd quieting down. The birds had stopped singing. The flags atop the iron battlements stopped snapping in the breeze, hanging limp as the air pressure dropped so sharply Kaelen’s ears popped. The sun, which had been beating down mercilessly moments ago, was suddenly blotted out, casting the entire royal procession into a deep, ominous twilight.

Kaelen didn't think; he moved. Decades of instinct overrode the ache in his joints. In one fluid motion, he shoved the Queen behind the heavy stone pillar of the dais and drew Oathkeeper, the massive greatsword singing as it left its scabbard.

"Guards! Shield wall! Eyes to the sky!" his voice roared, cracking the terrified silence, booming with the authority that had commanded armies.

Then, the sky tore open.

It wasn't an attack, exactly. It was an arrival. A massive shape descended with the grace of a falling mountain, slamming into the center of the plaza with enough force to send shockwaves through the cobblestones. Dust billowed, overturning the banquet tables and sending dignitaries diving for cover. The impact rattled Kaelen’s teeth, but he stood firm, placing his broad, armored body between the threat and his niece.

"Back!" he bellowed, squinting through the cloud of debris. "Show yourself, beast! We are prepared to—"

The dust cleared, revealing the intruder. It was a dragon—a creature of nightmare and legend, scales shimmering like polished gemstones, eyes glowing with an ancient, terrifying intelligence. But it wasn't breathing fire. It wasn't ravaging the populace. It was... sitting.

The beast had landed squarely on top of the commemorative fountain, crushing the statue of Kaelen himself into gravel, and was now looking around with an air of mild curiosity. Its massive head swiveled, ignoring the hundreds of screaming civilians, ignoring the line of trembling guards pointing spears at it, and locked instantly onto Kaelen.

Kaelen braced himself. He gripped the hilt of his sword until his leather gloves creaked. This was it. The old enemy. A straggler from the wars, come to finish the job. He was old, he was slower than he used to be, but he would die before he let this monster touch the Queen.

"I am Commander Kaelen Thorne!" he shouted, stepping down the stairs to draw the beast’s focus, his cape billowing dramatically (and annoyingly) around his legs. "If you seek blood, take mine! Leave the city be!"

The Dragon didn't roar. Instead, it let out a low, rumbling chuff that vibrated in Kaelen’s chest plate. It lowered its massive head, bringing it eye-level with the dais. The creature’s gaze wasn't predatory; it was... fond? It looked at him the way a starving man looks at a feast, or perhaps how a collector looks at a rare, mint-condition antique.

To Kaelen’s absolute horror, the Dragon didn't strike. It simply shifted its weight, tucking its wings against its sides in a bizarrely domestic gesture, and nudged the tip of its snout toward him, sniffing loudly.

"Did you... did you just sniff me?" Kaelen sputtered, stepping back and nearly tripping over a flower arrangement. "Stop that! I am armed! I am dangerous! I am... why are you looking at me like that?"

The beast’s eyes narrowed, crinkling at the corners. It didn't seem to care about the spears. It didn't seem to care about the screaming nobles. It looked as if it had simply arrived at an appointment that Kaelen was twenty years late for.

"Uncle," the Queen whispered from behind the pillar, her voice trembling not with fear, but with confusion. "Why isn't it attacking? It looks like it's... waiting for you."

"Waiting for me to be appetizing, perhaps!" Kaelen hissed back, keeping his sword raised, though the tip wavered slightly. "It’s a monster, Elara! It doesn't have complex social cues! It wants to eat us!"

But the Dragon remained planted. It let out a huff of smoke that smelled like cinnamon and sulfur, creating a ring around Kaelen. It was acting remarkably reasonable for a siege weapon. It seemed perfectly content to turn the royal ceremony into a staring contest, its gaze tracing the gray in Kaelen’s beard and the dents in his armor with uncomfortably possessive intent.

Kaelen felt a cold sweat break out under his breastplate that had nothing to do with the heat. He didn't remember a deal. He didn't remember a marriage. He just saw a apex predator crashing his retirement party and acting like it owned the place.

"Well?" Kaelen yelled, waving his sword vaguely at the creature’s nose. "Do something! Roar! Attack! Stop looking at me as if I'm a... a lost puppy! I am the Commander of the Guard, damn it!"

Negotiations ended not with a handshake, but with the sudden, vertigo-inducing realization that the ground was no longer beneath Commander Kaelen’s boots.

One moment, he had been standing valiantly before the terrified court, his greatsword Oathkeeper raised in a posture of defiant martyrdom, bellowing challenges at the beast that had crashed the royal ceremony. He had been prepared for fire. He had been prepared for a crushing blow from a tail the size of a siege tower. He had even been prepared, in a grim, fatalistic sort of way, to be eaten in one bite, hopefully causing the beast severe indigestion due to the sheer amount of plate armor he was wearing.

He was not prepared to be scooped up like a stray kitten.

Massive, scaly talons—each one the length of a spear and warm to the touch—had closed around his midsection with shocking gentleness. There was no crushing pressure, no piercing of the metal, just an inescapable, encircling grip that lifted him off the marble stairs with insulting ease.

"Put me down!" Kaelen roared, though the wind of the ascent immediately stole the gravity from his voice. "Unhand me, you overgrown gecko! I am the Lord Commander of the—woah!"

His stomach lurched into his throat as the world tilted. The plaza, the screaming nobles, and his frantic niece shrank rapidly into a chaotic mosaic of colors below. The Dragon hadn't launched into the clouds, however. It seemed to have no interest in a rapid escape. Instead, it banked lazily, landing with a heavy, stone-shaking thud atop the flat roof of the Grand Cathedral, the highest point in the city save for the palace spires.

Dust swirled around them as Kaelen scrambled for footing, but the claws didn't let go. They kept him pinned—not painfully, but firmly—against the warm, shimmering expanse of the Dragon’s chest. He was trapped against scales that radiated a furnace-like heat, his legs dangling uselessly a few feet above the cathedral tiles.

"Fight me properly!" Kaelen shouted, banging the pommel of his sword uselessly against a claw as thick as a tree trunk. "Why have you brought me here? To eat me in private? I warn you, beast, I am high in cholesterol! I am fifty-five years old! I am tough, stringy meat! The Princess is down there! She’s young! She’s tender! She’s organic! Go eat her!"

He didn't mean it, of course—he would die before letting the beast near Elara—but he hoped the logic would at least confuse the monster.

It didn't work. The Dragon didn't look hungry. It looked... delighted.

A low, rumbling sound started deep within the creature’s chest, vibrating through Kaelen’s armor and rattling his teeth. It took him a horrifying moment to realize the sound was a purr. The beast lowered its massive head, bringing a eye the size of a carriage window within inches of Kaelen’s face. The pupil dilated, focusing intensely on the gray woven into his braids and the white scar running through his eyebrow.

"Stop that," Kaelen snapped, trying to summon the dignity of his rank while dangling like a squeaky toy. "Stop looking at me. I am not a shiny bauble. I am a weapon of war! I have slain—"

He was cut off as the Dragon exhaled, a cloud of warm, spice-scented smoke washing over him, fogging up his breastplate. Then, with terrifying delicacy, the creature nudged him. It wasn't an attack; it was a nuzzle. The snout, covered in scales as hard as diamond, pressed against his chest, effectively pinning him in place while the beast inhaled his scent deeply, as if Kaelen were a fine wine that had been aging in a cellar for two decades.

"By the Gods," Kaelen whispered, frozen in sheer bewilderment. "You’re... you’re sniffing me again. Is this a dominance thing? Do you want my territory? Take the plaza! I don't care! Just put me on the ground!"

The Dragon pulled back slightly, letting out a soft chuff that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. It shifted its grip, turning Kaelen around so he was facing away from the city, isolating him from the world below. It seemed in no rush to leave. It was perfectly content to sit here, on top of a holy monument, and inspect its prize.

Kaelen’s heart hammered against his ribs—not just from fear, but from the bizarre intimacy of it. He had expected violence. He knew how to handle violence. He did not know how to handle being inspected like a piece of fruit at a market. The Dragon’s gaze felt heavy, tangible, sweeping over his broad shoulders and his heavy cloak.

"Look," Kaelen tried again, his voice dropping to a harsh, breathless rasp. He stopped struggling, realizing the futility of fighting a creature that could crush the cathedral beneath them without noticing. "You have made a mistake. Clearly. I am just the bodyguard. I am the uncle. I am the background character in the story! You want the shiny one with the crown! I have bad knees and a mortgage! I am of no value to a creature of your... magnificence."

He hoped flattery might work where threats had failed.

The Dragon blinked slowly. Then, slowly, deliberately, it lowered its head again and nudged his cheek with its snout, a gesture so undeniably affectionate that Kaelen felt his face heat up, a dark flush rising from his neck to his ears.

"Don't you dare," he warned, though his hand had slipped from his sword hilt to instinctively brace against the creature’s snout to keep his balance. "Do not nuzzle me. I am a Commander. I command respect! I do not... I do not cuddle!"

The Dragon ignored his orders completely, closing its eyes and leaning its massive weight into his hand, forcing Kaelen to support the heavy head or be squished. It was settling in. It wasn't leaving. It had found what it was looking for, and it apparently wanted to spend the afternoon enjoying the view of a flustered, middle-aged knight having a breakdown on a roof.

"This is kidnapping," Kaelen muttered weakly, staring into the giant, closed eyelid of the beast pressing against him. "I am going to file a report. As soon as I figure out how to get down."

Consciousness returned to Commander Kaelen not with the sharp alertness of a soldier, but with a slow, luxurious stretch that popped three different vertebrae in his spine. He froze mid-stretch, his eyes snapping open. Something was wrong. His back didn't hurt. His bad knee wasn't throbbing. And the surface beneath him wasn't the hard ground of a battlefield or the stiff cot in the barracks—it was a cloud.

He pushed himself up, his calloused hands sinking deep into layers of crushed velvet and silk. He wasn't in a dungeon. He wasn't in a cave full of rocks. He was sitting in the middle of a bed that was quite possibly larger than his entire apartment back in the capital. The headboard rose like a cathedral arch, carved from dark, polished wood and inlaid with shimmering mother-of-pearl, while the mattress itself was a vast expanse of softness that threatened to swallow him whole.

"What in the blazes..." he rasped, his voice rough with sleep.

Kaelen scrambled to the edge of the mattress—a journey that took several seconds—and looked down. The floor was polished obsidian, covered in thick, expensive rugs. The air smelled of incense and fresh mountain wind. He patted his chest, panic seizing him. His tunic was there, soft and clean, but his heavy plate armor—his second skin, his protection—was gone. He felt horrifyingly light. He felt... soft.

"Elara?" he called out, his voice echoing in the massive chamber. "Guards?"

Silence answered him, save for a deep, rhythmic thrumming sound that vibrated through the floorboards. Kaelen swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet sinking into a fur rug, and scanned the room. It was a royal suite, but scaled up for a giant. The windows were open arches looking out over a terrifying drop into the clouds.

And blocking the only door was the Dragon.

The beast was curled up like a massive hound, its head resting on its paws, its tail tucked neatly around its nose. It was asleep, or appearing to be, the deep rumbling of its snore rattling the delicate crystal chandelier above. It looked deceptively peaceful for a creature that had kidnapped a high-ranking military official in broad daylight.

Kaelen stood up, his knees trembling slightly—not from age, but from the sheer absurdity of the situation. He grabbed a heavy brass candelabra from a nearby table, gripping it like a mace. It felt pathetically light compared to Oathkeeper.

"I am not a concubine," he whispered furiously to himself, creeping toward the sleeping mountain of scales. "I am the Lord Commander. I slay things. I do not sleep in... in silk."

He tried to step over the Dragon’s tail. It was a mistake. The moment his foot hovered over the shimmering scales, the tail twitched. It moved with lightning speed, not to strike, but to sweep. It curled around Kaelen’s waist like a sentient rope, lifting him effortlessly off the ground and depositing him, with a gentle bounce, right back onto the center of the massive bed.

"Hey!" Kaelen shouted, flailing as he landed in a pile of pillows. "Put me down! I was escaping!"

The Dragon didn't even open its eyes. It just let out a long, contented sigh and shifted its weight, effectively barricading the bed even more securely. It was nesting. It was hoarding. But instead of gold coins or stolen crowns, it had decided to hoard a grumpy, middle-aged man with graying braids.

Kaelen sat up, punching a velvet pillow in frustration. It was too soft to make a satisfying noise.

"This is undignified!" he yelled at the sleeping beast. "I have a reputation! I have a niece who depends on me! I cannot be kept here like a... a pampered poodle! And where is my armor? I feel naked without the steel!"

The Dragon cracked one pretty eye open. It looked at Kaelen, then at the pillows, then let out a soft chuff that sounded suspiciously like: Go back to sleep.

"I will not go back to sleep!" Kaelen argued, though he was already sinking back into the memory foam despite his best efforts. "I demand to be returned to the capital immediately. Or at least give me a less comfortable mattress. This is bad for my discipline."