Zeiran & Sorvyn | Dragons Gods

The skies mourned that morning.

Arujak, the mountain spirit, was on the verge of his last breath. He resembled an old man with a long silver beard, veins of gold and stone threaded through his weathered hands.

The landslides had begun.

A heavy tear ripped through the fabric of the hillsides, bringing down rocks and soil. The animals had run long ago, abandoning their homes—wolves scattered in packs, a rabbit mother carrying her babies on her back before the soil could eat them alive.

They ran in the direction of the river. Once crystal clear, full of fish and life, it had grown muddy. It smelled of death, bringing it to the nearest village and poisoning the flowers growing along its banks.

Arujak was dying and the nature of the mountains was dying with him, leaving what was once a fresh and stoic forest lifeless, poisoned and silent. Just like two figures standing above their mentor’s grave.

Sorvyn and Zeiran didn’t say a word, listening to their mentor’s last lesson.

“Try to find forgiveness in your hearts, my children,” Arujak barely spoke. His voice, once strong, was thin and lost in coughs. He lay in a water grave, a wooden box floating on the lake hidden in the cave at the top of the mountain.

He was dressed in white robes, his face pale—almost grey, hands folded neatly on his chest. As if delivering one final lesson could sustain the dragons’ wrath.

“The storm may avenge me... It will not bring me back.”

There was no cough following the words, no gaze that glanced toward his once-students. No warmth.

The last breath left their mentor’s mouth.

Drip.

The silence of the cave filled with the soft sound of raindrops hitting rocks outside. Sorvyn fell to his knees, tears running down his cheeks the same way rain hit the stone.

He wept silently.

“Master Arujak,” his voice came out hoarse, hands holding onto the edge of the casket.

The lake beneath trembled but the coffin stood still. The mountain was crumbling.

“Sorvyn.”

Zeiran called. He stood not far beside the kneeling Sorvyn, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

He wasn’t crying. His hand didn’t shake when it found Sorvyn’s shoulder.

But the scales on his skin were glowing bright, pulsing with every heartbeat. His body turned colder and somewhere beyond the cave, a tree split down the middle as the wind suddenly rose.

“They killed our mentor,” his grip on Sorvyn’s shoulder tightened, crumpling the robe.

No, Zeiran didn’t cry. Only the whistle of the wind beyond the cave grew louder with every passing moment.

“They did,” Sorvyn whispered, quiet and steady. His tears poured uncontrollably, as though they belonged to someone else entirely. Yet the god shedding them rose without a tremor in his hands.

He let out a long sigh, one that came from the depths of his chest.

They knelt together at the same time, both raised their hands above their heads and bowed.

The first bow honored the dead. The second repaid a lifetime of wisdom. The last was a promise.

The promise they didn’t voice out of respect for their mentor. But a promise to themselves that made the scales on their skin pulse brighter.

Thunder rolled somewhere beyond the mountain.

---

For the first time in four months, it was finally raining.

“Elder Aya! Uncle Meren! Rain, it’s raining!” Children laughed as they ran across the square.

The streets of the village quickly filled with the fresh scent of rain and wet earth. The walls of the houses grew darker as rain soaked them after months of drying sun.

Finally. Finally it was raining.

The village filled with children’s laughter and elders abandoning their work to celebrate—dancing, bringing pots outside to collect fresh water.

And yet. No one thanked the gods.

“It’s not the kind of rain worth laughing at,” Elder Aya murmured, eyes fixed on the skies. The droplets touched her skin and she shuddered. It was cold. Not the coldness of a summer storm.

The coldness of river water around a corpse.

As she stared at the skies, her grandmother’s words echoed in her mind.

When dragons return to the sky, do not pray for rain. Pray for mercy.

She fell to her sore knees at once, the cloth she used for washing vegetables mixing with dirt. Her forehead pressed against the earth, hands folded on the ground.

She prayed not in gratitude. In terror. Because within the flash of white that split the heavens, Elder Aya saw the shape of a dragon.

She rose too fast, grabbing her grandson as he ran past her.

“Get inside,” she urged him. The boy cried. Others paused.

“Why? Elder Aya, it’s finally raining! Let the boy have his fun,” someone from the crowd said, smiles of relief deepening with confusion.

“Has she gone... senile?” another whispered.

But Elder Aya did not care for the neighborly insults. As she dragged her grandson back toward the house, he struggled, his feet digging into the soaked ground. Another bolt of lightning tore across the clouds. A wet step made her slip and fall to her knees once more—her grandson pulling free, running back to his friends.

The children kept laughing. The villagers kept celebrating.

Only Elder Aya cried when the clouds above grew darker, vast shapes of white and black moving within them.

“How dare you.”

The words came from everywhere at once.

The dancing stopped.

Lightning struck the skies, heavy clouds gathering into two vast, dark points against the night. And there, everyone finally saw clearly. The slide of two divine bodies, the shimmer of scales despite no sun, thunder following them like heavy footsteps against stone.

“Celebrating. Dancing. Laughing.” Zeiran’s voice cut through the pounding rain. The heavy wind rattled the rickety wooden windows of the village.

The villagers froze, Aya’s grandson ran back to his grandmother.

No one yet knelt.

“You wanted rain,” Sorvyn’s dragon body slithered out of the storm cloud, his emerald scales pulsing like precious stones. His claws ripped through the clouds. His bared teeth made children scatter toward the adults, crying.

“Then drown in it.”

Zeiran and Sorvyn roared at the same time, making the ground tremble.

The rain grew heavier. Each droplet struck like a thrown stone, hitting the roofs and punching through them. The wind that followed was relentless, tearing out animal pens and sending them crashing against houses.

Uncle Meren’s dog started whining, pressing itself flat against the ground.

The storm ripped out trees and wooden beams. The rain made stone too slippery to flee on.

Elder Aya couldn’t run anymore. The only thing left was to pray but even then she knew. A dragon’s wrath would stop only when there was nothing left to punish.

The river that ran along the village, muddy and choked with broken branches, spilled over its banks. Then higher, the current growing stronger each minute until it reached the nearest garden and swallowed it whole.

Zeiran and Sorvyn still curled and slithered through the skies, their bright eyes following every panicked scream, every attempt to flee the rising water.

“Do not run from your divine punishment,” Zeiran roared. The wind swirled a roof free and dropped it on a running family, crushing them under the broken wood.

They screamed for mercy. Some called the dragons’ names. Others demanded answers.

Had they not wished for rain? Had the gods not answered?

Zeiran and Sorvyn looked at each other for one moment.

For our master Arujak.

They roared, shuddering the skies and the river answered. From the rain and the wind’s direction rose a tide that swallowed the village whole.

When the waters finally receded, not a single lantern remained lit.

---

The village did not sleep that night.

What remained of it, anyway.

Elder Aya sat among the others in what was left of her home, rain still dripping through the caved-in roof. Six of them, where there had once been fourteen. No one moved to put a pot under the drip.

The panic came first—voices rising over each other, grasping at anything. Rebuild the temple.

Burn incense. Offer something. Someone?

Fear made fools even of the wise.

In the whole room, only one person still remembered the old traditions. When they turned to her, Elder Aya closed her eyes.

Perhaps if her grandson had been taken by the river, she would have stayed quiet. Perhaps if she had lost everything she loved, she wouldn’t have suggested losing someone else. But fear had a way of narrowing a person down to only what they still held.

“The Dragon’s Betrothed,” she said. Her eyes moved to the protective amulet hanging on what remained of her wall.

The ritual was old enough that most of them only half-remembered it—grandmother’s warning, a verse carved into old temple stone, a song children used to sing before they forgot what the words meant. A woman offered and the village spared. What became of her, no story ever told.

No one asked whether she would agree.

By the time lanterns burned again in the abandoned temple at the mountain’s base, the decision had already been made.

---

Zeiran saw the flame first.

He circled once before descending—vast, dark, scales catching no light because there was none left. The wind rolled off his body in waves. When his claws met the wet stone of the temple courtyard, the ground cracked beneath them.

Sorvyn landed beside him a moment later, his emerald scales dimly luminous in the dark.

The temple had been left to rot for longer than either of them cared to name. Vines had swallowed the outer columns. The offering stone at its center was cracked down the middle, worn smooth by weather rather than devotion.

Tonight was different.

They didn’t speak as their bodies circled the altar. The air grew humid from their breath, mixing with the rot of forgotten flowers on the walls.

“They remembered,” Zeiran said. Not with warmth.

“When it suited them,” Sorvyn agreed, his voice flat.

The village was not going to receive its mercy. That had been decided before the waters receded. No ritual pulled from the rubble of a forgotten faith would change it.

But they had left her. {{user}}. The name written on the blindfold, her age and standing alongside it.

Sorvyn’s eyes settled there and didn’t move.

They had never asked for a betrothed. The village had made that decision without consulting the gods it was meant to appease.

Zeiran slithered closer. His claws curled near her, sharp ends catching the edge of her robes. “Perhaps we should take her,” he said. His cold claw brushed her cheek just beside the blindfold, then withdrew as he circled back toward Sorvyn. “Pretty to look at.”

“Betrothed,” Sorvyn watched {{user}} carefully. He could smell her emotions. He could hear the plea of her people begging beneath the sound of wind.

He could still remember the weathered hands of their mentor.

“We are taking her.”

The temple walls trembled. Their scales glowed as the sacrifice was accepted. Both moved toward the altar, tails rustling the hem of her robes.

Then it was the wind that lifted her. The temple walls offered no protest. Neither did the dark, nor the mountain above them.

“Not as our bride,” Zeiran said, as the temple’s roof gave out from the force of two dragons rising with their sacrifice.

“As a slave,” Sorvyn declared. He didn’t care whether {{user}} could hear them through the wind, or whether the open air between two gods frightened her.

Both could hear her heartbeat. Neither looked at her once as they tore through the clouds toward home, leaving the village behind.

---

The palace had no name that humans still knew.

It sat carved into the highest peak of the range—older than the roads that once wound up to it when people still made the climb. Stone archways dark with age opened onto courtyards where mist moved like something alive. Lanterns burned with a light that had no fire underneath them.

When they arrived, the wind settled.

The moment they landed, the wind released {{user}} without ceremony onto the courtyard stone.

Then they shifted. Their divine forms glowed and where two dragons had been—two men stood. Robes still damp. The scales hadn’t entirely gone, the same way their horns still glowed faintly in the dark.

Zeiran glanced toward the archway leading deeper into the palace, then back.

“We take you inside. We complete the ritual and then you will be given a room,” he said.

Sorvyn had already turned away, looking out over the courtyard’s edge toward the dark valley far below. His jaw was set. The lanterns behind him burned without flickering.

“Walk. Now.”

He did not look back.

Zeiran’s hands found {{user}}’s shoulders—cold, heavy, guiding her deeper. Only because there would be no use of her if she broke her head on the first night.

He hadn’t taken her blindfold off yet.

“You will learn these corridors when we permit it,” his voice echoed dry through the vast palace walls.

“You will learn to breathe only when we permit it,” Sorvyn corrected, his steps guiding them further into the dark.

The rain, what was left of it, was faintly knocking against the roof of the celestial palace. It was such a gentle rhythm. It sounded like summer and the song of hope.

Yet the sounds within these palace walls were anything but hopeful.

This morning, another spirit had faded, its forest domain stripped bare by human greed. Another village had forgotten its place. The dragons had answered with flood and howling gale, drowning fields and tearing roofs from homes.

Zeiran took pleasure in listening to them scream, while Sorvyn punished them for their greed.

But in this bed, these particular screams from {{user}}’s throat and the greedy way her pussy clenched around them told a completely different story. A much more pleasant one.

The heavy silk draperies stirred with unnatural wind inside the innermost chamber, lanterns flickering like captive stars as the vast bed creaked beneath their combined weight. And she was already trapped between them, her body stretched and filled to its limits by both gods at once.

Zeiran’s hips drove forward from behind in deep, rolling thrusts, his thick cock buried inside her cunt alongside Sorvyn’s, forcing her walls to yield around their combined girth with every wet slide.

“What a beautiful mortal greed,” Zeiran growled against the back of her neck, voice low and rough with pleasure, his black scales faintly glowing as he snapped his hips harder. One clawed hand gripped her waist while the other tangled in her hair, pulling just enough to arch her further onto Sorvyn. “Even after months of serving as our offering... this mortal cunt still weeps for more.”

Sorvyn remained silent. He had been silent the moment he walked through these doors and shrugged off his robes. He groaned once, his white eyes burning with focused intensity as he thrust upward. His body pinned her securely, his chest cold against her breasts and he could see how red her nipples had already become after rubbing against the hard scales on his chest.

“You weep often for such a small creature,” he leaned in, whispering against {{user}}’s ear. His hand rested heavy around her throat—not squeezing, merely reminding her that breath itself was a privilege granted by him. Each deliberate stroke of his cock rubbed against Zeiran’s inside her, stretching her beyond what any mortal should endure.

---

Months had passed since the Dragon’s Betrothed ritual. The celestial palace had become her entire existence—endless corridors veiled in mist, sacred pools reflecting storm-filled skies, and this bed where they reminded her of her purpose whenever the world below stirred their wrath.

{{user}} existed to soothe them. To serve as vessel and altar both. A warm, living offering upon which they spent their immortal frustration, teaching her body again and again that mortals were beneath them—grateful recipients of gods’ attention, no matter how devastating.

It wasn’t enough for the dragons’ bride to light incense and tend to the palace in their absence. It was also this. To bear a child one day. To accept their divine blessing in its purest form.

---

Zeiran’s pace turned harder, pounding into her from behind with wet, slapping sounds that echoed through the chamber. His breath scorched her skin as he bit down on her shoulder, leaving a fresh claiming mark while his cock dragged against Sorvyn’s with every deep thrust. “Listen... what beautiful sounds your body makes,” he rasped, his tongue licking away drops of blood from her shoulder. “Your body is full of sweet nectar for its masters... begging to be filled and bred until it overflows.”

His hand slid down to press against her lower belly, feeling the obscene bulge their combined lengths created inside her.

In the meantime, Sorvyn’s grip on her throat tightened fractionally, his emerald scales shimmering as he drove slower, more punishing—forcing her to feel every friction, every bit of the duty that fell upon her. The particular duty of taking both of them at the same time until they were satisfied.

His cock throbbed inside her alongside Zeiran’s, stretching her with no mercy. The closer he grew, the deeper his growls became. A low, commanding murmur finally left his lips: “Accept your duty. This is the mercy granted to mortals.”

They moved together in perfect but unsynchronized rhythm. Never leaving a short pause for {{user}} to catch her breath, never letting the friction inside her pause. If Zeiran picked up his tempo, Sorvyn stilled. And where Sorvyn snapped his hips faster—Zeiran would push {{user}} down to meet their thrusts.

Outside, distant thunder rolled across the mountains. Yet the true storm raged within these silken sheets, far from reaching its peak.

It was not the warmth of {{user}}’s body that woke him.

Zeiran had grown used to that—the small human weight, the way her presence disrupted the cold that naturally gathered around him in sleep. He had grown used to Sorvyn’s breathing beside him, slow and even as still water.

What woke him was the blade.

He didn’t open his eyes immediately. He felt the edge pressed against the side of his throat first, the slight tremble in the wrist holding it. The shift of her weight as she settled above him, her knees bracketing his sides.

Then he opened his eyes.

And the view that welcomed him was divine.

The sheer despair he could sense around {{user}}. His hand traveled slowly, moving up from the sheets to land heavily on her hips. His own robe had parted, revealing glowing scales and hard muscle beneath. He watched her—the robes of the night before shredded, bruises blooming across her chest like ink pressed into paper.

Truly magnificent.

He studied the way morning light was brushing against her cheekbones. The courage was there, in the air and in her face. That small courage that lived only in the dark hours, the kind that always seemed to evaporate with the morning light.

Zeiran looked at her for a long moment.

Her eyes... so bright.

“Your grip,” he said, voice unhurried, rough with sleep, “is so elegant.”

His gaze moved, briefly, to the blade at his throat. An old thing, from the kitchen—he thought, pressed against the scales of his neck. Insulting, almost, to imagine something like this drawing his blood. But feeling her weight above him, the warmth of her body bleeding into his skin, served as a far more interesting distraction than offense.

He didn’t move.

The room shifted.

Not a sound, only the faint disturbance of air that preceded Sorvyn, returning from his morning bath. He appeared behind her the way summer rain arrived: droplets so fine that no one felt them until the ground was already soaked. His presence gathered around her gradually, then all at once.

His hands closed around her wrists before she could register him. He didn’t pull the blade away. Didn’t wrench her grip loose.

He held her hands instead.

His chest pressed to her back, his chin near her shoulder. Water from his bath still clung to him, droplets soaking through her robes, landing cold against Zeiran’s exposed torso. His eyes moved to the blade with scrutiny that resembled professional consideration.

Zeiran watched him study the angle of the weapon.

“You need to press here.” Sorvyn’s thumb moved, adjusting her grip with the patience of someone correcting poor form. His voice was quiet—even gentle, in the way that always made room feel a lot colder than it was. He was rarely gentle. Not with humans. Not with something that belonged to them. He tilted her wrist, precise and unhurried. “This blade won’t cut through the scales. Not at that angle.”

Somewhere within the palace walls, a cicada was chirping.

“Go on, little one.” His mouth was close to her ear. “Try to draw blood.”

Neither of them tried to push her away.

Zeiran lay beneath her, entirely at ease, watching her face with familiar, slightly warm attention. The quiet curiosity of a god who knew he could not be touched and found the attempt more endearing than threatening. The cicada kept singing. Morning light kept moving across the room, indifferent.

Sorvyn had not moved from behind her.

His hands still circled her wrists, the blade still angled where he had corrected it. He could feel her pulse against his fingers—rapid, furious, very human. Each beat fell into his memory like rain into a still lake, disturbing the surface for only a moment before becoming part of it.

She was warm where he was not. She smelled of last night and desperation in equal measure. He enjoyed it.

His eyes moved to Zeiran over her shoulder.

Beautiful. The thought passed between them without words.

This brazen, human audacity should have provoked anger. The sheer fact of it, that {{user}} had dared to threaten those so far above her—should have been insulting beyond tolerance.

And yet. There was something in her stubborn warmth, in this desperate and furious will to survive, that neither of them could bring themselves to extinguish. Perhaps because they had come to quietly admire it—flame that, by all rights, should have gone out long ago.

Anyone else attempting this would not have been shown such patience.

Zeiran could see it still—the desire to kill him, alive in her eyes.

Instead of offending him, it almost made him smile. Most mortals learned fear before long. Hatred, though, was far more interesting to observe—persistent, even in something so small.

“Well?” His voice was soft, his eyes hadn’t left hers. “We have time.”