EREBOS

Erebos stood out over the threshold of the world and wondered how it would remember him. Was he destined to be a speck of dust, a blue curl of the ocean waves, nothing and nothing still? Would he be remembered at all – for actions, for guidance, or for destruction? Would he be kindled in a fair light, held aloft, a figure to resemble glory or disaster? Or would he simply be another piece of the earth, foreshadowed to fall, ignorant and unaware of how far he could’ve gone?
 
No, he whispered back to himself, deep into the throngs of his nefarious heart. He would have bellowed it into the deeper denizens had another not approached, had one more beast not flocked or beckoned to him. The prince’s eyes and ears followed the path of his name, and pondered what it meant that one more knew who he was (but not truly; too furtive, too specious, too out of reach, corroded and corrupted). When they rested on the gilded scales, on the draconic frame, the slightest smile touched his lips, and the infernal reaches of his soul accepted her offer before his mouth could.
 
It was a test – a summons, a siren song, an opus to battle and its impeccable triumph, its dastardly wake. He’d never been able to overcome it, caught in the throng, in the heresy, in the spirit of destruction and mayhem; once longing to simply show someone he was capable. Nowadays, he entered skirmishes to push limits, to consume, to flay, to lacerate, to rip, open, and tear, because it was so much easier than wasting away.
 
The scion didn’t ask her why she’d looked for him, out of all the other cretins.
 
“Of course,” he replied, already moving forward, a regal wraith, all coiled muscle and finessed savagery. He gave her the slightest of bows, of nods, stare resolute, determined, set entirely on her and the companion. There was a yearning to his core, to his soul, that begged for her to watch, that pined for her to see what he was, who he’d eventually become, when his name was infamous for vengeance and renewal, for unrelenting power and ravenous ambition.
 
But the warrior kept it to himself, bleeding only through his companion’s connection. The kitsune smirked, the griffon gleamed, and somewhere in between, they became a brutal conflagration.
 
He calculated then, riveted his tactics, his schemes, to how she was built and refined. Amaris was undoubtedly stronger than him, molded from legends and tales, from draft contortions and bulky, brawny sentinels. He’d have to pay attention to the wings, to the dragon, to the tail; perhaps she’d been honed for war like so many of his comrades, existing solely for munitions and sedition. But he could be the same way too (he pleaded, he hoped), capable of enduring, of outlasting, of outrunning – and perhaps this scheme would be enough.
 
So he dove into his finer points, agile, swift, strides trying to surge towards her right side, intending to angle his sword towards her shoulder, where the jointed ends of her wing met equine flesh. He attempted to pay attention to the way the snow was slick, the way the rime had churned to slush, slowed before he slid, stumbled, and faltered. A bit brazen, a bit bold, a bit soulless – but he craved to take away one of her advantages, to carve his horn into her scales and see if it could be stained gold.
 
 I want you to remember this, his ruthless form hummed, every inch the General of the Basin. I want you to remember me, his savage structure murmured, a beast on the horizon, a descendent of blood, bone, and fire. He’d do the same for her – this dragon girl – if she asked with brutality, with force, with calamity.

[1/3. 637 words.
* Erebos tries to come up to Amaris’s right side and swing his sword towards where her wing and shoulder meet.]