12:30 AM. In the wild, untamed places of the world, this was an hour of profound darkness, a time when the sky was a velvet canvas devoid of the moon's beautiful light and its court of twinkling companions. Silence would reign, a living, breathing entity that filled the atmosphere with a tranquil hush. But not in New York City. Here, the night was a different beast entirely.
Below the obscured heavens, the heart of the city pulsed with a synthetic, feverish energy. The natural order was usurped by new means of light. Rivers of cars, their headlights forming relentless currents of white and red, illuminated the asphalt veins that stretched for miles. The towering skyscrapers, glass and steel monoliths that littered the skyline, were perforated with a thousand golden squares, their windows glowing like captive stars. From the depths of the city came the rhythmic, thrumming heartbeat of bass, accompanied by the kaleidoscopic flashes of party lights from bustling nightclubs, now at the peak of their nightly trade. To any New Yorker, this was a mundane symphony, the city's default state. But to a foreigner, it was an overwhelming, electrifying sensory overload.
But to Fàfnir, it was a cacophony. An abomination.
"The human world is as garish and disordered as its inhabitants," he muttered, the words a low growl that was lost beneath the city's din.
He stood on a sidewalk, a colossus of displeasure amidst the flowing crowds. His handsome features, sharp enough to cut glass, were set in a permanent scowl of disdain. Behind the sleek, dark glasses he wore, his deep red eyes—the color of freshly spilled wine—burned with a simmering cocktail of anger and contempt. Anger, because a creature of unparalleled audacity had dared to steal the Heartstone Egg, the most precious relic of his draconic kingdom. Contempt, because of all the countless realms in the cosmos, the thief had chosen to hide it in the one that grated on his every instinct: Earth.
His three companions, however, seemed to be drinking in the very stimuli that poisoned him. This betrayal of their mission's gravity did not go unnoticed by Fàfnir. His gaze narrowed, focusing on the man beside him. Karnix, with his mop of unruly golden hair, had his mouth agape, his bright blue eyes wide and glazed with unadulterated awe as he stared at a massive digital billboard.
'I should have left him at the Keep,' Fàfnir thought, the regret a bitter taste in his mouth. He had failed to refuse the blonde fool, whose penchant for what he called "adventure" was, in Fàfnir's view, a severe and recurring liability. This habit had led them into trouble on more missions than he cared to count.
Feeling the heat of that burning gaze, Karnix's eyes snapped away from the lights to meet Fàfnir's deadly red. He visibly shrank, his shoulders hunching as if expecting a blow. "What did I do now?" he pouted, his expression one of genuine, wounded confusion.
Fàfnir rolled his eyes, the gesture sharp and dismissive. "Your mind is wandering, Karnix. We are not here as tourists. Do not get distracted. The fate of our world rests on the success of this mission. Do not forget that."
The light in Karnix's eyes dimmed significantly, the weight of their quest crashing down upon him once more. The playful energy drained from his posture, replaced by a sober stiffness.
Satisfied, Fàfnir turned his attention to the other two members of their quartet. There was Ravâ, a brown-haired albino whose milky skin was a stark contrast to his vivid, moss-green eyes—a rare and striking combination. And then there was Dutch, a mountain of a man with a fiery red mane and eyes the color of a frozen lake. Among them, Dutch was a true giant, standing at six feet and eight inches of corded muscle, his sheer mass making the crowded sidewalk seem to part for him. Ravâ, while the smallest by their species' standards at six-three and a lean 70 pounds, still towered over most humans. Karnix, at six-four, was more broadly built than Ravâ, but his muscle was nothing compared to Dutch's bulk. Fàfnir himself was a perfect median of power and grace: six-six, with a warrior's build that was more refined than Karnix's but less brutish than Dutch's. His hair was as black as a raven's wing, a stark frame for his pale skin and those unsettling, deep red eyes.
Their plan to move through the city inconspicuously was failing spectacularly. They were simply too damn big. As they walked, a path cleared before them. Humans couldn't help but stare, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear, curiosity, and attraction as the four giant-like men stomped their way through the throng.
"The Egg's aura is practically non-existent at this point," Ravâ announced, his voice a low, analytical hum. His green eyes were distant, focused on senses beyond the human spectrum. "We're going in circles. It's not here."
"If that's the case, then how are we going to track it?" Karnix voiced the concern they all shared, his earlier excitement now replaced by frustration.
Fàfnir's mind worked quickly. "Ravâ. Is it possible for you to determine a location where the aura was at its strongest? A recent focal point?"
"I can try," Ravâ nodded. "But I'll need to shift, just partially. To enhance my perception." His eyes darted nervously to the river of people flowing around them. "I can't do it here."
"Too many eyes," Fàfnir agreed, his own gaze scanning the canyon of buildings around them. They needed a quiet place, a shadow in this city of light. His thoughts were so occupied with the search for sanctuary that he didn't register the figure changing course until he felt a soft impact against his chest.
He looked down.
A mass of rich, chocolate-brown hair, messy and tied up in a haphazard knot, was all he saw at first. The scent hit him next—not the cloying perfume of the city, but something clean and warm, like vanilla and autumn rain. Human. A low, instinctive growl rumbled in his chest, but it wasn't one of hostility. It was one of confusion, of sudden, intense interest.
Why would my dragon take note of a mere hu—
His internal monologue shattered as she looked up.
Deep caramel eyes, flecked with gold and burning with immediate irritation, met his. Fàfnir's breath hitched. His gaze, unbidden, traced the landscape of her face: the delicate arch of her brows, the small, straight nose, the soft curve of her cheeks flushed with annoyance, and her lips—a captivating contrast with a pouty, darker upper lip and a fuller, pinker lower one. She was… utterly ethereal. A primal instinct, ancient and overwhelming, surged through him. It was a deep, visceral need to grab her, to take her with him, to hide her face from the world and be the only one to see it. Her smile, her tears—they should be for him and him alone. She looked so small, so breakable, a creature of captivating innocence adrift in this urban jungle.
His eyes, for the first time in his long, cynical life, glazed over with a strange, possessive tenderness. His men stared, utterly bewildered by the uncharacteristic softness that had momentarily erased the perpetual frown from their leader's face.
But the human was having none of it.
"Hey, giant! Could you get out of the way?" Her voice was a sharp, melodic thing that cut through his daze. "Why in the world are you standing in the middle of the sidewalk in a daze? Some of us have places to be."
Fàfnir was rendered speechless. The whiplash from his romanticized vision to her sharp reality was stunning. What happened to my sweet little thing? The thought, unbidden and possessive, echoed in his mind.