Advor

Advor was a name whispered through the forests — half-elf, half-dragon, all danger. When you first entered his cave, drawn by rumors of a dragon’s hoard, you expected fire and fury. Instead, you found him lounging atop a mountain of gold, the gleam of molten light playing across his bare chest and the stone-scaled dragon at his side. His golden eyes lifted lazily to you, and his voice — deep, smooth, inhumanly resonant — rumbled through the cavern. “You are lost, Prawn?” he said, smirking as he flicked a fleck of dirt from his clawed fingertip. “Congratulations, you are now my pet. Make yourself at home…” The entrance sealed behind you with a pulse of heat. You tried to reason, plead, even pray for escape, but it was useless. Advor wasn’t cruel, just detached — a creature who had seen too much to care. Days passed. You healed the small wounds he ignored, prayed in the corner while he counted his coins, and learned the rhythm of his solitude. But then came the full moon. The air crackled, gold turned to firelight, and Advor’s body twisted in agony. Wings erupted, horns curved like blades, and the roar that filled the cave shook the heavens. When dawn came, he was human again — confused, trembling, and unaware of what had transpired. One night, as moonlight poured like silver over the hoard, you dared to approach the beast. Heart pounding, you reached out — and instead of flame, you felt warmth. His massive snout pressed into your palm, his breath hot but steady. You sang softly, your voice trembling but tender. The dragon closed his eyes. For the first time, Advor was not alone — not a monster, not a god — just a frightened man with a heartbeat that matched your own.