Chapter Text
Turtle sighed, dipping his quill into the inkpot with all the enthusiasm of a dragon walking to his own execution. The obsidian floor beneath him reflected his expression—dull, resigned, faintly sick.
It had taken him a while to realize the room was enchanted to do that. Darkstalker called it aesthetic.
Across the throne room, sprawled across what could only be described as a monarchical chaise longue, Darkstalker was busy not ruling the continent. One claw was curled around a cup of something steaming (enchanted moonflower tea, he said, for emotional depth), the other was absently toying with a new crown. Gold, amethyst—probably pilfered from some treasure hoard he now legally owned.
Turtle did not look up from his parchment.
“Fathom’s eyes narrowed, glimmering like the ocean before a storm—”
“No, no,” Darkstalker interrupted, voice rich with dramatic offense. “He wouldn’t glimmer when he’s suspicious. He’d flick his tail. Maybe call me ‘your high tyrantness’ in that sarcastic voice. You know the one.”
“I shouldn’t know the one,” Turtle muttered, crossing out glimmering and replacing it with flattened his ears in visible distress. “Because this never happened. None of this is real.”
“Not with that attitude,” Darkstalker said brightly. “Come on, Turtle. You’re a writer. A dreamer. A sufferer of love’s great torment.” He paused. “Also, you’re a member of Fathom’s family line. That makes this practically destiny.”
Turtle set the quill down. Briefly considered stabbing himself with it. Resisted.
“Why me?” he asked, again. Because it was tradition now. Because he hated himself just enough to keep asking.
Darkstalker leaned forward, that infuriating grin softening into something disturbingly sincere.
“You remind me of him,” he said. “The way you flinch when I’m nice to you. The chronic overthinking. The morally panicked literary voice. It’s adorable.”
Turtle blinked.
“...You’ve enslaved me to write romantic fiction because I’m adorable?”
“No!” Darkstalker said, then added, “I mean, not only.”
He unfurled a wing, sending a gust of air through the room, scattering some pages off the table.
“It’s not just about you,” he continued, voice lifting into something vaguely divine. “It’s about art. About love. About showing the dragons of Pyrrhia what true emotional resonance looks like.” He paused. “Also, I needed to rebrand. The whole ‘eternal night, devouring vengeance’ thing was getting a bit stale.”
Turtle retrieved a page from under his chair with a grimace. It read:
They stood close now. Too close. The air between them shimmering with unspoken truths, history, and residual mind-reading magic.
He stared at it like it might catch fire.
No such luck.
“Couldn’t you have chosen an actual author?” he grumbled. “I’m not even that good.”
“You’re perfect,” Darkstalker said, hopping off his dais with an undignified bounce. “You don’t try too hard. You have taste. Restraint. Pain.”
“I have boundaries,” Turtle hissed.
“Exactly,” Darkstalker beamed. “That’s what makes breaking them so satisfying.”
He stopped beside Turtle’s writing desk, peering down at the pages.
“Hm. You’re going to need more yearning.”
Turtle’s eye twitched. “There is already so much yearning the scrolls could power an animus spell.”
“Good!” Darkstalker said. “Now double it.”
Somewhere, far away...
Tsunami sneezed.
“What was that?” Glory asked, suspicious.
“I don’t know,” Tsunami muttered. “But I think one of my brothers is being emotionally manipulated again.”
Back in the throne room...
Turtle inhaled slowly, deliberately. Then, with the slow, practiced suffering of a dragon who had accepted that this was simply his life now, he picked up the quill.
“Fine,” he muttered. “But you’re proofreading this time.”
Darkstalker gave him a dazzling smile, and then, to Turtle’s mounting horror, settled in beside him, chin resting on his shoulder.
“Only if I get to do the voices,” he purred.
Turtle’s soul left his body.