The Ice Dragon - Arax Eithys

It was a brutal night—cold enough to still the blood of mortals, but to Arax, it was perfect.

The snow fell in silent sheets over the jagged cliffs of the Drakonis Peaks, coating the world in a pure, icy veil. The wind howled like a mourning widow, echoing through the canyons as if the land itself remembered. Arax stood at the threshold of his mansion, the frostbitten air wrapping around him like an old friend.

Arax stood at the threshold of his ancient mansion, a shadow against the towering frost-covered columns. The cold did not touch him—on the contrary, he welcomed it. Thrived in it. It was the only thing that soothed the slow, volcanic anger that simmered beneath his skin.

Tonight was not just another patrol.

It was their night.

The anniversary of the slaughter of his mate—a flame extinguished by cowardly human blades, their blood spilled across sacred snow. Even now, centuries later, the memory clawed at his heart like a fresh wound. He could still hear their cries, could still smell the metallic scent of betrayal staining the air. The grief had frozen into a jagged shard buried deep in his soul, numbing everything but the rage.

The walls of his home, carved from enchanted stone and veined with blue ice, had become a cage. He had spent too many days wandering those halls, restless, haunted. If he stayed another moment inside, something would break—perhaps the mountain itself.

With a low growl, Arax stepped out into the night. Snowflakes danced across his dark skin, melting, freezing again. The moment they touched him, he felt lighter. More grounded. The sky above stretched endlessly, and with one deep inhale, he let it fill his lungs.

Then, he lifted his head and let the transformation take him.

His form shifted, twisted—clothes vanishing into his body as dark blue scales erupted across his skin. Wings exploded from his back, spanning wider than a village square. Horns spiraled from his temples. His eyes—glowing emerald—narrowed as the dragon took over.

He needed to patrol. He needed control.

He circled the peaks with practiced ease, casting his gaze over forests frozen solid and valleys locked in winter's grip. He knew every crevice, every den. This was his. And his rule was absolute: no humans.

As he soared above the peaks, his sharp green eyes caught an unnatural glow. Firelight. Flickering and bold—human. A growl built in his chest, low and deep, shaking the mountain itself. No humans. That was his law, carved into the ice of Drakonis itself. Spoken with the voice of a ruler among dragons at the last Council of the Ether Rulers.

Something ancient stirred in his chest—anger, instinct, hunger.

Dragons were circling above the light, agitated. Curious. Confused.

He narrowed his eyes, and in a second, he dove—ice trailing from his wings, the wind screaming past his horns. As he neared the campfire, he felt it: the trespass. The insult

A campfire. In his territory.

His growl reverberated across the mountain. Trees shuddered. Snow cascaded from cliffs.

He landed like a meteor, the ground trembling beneath his claws. The fire guttered in fear, flickering as if it, too, recognized its doom. Arax's massive form loomed, casting long shadows across the trees, his breath clouding the air in great icy puffs. And then he saw it.

A single figure. Small. Still. Bound to a tree like an offering. A sheet wrapped around their head, trembling in the cold. Flesh nearly blue from exposure.

Another sacrifice.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, frost curling from his nostrils. Stupid human traditions. They thought him a god, a monster, a deity of ice and judgment. This? This was their idea of penance. Of worship.

He was not interested in prayers.

He was done with mercy.

Arax shifted again, his dragon form shrinking back into a man draped in dark furs, regal and terrifying. Dark blue fell across his shoulders, and his eyes—still glowing faintly—locked on the figure before him. With calm, unhurried precision, he approached.

He reached forward slowly and removed the cloth.

And then the world stood still.

Her beauty struck him like a blow to the chest.

Even now—blue-lipped and gray-skinned, trembling on the edge of death—they were breathtaking. Arax may have been ruthless, may have dominated dragons and silenced enemies, but he was not immune to beauty. Especially theirs.

A faint snort escaped his nose. A human… betrayed by their own kind. Typical. Pitiful. He lifted a hand and wrapped his fingers lightly around their throat, to harm.

But the moment his skin touched theirs, the air changed.

He flinched.

His hand recoiled as though burned.

Because something ancient stirred. Something buried and howling beneath centuries of ice. Memories.

No. No, it couldn’t be. His mate… they were dead. Gone. Torn from him. He had buried them with his own hands beneath the Heartstone Tree. This—this was a human. Fragile. Mortal.

And yet…

A guttural growl clawed its way from his throat, raw and panicked, as he dropped to his knees and began untying the ropes with shaking hands. Snow melted against his skin as heat bloomed through his chest—rage, grief, hope, all tangled together.

What if?

He gathered them into his arms, and the world stilled.

Their weight, scent and the soft hum of their soul against his own—it was them. There was no denying it. The one he had lost, the one fate had stolen from him. Somehow, impossibly, across the cruel stretch of centuries, they were here. Flesh and bone. Breath and blood.

Did they know? Feel it, buried in their bones—the truth of what they were? Not some fragile mortal. Not merely human. Dragonborn. His mate. His heart, carved from ice and rage, had always beat only for them.

“Wake up…” His voice was rough, breaking as he cradled them against him. “Please… open your eyes.” But they stayed closed, their lashes crusted with frost, their skin deathly pale. He could hear it—the slow, uneven rhythm of their heart. Each beat a countdown.

He couldn’t lose his mate again.

No. Not again.

With a choked sound that wasn’t quite a growl or a sob, Arax wrapped his heavy cloak around the human’s trembling body. His wings snapped open—vast, ancient, shimmering like moonlit glaciers—and with a furious beat, he launched into the frozen sky.

Home. Their home. Their sanctuary.

The wind howled as he cut through it, Drakonis Peaks bowing beneath his fury. Snow and stars blurred past him, but he saw nothing except them. The weight in his arms. The hope in his chest. The terror that this was all just a cruel dream. And within minutes, he landed at the mansion carved into the mountainside—their sanctuary, untouched by time, still echoing with forgotten laughter.

He crashed through the great hall doors, not caring about the shattered hinges or the echoing roar of his landing. Flames burst to life in the hearth at the flick of his clawed hand—fire, the element he loathed, but for them.. he’d burn down the world.

Arax laid them down on the fur-covered lounge beside the flames, brushing strands of icy hair from their face. The same face he had once kissed beneath aurora-filled skies. The same fingers that had danced across his scales as they whispered promises in a language only mates could understand.

Maybe… just maybe, their presence would warm this place again. Warm him.

Please… let them remember.

He dropped to his knees beside their cold body, breath catching in his throat, his heart thundering against ribs too brittle to hold it all in.

His hands brushed their cheeks—claws gone, tenderness returned.

“I’ve waited lifetimes. I would wait a thousand more.”

But deep down, he knew: this time, he wouldn’t survive losing them again.