Chapter Text
The sky was bleeding.
Shades of crimson and bruised violet bled across the heavens, the dying light of day a pretty backdrop against the jagged silhouettes of the mountain peaks. Thunder rumbled low in the belly of the clouds, not from a storm, but from something far worse: something alive and hunting. Wind tore through the canyons in vicious gusts, shrieking like a warning that came too late.
Through it all, pale wings beat a frantic rhythm across the dusk-streaked sky. Satoru flew gracelessly, muscles trembling, each flap of his wings a battle against the cold, cutting air.
He didn’t dare look back.
There was no need. He could feel it, the scorching heat trailing just behind him like the promise of certain death. A roar lifted above the wind, so close it vibrated through his bones. The hot breath of his pursuer licked at his tail, carrying with it the stench of rot and sulphur. It made Satoru’s stomach lurch.
Snow exploded beneath his claws as he dipped lower, scraping across a ridge before leaping into the air again. Ice cracked and sprayed behind him, misting the air with frozen shards that glittered like shattered diamonds. He moved in a blur, half-flying and half-running, his sleek wyvern form streaked with soot and spattered blood. Once-pristine wings of luminous white now bore the marks of battle. His left wing dragged slightly, the membrane torn and singed along the edges.
It hadn’t been a fair fight. The rogue had struck at twilight, when the world turned soft and shadows stretched long. He was waiting just beyond a rocky bluff where Satoru had landed to drink from a stream. The young wyvern hadn’t even realized he was being ambushed until it was too late, until the rogue was right behind him and a rough voice had snarled from the darkness.
“Sweet white meat,” the rogue had hissed, teeth glinting in the low light. “Delicate bones. You’ll cook up nice.”
Then came the fire. Satoru had twisted away at the last second, but he hadn’t been fast enough. The edge of the blaze had caught him mid-turn, searing his wing, sending him tumbling through the air before he managed to catch a draft to propel himself upward once more.
He’d barely escaped with his life. But the rogue hadn’t stopped. It was a game of cat and mouse. The dragon behind him was larger, built more like a damn tank than a beast, with jagged horns and bloodstained claws. The rogue was a dragon that had seen too many winters and eaten too few meals.
And he was starving.
Satoru could smell it in his breath, the desperation. The kind that twisted hunger into madness and made dragons cannibalize their own kind.
He grit his teeth, breath coming in ragged gasps as he hurtled over a narrow gorge. The ground dropped away beneath him, revealing a black chasm nearly hidden by mist. He didn’t hesitate. He folded his wings to allow his body to dive, skimming the edge of the cliffs as the rogue’s fire scorched the air just overhead.
Too close. Too close.
His heart pounded in his chest.
The wyvern surged upward, angling his battered body toward the sky as the walls of the gorge fell away behind him. Every beat of his wings sent fresh jolts of pain lancing through his shoulders, his scorched wing trembling with the strain. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, muscles screaming for rest he couldn’t afford to give just yet. The cold air tore at his lungs, but he pushed through it, wings straining as he clawed his way higher and higher into open sky.
And then he saw it. Just ahead was his saving grace.
The jagged monolith of black stone rose on the horizon like a blade driven straight into the heart of the world, its obsidian peak slashing through the clouds and piercing the blood-red sky. The moment it came into view, the rogue behind Satoru let loose a roar so furious that it reverberated through the mountains, echoing from peak to peak until the entire range seemed to tremble in answer.
It wasn’t just rage in the sound; it was fear. Even mad with hunger, even wild with bloodlust, the rogue knew what that mountain meant.
So did Satoru.
Which was why he flew straight for it.
He didn’t need to sniff the wind or taste the old magic that rolled through the thinning air. He already knew what lay ahead. Every dragon did, from the oldest matriarchs to the youngest hatchlings who barely knew how to fly. It was a story whispered in the shadows of caves and passed from dam to brood in hushed tones:
Do not fly west.
Do not cross the peaks.
Do not tempt the monster who lives beyond the pines.
Satoru was nearing the edge of his territory.
Ryomen Sukuna.
He was a dragon from an age before memory, when the sky still crackled with raw magic and the earth bowed beneath monsters too large to even dream of. Some said he was born from the ashes of an ancient volcano, that his fire burned so hot it could turn entire mountains into glass. Others claimed he had once fought the gods themselves and had left his claw marks in the heavens.
Whatever the truth, this much was certain: Sukuna ruled the western mountains like he was a god himself.
His wings were said to stretch wide enough to eclipse the sun, to plunge entire valleys into darkness. His horns curved like obsidian scythes, and his talons could shatter granite and skull alike. He did not form alliances. He did not tolerate challengers. He did not share.
To provoke his wrath was to sign your own death warrant.
Sukuna’s territory stretched from the stormy cliffs of the Dreadrise Peaks to the ancient pinewood forests where the trees bent from centuries of howling winds. It was a land untouched by other dragons, cloaked in silence and blood-stained myths. Those foolish enough to trespass rarely returned.
Even the skies felt different here. The magic was old and heavy, like breath held in a sleeping beast’s chest. Nothing dared to fly overhead. No birdsong drifted on the wind. It was a place that existed outside the world Satoru knew, frozen in time.
And it was exactly where he was headed.
Satoru tucked his wings close and dove for the border, a white streak blurred against the dying light. His limbs burned. His wing screamed where it had been scorched. But he didn’t hesitate.
Because behind him loomed death, and ahead?
Ahead lay a worse death, probably.
But at least it came with rules. Or so he hoped.
He hit the ridge hard. His talons scraped across the frozen rock as he landed, momentum dragging him forward several feet before he finally managed to dig in. His legs buckled beneath him, joints trembling from exhaustion, and for a moment, he nearly crumpled entirely. The wind howled past him, carrying the chill of high altitude and the scent of his own blood.
His chest heaved as he struggled to stay upright, wings sagging at his sides like torn sails. The sharp sting of the cold bit into the scorched membrane of his left wing, and he hissed quietly through clenched teeth.
Satoru turned his head slowly, breath held tight in his throat as he peered behind himself.
Far across the open air, just beyond the invisible threshold, the rogue hovered. A hulking, blackened shape against the clouds, wings stretched wide, fire still smoldering faintly between his teeth. His claws flexed in agitation, the gleam of desperation flickering in his narrowed eyes.
But he didn’t cross the line.
The rogue snarled low in his throat but still held back, suspended just outside the boundary that marked the edge of Sukuna’s territory.
Satoru bared his fangs in a weary, crooked grin, teeth glinting in the dark. His voice rasped from a nearly raw throat.
“That’s what I thought.”
For a long moment, neither moved. But then the rogue wheeled away with a furious beat of his wings, vanishing into the clouds. The world around Satoru grew quiet once more. He waited until the last trace of shadow disappeared before he finally allowed himself to collapse.
With a groan, he folded his wings close and let his body sink onto the snow-dusted stone. The cold seeped into him, numbing the worst of the pain. His breath puffed out in slow, trembling clouds as he lay there on the ridge, eyes half-lidded, chest still rising in an uneven rhythm.
Safe for now.
And at the mercy of a monster who was probably even worse than the one who’d chased him.
Satoru chuckled to himself. At least my bones would look pretty guarding the border.
────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────
The first night in Sukuna’s territory was the hardest.
Not because of the cold, although the high-altitude air did cling to Satoru’s skin. It wasn’t because of his wounds, either, though his wing throbbed with a steady, searing ache, and every breath felt like broken glass scraping against the inside of his lungs.
No, what made that night unbearable was the silence.
It wasn’t the ordinary hush of the wilderness at rest. It was nearly unnatural.
No nightbirds were calling to one another across the trees. No owls were sweeping through the dark. No wolves howled from distant ridgelines. Even the wind, so eager to scream through the mountain passes just hours earlier, now blew low and quiet.
It was like the entire territory had gone still and was holding its breath, and Satoru understood why.
The land itself felt draped in some invisible blanket of dread, pressing down on every stone, every tree, every drifting flake of snow. It was the feeling of being watched, of stepping into the shadow of something vast and ancient that had chosen not to move. A king not slumbering, but waiting.
The thought alone was enough to keep Satoru’s eyes wide.
He’d found shelter in a narrow ravine not far from where he’d crossed the southernmost border, tucked beneath an outcropping of stone that leaned over the slope like the arc of a ribcage. Snow had gathered in thick drifts on the edges, but the interior was dry, walled in by steep stone and pines so tall their tops disappeared into the starlit dark. He didn’t dare light a fire for warmth.
Instead, Satoru curled tightly into himself, tucking his injured wing close to his body and folding the other protectively over his flank. In his wyvern form, he looked like a fallen piece of moonlight, white scales now rimed with frost that clung to his hide like delicate lace.
No matter how badly his body ached, how exhaustion pulled at his limbs, he refused to let his eyes close. Every few minutes, he shifted—ears twitching, claws flexing, nostrils flaring to test the air for unfamiliar scents.
He knew he wasn’t alone. So he listened, he watched, and he waited.
And for two weeks, he stayed.
He didn’t dare venture deeper into the mountains. That would’ve been reckless. It could be viewed as a challenge if he were caught. Satoru was many things: clever, fast, and sharp-tongued when it suited him. But suicidal was not anywhere on that list.
That being said, Satoru began to wonder if perhaps Sukuna didn’t see him as worth the trouble.
The thought crept in early during the second week. It was honestly more irritating than anything else. The idea that he, a wyvern with star-blood, a creature revered in old songs for his rare lineage and radiant strength, was too insignificant to even acknowledge…
He almost had himself convinced that it was worse this way. Not being hunted or chased, but being ignored.
Insulting, really.
Still, Satoru refused to provoke his unseen host. Whatever pride simmered in his chest, whatever bristling indignation curled beneath his ribs, he didn’t let it cloud his survival instincts. Sukuna’s reputation wasn’t just whispered myths. Satoru was alive only because he had not crossed some invisible line that could not be uncrossed.
So he remained careful.
He didn’t hunt within the territory. He didn’t even forage. The brittle winter plants that clawed through the snow were left untouched, and the streams that glittered through the ravines like silver veins were passed by without pause. He treated the land as if it were sacred, not out of reverence but out of necessity.
Each morning, he shifted into his human form and made the long trek down the winding paths into the lowland villages that dotted the outer rim of the mountains. The hikes were grueling in the snow, and with his wing still healing, he couldn’t stay in a fully human form for very long without causing himself problems. And Satoru very quickly realized how much he hated walking in human form with a half-useless wing sprouting from his shoulder blade and trailing behind him in the snow.
Thin and shivering, wrapped in a patchwork coat he’d found that was singed and torn from dragonfire, he played the part of a lost traveler, a young man caught in winter’s wrath. In truth, he knew how to survive worse. But in the villages, vulnerability bought him warmth.
Humans were far kinder than dragons.
They were drawn to beauty, especially the kind that smiled with tired eyes and spoke like poetry. Satoru knew how to play the game. He traded old tales and half-true fables for crusts of bread and mugs of warm broth. He cleaned stables, helped chop wood, and sometimes took naps in the warm haylofts. The townsfolk didn’t ask many questions. Perhaps they didn’t want answers.
He was always gone by dusk, feet already turned toward the mountains.
By nightfall, Satoru would return to that same narrow alcove tucked in the ravine, half-frozen and partially shielded from the wind. On the other side of the ridge just above his alcove, he could see the vast, snow-blanketed basin below, the world spread out beneath him like the surface of a frozen sea. From there, he could see the shadows of the taller, jagged peaks in the distance: the heartland of Sukuna’s territory.
The ache in Satoru’s wing never truly left, but it dulled into something more manageable, something he could live with. Each morning, after returning from the lowlands, he would sit in the icy quiet of his hidden perch and carefully tend to the burn.
He’d gathered a few simple supplies from the villages: linen strips and balm made from animal fat and mountain herbs. It was crude, but still effective. He smoothed the mixture over the blackened membrane with steady fingers, wincing slightly when the sting cut too deep.
Some days, he swore he saw things. Not clearly and not close enough to be certain. But when the wind shifted just right, carrying scents and the sound of movement through the trees, his sharp eyes would catch on something distant.
A silhouette, perched high on a far-off peak, just where the rock met the sky. A glimmer of red weaving through the forest canopy, gone before he could track it properly.
Too large to be a deer.
Too quiet to be a bear.
He never chased after them. He wasn’t a fool. He knew better than to seek what didn’t want to be found, especially here. But still, he began to speak. He never spoke loudly, just in murmurs, little mutterings as he scraped frost from his scales or curled tighter into himself for warmth.
“Might snow again tonight,” he’d mumble, squinting at the clouds.
Or, “Not bad bread this time. Could’ve used more salt.”
Sometimes, when the wind didn’t bite too hard, he’d whisper a soft thank you to no one in particular, tilting his head toward the sky as though it might hear him. And other times, when the cold settled deep into his bones, and the loneliness gnawed at the edges of his resolve, he would hum to himself. Bits of lullabies half-remembered from his childhood, tunes that reminded him of his dam’s warmth and the feeling of a full belly after a long day. He sang to remember what it felt like to exist beyond survival.
Then, one evening, as the stars flickered to life in the indigo sky and the wind rustled through the ravine, he looked up from where he sat beside a thin, icy stream. The moon hung full above him, casting silver across the basin below.
“If you’re gonna kill me,” he murmured into the night, voice soft and playful, “I’d appreciate a little warning.”
The sound of his voice lingered for just a moment before it was swallowed by silence, and the wind was his only answer.
────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────
At first, Sukuna noticed nothing out of place.
There had been no sound of unfamiliar wings tearing through his skies. No sudden rupture in the stillness of his land. No scent of foreign blood curling through the air. His territory remained cloaked in silence.
Just the way he liked it.
The wind moved only when he allowed it. The trees bowed when he passed overhead. The few creatures that still dared to live in his mountains had long since learned to go still when he stirred. Sukuna knew every scent, every shadow, every heartbeat that dared exist within the snowbound peaks of his territory.
Which was why he couldn’t help the faintest bit of confusion when he finally picked up on the stranger.
A trace of a scent, soft and unfamiliar, drifted on the wind toward him, prickling along the edge of Sukuna’s senses. He paused, lifted his massive head, and drew in a long, deep breath.
And there it was.
Not the scent of prey. Not one of the old beasts of the mountain.
Snow and starlight.
Faint and very much out of place. Dragon magic, but unfamiliar. Soft in a way that didn’t belong in these mountains. Someone had crossed his border.
A low growl rumbled through Sukuna’s chest. His claws scraped against the stone floor of his lair, sending up sparks that glowed briefly before vanishing into the dark. And then, without a sound, he rose. He unfurled from the heart of the mountain, smoke coiling from his maw as he emerged from the deep, glowing caverns where he slept.
Snow lifted in clouds from the high ridges as he ascended. The wind swirled around him as he rose, cutting through the thin mountain air, the force of his wingbeats shaking frost from the pines.
The trail pulled him south, toward the lower cliffs near the edge of his territory. That was where the scent was strongest. It clung to the air like perfume, delicate but persistent. The magic underneath it shimmered faintly, unmistakably young, untrained, and undeniably draconic.
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, glowing red as he banked low over a snowy ravine. His body coiled through the clouds, sleek and silent despite his size. He circled once, gliding slowly, scanning every rock, every shadow, every patch of disturbed snow.
And then he saw it.
Curled into a cliff’s overhang, the dragon—no, wyvern, he realized—lay motionless, a soft smudge of white against dark stone and ice. He was small, at least by dragon standards, but there was nothing dull or plain about him.
His body was long and elegant, built for speed and grace rather than brute strength, with slender limbs and a narrow, fine-boned frame. His scales shimmered faintly even in shadow, catching the moonlight in a wash of pale opal, like starlight made flesh, delicate and luminous. His wings were drawn in tightly against his sides, the edges of the left wing scorched, and both dusted with newly formed frost. His tail was curled close, tucked to his chest.
Injured, most likely. Exhausted, without question. But not dead.
Sukuna hovered high above the wyvern, smoke curling from his nostrils as he stared down. The creature was clearly not a threat to him, so unlikely to be a challenger. Just a stray. A stray that was alone, bleeding, and definitely not supposed to be here, but a stray nonetheless.
He exhaled slowly. Foolish, he thought. Or perhaps desperate was a better term.
Though foolishness and desperation often came hand in hand.
Sukuna watched him for two weeks.
He kept his distance at first, coiled high in the black pines or perched in the shadow of craggy peaks, his great body hidden by thick clouds and the cover of dusk. But his eyes never left the pale shape that haunted the southern border of his home.
The little wyvern never ventured far. He did not attempt to creep deeper into Sukuna’s territory, never disturbed the prey, never hunted or took more than the ravine to sleep in. He came and went like a ghost, quiet and cautious, always returning to the same narrow outcropping by nightfall. Sukuna noted every step, every movement, every flick of his white-scaled tail.
If the whelp was aware of being watched, he didn’t show it at first.
And perhaps he might have drawn Sukuna’s full attention sooner, perhaps he might have earned fire or claw, or a challenge answered with teeth, if not for the interruption: there was another trespasser. On the northern edge of the territory, where the wind howled like an angry beast in chains and the snow came down so thick it buried even the tallest cairns, a different dragon had returned.
It was the same arrogant bastard who appeared every few years like clockwork, strutting just inside the border, wings flared in showy aggression, eyes gleaming with false confidence. Another male, larger than the wyvern. Older, too—closer to Sukuna’s age, though not nearly close to his strength. A brute with delusions of grandeur and scars on his hide from far too many failed conquests.
Sukuna knew him well.
Each time, the challenger would spend days circling the northern cliffs, trying to provoke a response by roaring into the winds, burning trees, and tearing at the rocks as if to leave his mark. And each time, Sukuna would rise and remind the fool why the West still trembled when his name was uttered.
It never took long. By the end of the week, the challenger always fled, tail curled tight to his belly, pride in tatters, blood still dripping from the wounds Sukuna left behind.
This time was no different.
Sukuna dispatched him with little fanfare; less a battle than a lesson repeated. But it meant his attention was split, his gaze shifting between the reckless old fool in the north and the whisper of a wyvern in the south.
The timing annoyed him.
The younger one was far more intriguing. He didn’t come with fire or with threats. In fact, if anything, the whelp was doing his best to remain unseen and unheard.
For two weeks, Sukuna had watched the strange little wyvern, ever-present but unseen. He had expected fear, or perhaps desperation. He had even expected, eventually, a misstep—some trespass deeper into the heart of his domain that would justify burning the whelp to ash.
And yet, the night before, as frost clung to the trees and the stars blinked coldly overhead, the pale wyvern had tilted his head to the sky and spoken.
“If you’re gonna kill me,” the creature murmured, “I’d appreciate a little warning.”
Sukuna, high above in the clouds, had gone utterly still. Smoke curled from his nostrils as he processed what he’d just heard.
The wyvern knew. He’d known all along that he was being watched and who was watching. But still, he had stayed. He hadn’t run or tried to hide. He hadn’t even panicked. He’d sung lullabies into the wind, curled beneath cliffs, and now he was cracking jokes at death itself.
Sukuna hadn’t slept that night.
And as the sky paled into a violet-gray dawn and the first gold light spilled across the basin, he decided he was done watching.
It was time to introduce himself.
────── ⋆⋅ 𖤓 ⋅⋆ ──────
The mountaintop shook beneath the force of his descent.
Sukuna fell from the sky, nothing but a blur of black and blood-red. He struck the ledge where the wyvern slept, snow exploding outward in a blinding burst as boulders cracked and fractured beneath his massive weight and the earth groaned beneath his talons.
The smaller wyvern jolted awake with a startled breath, scrambling upright in a tangle of wings and tail, eyes wide.
Sukuna towered above him, his dragon form immense and terrible, a beast shaped from fire and battle. Horns curved from his head, and his crimson wings stretched wide and full, blotting out the rising sun and plunging the ravine into shadow. Smoke coiled from between his fangs, and his talons sank deep into the rock below.
When he spoke, it was in the ancient tongue of dragons.
“You’re trespassing,” Sukuna snarled. “You have two seconds to explain before I tear your throat out.”
The wyvern didn’t run. He didn’t bare his teeth or snap his wings open or spit some pathetic defense. Instead, he looked up at Sukuna. His eyes were the color of glacial rivers: piercing ice-blue, startlingly bright against the white of his scales. They were wide with fear, yes, but not panic. No fire of resistance burned there.
Slowly, the wyvern lowered his head, uncoiling inch by inch, his wings fanning out as he flattened himself to the ground. And then, carefully, he bared his throat.
Submission.
Not a trick. He offered himself up like a lamb to the slaughter, trusting the monster above him not to strike.
Sukuna blinked, taken aback. This wasn’t how dragons behaved, not even the weak ones. They always fought or begged. Most died screaming. Sukuna had faced challengers who roared until their throats tore open, fools who spat fire until their bones littered the peaks. But this, this creature beneath him, small and shining like a shard of starlight?
He clearly didn’t want to fight.
Sukuna stared down at the wyvern, smoke rising from his jaws. His lips curled back over his fangs, and for the first time in centuries, he hesitated.
“I know who you are,” the wyvern said, his voice low but unwavering. His muzzle hovered just above the frozen earth, posture tight with submission. “I’m not here to challenge you. I just… I needed a place to rest. Somewhere that no one would follow me.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, glowing faintly in the cold early morning light. His wings shifted, casting jagged shadows over the cliffside, and the heat radiating from his body melted the ice at his feet. He regarded the pale dragon beneath him with unmasked disdain, though something in the calm tone, the lack of arrogance or groveling, gave him pause.
“You think this is a refuge?” he growled. His voice held no sympathy, only contempt and the slightest hint of curiosity.
The wyvern didn’t lift his gaze, but he didn’t shrink, either.
“It’s not,” he agreed quietly. “I know that it’s not. But it’s the only place I could go to have even a hint of survival.”
Sukuna’s lip curled further, revealing the edge of one long fang. He took a step forward, the stone cracking faintly beneath his clawed feet. The wyvern didn’t move, didn’t even flinch.
“Why are you really here?” Sukuna asked.
There was a pause. Then the wyvern lifted his head slightly, just enough to meet Sukuna’s gaze without it coming across like he was challenging the elder dragon.
“A rogue tried to eat me,” he explained. His voice was steady, but fatigue clung to every word. “It attacked me when I was trying to rest. I fled, he chased. I was bleeding, and I flew until I saw your mountains.”
Sukuna watched him in silence. The wyvern exhaled, his breath fogging in the frigid air. “I crossed into your territory because I knew he wouldn’t follow. And I’ve been here ever since.” His tail curled around his limbs, an instinctive gesture meant to provide comfort. “I haven’t hunted inside your borders. I haven’t touched a single creature. I’ve been going down to the lowland villages to eat human food. Just enough to stay alive.” His voice dropped slightly. “I didn’t come to take anything. I just didn’t want to die.”
Sukuna’s nostrils flared with a slow exhale that sent ribbons of smoke curling into the cold morning air. He knew the wyvern was telling the truth; he had observed him long enough to know that much.
“You’ve been in my land for two weeks,” Sukuna spoke at last, voice edged with a growl. “Did you think I wouldn’t confront you at some point?”
The pale dragon looked up at him with weary honesty, the corners of his mouth curled in the ghost of a tired smile.
“I had hoped you wouldn’t.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. He’d expected lies or evasion, not this. Not honesty.
He rumbled deep in his chest. “Bold.”
“Desperate,” the wyvern corrected, without hesitation. Silence followed his words.
“Name,” Sukuna demanded finally, the command echoing off the trees and rocks.
The wyvern paused. Then, almost too quietly to catch, he whispered, “Satoru.”
The name lingered in the air like a shard of sunlight breaking through clouds, strange and too bright for these mountains. Sukuna didn’t like the shape of it. Too clean, too soft. It didn’t match the bones of this place, the storm-forged cliffs and blood-washed peaks. It sounded like innocence and youth.
Sukuna had never had much patience for either.
“I don’t keep strays,” he growled, smoke coiling from his nostrils, the edge of a snarl rising in his throat.
“I don’t need keeping,” Satoru replied, voice steady.
Brave little bastard.
“I just need time,” Satoru continued. “That’s all. Time to heal, to figure out where I’m supposed to go next. I’m not a threat to you; I haven’t taken from you. I won’t touch a single thing beyond this ridge, and I’m not dumb enough to believe I could win in a fight against you.”
He lowered his head again, the tip of his muzzle nearly brushing the snow. A flicker of frost drifted from his nostrils with each breath.
“Just… let me stay,” he murmured. “A little longer. Please.”
He didn’t roar. He didn’t challenge. He didn’t run. He bowed his head and asked.
And that, more than anything else, was what made Sukuna’s mind up.
Another dragon would’ve answered differently. A lesser male would’ve fought tooth and claw for the right to breathe this air. Others would’ve tried to sneak, to steal, to flee. But this one, this white-winged scrap of a dragon, glittering with frost, bowed to him and begged.
And for reasons Sukuna couldn’t name, he stood there in silence, smoke curling from his teeth, and he did not say no.