The Golden Dragon's Hoard

1 - 14

"No, I would not want to live in a world without dragons, as I would not want to live in a world without magic, for that is a world without mystery, and that is a world without faith."
― R.A. Salvatore

This is the last chapter before we move on to part two. I hope you all have enjoyed it so far and would love to hear your thoughts!

Part One - Chapter Fourteen
"The Loved Little Dragon"

It's been months since he first shifted when Ozzy comes to him, nervous and pacing in front of the nest. Stray watches him as he speaks, head tilted and tail swaying behind him in a mixture of amusement and anxiousness.

Finally, the witch turns to him, face all scrunched up weird.

"Look," he says, hand running through dark curls. "I know you don't have a good history with magic, or uh, witches but—no, not but, I'm not ignoring that. Shit, um..."

The hatchling shifts, two legs just a bit wobbly as he makes his way over to Oziamon, who's still in his spot and was just watching him with wide, brown eyes.

He hugs him—arms, wings, tail and all—a small reassuring squeak leaving his jaws.

"You're good." He pats the witch's back. "Breathe."

It's what Atlas does to him when he panics like that. It'll help even if he's not a protector, or very big.

"Breathing," Oziamon mutters in reply, a heavy inhale expanding his chest as he hunches over to hug the little dragon back, being mindful of his wings. "You're good too, Stray, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

Making a curious noise in the back of his throat, the hatchling pulls back to be able to see the other face to face. Athanasius told him that's 'polite' to do in conversations.

Being a person has a lot of rules. A lot more than he thought.

"I wanted this to go smoother," Oz avoids his eyes but his hands pull the little dragon closer. His scent was strange—hopeful, worried, a bit of panic in the mix. He didn't know what to make of it. "I actually wanted Ras or Atlas to be the one to ask but they refused, saying I had to be the one to do it because well... it's, uh, tradition. You know that as the witch, I am technically the leader of the coven? I'm at the top of the hierarchy. In a traditional way only, not that I think my familiars are below me by any means."

"Leader," Stray says, ignoring the other bits. "That's you."

"Yep," the witch nods. "That's me and uh, I'm formally inviting you to the coven."

When the hatchling tenses and begins to pull away, Oziamon lets him retreat back to the nest before he begins to further explain, both of them breathing deeply.

"I'm not asking you to be my familiar, I'm not asking for your magic," he says. "I'm simply asking if you'd like to officially be part of our family. The bond is... reversible if, later, you decide to leave, it's not like a familiar bond. I'm just—you're family, sunshine. We love you, we love having you here. I know your past with witches is horrible, I know that magic still makes you uneasy. I know this and hell, I'd never use it against you."

When Stray doesn't give a response, too overwhelmed, Oziamon gives him a soft smile and leans back onto his heels, rocking slightly in place as his hands fiddle with his shirt.

"You don't have to decide right now, we're patient people. Just—know the offers there, okay? If you decide you don't want to, we'll respect that. It won't change anything."

The little dragon nods and slowly raises a hand to sign love at the witch, a language he's picking up to use when being verbal's just a bit too much or too difficult.

Oz gives him another soft look before slowly edging away.

Stray relaxes fully once he's out of the room, alone in his nest and mind whirling.

He already thought of them as his—why is the offer so scary?

-——-——-

It takes a week to decide.

The night of the next equinox, the four of them sit knee to knee and hand in hand in the middle of an open field, moonlight shining down on them.

Athanasius' hand in his is warm and reassuring, a gentle squeeze and a purr filling him to the bones with comfort every time he tenses. The little dragon was told he can back out at any point but he doesn't, more scared to lose them than to do this.

It doesn't take long—starting with Oziamon, he builds it up until their magic gets gently pushed against each other, spinning and twirling until they're blurred around the edges.

Where Ras' magic is sharp with creation and the witch's is wispy with nature, his protector's protection and healing is thick and soft, wrapping around him like a shield. The feeling is warm, all encompassing.

They all hold it there, when the moon is at its peak, and slowly bring it back to themselves as it dips in the sky.

Emotions, light and not his own, twist in the back of his mind, laying over his heart like a second layer of skin. It's weird, having them there, the coven bond solidifying as the hours pass by.

Curiously, Stray pokes at Atlas in his mind, an ecstatic laugh leaving his lips as his dad pokes him in return, bouncing happiness and love back and forth until Oziamon joins and everything blurs—Ras' amusement settling over them all as she calmly nudges their emotions back to themselves.

They stay like that, all laughing and smiling and full of joy as the little dragon plays around with the bond.

Finally, when the moon falls and dawn takes over the sky, Oziamon gently takes his hand back and pushes himself to stand up, groaning as rolls his neck.

Stray can still feel each of them, easily letting them float in the back of his mind, their emotions growing sharp and clear only if he focuses on them. It's easy and it's not nearly as scary as he thought it would be, not nearly as suffocating.

As relief makes his shoulders slouch, the rest of his coven look over to him with matching, beaming smiles.

"Happy, mate?" Ras questions as if he couldn't feel that he is.

Stray nods, hiding his grin into his protector's side. "Happy."

"Good," the phoenix said, standing as well. She swats playfully at Ozzy when the witch calls out an 'old lady!' at the way his back creaks. "I'm happy too, mate."

The hatchling could tell—this fact made him start giggling all over again.

Love-love-love, Athanasius rumbles down at him. Mine-protected-mine.

Yours-yours-yours, the little dragon snuffles back. Loved-protected, safe. Love-love. Mine?

Yours, his protector affirms.

-——-——-

On the edge of the town, across from a bakery and a blacksmith and centered at the front of a large forest, is a little shop owned by a witch.

It's tall and large, with big windows and shiny red bricks half-hidden behind a magnificent garden. Inside, there are hundreds of things to catch someone's eye—trinkets and gadgets and useless lovely things. Feathers and unlucky rabbits' feet and direwolf fangs, there's seeds and hand-crafted jewelry and beautiful glass wind chimes.

It's everything a witch, human, or other could possibly need.

Stray, though—he already has everything he needs and everything he wants.

The hatchling, though once hurt and scared, has more safety and care from his coven than he knows what to do with. He never fears a cold night or a lost meal. He sleeps curled up with a protector he thought he'd never have, happy and warm.

He is still young, still without a strong heartfire, still with his scars but he never has to worry about being lost again.

So here Stray is, a loved little dragon, stuck exactly where he wants to be.