The Weight Of Fire
1065 Words
Apollo
The wind carried ash and salt over the cliffs of Thesaurum, curling through the black stone spires that marked the heart of my clan like nature's own gothic architecture—if nature had a particularly dramatic flair and a grudge against cheerful landscaping. The sea churned below, angry and restless—like most of my people. Like me on a Tuesday. Or any day ending in 'y', really.
The curse was killing us.
Not quickly. Not loudly. Just… a little more every year. A slow death that would make a soap opera writer weep with envy. No new fledglings. No eggs that pulsed with life. No fire-born cries echoing through the caverns—just the increasingly awkward sound of my people clearing their throats and pretending they weren't all thinking about extinction. Only silence and fading strength. If we weren't built to live for centuries, we'd already be nothing more than stories and dust.
But we endure. That's what dragons do.
And I made damn sure of it.
I hadn't been born Alpha. I'd fought for the title—clawed my way through flame and blood to take it from the one who had twisted our desperation into something cruel. The last Alpha, Kael, had turned to darkness, stealing human women from nearby villages like some bargain-bin villain from a trashy romance novel, forcing them into bonds, desperate to break the curse through brute force and terror.
It never worked. Turns out k********g doesn't exactly scream "true love."
The curse was more than magic. It was precise. Annoyingly precise. It knew the difference between love and possession better than most divorce lawyers.
I killed him myself. With significantly less paperwork.
Now they call me Alpha Apollo of the Thesaurum. And they fear me—not because I rule with cruelty, but because they see what I carry. The weight of all of them. The dying hopes of an ancient race. Plus my truly spectacular collection of emotional baggage, which at this point could fill its own storage unit.
My boots crunched against the gravel as I made my way down the southern ridge, past the forge where old Fenik hammered out blades no one used anymore. Fenik was about four hundred years old and had the attitude of someone who'd been asked to explain how to use a smartphone one too many times. His craftsmanship was legendary, his temper even more so.
I passed the stone pools where the younglings practiced shifting—though they grew fewer with each decade. Last week, Marcus had tried to shift and ended up as what could only be described as a confused lizard with delusions of grandeur.
I stopped at the ledge, watching the water churn below. The sea always pulled at me.
"Still brooding, I see."
Her voice was silk dipped in honey and saltwater, with just a hint of 'I'm about to make your day more complicated.'
I sighed before turning. "Adria."
She was standing behind me, sea-glass hair clinging to her shoulders. Her dress shimmered like the tide itself and a generous helping of strategic wishful thinking.
She was beautiful. In the same way a hurricane is impressive before it destroys your house.
"I brought you a gift," she said, offering a shell carved with runes. "To remind you of your true allies."
"The ones who can only walk the land for ten minutes at a time? Forgive me if I don't consider that stable diplomacy."
She pouted. "You wound me."
"You'll live. Underwater. Where you belong."
She stepped closer. "You don't have to keep waiting, Apollo. Choose me. We may not be fated, but I could give you peace. A future. Really excellent seafood."
My jaw clenched. "And doom my species for temporary companionship? Hard pass."
"They wouldn't have to know."
"I would. And I'd have to live with myself."
Her eyes narrowed. "You think your mate's still out there? After all this time?"
"I don't think. I know."
"Stubborn dragon," she muttered.
I handed the shell back. "Keep it. Something to remember this moment by. Frame it. 'The Day I Almost Convinced a Dragon to Settle.'"
"You're impossible."
"And you're wet. Get back to the sea before your legs give out. I'd hate to drag a soggy mermaid back down the cliffs again."
She vanished with a splash. I waited for the water to still, then turned and kept walking.
The training grounds lay ahead—volcanic stone ringed with mossy pillars like an ancient amphitheater. The sound of clashing steel and grunts greeted me.
At the center stood Griffin, my beta.
His dark hair was tied back in a "practical warrior's knot" that looked like a YouTube tutorial gone rogue. His shirt was missing.
Again.
"Alpha," he said, mock-formal. "The skies are clear, trainees only bled a little—their own blood, which shows improvement—and I caught Cyrus doing the walk of shame twenty minutes ago. Solid morning."
"Don't tell me. Another flirt from the southern clans?"
"Nope. Local. Librarian. Glasses. First edition poetry collection. You know his type."
"Smart enough to read, dumb enough to think he's boyfriend material."
Griffin laughed. "Exactly. I gave him a full post-game analysis. Emphasized stealth and the importance of not leaving evidence."
"And he didn't kill you?"
"He threatened to report me to HR. I reminded him I am HR. And legal. And complaints. All in one devastatingly handsome package."
"You're the worst beta I've ever had."
"And the best one you'll ever get."
He wasn't wrong. He kept me grounded. And the clan from falling apart.
We stood in silence, watching two warriors circle in the ring.
"They're getting better," I said.
Griffin nodded. "But slower. Less fire. It's like watching candles burn down."
"How much longer?"
He paused. "Fifty years. A hundred if we're lucky."
"I had the dream again last night."
He looked at me. "The girl?"
I nodded. "She's close. Closer than ever. Like she's just around the corner, but every time I turn, there's another one."
"You've said that before."
"This time feels different. Like the universe remembered it owes me a favor."
He clapped my shoulder. "Tell fate to bring booze and snacks. This waiting is murder on the appetite."
I looked out where sea met sky.
Where are you, little mate?
Because I'm ready. I've been ready for centuries.
And I'm running out of time.
- Writer
