Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The wind was cooler that evening.

It flowed through Emerald Vale, making the flowers dance in the breeze.

Izuku watched them from the cottage’s garden, his hands damp from hanging laundry.

He wasn’t supposed to be out here—Inko had insisted on washing duty for the day.

“I can handle it,” she’d said. “You already help out enough around here.”

But Izuku knew better than that. His mother had always worked herself to the bone for him, for herself. She could take a break or two—especially when she was also cooking dinner.

His hands trembled slightly as he hung the last shirt on the line, heels lifted off the ground. Suddenly, an earthy smell drifted through the air, rich and familiar.

“Izuku!” His mother’s voice called from the cottage’s front door. “Supper’s ready!”

Izuku turned around, feet gracing the ground once more. He wiped his palms on his trousers as he headed for the door.

Izuku stepped inside, the warmth of home washing over him. The fireplace crackled in the living room, casting a golden light onto the floor.

They sat across each other at the small wooden table in the kitchen, wood worn from years of use. His father had built it years ago, before Izuku could even walk.

The mushroom soup steamed in their bowls, thick and hearty—his favorite, though tonight his stomach felt too knotted to appreciate it.

Inko was first to speak.

“Did you see the flowers while you were hanging the laundry?” she asked.

Izuku nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly. “They looked really bright today.”

Inko smiled, eyes crinkling as she lifted a spoonful of soup. “I’m glad. I was worried the colder nights would stunt them, but they’ve been doing just fine.”

Izuku gave a quiet hum, shifting in his seat. The warmth from the fireplace didn’t quite reach the tightness in his chest.

A moment passed. Then, Inko added, “The council’s meeting after supper.”

The spoon in Izuku’s hand paused just shy of his mouth. He lowered it slowly and glanced away. His fingers rose, brushing over the curve of one horn.

“I know,” he murmured. “I just… hope it goes well.”

“It’ll be fine,” Inko said, reaching her hand out to touch his. “We’ve always been okay.”

Izuku’s gaze met hers. He knew she’s right—knew he should listen to her. But that didn’t stop his grip from tightening on his horns.

“The council will make the right decision for all of us.”

“…Yes,” Izuku said, forcing a smile.

The rest of supper passed in near silence, with only a few words being exchanged here and there. Inko asked about the grocer by the river, the old elder who’d fallen ill again.

Once they finished eating, she quickly rose from the table, their bowls in hand.

Izuku followed after her, stepping softly across the wooden floor.

“I can help,” he said, reaching for her dish. “With the cleaning. You shouldn’t have to—”

“I’m fine,” she interrupted gently, offering him a worn smile. “Besides, we’ve got the village meeting soon. You’ll be able to do the dishes later.”

He nodded, though his stomach felt too full, too tight.

She set the bowls down on the counter, wiped her hands, and turned toward the door.

“Come on,” she said. “You don’t want to be late.”

The wind hit them the moment the door opened. The village was quiet—eerily so. The dark of night had enveloped the streets. No merchants stood by their stalls, no children ran down the roads; only the sound of boots hitting cobblestone could be heard.

The meeting hall sat at the far edge of the central square. It looked older than everything around it, bricks worn from decades of meetings like this.

A village elder stood by the door, offering a nod and a tight smile as they headed inside.

Only a few seats remained. The chairs were arranged in a circle, just like always. Izuku chose one near the edge—one that didn’t creak when he sat, at least not too loudly.

Inko settled beside him.

The room was full—dozens of villagers hunched in coats and shawls, whispering amongst themselves. The elders sat at the head of the circle.

Then one stood.

“I’m sure we all know why this meeting was called,” he began. “The sacrifice is due tomorrow. We received word from Draconis three days past. Their envoy is en route.”

Murmurs erupted in the hall. Villagers exchanged nervous glances.

Izuku’s fingers found the edge of his horn, petting his horns once more.

Another elder—a woman with deep-set eyes and a wool-lined coat—lifted a hand.

“As we have always done,” she said, “the village council will vote. But before that, we will allow for nominations. The choice must come from us. And it shall be made together.”

A few villagers shifted. Someone coughed. Then—

A girl, no older than twenty, stood from her seat. Her voice shook as she spoke.

“Isn’t this… wrong? We’ve done this for decades. Draconis has never protected us. Why should we keep bending to them?”

Someone further down scoffed. “And what, you’d rather they burn the village to the ground?”

She hesitated. “What about Solara? Or Glacium? Maybe they’d support us—”

“They don’t care about sheep-blooded folk like us,” someone else muttered. “Not enough to fight over us. They never have.”

“We should at least try.”

“You think those kingdoms would send armies for people like us?” A man laughed coldly. “We’re livestock to them—breeding stock.”

“Enough,” the lead elder cut in. “None of that matters. The world is as it is. We are not fighters. We are survivors.”

The other elders nodded silently.

“We will choose one,” said the woman. “Just as we always have.”

The silence stretched in the room. Then, a chair squeaked as someone rose from their seat.

“I’d like to make a nomination,” said a familiar, coercive voice.

Izuku looked up. Monoma.

Of course.

He stood near the head of the circle, blond hair tied back, eyes smug as ever. He turned to meet Izuku’s gaze.

“I suggest Midoriya Izuku for this year’s sacrifice.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Inko stiffened beside him, her hands twitching on her lap.

“On what grounds?” one elder asked, eyes narrowed.

Monoma’s smile widened. “He’s of age, healthy, and has no injuries. He’s one of the rare ones, too.”

Another gasp. Softer, but more knowing.

“There aren’t many male sheep-hybrids left who can carry children,” Monoma continued. “But Midoriya? He’s one of them. And we all know what the dragonbloods are like. They’ll keep him—breed him. They might even thank us.”

Izuku stared straight ahead. His heart pounded in his chest.

“Is that what this is to you?” someone muttered. “A gift?”

“It’s our survival,” Monoma said, shrugging. “And maybe a little house cleaning. Think of it as… taking out the trash.”

The elders looked at one another. A few villagers leaned in, murmuring behind their hands.

Izuku’s ears rang.

The head elder stood.

“We will now cast our votes.”

Only the council raised their hands. One. Two. Five.

All in favor.

Izuku froze in his seat. His fingers pressed tighter into his horns.

“In light of the vote,” the elder said, “Midoriya Izuku will be presented as this year’s sacrifice to the Kingdom of Draconis.”

The villagers nodded, most of whom avoided his gaze.

Inko’s lips parted, and for a second, Izuku thought she might protest—say something, anything.

But she kept her mouth shut, hands still trembling on her lap.

“…Is there anything you’d like to say for yourself, Midoriya?” the woman asked.

Izuku gulped. “No, ma’am.”

“Then it is settled.”

The meeting adjourned without ceremony. The villagers rose, chairs scraping as people filed out.

Izuku remained seated.

Inko stood and touched his shoulder lightly. “It’s time to go.”

He let her lead him out, legs numb.

At the door, Monoma leaned close—just enough for Izuku to hear.

“You’ll probably die up there,” he whispered. “But if you don’t? Don’t forget to thank me.”

Izuku’s kept his gaze on the ground the rest of the way out.

The walk back through the village was silent.

Izuku knew better than to speak. His throat was too tight anyway, and the sting behind his eyes hadn’t gone away. He kept his head down, watched his feet shuffle across the cobblestones. He didn’t want to see the way the neighbors looked at him. Or worse—how they didn’t.

When the door of the cottage shut behind them with a soft click, Izuku exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

A sniffle couldn’t be heard behind him.

He turned around.

Inko was crying.

“…Mom?”

She faced him, slow and trembling, tears slipping freely down her cheeks. She tried to smile, but it broke halfway through.

“I should be asking you that question,” she said, voice paper-thin. “I’m not the one leaving tomorrow.”

Izuku’s chest ached. He took a step forward. “You… shouldn’t worry about me,” he said, forcing each word past the lump in his throat. “I’ll be fine. We don’t know how the dragon hybrids will treat me. It might not be… like the stories.”

Inko shook her head, her hand pressed to her mouth.

“But those stories exist for a reason, Izuku,” she whispered. “You’ve heard them. You know what happens to people like us—like you.” Her voice cracked. “Last year, they sent Koma’s son. He never came back. And the year before that…”

Izuku looked away. She wasn’t wrong. Every tale, every whisper passed between closed doors, painted a picture of torment—of sacrifices used, discarded, devoured. And even though some were too horrifying to believe… they’d never been denied.

But falling apart in front of Inko wasn’t an option.

“…Let’s not dwell on the sacrifice,” he said softly, rubbing at his wrist. “The dishes are still in the kitchen. I said I’d take care of them.”

Inko let out a soft laugh, watery and strained. She wiped her eyes again, nodding as if he’d told a joke.

“You shouldn’t worry about the dishes tonight,” she said. “I’ll take care of them. You’ve got a… big day ahead of you tomorrow.”

Izuku stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his face into the curve of her shoulder. She held him back tightly, fingers curling against his back like she could hold him here—keephim from being taken.

When the hug ended, she touched his cheek gently, her thumb brushing just under his eye.

“Get some sleep,” she said. “I’ll wake you early.”

He nodded, turning down to the hall and heading to his bedroom.

The room was small, just like the rest of the cottage. The bed was tucked against the wall, close to the window. The little desk beside it still smelled faintly of lavender oil—Inko cleaned it often when he was gone, out wandering the village.

His closet sat in the corner. Inside were a few simple shirts, a worn scarf, and a pair of boots he couldn’t quite wear anymore.

Izuku stripped out of his clothes slowly, hands shaking. He dressed in sleepwear and folded his dayclothes neatly over the desk.

The sheets were colder than usual when he slipped into bed.

His eyes felt heavy, but he didn’t close his eyes—he couldn’t.

He was leaving tomorrow.

Leaving everything he’d known—this room, the way Inko hummed while she cleaned, the fields beyond the window, even the people who stared at him like prey. People like Monoma.

He should’ve known, should’ve expected it.

He was a sheep hybrid; worse—he was one of the rare ones.

His mother hadn’t hidden it well, and even if she had… the village always knew.

He was doomed the moment he was born.

His fingers curled up toward his horns. He touched the left one, tracing the smooth bone with quiet reverence. It was the last time he’d touch it in this bed. The last time he’d sleep under this roof. The last night he’d be… Izuku, the boy from Emerald Vale.

Tomorrow, he’d be someone else.

His eyes slid shut.

✦◦❀◦✦

Izuku woke to the smell of eggs and mushrooms.

The scent drifted in slowly, warm and earthy.

Sunlight filtered through the small bedroom window, spilling across the sheets pooled at his waist. He sat up, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. His horns ached faintly—he’d slept on one wrong again.

His eyes dropped to the floor.

A cloth bag sat neatly at the foot of the bed, already packed. His cloak was folded on top, along with a change of day clothes—Inko’s doing, of course.

Stretching, Izuku swung his feet to the floor and stood, the wood cool beneath his toes. He padded out of the room and down the short hallway.

Inko turned the moment she heard him.

“Breakfast is almost ready,” she said with a small smile. The kettle beside the hearth hissed softly, steam curling up toward the ceiling. A flat iron pan rested over the embers, mushrooms sizzling faintly beside fried eggs.

He slipped into his usual seat at the table, tapping his fingers against the wood. His heart thudded slow and heavy in his chest.

“Did you sleep okay?” she asked, voice light.

“…Yeah,” Izuku said, avoiding her eyes. “I slept pretty well.”

She didn’t press.

Instead, she plated his food first—eggs, mushrooms, and a strip of crisp root sausage—and set the dish gently in front of him.

“Here you go,” she said.

Izuku mumbled a quiet thanks, picking up his fork. Across the table, Inko served herself and sat down, her own plate curling with steam.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the soft clink of utensils filling the kitchen.

Then she spoke again.

“I’ll be able to walk with you to the border,” she said, gently. “The elders said that much.”

Izuku nodded, chewing slowly.

“But after that,” she continued, “you’ll be on your own. The envoy’s supposed to meet you at the crossing near the stone arch.”

“I know.”

She didn’t look at him when she added, “I packed your cloak. And your thicker gloves. Just in case the mountains are cold.”

“Thanks,” he said, pausing between bites. “And for… everything else. The bag. The food. All of it.”

Inko smiled. “Of course, baby.”

When they finished eating, Izuku rose from the table and carried their dishes to the counter. He paused there for a moment, fingers brushing the rim of his plate, before stepping away.

He returned to his bedroom and changed into his day clothes—thicker linen pants, his wool-stitched vest, and a dark green cloak with a hood. The fabric smelled like lavender. Like home.

Once dressed, he slung the bag over his shoulder and stepped into his boots by the door.

Before he left, he turned to look around the cottage.

The fire was still glowing softly in the hearth. The kitchen was clean, the bedroom doors all open. Nothing out of place.

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

And then he stepped outside.

The world was quiet when they stepped outside. The village breathed slowly beneath a grey sky, the sun still curled behind clouds, casting everything in a dull gold.

His bag was heavy on his shoulder. Inko’s hand hovered near his back, not quite touching him, like she wanted to guide him but couldn’t bring herself to.

They walked the cobblestone path in silence.

Villagers watched from windows; some glanced and looked away, others not looking at all.

Izuku kept walking.

They passed the old weaver’s house, the smithery, the tree where he used to climb to read when he was small. Everything looked the same, and nothing felt real.

The village border sat at the far edge of the valley, where the fields thinned and the hills began. A low stone arch marked the last step of home. Beyond it lied open land and the teeth of a kingdom he’d never seen.

Two figures stood beneath the arch.

Izuku slowed. Inko touched his shoulder gently, guiding him forward.

Usually there was only one envoy—someone from Draconis sent to escort the sacrifice without fanfare. But today, there were two.

One was tall, red-haired, cloaked in dark furs. He stood with his arms folded, face open and alert, eyes gleaming beneath shaggy bangs. The other leaned against the stone pillar with a lazy smile, blond hair tousled.

Both looked young and strong—and nothing like what Izuku had imagined.

“I guess this is it,” he murmured.

Inko turned to face him. Her hands fluttered up toward his shoulders, adjusting the edge of his cloak. Then, gently, her fingers brushed against one of his horns.

“You always touch them when you’re nervous,” she said softly.

He blinked.

“I do not.”

“You always have,” she said, smiling through tears. “Even when you were little. Even when you thought no one was watching.”

Izuku looked away, embarrassed. His fingers tugged at the fabric of his sleeve.

Inko’s voice softened even more.

“He was the same way,” she murmured. “Before he left. The night the elder called his name, he sat at the edge of the bed, rubbing his horns like they’d fall off if he let go.”

Izuku’s breath caught.

She didn’t say his name—didn’t have to. She never said much about him. Izuku wasn’t old enough to remember him; but that didn’t stop him from wondering.

She pressed her forehead to his.

“I know you’ll be strong,” she whispered. “You always have been.”

He closed his eyes.

“I’ll write if I can.”

“I know.”

She hugged him tightly, arms around his waist, her head tucked just below his chin. It was the kind of hug that didn’t want to end. The kind that said everything she couldn’t.

A throat cleared ahead.

The red-haired one—his voice was deep, smooth. “We should get going.”

The blond nodded beside him. “Daylight’s wasting.”

Izuku didn’t look back at the village.

He only looked at her.

She stood in front of the arch, one hand over her mouth, shoulders trembling, tears slipping down her cheeks.

He gave her a tiny nod before finally turning around.

The red-haired one fell in step beside him without a word. The blond drifted ahead, whistling low.

Izuku walked past the stone arch, leaving the only home he’d ever known behind him.

Chapter Text

The road away from Emerald Vale was much longer than he’d expected.

Izuku kept his head low, hood drawn over his horns, clutching the strap of his pack. Every few steps, he stumbled—over a root, a slick patch of stone, his own thoughts.

Ahead of him, the blond envoy whistled as he walked, hands behind his head like this was just a stroll through the woods.

The other stayed beside Izuku.

They hadn’t told him their names. They hadn’t told him much of anything.

The further they got from the valley, the rougher the path became. Grass gave way to gravel, then gravel to stone. The trees grew taller, and the sky narrowed overhead.

Izuku tried not to think about what waited for him on the other side of the mountain, but it pressed in, heavy and constant.

The castle. The throne room. The Crown Prince. Bakugou Katsuki. His name had never been spoken out loud in Emerald Vale—only whispered, like smoke slipping through a crack in the door.

And now he was walking toward him on foot with two men he’d never met before.

“…You’re real quiet back there,” the blond envoy said suddenly, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “You know, for a lamb.”

Izuku flinched, nearly tripping over a stone.

The envoy laughed. “Aw, man, did I scare you?”

“I—no,” Izuku lied. He adjusted his hood and looked anywhere but at the envoy’s sharp, golden eyes. “I just didn’t expect—”

“Expect me to talk?” The blond turned around fully, walking backwards with perfect balance. “You thought we were gonna march in scary silence all the way to the castle? Come onnn, we’re not that terrifying.”

Izuku blinked. His mouth opened, then closed.

“…Okay, maybe I am,” the blond said, winking. “I do have a little reputation for being shocking.” He raised a hand and let a tiny arc of lightning pop in his palm. “But this guy?” He thumbed toward the red-haired one. “He’s soft. Practically cuddly.”

The redhead gave a long sigh. “Denki.”

“What? I’m being friendly.”

“You’re scaring him.”

“I am not—am I?” He turned back to Izuku, grinning. “Am I scaring you?”

Izuku squeaked.

It was a small sound—barely a breath. But it slipped out, high-pitched and wobbly, caught right in his throat like a sheepish yelp.

The blond lit up.

“Oh my God. You really do bleat.”

Izuku flushed to the roots of his hair. “N-No, I don’t, it’s just—!”

“Do it again.”

“No!”

The redhead stepped in with a chuckle. “Ease off, Denks. You’re embarrassing him.”

Denki rolled his eyes and flopped dramatically back into pace. “Fine, fine, but that was adorable.”

Izuku wanted to vanish.

The redhead turned to him next, tone softer. “Ignore him. He gets excited when he gets to escort someone.”

Izuku glanced up.

“…You’re from Draconis, right?” Izuku asked quietly.

“Born and raised,” he said. “I’m Eijiro.”

Izuku nodded slowly. “I’m—I mean, you probably already know—”

“We do,” Eijiro said gently. “But it’s nice to hear you say it.”

Izuku hesitated. “I’m Izuku. Izuku Midoriya.”

Eijiro smiled. “It’s good to meet you, Midoriya.”

“‘Izuku’,” Denki corrected with a grin. “We’re not that formal.”

Eijiro shot him a look. Denki ignored it.

Izuku let his grip loosen on the strap of his bag. “Do you know… how long it’ll take to get to the castle?” he asked.

Eijiro looked toward the slope ahead. “We’ll reach the outskirts of the kingdom by nightfall and the main gate by morning.”

Izuku nodded, not knowing if he should be relieved or terrified—maybe both.

“Are you always the ones sent to get the… the sacrifices?” he asked.

Denki grimaced. “Usually it’s just one of us. Depends on who’s free or who owes the prince a favor.”

“…So why both of you this time?”

Denki and Eijiro exchanged a look.

Neither answered immediately.

Then Eijiro said, “Sometimes the prince has… preferences.”

Izuku’s heart thumped in his chest.

“…You mean he requested both of you?”

“I mean,” Denki drawled, “he’s not usually this picky. You must’ve caught his eye.”

“I haven’t even met him.”

Denki shrugged. “That’s never stopped him before.”

Eijiro gave him a look.

Izuku walked in silence after that, his hands clutched tight around his bag strap again, thoughts spiraling faster than his feet could carry him.

The castle wasn’t far now… and neither was the dragon.

✦◦❀◦✦

They stopped to rest beside a cluster of stones where the trees thinned into sparse, golden grass. The sun had crept higher through the clouds, washing the valley below in pale yellow light.

Denki flopped down dramatically onto one of the stones, sighing like they’d been walking for days. “Ugh, my legs. I vote we nap here for the rest of the day—the castle can wait.”

Eijiro snorted. “We’ve been walking for two hours.”

“I stand by what I said.”

Izuku settled on the grass instead, tucking his knees close and slipping his pack off his shoulder. His hands still trembled a little as he opened the satchel.

Inside, tucked carefully into the side pouch, were a few soft cloth packets of food. He pulled one out and unwrapped the linen—bright red berries glistened inside, still cool from the morning air.

He popped one into his mouth and chewed slowly. They were tarty, sweet; his favorite kind.

Denki leaned over. “What’ve you got?”

“Just some berries,” Izuku mumbled, wiping juice off his lip.

Denki let out a dramatic sigh. “Must be nice. I’d kill for some berries.”

“I wouldn’t say that around a sheep,” Eijiro muttered, pulling a thin packet of cured meat from his belt pouch.

Izuku stiffened.

He tried not to stare as Eijiro tore into the dried beef, and even more when Denki did the same, pulling what looked like a small meat-stuffed roll from a pocket near his hip.

His stomach twisted.

It wasn’t rational—he knew that. He’d been raised on stories of dragons eating sheep, of course, but everyone in Emerald Vale was. It didn’t matter if it was true. It just mattered that he’d heard it enough to flinch when someone like Eijiro licked his fingers clean.

Denki must’ve caught the look on his face.

“Oh shit,” he said around a mouthful. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think—should I eat somewhere else? I can hide behind a tree if you want.”

Izuku blinked. “What? No—I mean, it’s fine. You don’t have to—”

“I’ll do it! I swear. I’ve never eaten anyone’s cousin or anything.”

Izuku nearly choked on his berry.

Eijiro rolled his eyes. “He’s joking. Mostly.”

Denki grinned, unfazed. “Listen, I know it’s gotta be weird. Dragons don’t have the best reputation.”

Izuku didn’t answer, looking down at the berries in his palm.

“I mean, it’s not completely inaccurate,” Denki added. “But it’s not like we’re out here picking off sheep hybrids on the roadside. We’ve got livestock, trade routes—cuisine.”

“Denki,” Eijiro warned.

“What? He’s gonna find out eventually.”

Izuku’s voice was small. “So… there are sheep hybrids in Draconis?”

Eijiro hesitated.

“Yes. There’s… some.”

Izuku didn’t ask more. He didn’t need to.

His village wasn’t the only one. There were others—must be others—who had offered up their sons and daughters under the weight of tradition. Maybe not all were sacrificed; maybe some had simply vanished into the castle’s halls.

“How are they treated?” he asked quietly.

Denki chewed slowly this time. “Depends on who owns them.”

Izuku’s mouth went dry.

Eijiro cut in quickly. “Things have changed over the years. It’s not like it used to be. Prince Katsuki doesn’t allow cruelty in the palace—not if he sees it. He doesn’t keep… livestock. He has staff, soldiers, and advisors.”

“And sacrifices,” Izuku whispered before he could stop himself.

Neither envoy responded.

The wind rustled through the tall grass around them.

Izuku looked down at the little cluster of berries left in his lap.

“I don’t eat just plants,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Denki looked up.

Izuku didn’t meet his eyes. “Not all sheep hybrids do. Some of us eat fish. Eggs. Dairy.”

“Really?” Denki blinked. “Huh. Learn something new every day.”

Eijiro smiled faintly. “Told you he was more than just berries.”

They finished their break in near silence. Izuku wrapped the rest of the berries up and slid them back into his pack. The sun had climbed higher by then, brushing the treetops with gold.

“Should probably get moving,” Eijiro said, rising to his feet.

“Yeah, yeah,” Denki sighed, brushing crumbs from his lap. “Duty calls.”

Izuku stood last.

His stomach was full, but his chest felt heavy. The path to Draconis stretched out before them again—longer now, darker even in the light.

He pulled his hood up again, and followed the dragons into the trees.

✦◦❀◦✦

They walked for hours.

The trees thinned further the deeper they went, giving way to fields and soft rolling hills. Izuku had never seen so much open land in his life—not like this. Back home, the trees were thick and knotted, and the sky was always filtered through leaves. Here, it stretched wide overhead, painted in swathes of gold and orange as the sun began its slow descent toward the hills.

Every few steps, something new caught his eye. A blue flower the size of his palm, its petals shimmering like glass. A bird with two tails, darting through the sky with a sharp cry. Trees with pale white bark and curling leaves, leaves that shimmered when the wind touched them.

He’d only ever seen these things in books.

It was like the world was unfolding for him for the first time—and yet, all he could think about was the home he’d left behind.

Inko.

She’d smiled when he left. Smiled through trembling lips, teary eyes. She didn’t say much—not after that last hug at the border—but Izuku had seen the way she stood like she was trying not to fall apart in front of the envoys.

She was alone now.

Izuku’s chest twisted.

First his father—now him.

The stories always said his father had been brave. That he’d gone willingly. That he’d been chosen because he was strong, capable, a protector of the village. But Izuku had seen the letters stop coming. He’d watched Inko cry herself to sleep at night, thinking he couldn’t hear.

He wasn’t strong like his father.

And now she was left with nothing but silence.

He touched his horns again, fingers brushing along the curve.

They passed a narrow brook in the field. Eijiro knelt beside it, scooping water into his palms and splashing it on his face.

“We’ll rest soon,” he said. “It’s better if we reach the edge of the border before nightfall.”

“Will we make it?” Izuku asked softly.

Denki grinned, arms stretched behind his head again. “We’re fast walkers. You’re doing pretty good for someone with those little legs.”

Izuku frowned. His feet were sore, but he wasn’t about to slow them down.

✦◦❀◦✦

They reached the outskirts of Draconis by twilight.

Izuku didn’t realize it at first. There wasn’t a line or a sign, but the wind that had once been light and playful now carried heat. The scent of ash danced in the breeze.

Denki came to a stop in a clearing between two sloping hills. “Alright, let’s call it here.”

“Good enough for a fire?” Eijiro asked, already dropping his pack.

“Yeah. Just gotta be careful—don’t want the prince chewing us out if we start a field fire.”

Izuku hesitated as they began to settle in, watching Denki pull a little flint stone from his coat and start gathering twigs.

The idea of sleeping in the open made his skin crawl.

Izuku sat slowly, hugging his knees as Denki got the fire going.

The sky bled purple as the sun finally slipped away. The fire popped once, sending little sparks curling up into the dark.

Eijiro handed him a blanket from his bag, the fabric thick and warm.

“Try to sleep soon,” he said. “You’ll want the energy.”

Izuku nodded, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. The heat helped, a little, but the ache in his chest didn’t go away.

He stared into the flames and imagined Inko alone in the cottage.

He wondered if she’d eaten. If she’d locked the door. If she’d cried again.

He pressed his fingers to his horns once more.

He’d never been this far from home before.

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever make it back.

✦◦❀◦✦

The fire had dimmed to embers by the time Izuku stirred.

A gentle tap came to his shoulder—once, twice—followed by a voice.

“Hey, Izuku. C’mon, rise and shine.”

He blinked awake, breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he forgot where he was.

Then he saw Denki crouched beside him, cheeks puffed from a half-stifled yawn. He nudged the fire with a stick, letting the last few sparks flare before kicking dirt over the ashes.

“Big day,” Denki grinned, teeth flashing. “Gotta get you all polished up for the prince.”

Izuku’s stomach twisted.

He sat up slowly, blinking sleep from his eyes, and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

A few feet away, Eijiro stood with his arms crossed, facing the road ahead. His jaw was tense.

By the time Izuku pulled on his cloak and packed his few things, the warmth of the sunrise was already climbing. It wasn’t soft like Emerald Vale’s warmth. It was dry, heavy, and sharp.

“Let’s move before it gets worse,” Eijiro said.

They walked in silence for the first stretch, boots crunching against dry earth and gravel. The grass changed—shorter, golden, crisp. The trees were thinner here, too. Pale bark, strange flowers growing along their roots in sprays of red and indigo.

The color of it reminded him of the storybooks his mother used to read when he was small—before she realized bedtime tales made him too curious.

Still, he couldn’t help but glance around at everything they passed.

Denki caught him staring more than once.

“You’re gonna trip if you keep looking around like that,” he teased.

Izuku flushed and turned his gaze to the dirt path.

Eijiro, however, slowed his pace until he was walking right beside him.

“Pretty, huh?”

Izuku nodded. “It’s… more than I expected.”

Eijiro’s lips quirked into a half-smile, but the look in his eyes didn’t match the lightness. He glanced ahead, then back again, lowering his voice even further.

“It’s not always safe, though—especially not for someone like you.”

Izuku blinked. “…What do you mean?”

“You’ve got that look about you,” Eijiro said. “Like you’re lost. Like you’re scared.”

Izuku looked away.

“You need to stay with us at all times. No wandering off. No getting curious.”

Izuku gulped. “…Is it really that dangerous?”

“For most people? No.” Eijiro sighed through his nose. “But for a sheep hybrid like you? Yeah.”

Izuku hesitated. “Because I’m…”

“Rare,” Eijiro said, not unkindly. “Young. Fertile. You’ve got that scent. Doesn’t take much for the wrong kind of person to sniff it out.”

Izuku’s face went hot. He clutched his cloak tighter.

Denki, still a few paces ahead, turned back and added, “Don’t worry, though! If anyone so much as touches you, we’ll eat ’em alive.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Izuku muttered, cheeks puffed.

“I’m just trying to make you feel safe!” Denki laughed.

Eijiro rolled his eyes again. “Seriously, though. Stay close. Draconis isn’t like your village. There are laws, but there are also… loopholes. You’re under the Crown’s protection now, but not everyone respects that.”

Izuku nodded, mouth suddenly dry.

They walked a little faster after that.

And as the sun climbed higher, the dirt road gave way to the first signs of stone—blackened, smooth, and streaked with strange glowing moss.

Izuku didn’t realize he’d crept closer to Eijiro until he felt the warmth of his arm beside his own.

They reached the gates of Draconis just as the sun crested high in the sky.

Izuku could barely breathe.

Twin towers loomed above, carved from blackened stone that shimmered faintly in the heat. Spikes lined the battlements like teeth, and narrow crimson banners hung heavy between them, embroidered with the dragon sigil in gold—a long, coiling serpent with wings spread wide and claws outstretched.

The gates themselves were massive, carved with runes Izuku didn’t recognize.

Two guards stood at attention.

They were massive—both dragon hybrids, clearly. One had gray scales crawling up his jaw; the other had ridged horns that curled close to his scalp. Their armor was dark and barbed, trimmed in red. Neither smiled.

But they knew Eijiro and Denki.

The redhead stepped forward first, nodding. “We’re back.”

One of the guards grunted. The other shifted his gaze… straight to Izuku.

He felt the weight in that stare, hot and invasive.

The guard didn’t say a word—but his eyes traveled down Izuku’s horns and to the curve of his shoulders.

Izuku clutched the strap of his pack tighter.

Denki stepped in between them casually, whistling low. “Eyes up, soldier. He’s not yours to look at.”

The guard blinked, then looked away.

The gates opened with a low, echoing groan.

Izuku flinched as they passed under the arch.

Draconis swallowed him whole.

The capital city spilled out beyond the gates like a fever dream. Stone walkways twisted and wound between towering buildings built from smooth black rock, lit by floating lanterns that shimmered gold in the daylight. Crimson ivy coiled up the sides of houses.

Everywhere he looked, there was color. Gold-threaded cloths strung over the market paths; red-tiled roofs gleamed in the sun; banners in black and crimson fluttered from every corner.

People bustled through the streets—some humans, some dragon hybrids, others something else entirely. Izuku saw a woman with broad, teal wings selling blackened fruit; a man with glowing red eyes bartered for silk.

And all of them looked at him.

Not all at once, not always directly—but he felt it.

They knew he was different.

They knew he didn’t belong.

Denki and Eijiro stayed close—closer than before. They didn’t talk much now. Denki kept his arms loose, but Izuku saw the way his eyes scanned every corner. Eijiro was tense. His tail, faintly scaled at the base, twitched behind him with every turn they made.

The castle came into view as they rounded a bend in the stone path.

Izuku’s breath caught.

It was massive.

Perched on a raised cliff of smooth black rock, the castle of Draconis stretched upward in jagged towers and coiled spires. Thick crimson vines crawled across its surface like veins, blooming with dark red flowers the size of Izuku’s fists. The gate was a wide-mouthed arch framed in dragon statues with ruby eyes, and above it all flew the largest banner he’d seen yet—black and gold and blood-red.

The steps to the front doors stretched wide.

Izuku’s legs moved without permission, one step after another, cloak fluttering behind him in the hot wind.

This was it.

The place he would serve.

The place he might die.

His throat tightened.

He hadn’t expected beauty.

He hadn’t expected awe.

But even now, with sunlight gilding the castle’s peak and petals falling like red snow from the vines above—

All he could think about was the dragon waiting inside.

They approached the massive front doors. Twin iron panels, blackened with age and soot, stood at least three times his height. They bore the sigil of the dragon again—coiled and fanged, wings spread to blot out the sun.

Eijiro pushed the doors open with both hands.

Inside, the halls stretched tall and wide, supported by thick black pillars etched with gold script. Crimson drapes fell from ceiling to floor in long, heavy folds, and faint torchlight flickered against the carved stone.

The moment they crossed the threshold, Denki threw his arms wide. “So… what do you think? Pretty grand, huh?”

Izuku flinched at the echo in the hall. His cloak swished with every step, catching heat from the torches.

He cleared his throat. “Where are we going?”

Eijiro didn’t stop walking. “Throne room.”

Izuku’s blood went cold.

“That’s where Prince Katsuki handles most… decisions,” Eijiro added carefully.

Denki offered a lopsided grin. “It’s not that bad. You probably won’t die or anything.”

Izuku didn’t laugh.

They passed under a high archway, the hall narrowing slightly. Servants moved in silence along the walls, most carried trays or scrolls.

But some looked up.

One pair of maids stopped in their tracks, eyes falling to the curve of Izuku’s horns. Their gazes lingered, and one of them whispered behind her hand.

Izuku turned his face away.

Up ahead, the corridor flared wider again—and at the end stood a second pair of doors. Even taller. Even heavier.

Two soldiers flanked them, each baring halberds crossed against the threshold.

Eijiro gave them a nod.

The soldiers stepped aside.

And the doors opened.

Izuku’s breath hitched.

The throne room was massive.

The walls were a mosaic of black stone veined with red. A wide crimson carpet ran the length of the hall, flanked by twin rows of massive pillars carved with dragons—each one snarling.

And at the far end of the room, upon a raised platform of cracked onyx and coiled stone—

Sat the prince.

Izuku stopped walking.

Eijiro and Denki both paused with him, but neither looked back.

Prince Katsuki Bakugou lounged in his throne as if the seat of power beneath him was just another piece of furniture. He wore no crown—just a fur-lined crimson cloak thrown over a leather tunic laced open at the chest, faint scale ridges catching the torchlight. Bracers of dark steel gripped his forearms, belts strapped across his waist, boots heavy and fur-trimmed.

His legs spread wide in a display of confidence, one muscular arm draped over the throne’s edge like he owned the entire mountain.

Which he did.

Those molten red eyes locked onto Izuku the moment the doors opened.

He was nothing like Izuku imagined.

He looked nothing like a prince.

He looked like a predator.

Izuku couldn’t move. His throat locked tight, his legs cold with fear.

This was the dragon.

This was the fire that razed forests, the fangs behind the kingdom’s legacy—the reason his people lived in fear.

He bowed too quickly, nearly dropping to his knees before catching himself, hands trembling as he fixed his gaze on the marble floor.

Silence hung in the air until it cracked with a soft, low chuckle.

“Scared, lamb?”

The words rasped out in a gravelly voice.

Izuku stiffened, every muscle locked as those footsteps closed in

He didn’t dare lift his eyes. His stomach twisted, every instinct in his body screaming to run.

Heat closed in, a breath brushing his cheek—and then a wet, searing tongue dragged upward in a slow stripe, forked tip flicking against his skin from throat to face.

Izuku jolted with a strangled squeak, the sound caught between a gasp and a bleat.

Prince Katsuki stepped away, voice edged with a smirk. “Tastes about right.”

Izuku didn’t move—didn’t breathe.

Were the stories true?

Did dragons still eat sheep?

Was he just getting… tenderized?

“Denki,” Katsuki barked lazily. “Eijiro.”

The envoys straightened.

“Show him around. Make his sleeping quarters known.”

“Yes, my prince,” they answered in unison.

Izuku’s knees nearly buckled.

He’d survived.

He’d survived.

But as Eijiro gently touched his shoulder and turned him toward the side doors—

Izuku didn’t look back.

He could feel those eyes still watching him.

The moment the throne room doors shut behind them, Izuku let out a shaky breath.

Denki snorted. “Holy shit.”

Izuku flinched.

Denki spun on him, eyes wide, grin too sharp. “Did he just—he totally did. He licked you. I mean, I saw it happen, but I still don’t believe it.”

“Denki,” Eijiro muttered.

“No, no, I’m sorry, but that was insane. He doesn’t even do that to envoys, and I’ve been serving him for years! Usually it’s just—” he hunched his shoulders, baring his teeth—“a snarl, maybe a puff of smoke. But you—”

“He licked me,” Izuku whispered.

“Yeah, man. Right up the neck.” Denki’s grin widened. “Like he was tasting honey off a spoon.”

Izuku paled.

Eijiro sighed and moved ahead, steering them into a narrower hall. The grandeur lessened here: stone walls, utilitarian torches, iron sconces instead of gold.

“Look, it’s not as strange as it sounds,” Eijiro said over his shoulder. “Dragons have their own customs.”

Izuku blinked. “That’s… a custom?”

“Kinda.” Eijiro shrugged. “Some of the stronger ones—royals especially—use scent or taste to make a first impression. It’s like a signature. A personal stamp.”

“But… licking—”

“It isn’t always romantic,” Eijiro cut in quickly. “Could be dominance. Could be curiosity. Could just mean he doesn’t hate you. Sometimes it’s political, sometimes it’s personal. But… it’s exceedingly rare with hybrids. Especially sheep.”

“Especially cute sheep,” Denki added with a wink.

Izuku flushed scarlet.

“Most dragons don’t interact with sheep at all,” Eijiro went on. “There’s too much old blood between the clans. Too many stories.” His expression softened. “You’re an anomaly. Whatever his reasoning, that’s for certain.”

Izuku lifted his head, throat tight.

Eijiro’s gaze met his, steady. “He noticed you.”

They turned a corner, and air grew warmer, sweet with something that made Izuku’s skin prickle.

He was too drained to question it. “How much farther?” His voice cracked softer than he meant.

“Not far,” Denki said. “We figured you’d want to rest.”

Izuku nodded quickly, too drained for words. All he wanted was to wash; the burn of that lick still clung to his skin.

They passed door after door until Eijiro stopped before an exceptionally tall pair adorned with dragon carvings.

Izuku tilted his head. “…Is this a guest room?”

Eijiro and Denki both looked away.

Denki cleared his throat. “Not exactly.”

Izuku blinked. “Oh. Then… a servant’s quarters?”

More silence.

Eijiro rubbed the back of his neck. “No. It’s… the prince’s private chambers.”

Izuku’s stomach dropped. His gaze darted to the tall, carved doors again. “What?”

“You’re staying in his room,” Denki said sheepishly. “He doesn’t let anyone else in there. Not even maids. But… yeah. It’s been cleared for you.”

Izuku’s throat went dry. “But… why?”

Neither answered.

Denki offered a weak shrug. “I guess that’s his call to make.”

Izuku stared at the doors like they might sprout fangs and devour him whole. He didn’t want to know what else waited inside.

Eijiro opened the doors. “There’s a bath down the left hallway. Clean linens, soaps, anything you need. Someone will bring food if you’re hungry.”

Izuku stepped in slowly, eyes wide. The chamber was massive—yet warm. The stone floors were buried beneath thick crimson rugs. The bed loomed impossibly large, layered in black velvet and gold silk. A fire glowed in the hearth, light spilling over bookshelves and half-lit candles.

Izuku swallowed.

“Sleep well, little lamb,” Denki said with a wink, pulling the doors shut behind them.

Izuku stood alone in the quiet. His hands rose to his horns.

They were hot to the touch.

Izuku let his fingers drift down from his horns to the base of his neck, still tingling from where the prince's tongue had touched him.

He licked me.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to scream or scrub his skin raw, so instead, he turned toward the bathing corridor.

The doors shut behind him with a soft click.

The bathing chamber was just as grand as the rest of the room—black stone tiles veined with shimmering red, carved dragon fixtures at each corner of the massive tub with mouths agape and steam still curling from between their sculpted fangs. Towels so thick and plush they could be mistaken for cloaks were folded neatly on marble shelves.

And the water…

It was so hot it made him hiss when he dipped his foot in—but once he sank into it, the heat soothed the ache from his legs, the sting in his shoulders, the weight in his spine. He sank lower until only his mouth and nose were above the surface.

The soap smelled of cedar, and he scrubbed carefully at his arms, his chest, his throat. When his fingers brushed the spot on his neck, he hesitated.

The lick.

He pressed his palm to it gently, then wiped again.

He stayed until his skin pruned and the fire in his limbs faded to dull warmth, only then rising to dry off with one of the castle's towels before padding back into the bedroom.

Everything was too much.

The bed.

The rugs.

The silence.

The closet was half open, revealing rows of neatly folded garments made for someone broader, taller—every sleeve drooped, every collar hung loose. He found something comfortable: a soft, black sleep shirt long enough to reach his thighs and a little too open at the collar.

He didn't let himself think too hard about whose shirt it might be.

After folding his own clothes and stacking them near the foot of the bed, he climbed in quietly, carefully. The sheets were cool silk, and the bed felt like clouds wrapped in fire. Izuku turned to one side, then the other, but the silence filled his ears—no wind, no mother in the kitchen humming over soup.

He swallowed hard, his hand reaching for his horns.

He missed home. He missed the noise of home—the clatter of ladles, the feel of worn wood beneath his feet. Even the quiet mornings where nothing happened. This place was too much, and he was too smallinside it.

His eyes burned. He didn't want to cry, refused to let himself, but when he squeezed his eyes shut, Monoma's smirk flashed behind his lids.

I suggest Midoriya Izuku for this year's sacrifice.

He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, burying his face in the pillow and biting down hard on the edge of it to keep from sobbing out loud.

That bastard.

He knew what he was doing, wanted this, wanted him gone—wanted him to be taken by a dragon. By the Crown Prince of Draconis.

Izuku pressed his palms over his face. He didn't want to be treasure or to be licked or possessed—he just wanted to go home.

But the gates were closed behind him now, and tomorrow, he'd belong to the fire.

⟢✹⟣

The throne room was too loud.

Even after the doors shut and the clatter of boots vanished down the halls, Katsuki still heard the bleat—tiny and panicked, ripped straight from the trembling throat of that rare little lamb.

He licked his fangs, still tasting him. Sweet. Faintly herbal. Fertile.

He scoffed under his breath as he stalked down the empty corridor, flame lanterns flickering high above while the stone remained cool beneath his feet.

The boy had no idea what that lick meant.

Good.

Let him tremble, let him squirm, let him think.

His chamber doors were cracked open—just as he’d left them—and the scent hit him the moment he stepped inside.

Wool. Salt. Home.

His eyes landed on the bed where a small body huddled under his sheets, chest rising and falling slow.

Katsuki stared for a moment, then turned toward the bath.

The heat curled up around him immediately when he stepped in—his own bath already drawn. He stripped with lazy fingers, dropping his clothes to the side, claws catching faintly on the buttons. The water welcomed him as he sank in deep, letting it rise to his chin, stripping the day away.

The boy hadn’t even noticed what kind of room he was in—or maybe he had, maybe he was just in shock. The kind of dazed stillness Katsuki recognized in prey when it was too late to run.

He hadn't missed the horns or the faint scent beneath the fear. He’d noticed him from the moment he stepped into the room, though he didn't say anything about it then. Dragons didn’t need words when their tongues did the talking.

Katsuki smirked under the water, then rose, skin steaming as he stepped out. He didn’t bother with a robe—just dried off and pulled on the light cotton briefs kept in the upper drawer. Sleepwear, technically. Thin and snug.

When he stepped back into the main room, the scent had thickened. He hadn’t even touched the boy yet, but the bed had soaked him up.

Katsuki padded over slowly, hips loose and arms heavy with heat, his eyes landing on the lump under the covers—facing the far side of the bed, knees drawn in, one arm curled under the pillow. Tiny. So fucking small.

He climbed in behind him, letting the sheets warm from the bathwater still clinging to his skin while they remained cooler where the boy’s body didn't reach. He let the weight settle, let himself breathe in slow, let himself be close.

Then he reached forward and wrapped one hand around the soft curve of the lamb’s waist, gripping him possessive and firm, but not cruel.

His.

The boy flinched slightly in his sleep but didn't wake.

Katsuki smirked. Dragons kept their treasure. And this one? This one had teeth. He could see it in the way he didn’t scream, in the way he bowed so fast it nearly broke him.

He’d bend, but he wouldn’t break. For now, at least.

Katsuki leaned in, letting his breath ghost over a soft ear.

“Mine” he whispered, just once, and then closed his eyes.

Chapter Text

The first thing Izuku noticed was warmth.

Not the gentle warmth of morning sunlight through his bedroom window back home, but something heavier. More immediate. The kind of heat that seemed to seep through his skin and settle in his bones.

The second thing he noticed was that he wasn’t alone.

His eyes fluttered open to find himself pressed against something solid and warm. An arm was draped across his waist, fingers splayed possessively over his ribs. He could feel the steady rise and fall of breathing against his back, and the faint tickle of hair against his neck.

Oh gods.

Memory crashed back in waves—the village meeting, the walk to Draconis, the throne room, and that lick. His face burned at the thought. He’d fallen asleep in the dragon prince’s bed, and now…

Now Prince Katsuki was holding him.

Izuku’s heart hammered against his ribs as he tried to remain perfectly still. Maybe if he didn’t move, didn’t breathe too loudly, he could pretend this wasn’t happening. Maybe the prince would wake up and move away on his own, and they could both pretend—

“You’re awake.”

The voice was rough with sleep, gravelly in a way that made Izuku’s stomach flutter traitorously. He felt rather than saw Katsuki shift behind him, the arm around his waist tightening slightly.

“I—” Izuku’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I didn’t know you’d be sleeping here.”

A low chuckle rumbled against his back. “It’s my bed, lamb.”

The casual endearment sent heat rushing to Izuku’s cheeks. He tried to scoot forward, to put some distance between them, but Katsuki’s arm held him firm.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I just thought—I should probably—” Izuku’s words tangled together as he felt Katsuki’s breath ghost over the shell of his ear.

“Thought what? That you could run away?” There was amusement in the prince’s voice, but underneath it was something harder. Something that made Izuku’s instincts scream predator.

“N-no, I wasn’t—”

“Good.” Katsuki’s grip loosened slightly, but he didn’t move away. “Because you’re mine now. Better get used to it.”

The words sent a shiver down Izuku’s spine, part fear and part something else he didn’t want to examine too closely. He’d known this moment would come—had known from the second he was chosen that his life would no longer be his own. But hearing it stated so matter-of-factly, feeling the weight of those words settle over him like chains…

“What does that mean?” he whispered.

Katsuki was quiet for so long that Izuku began to wonder if he’d fallen back asleep. Then, slowly, the prince pulled away and sat up. Izuku immediately missed the warmth, though he’d never admit it.

“It means,” Katsuki said, running a hand through his messy blond hair, “that you belong to me. You’ll do what I say, when I say it. You’ll stay where I put you, and you’ll learn what I teach you.”

Izuku turned to face him, pulling the sheets up to his chest. In the morning light filtering through the tall windows, Prince Katsuki looked different than he had in the throne room. Less intimidating, maybe. More human. His hair was mussed from sleep, and there were pillow creases on one side of his face.

“And if I don’t want to?” The question slipped out before Izuku could stop it, born from some deep well of stubbornness he’d inherited from his father.

Katsuki’s eyes sharpened, molten red fixing on him with an intensity that made Izuku want to shrink into the mattress. “Then you’ll learn why dragons are feared.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, the air between them crackling with tension. Finally, Izuku lowered his gaze.

“I understand.”

“Do you?” Katsuki leaned closer, and Izuku caught the scent of smoke and cedar that seemed to cling to his skin. “Because understanding and accepting are two different things.”

Before Izuku could respond, there was a sharp knock at the door.

“Come in,” Katsuki called, not bothering to lower his voice or move away from Izuku.

The door opened to reveal a small parade of people—tailors, by the look of their measuring tapes and fabric samples. They filed in with practiced efficiency, bowing quickly to the prince before setting up their supplies.

“What’s this about?” Izuku asked, clutching the sheet tighter.

“You can’t walk around my castle looking like a scarecrow,” Katsuki said bluntly. “They’re here to fit you properly.”

Izuku’s face burned. “Can’t this wait until—”

“No.” Katsuki stood, unselfconscious in his state of undress. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can move on to more important things.”

One of the tailors, an elderly woman with silver hair pulled into a severe bun, approached the bed. “If you would stand please, young man. We’ll need to take measurements.”

Izuku looked between her and Katsuki, panic rising in his chest. “Here? Now? With—”

“They’ve seen bodies before,” Katsuki said dismissively. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

The next few minutes were a blur of measuring tapes and muttered calculations. Izuku stood frozen as hands moved over his arms, chest, and legs, taking note of every dimension. The tailors worked with clinical efficiency, but he could feel their curious glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. They knew what he was—what he represented.

A sacrifice. A curiosity. Something rare and valuable.

“He’ll need formal wear for court appearances,” Katsuki was saying from where he’d settled into a chair by the window. He’d pulled on a robe at some point, though he hadn’t bothered to tie it closed. “Something that shows his status but doesn’t make him look like he’s playing dress-up.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” The head tailor made notes on a small pad. “And for daily wear?”

“Comfortable, but quality. I don’t want him looking like a servant.”

Izuku flinched at the casual way Katsuki spoke about him, as if he weren’t standing right there. As if he were a doll being dressed rather than a person with thoughts and feelings.

“What about colors?” another tailor asked. “Something to complement his coloring, perhaps?”

Katsuki’s gaze swept over Izuku appraisingly, and he had to resist the urge to cover himself despite still wearing his sleep clothes. “Greens. Deep blues. Nothing too bright—I don’t want him looking like a peacock.”

The measurements continued in relative silence after that. Izuku endured it as best he could, trying to focus on anything other than the way Katsuki’s eyes tracked his every movement. When the tailors finally finished and began packing their supplies, he let out a shaky breath of relief.

“We’ll have the first set ready by tomorrow evening, Your Highness,” the head tailor promised with another bow.

“See that you do.” Katsuki’s tone brooked no argument.

Once they were alone again, silence settled over the room like a heavy blanket. Izuku remained by the bed, uncertain whether he should sit or stand or try to find somewhere else to be. Everything felt too intimate, too charged with possibility.

“Nervous?” Katsuki asked, and there was something almost like amusement in his voice.

“Shouldn’t I be?” Izuku shot back, then immediately regretted the sharp tone. He expected anger, maybe even punishment, but Katsuki just laughed.

“Yeah,” he said, standing and moving toward the bathing chamber. “You probably should be.”

The words sent another shiver through Izuku, but this time he couldn’t tell if it was fear or anticipation.

✦◦❀◦✦

After the tailors left, silence settled over the room like dust. Izuku remained by the bed, uncertain whether he should sit or stand or find somewhere else to be entirely. Everything felt charged with possibility and danger in equal measure.

Katsuki moved to the window, pulling his robe closed with lazy fingers. The morning light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. Even clothed, he looked predatory.

“You’re wondering what comes next,” Katsuki said without turning around.

It wasn’t a question. Izuku’s throat worked as he tried to find his voice. “Yes.”

“Smart.” Katsuki faced him then, arms crossed. “Most sacrifices spend their first day crying or trying to escape. You’re actually thinking.”

The casual way he said ‘sacrifices’—plural—made Izuku’s stomach clench. “What happened to the others?”

Katsuki’s mouth curved into something that might have been a smile if it had been warmer. “Depends. Some were useful. Most weren’t.”

“Useful how?”

“Servants. Entertainment. Breeding stock.” Each word was delivered with clinical precision. “A few got eaten when they proved too troublesome.”

Izuku’s hands clenched at his sides. The matter-of-fact tone was somehow worse than threats would have been.

“Which one am I supposed to be?”

Katsuki’s eyes sharpened with what looked like approval. “That depends on you.”

He moved closer, close enough that Izuku caught the scent of smoke and cedar that seemed to cling to his skin. “Here’s how this works, lamb. You belong to me now. Not partially, not temporarily. Completely.”

Izuku forced himself not to step back. “I know that.”

“Do you? Because knowing and accepting are different things.” Katsuki circled him slowly, like a predator evaluating prey. “You’ll serve me. Fetch things when I need them. Stand where I tell you to stand. Attend court at my side when I require it.”

“Like a servant.”

“No.” The word cracked like a whip. “Servants get paid. Servants can quit. You can’t.”

Izuku’s breath came shorter. “Then what am I?”

Katsuki stopped in front of him, close enough that Izuku had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes. “You’re mine. My property. My… companion.”

The pause before the last word made Izuku’s cheeks burn. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Katsuki said, reaching out to brush his fingers along the curve of Izuku’s horn, “that you’ll learn to anticipate what I want before I have to ask for it. You’ll sit where I can see you. You’ll wear what I choose for you to wear.”

The touch sent electricity down Izuku’s spine. His tail twitched beneath his nightclothes.

“You’ll kneel when I tell you to kneel,” Katsuki continued, his voice dropping lower. “You’ll stay silent when I’m conducting business unless I give you permission to speak.”

“And if I don’t?”

Katsuki’s hand moved from his horn to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek. “Then you’ll learn why dragons have a reputation for being… persuasive.”

The touch was gentle, almost tender. Somehow that made it more terrifying than any threat.

“I need you to understand something,” Katsuki said, his voice taking on a different quality. “You’re not like the others who’ve been sent here. You’re rare. Valuable.”

“Because I can—” Izuku’s voice cracked. “Because of what I am.”

“Partly.” Katsuki’s thumb traced along his lower lip, and Izuku’s breath hitched. “But also because you’re not broken yet. You’ve got spirit. Intelligence.”

“Yet?”

Katsuki’s smile was sharp as a blade. “Most people break when they’re taken from everything they know. They become empty shells. Useful for some things, but not… interesting.”

Izuku swallowed hard. “And you want me to be interesting.”

“I want you to be mine,” Katsuki corrected. “Willing or not, you will obey me. But if you’re willing… if you learn to want what I want…” His thumb pressed against Izuku’s lip. “Then you might find this arrangement more pleasant than you expect.”

The words sent heat spiraling through Izuku’s belly, confusing and unwelcome. His body was responding to the touch, to the low rumble of Katsuki’s voice, even as his mind screamed danger.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered.

“You will.” Katsuki stepped back, and Izuku immediately missed the warmth. “For now, you just need to know the rules. Obey without question. Stay close unless I dismiss you. Don’t speak to anyone about our private arrangements.”

Izuku nodded, not trusting his voice.

“And Izuku?” Katsuki’s use of his name sent another shiver through him. “Don’t try to run. You wouldn’t make it past the gates, and the punishment would be… unpleasant.”

The threat hung in the air between them like smoke.

“I understand,” Izuku managed.

“Good.” Katsuki moved toward his wardrobe, dismissing him with the gesture. “Get dressed. Something simple. We start today.”

As Izuku fumbled for clothes with shaking hands, he tried to process everything he’d just heard. He was property now. A possession to be displayed and commanded and used as Katsuki saw fit.

But underneath the fear, something else was growing. Something warm and shameful that he didn’t want to examine too closely.

The dragon prince wanted him willing.

And gods help him, part of Izuku was already wondering what that might feel like.

✦◦❀◦✦

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of humiliation disguised as instruction.

Katsuki had dressed in his court attire—dark leather and crimson silk that made him look every inch the prince he was. Izuku wore borrowed clothes that hung too loose in some places and pulled too tight in others, a constant reminder that he didn’t belong here.

“When I’m working,” Katsuki said, settling into the chair behind his desk, “you kneel beside me. Not on a cushion. Not on a chair. On the floor.”

Izuku’s cheeks burned. “The floor?”

“Did I stutter?” Katsuki’s voice carried that edge that meant he was losing patience. “Kneel. Now.”

The stone was cold and hard against Izuku’s knees. He tried to find a position that didn’t make his joints ache immediately, but there wasn’t one.

Katsuki began reading through scrolls, making notes in the margins with sharp, precise strokes. Occasionally he would glance down at Izuku, studying his posture like he was evaluating livestock.

“Straighter,” he commanded without looking up from his work. “Hands on your thighs. Eyes forward.”

Izuku adjusted, his back already beginning to protest. “For how long?”

“Until I tell you to move.” Katsuki set down his quill and leaned back in his chair. “This is what you’ll do during court sessions. During meetings. During any time I’m conducting business and need you present but silent.”

“But why—”

“Because you’re mine to display however I choose.” Katsuki’s hand found its way to Izuku’s hair, fingers threading through the curls. The touch was almost gentle, which somehow made it worse. “Because seeing you kneel beside me tells everyone in this castle exactly what you are.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Izuku’s throat tightened.

“And what am I?”

Katsuki’s fingers tightened in his hair, tilting his head back until their eyes met. “You’re my pretty little lamb. My prize. My proof that even the rarest things can be claimed and kept.”

Heat flooded Izuku’s face. The casual possessiveness in Katsuki’s voice, the way his thumb brushed over Izuku’s scalp—it sent confusing signals through his body even as his mind recoiled.

“Stand,” Katsuki ordered suddenly, releasing him.

Izuku’s legs were stiff from kneeling, and he stumbled slightly as he rose. Katsuki caught his arm, steadying him, and the brief contact sent electricity up Izuku’s spine.

“When we’re in public, you walk two steps behind me. When we enter a room, you wait for permission before sitting. When someone speaks to you, you look to me first before answering.”

Each rule felt like another chain around his neck. “What if it’s an emergency?”

“Then you whisper it to me, and I decide if it’s worth acknowledging.” Katsuki moved to stand behind him, close enough that Izuku could feel the heat radiating from his body. “You’re not a person anymore, Izuku. You’re an extension of me. A reflection of my power.”

Hands settled on his shoulders, thumbs pressing against the base of his neck where it met his jaw. “The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.”

Izuku closed his eyes, trying to process the reality of his situation. Three days ago, he’d been hanging laundry in his mother’s garden. Now he was learning how to be a dragon prince’s living accessory.

“I understand,” he whispered.

“Do you?” Katsuki’s breath ghosted over his ear. “Say it back to me.”

Izuku’s voice caught. “I’m… I’m yours. An extension of your power.”

“Good.” Katsuki stepped away, and Izuku immediately missed the warmth. “We’ll practice more later. For now, you can sit while I finish this paperwork.”

Izuku sank gratefully into the chair across from Katsuki's desk, his knees still aching from the stone floor. As the prince returned to his scrolls, Izuku found himself studying the sharp line of his jaw, the way his fingers moved across the parchment with predatory grace.

He was beautiful, Izuku realized with a start. Dangerous and cruel and utterly captivating.

The thought terrified him almost as much as it thrilled him.

✦◦❀◦✦

Izuku was reading—or trying to read—when Shinsou appeared.

Katsuki had left him in the library with strict instructions not to move from the designated chair, not to touch anything without permission, and not to speak to anyone who might wander in. The book was a dry treatise on Draconis trade agreements, clearly chosen more for punishment than education.

“Comfortable?”

The voice made Izuku jump, nearly dropping the heavy tome. Shinsou stood between the shelves like a shadow given form, violet hair catching the light from the tall windows.

“I…” Izuku glanced toward the door, remembering Katsuki’s warnings about speaking to others. “I’m not supposed to—”

“Talk to strangers?” Shinsou’s smile was sharp. “How refreshing. A lamb who actually listens.”

He moved closer, footsteps silent on the polished floor. “Tell me, how are you finding your new… position?”

Izuku set the book carefully on the side table. “I don’t think I should discuss that with you.”

“Smart. But not what I asked.” Shinsou settled into the chair across from him uninvited. “You look tired. Kneeling practice?”

Heat flooded Izuku’s cheeks. How could he possibly know that?

“Your knees are red through your trousers,” Shinsou observed with clinical detachment. “And you’re sitting like someone who’s been on stone for too long. Elementary, really.”

“What do you want?” Izuku asked, trying to inject some steel into his voice.

“To give you some advice.” Shinsou leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re not safe just because he wants you.”

The words sent ice through Izuku’s veins. “What do you mean?”

“I mean Prince Katsuki has… appetites. And pretty things have a way of breaking when he gets bored with being gentle.”

Izuku’s mouth went dry. “He said I was valuable. Rare.”

“You are. But even rare things can be replaced.” Shinsou’s pale eyes were unreadable. “Especially when there’s political pressure to do so.”

“Political pressure?”

Shinsou tilted his head, studying him like a cat with a mouse. “You really don’t know, do you? About the Festival of Ash?”

“The Festival of—?”

“Next week.” Shinsou’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “The biggest political event of the year. Every major kingdom sends representatives. Prince Katsuki will be expected to make… appearances. Show his strength. Display his assets.”

The way he said ‘assets’ made Izuku’s skin crawl.

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Everything.” Shinsou stood, moving to the window. “You’ll be there, of course. On display. A lovely little lamb to show how powerful our prince is, how he can claim even the rarest prizes.”

Izuku’s hands clenched in his lap. “And?”

“And Queen Mitsuki has been making noise about grandchildren. About political marriages. About the need for proper alliances rather than…” He gestured vaguely at Izuku. “Exotic pets.”

The words hit like a slap. “I’m not a pet.”

“Aren’t you?” Shinsou’s reflection in the window glass was sharp and cruel. “You kneel when he tells you to kneel. You wear what he chooses. You speak when given permission. What would you call that?”

Izuku opened his mouth to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. Because Shinsou was right. That was exactly what he was.

“The Festival changes things,” Shinsou continued, turning back to face him. “Public scrutiny. Foreign dignitaries asking questions about the prince’s unusual… companion. Pressure to prove he’s fit to rule rather than just fit to collect pretty things.”

“You’re trying to scare me.”

“I’m trying to prepare you.” Shinsou moved closer again, close enough that Izuku caught the scent of ozone and winter air that seemed to cling to him. “Because if you think kneeling on stone is humiliating, wait until you see what public ownership looks like.”

Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Heavy boots on marble. Katsuki, returning.

Shinsou’s expression shifted instantly, becoming bored and vacant. “Enjoy your reading,” he said loudly enough to carry. “I’m sure Prince Katsuki will be pleased with your… progress.”

He was gone before Katsuki entered, slipping out through a side door like smoke dissipating.

“Was someone here?” Katsuki asked, his eyes sharp as they swept the room.

Izuku hesitated for a heartbeat. “Shinsou. He… asked about my reading.”

“And?”

“I told him I wasn’t supposed to discuss it.”

Katsuki’s expression softened slightly. “Good. What else?”

Izuku’s mouth went dry. Should he mention the warnings? The talk of political pressure and the Festival?

“Nothing else,” he lied.

Katsuki studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Come. Time for the evening meal.”

As Izuku followed him from the library, Shinsou’s words echoed in his mind. You’re not safe just because he wants you.

The Festival of Ash was coming, and with it, a test Izuku wasn’t sure he was ready for.

He just wished he knew what passing or failing might mean.

✦◦❀◦✦

That evening, Izuku dined with the dragon.

The meal was served in a high-vaulted hall flanked by iron sconces and velvet banners. A long blackwood table stretched the length of the room, but only two places were set—one at the head, one two seats down.

Katsuki sat first. Izuku hovered until the prince gestured sharply.

“Sit.”

He obeyed, heart hammering.

Servants swept in, laying platters of roasted root vegetables, stewed mushrooms, charred peaches, and fragrant herbed rice. At the center of the table sat a heavy cut of dark meat, still steaming, though Izuku couldn’t place the scent.

He didn’t ask.

As the last servant prepared to leave, Katsuki’s voice cut across the hall.

“Where are my parents?”

The servant—a middle-aged woman with graying hair—approached his chair and leaned down to whisper in his ear. Izuku caught fragments: “...the Queen wishes to speak with you about...” and “...after the evening meal...”

Katsuki’s expression darkened. His claws scraped against the table’s surface, leaving thin gouges in the wood.

“Tell her I’m occupied,” he said, voice tight with barely controlled anger.

“Your Highness, she was quite insistent—”

“I said I’m occupied.” The words came out as a low growl.

The servant bowed quickly and retreated, closing the heavy doors behind her.

Katsuki didn’t speak until they were alone.

“You eat only what I give you.”

Izuku looked up, startled by the sudden shift.

“I don’t care if you’re hungry,” Katsuki said, slicing a peach with a clawed knife, his movements sharper than before. “You wait. You take what I offer. Understood?”

Izuku nodded.

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

“Good.”

Katsuki reached across the space between them and pressed the sliver of peach to Izuku’s lips.

“Open.”

He obeyed.

The fruit was warm, syrupy-sweet, tart on his tongue. He chewed slowly.

Katsuki watched every motion of his jaw, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Sweet tooth?” he asked, voice returning to its usual low register.

Izuku swallowed. “Sometimes.”

“Don’t like meat?”

“I eat it,” Izuku said. “Just… not mutton.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed—curious, not cruel. “Personal rule?”

“Cultural,” Izuku murmured. “We don’t eat our own.”

“Hm.” Katsuki cut another piece, this time a mushroom dripping in oil and crushed herbs. He didn’t ask permission before pressing it to Izuku’s lips again.

Izuku bit down carefully.

It was good. Too good. His cheeks flushed with heat.

“Your mother fed you like this?” Katsuki asked suddenly.

Izuku blinked. “When I was small.”

A pause.

“You’re still small.”

Izuku looked down at his plate.

“Eat the rest yourself,” Katsuki said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve had my fun.”

He cut into the meat next, devouring it with casual violence—claws tearing, lips red with juice. Izuku kept his eyes on the vegetables.

But the scent of ash and cedar clung to the table, just like it clung to Katsuki’s skin.

And when the prince reached across the table to wipe a bit of peach juice from the corner of Izuku’s mouth with his thumb—

He didn’t flinch.

✦◦❀◦✦

The hall outside was darker than he expected. Izuku slipped out barefoot, the massive doors to Katsuki’s chambers clicking shut behind him. The stone floor was warm beneath his feet—some enchantment woven into the walls, no doubt—but the air was cool, touched with the scent of smoke and ivy.

His stomach was pleasantly full from the evening meal, though he’d eaten far less than Katsuki.

The prince had devoured the dark meat with an appetite that seemed almost ravenous, while Izuku had picked at the vegetables and savored the sweet peaches pressed to his lips. Even now, he could taste the lingering sweetness on his tongue.

He padded down the corridor, cloak drawn tight around his shoulders. The torches along the walls flickered low, casting shadows across the dragon-carved stone. Above him, the ceiling rose into a vaulted arch, etched with constellations he didn’t recognize.

At the end of the hall, a wide window stretched nearly floor to ceiling. No glass. Just open air framed by obsidian pillars and heavy crimson drapery. Izuku stepped closer, heart thrumming.

And there it was. Draconis.

The city below gleamed like molten gold spilled across black rock. Smoke coiled from towers shaped like talons. Rivers of light traced the roads, winding up toward the castle like veins.

For the first time since he’d arrived… Izuku wasn’t just afraid. He was in awe.

He didn’t realize how long he’d stood there until—

“Fine view, isn’t it?”

Izuku yelped. A soft, startled sound escaped him before he could stop it. He spun on his heel, heart slamming in his chest—only to find Denki leaning against the wall, arms crossed, mouth twitching with barely contained amusement.

“That sound again,” Denki said, voice pitched low to avoid carrying. “Like a startled lamb.”

Izuku’s face burned. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” Denki’s grin was gentle rather than mocking. “It’s… rather endearing, actually.”

Heat crawled up Izuku’s neck. “You frightened me.”

“My apologies.” Denki stepped closer, glancing out at the sprawling city. “Though in fairness, you’re in a castle full of dragons. A bit of wariness might serve you well.”

Izuku followed his gaze back to the view. “Do you... come here often?”

“When the prince grows particularly demanding and I need a reminder that there’s a world beyond these walls.” Denki’s tone had grown thoughtful. “Makes one feel rather insignificant, doesn’t it? All that light and life, and here we are, small figures in stone towers.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you felt small,” Izuku said quietly.

Denki laughed, but there was something rueful in it. “Oh, I’m many things. Charming, certainly. Useful when the prince requires lightning at his fingertips. But small? Absolutely.”

Despite himself, Izuku’s mouth twitched. The admission felt honest in a way that surprised him.

“Come,” Denki said, pushing off from the wall. “Best return before Katsuki wakes and decides I’ve corrupted his prize.”

They walked back in comfortable quiet, their bare feet silent on the warm stone. When they reached the prince’s chambers, Denki paused.

“Are you alright?” he asked, studying Izuku’s face in the torchlight.

Izuku considered the question. “I... don’t know.”

Denki nodded, expression unusually solemn. “Perhaps that’s enough for now. Not knowing, I mean. Better than false certainty.”

With that, he headed into the shadows of the corridor.

Izuku slipped into the chambers and closed the door as quietly as possible. The bed was still warm when he climbed back in, the sheets carrying Katsuki’s scent of smoke and something darker. He curled small beneath the covers, pulse still quick from his brief taste of freedom.

Tomorrow might bring new terrors. More kneeling, perhaps. More tests of his resolve.

But tonight, he had seen beauty in this strange place. And someone had spoken to him as though he were more than just a possession.

That had to mean something.

Chapter Text

Izuku woke to the sound of horns.

Not the usual castle bells that marked the hours, but something deeper, richer—long, resonant notes that seemed to rise from the very stones beneath him. He sat up in the oversized bed, blinking against the early morning light streaming through the tall windows.

The castle felt different, alive in a way it hadn’t before.

Footsteps echoed in the corridors outside. Voices carried on the air—not the usual hushed tones of servants going about their duties, but something more animated. Excited, even. The distant clatter of carts and the ring of metal on stone suggested preparations on a scale Izuku had never witnessed.

Beside him, Katsuki’s side of the bed was already cold.

Another horn sounded, closer this time, and Izuku could swear he felt it in his chest. Through the window, he caught glimpses of movement in the courtyards below—banners being unfurled, braziers being lit, people dressed in colors more vibrant than the usual castle garb.

The Festival of Ash. It had to be.

A sharp knock at the door made him jump.

“Enter,” came Katsuki’s voice from somewhere in the chambers.

Three servants filed in, their arms laden with fabric that seemed to shimmer even in the morning light. Behind them came a fourth figure—a stern-faced woman Izuku recognized as the head of the prince’s household staff.

“Your Highness,” she said with a precise bow. “The formal attire, as requested.”

Katsuki emerged from the adjoining bathing chamber, already dressed in what could only be described as armor disguised as court wear. Black leather molded to his frame, accented with gold clasps and crimson threading. A short cape hung from his shoulders, the fabric so dark it seemed to absorb light. He looked every inch the dragon prince.

His eyes found Izuku immediately.

“Up,” he commanded.

Izuku scrambled from the bed, suddenly conscious of how exposed he felt in the thin sleeping robe. The servants had laid out the formal wear on a nearby table, and even from a distance, he could see it was unlike anything he’d worn before.

“Leave us,” Katsuki told the servants. They bowed and departed, though the head of staff lingered a moment.

“Your Highness, the Queen requests your presence in the solar before—”

“I heard you the first time.” Katsuki’s voice carried a warning. “Tell her I’ll attend her when I’m ready.”

The woman’s jaw tightened, but she bowed again and withdrew.

Alone now, Katsuki approached the table where Izuku’s attire waited. He lifted the first piece—a sleeveless tunic of deep green silk that seemed to shift between emerald and forest tones depending on the light.

“Arms up.”

Izuku obeyed, allowing Katsuki to slip the garment over his head. The fabric was softer than anything he’d ever worn, but as it settled against his skin, he realized its true purpose. The neckline was lower than modest, designed to showcase the line of his throat. The sleeveless cut left his arms—and the soft down that covered them—fully visible.

Next came fitted trousers in matching silk, then soft leather boots that laced to his knees. But it was the final piece that made Izuku’s breath catch.

A collar.

Not crude iron or rough leather, but something beautiful and terrible in its elegance. Burnished gold set with small stones that caught the light like captured fire. It was perhaps two fingers wide, with intricate engravings that seemed to flow like script in a language he didn’t recognize.

“Turn around,” Katsuki said, lifting the collar.

Izuku’s hands trembled slightly, but he obeyed. He felt the cool metal settle against his throat, heard the soft click of a clasp being secured. The weight was minimal, but the presence was overwhelming.

Katsuki’s hands lingered at the nape of his neck for a moment longer than necessary.

“There.” The prince stepped back, studying him with critical eyes. “Better.”

Izuku caught his reflection in the polished surface of a nearby mirror and barely recognized himself. The formal wear transformed him from castle servant to something else entirely—something ornamental, precious, clearly owned.

“The collar—” he began, then stopped himself.

“What about it?” Katsuki’s tone was carefully neutral.

Izuku’s fingers rose instinctively to touch the golden band, then fell away. You didn’t ask, he wanted to say. You didn’t give me a choice.

Instead, he said nothing.

Katsuki stepped closer, studying him with the same intensity he’d shown that first day in the throne room. His gaze lingered on the line of Izuku’s throat above the collar, the way the silk clung to his frame, the visibility of his hybrid features in the formal wear.

“They need to know who you belong to,” Katsuki said finally, his voice low.

The words sent heat crawling up Izuku’s neck. Not anger—though perhaps it should have been—but something more complicated. Something that made his pulse quicken and his breath catch.

Katsuki reached out, his thumb tracing the edge of the collar where it met Izuku’s skin. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, but there was possession in it too.

“You’ll sit beside me during the ceremonies,” he said, still not moving away. “You do not speak unless spoken to directly. You do not leave my side. You do not acknowledge anyone’s authority above mine. Understood?”

“I understand.”

“Good.”

Another horn sounded outside, this one joined by others in a complex harmony. Katsuki’s head turned toward the window, and for a moment his expression grew distant.

“The Festival begins,” he said. “Draconis will show its strength today. Its wealth. Its power.” His eyes returned to Izuku. “You are part of that display now.”

A knock at the door interrupted whatever Izuku might have said in response.

“Your Highness,” came a voice from the corridor. “It’s time.”

Katsuki straightened, and in that moment the transformation was complete. Gone was any trace of the man who had fed him peaches by hand or wiped juice from his lips with gentle fingers. In his place stood the Dragon Prince of Draconis, terrible and beautiful in his authority.

“Come,” he said, not waiting to see if Izuku would follow.

But Izuku did follow, the collar warm against his throat and the silk whispering against his skin with each step. Outside, the horns continued their song, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear the sound of celebration beginning.

The Festival of Ash had begun, and he was no longer just a prisoner in golden chains.

He was part of the show.

✦◦❀◦✦

Izuku had never seen the castle so alive.

Even before they stepped into the main corridors, he could hear it—the distant sound of music layering upon music, voices raised in laughter and celebration, the crackle of magical flames that burned in colors he’d never imagined. The scent that drifted through the air was intoxicating: exotic spices, sweet incense, and something that made his hybrid senses tingle with recognition of power being worked on a grand scale.

Izuku walked two steps behind Katsuki, as he’d been taught, but his eyes couldn’t help wandering. Servants rushed past carrying platters of food that smelled of exotic spices, their usual drab uniforms replaced with festival livery of black and gold. Musicians tuned instruments in alcoves, their melodies weaving together into something hauntingly beautiful.

Through the tall windows, he caught glimpses of the courtyards below, and his breath caught.

Floating lanterns drifted between the towers like captured stars, their light painting everything in warm gold. Street performers breathed streams of colored fire into the air—not the destructive flames of dragons, but something playful, artistic. Acrobats in gossamer wings leaped between platforms suspended on nothing but air, their movements so graceful they seemed to dance with the wind itself.

“Eyes forward,” Katsuki murmured without turning around.

Izuku obeyed, but not before catching sight of a group of children chasing ribbons of light that spiraled around the courtyard like living things. Their laughter echoed up to the windows, pure and joyful in a way that made something in his chest tighten.

They passed through a great arch carved with intertwining dragons, and suddenly they were in the main courtyard—the heart of the Festival.

The space had been transformed into something from a dream. Banners stretched between the towers, each one depicting a different aspect of Draconis culture—dragons in flight, mountains wreathed in flame, stars arranged in constellations he was beginning to recognize. A raised platform dominated the center of the space, surrounded by tiered seating that could accommodate what looked like hundreds of people.

But it was the people themselves that made Izuku’s steps falter.

He’d grown accustomed to the handful of dragon hybrids he’d encountered in the castle—Katsuki, a few servants and guards. But here, gathered for the Festival, was a representation of what seemed like every corner of the realm.

Dragon hybrids, yes, but also others. Tall, elegant figures with feathered wings folded against their backs, their movements precise and birdlike. People whose skin seemed to shimmer with scales in patterns of blue and green and silver. Others who moved with an inhuman grace, as if they were more comfortable in water than on land.

“Diplomatic guests,” Katsuki said, noticing his attention. “Representatives from our allied kingdoms. Solara, Glacium, and Noctis.” His voice carried a note of pride. “The Festival of Ash is more than celebration. It’s a display of unity.”

As they moved through the crowd, Izuku became aware of the attention they were drawing. Conversations quieted as they passed. Eyes followed their movement—some curious, some calculating, all taking careful note of the golden collar at his throat and the way he walked behind the prince.

“Katsuki!”

The voice was bright, cheerful, and completely at odds with the formal atmosphere. A young woman bounded up to them, her pink skin literally glowing with excitement. Her hair was a mass of dark curls, and when she grinned, Izuku caught sight of slightly pointed teeth.

“Mina,” Katsuki said. “I wondered where you’d gotten to.”

“Setting up the acid light display with Hanta,” she said, bouncing slightly on her toes. “You should see what we’ve managed this year—we can make the lights dance in formations now, not just pretty colors.” Her bright eyes turned to Izuku, and her expression gentled. “And you must be Izuku.”

Izuku blinked, startled by the direct address. He glanced at Katsuki uncertainly.

“You can speak to her,” Katsuki said with what might have been amusement. “Mina doesn’t stand on ceremony.”

“It’s… nice to meet you,” Izuku managed.

“Oh, you’re as polite as Denki said.” Mina’s grin widened. “Don’t worry, we don’t bite. Well, I don’t. Katsuki might, but only if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Mina.” Katsuki’s voice carried a warning, but his lips twitched.

“Right, right, formal occasions.” She winked at Izuku. “Save the embarrassing stories for later. Got it.” She gestured toward a section of the courtyard where Izuku could see elaborate preparations underway. “Hanta’s over there making sure the support structures won’t collapse when we start the real show. You should come by later—both of you. It’s going to be amazing.”

“Perhaps,” Katsuki said, which seemed to be enough for Mina.

She bounced away, but not before giving Izuku another warm smile. “See you around, Izuku. Try to enjoy yourself—it’s a celebration, after all.”

As she disappeared into the crowd, Izuku found himself staring after her.

“She’s… friendly,” he said carefully.

“Mina doesn’t know how to be otherwise,” Katsuki replied. “She and Hanta have been friends with Denki and Eijiro since childhood. They’re… more relaxed about protocol.”

There was something in his tone that suggested this was both a blessing and a curse.

They continued through the courtyard, past vendors selling treats that sparkled like gems and performers who seemed to defy the very laws of nature. Izuku caught glimpses of a tall, dark-haired young man who seemed to be directing the setup of some kind of elaborate framework—Hanta, presumably—but they didn’t stop to speak with him.

The deeper they went into the Festival grounds, the more overwhelming it became. Music layered upon music, the scents of a dozen different cuisines, languages he didn’t recognize mixing with the common tongue. Children darted between the adults, many of them showing the same hybrid features he’d grown familiar with in Draconis—horns, scales, elongated ears, eyes that reflected light like a cat’s.

It was beautiful. Vibrant. Alive in a way that made his heart race with something that wasn’t quite fear.

But beneath it all, he remained acutely aware of the weight around his throat, the way conversations stopped when people noticed him, the careful distance everyone maintained from the prince and his marked companion.

He was part of the Festival now, yes—but he would always be separate from it.

✦◦❀◦✦

The Grand Hall had been transformed beyond recognition.

What was normally a formal space for court proceedings had become something from a fever dream of wealth and power. The vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadows punctuated by floating orbs of light that pulsed like heartbeats. Tapestries depicting the history of Draconis hung between pillars of black marble, each one telling a story of conquest, alliance, or triumph.

The floor had been cleared of its usual furnishings, replaced instead by a complex arrangement of raised platforms at different levels. At the highest point sat three throne-like chairs, clearly meant for the royal family. Below them, arranged in careful hierarchies, were dozens of smaller seats and standing areas for the various dignitaries and nobility.

But it was the crowd that took Izuku’s breath away.

If the courtyard had been impressive, this was overwhelming. Dragon hybrids in armor that seemed to be forged from precious metals, their scales glinting gold and copper and deep bronze. Tall figures he now recognized as being from Glacium, their pale hair shot through with silver, frost seeming to cling to their ceremonial robes. Representatives from Solara who looked as if they’d been carved from sunlight itself, their skin warm amber and their eyes like molten gold.

As they approached the entrance to the hall, a herald’s voice rang out, impossibly loud without seeming to shout.

“His Royal Highness, Prince Katsuki Bakugou, Heir to the Dragon Throne of Draconis.”

Every head turned. Every conversation stopped.

The crowd that filled the hall moved as one, sinking into bows and curtseys with a precision that spoke of years of practice. But even as they showed their respect, Izuku could feel the weight of their attention like a physical thing.

Not on Katsuki, who strode forward with the confidence of someone born to command such moments—on him.

He walked exactly two steps behind, as he’d been taught, keeping his eyes forward and his expression neutral. But he could hear the whispers that rose in their wake like smoke.

“Is that really—?”

“—sheep hybrid, they say—”

“—collar is exquisite, but still—”

“—what is the prince thinking—?”

Izuku’s cheeks burned, but he kept walking. The golden collar felt impossibly heavy around his throat.

They were perhaps halfway across the hall when someone stepped directly into their path.

It was subtle, the kind of movement that could be dismissed as accident if questioned. A young noble Izuku didn’t recognize, his eyes holding the calculating look of someone seeking to make an impression.

“Forgive me,” he said. “These crowds make it difficult to navigate properly.”

Izuku found himself directly in the man’s way, forced to stop or collide with him. He took a half-step back, automatically deferring—

And felt the deliberate pressure of a boot against his ankle, designed to make him stumble.

“Watch your step, pet,” the man said, his voice pitched just low enough that it might have been missed by anyone not paying attention.

Izuku’s heart hammered against his ribs, but before he could react, before he could even fully process what had happened, a sound cut through the suddenly tense air.

A growl.

Low, rumbling, and utterly inhuman. The kind of sound that spoke to something primal in the hindbrain, the instinctive recognition of a predator far higher on the food chain than anything else in the room.

Katsuki had turned.

His eyes blazed in a face that had gone perfectly still, perfectly controlled. But there was nothing human in his expression now, nothing civilized. For a moment, just a moment, Izuku saw exactly what he was—not a prince who happened to be part dragon, but a dragon who occasionally played at being a prince.

The noble went very pale.

“Is there a problem?” Katsuki asked, his voice conversational.

“No, Your Highness,” the man said quickly. “Simply a misunderstanding.”

“I see.” Katsuki’s gaze didn’t waver. “How fortunate that my companion is unharmed.”

The word companion carried weight, deliberate emphasis. Around them, the crowd had gone silent, everyone straining to hear what was happening.

The noble stepped back. “Of course. My apologies for any... confusion.”

He melted back into the crowd with considerably more haste than dignity.

Katsuki looked at Izuku, his expression unreadable. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Izuku managed.

“Good.”

They resumed walking, but now the crowd parted before them like water. Whatever whispers had been circulating before were nothing compared to the buzz of conversation that followed in their wake now. The message had been delivered with crystal clarity: whatever Izuku was to the prince, he was under royal protection.

They reached the raised platform where the royal family would sit, and Izuku saw that a fourth chair had been added—smaller than the others, placed slightly apart, but still clearly part of the arrangement. Beside it, a velvet cushion on the floor.

Katsuki settled into his designated seat with fluid grace. Izuku moved toward the smaller chair—

“Kneel.”

The word was quiet, meant for his ears alone. But in the sudden hush that had fallen over the nearby nobility, it carried anyway.

Izuku’s breath caught. In private, kneeling had become almost natural, a position of service and strange comfort. But here, in front of hundreds of watching eyes, it meant something else entirely.

It meant exactly what that man had called him. Pet.

But Katsuki’s eyes were on him, patient and expectant, and there was no choice to be made.

Izuku sank gracefully to his knees on the velvet cushion, his posture perfect despite the way his heart hammered against his ribs. He folded his hands in his lap and kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Around them, he heard the soft intake of breath from dozens of throats. Someone whispered something in a language he didn’t recognize. Another voice answered in what sounded like approval.

The ceremonial platform overlooked the main courtyard, offering a perfect view of the Festival’s grand displays. In the space below, fire dancers were preparing for their performance, their practice movements casting flickering shadows across the assembled crowd.

But all eyes remained on the royal platform, where the Dragon Prince sat with his collared companion kneeling beside him.

✦◦❀◦✦

The sound of approaching footsteps drew everyone’s attention—measured, regal, unmistakably authoritative. A different herald’s voice rang out across the hall.

“Their Royal Majesties, Queen Mitsuki and King Masaru, Sovereigns of Draconis.”

The crowd’s reaction was immediate and profound. If they had bowed for Prince Katsuki, they practically prostrated themselves for his parents. Even from his position on the platform, Izuku could feel the shift in the room’s energy—the way conversations didn’t just quiet, but died entirely.

Two figures swept onto the platform like forces of nature.

The woman—Queen Mitsuki, Izuku realized with a jolt of recognition—was magnificent in the most terrifying way possible. Her ash-blonde hair was elaborately arranged, held in place with pins that looked like tiny dragons wrought in gold and rubies. Her ceremonial robes flowed behind her in waves of deep burgundy and gold, and when her eyes—so like her son’s—swept across the assembled nobility, Izuku saw several people actually step back.

Behind her came a quieter but no less imposing figure. King Masaru was broader than his son, his dark hair shot through with premature silver, but his expression held the same calculating intelligence that seemed to run in the family. Where Mitsuki commanded attention through sheer force of presence, he seemed to absorb it, drawing focus through stillness rather than motion.

“Mother. Father.” Katsuki rose slightly from his chair in acknowledgment but didn’t stand fully—a subtle reminder of his own status and position.

“Katsuki.” Mitsuki’s voice carried clearly across the platform. Her gaze moved to Izuku, kneeling silently beside her son’s chair, and something flickered across her expression. “So. The sacrifice.”

A ripple went through the court—murmurs hissing like wind through grass. Izuku's chest tightened, his breath catching as if someone had struck him. The collar at his throat felt suddenly suffocating. Every noble within earshot now knew exactly what he was. The boy chosen by his village, voted for by the elders, sent as offering to Draconis. Not a guest, not a servant, but a gift meant to be given, not kept.

Mitsuki tilted her head, all silken venom. “Tell me, my son. What purpose does a sacrifice serve at the Festival of Ash? Was he not meant to be offered, not paraded? And yet here he kneels, collared like a pet.”

Izuku’s hands clenched in his lap, the collar burning heavy at his throat.

Katsuki’s jaw flexed. “He serves my purposes. That should be sufficient.”

“Should it?” Mitsuki’s smile sharpened. “Because from where I sit, he looks less like a companion and more like a prize hound. Beautiful, certainly. Well-trained, obviously. But hardly essential to the sacred rites of our people.”

Whispers spread in the crowd like wildfire. Sheep hybrids were pets, laborers, nothing more. And this one—this sacrifice—was kneeling beside the prince as though he belonged there.

“He is not a pet,” Katsuki said, his voice low and controlled.

“Isn’t he?” Mitsuki gestured delicately at Izuku. “He kneels when told. Wears what you place on him. Follows at your heel. What would you call that, if not training?”

The challenge hung, electric. Nobles leaned forward, breathless for the clash.

Katsuki leaned forward at last, predatory and deliberate. His hand curled at the back of Izuku’s neck, thumb brushing the edge of the golden collar. Izuku’s breath stuttered, heat climbing his cheeks.

“This,” Katsuki said, his voice carrying clear as a blade’s edge, “is mine.”

Before Izuku could brace, Katsuki’s other hand tilted his chin up. A forked tongue, impossibly warm, licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the side of his throat.

The hall erupted in a collective gasp, half-shock, half-hunger. Mitsuki’s composure faltered for a heartbeat; Masaru’s expression hardened into stone.

Izuku went rigid, shame and fire racing through him. Every instinct screamed to flinch. He couldn’t. Some dark, traitorous part of him didn’t want to.

“Mine,” Katsuki repeated, settling back into his chair. Final. Unshakable.

The silence after was suffocating. Izuku swore the prince’s scent clung to him like smoke, branding him more deeply than collar or title ever could.

Mitsuki was the first to break it. “Well,” she said, her tone deceptively light. “That was... interesting.”

She studied her son for a long moment, taking in his protective posture, the way his hand remained possessively on Izuku's neck, the challenge blazing in his eyes. When she spoke again, it was with the calculated precision of a queen who had made her decision.

“Then prove it. You leave in three days. The diplomatic tour is arranged—Solara, Glacium, and Noctis. Three courts. Three kingdoms. All watching. All weighing your strength.”

Katsuki’s jaw tightened. His claws dug slightly into Izuku’s nape. “I don’t need to prance through foreign halls to prove myself.”

“You will go,” Mitsuki cut in. “And you will use diplomacy. Not fire. Not temper. Words. The world will not bend to you alone.”

“I bend for no one,” Katsuki snarled. His eyes flicked downward to Izuku—his collar, his bowed head—and lingered. His thumb brushed across the gold, grounding him as much as it claimed. “And I won’t leave him here while I dance your games.”

Mitsuki’s lips curved, dangerous. “So long as he does not make you falter. So long as your little sacrifice does not shame the crown.”

“He won’t.” Katsuki’s voice dropped, possessive and certain. His gaze seared into Izuku, as if daring him to ever prove otherwise. “Not now. Not ever.”

“Very well.” Mitsuki rose, robes whispering like flame. Masaru followed, solemn as shadow. “Then remember this, Katsuki. Solara will flatter you, Glacium will test you, and Noctis...” She let the name hang, unreadable. “Noctis will strip you bare if you falter. Bring him if you must. But know this—the eyes of three kingdoms will be on you. On him. On both of you.”

Her words trailed like smoke, leaving the platform heavy with silence.

Katsuki’s claws eased from Izuku’s neck, only to trace the line of his jaw, light but possessive. His voice was quiet, molten.

“They think you’ll make me weak.”

Izuku swallowed, his throat still tingling where he’d been marked.

“But you won’t.”

✦◦❀◦✦

The antechamber was blissfully quiet after the overwhelming sensory assault of the Festival. Izuku sat on a low cushioned bench, finally released from the formal kneeling position that had left his legs stiff and aching. Through the tall windows, he could see the grand finale beginning in the courtyard below—streams of colored fire painting the night sky in impossible hues, aerial performers dancing between towers of light.

It was beautiful. It should have filled him with wonder.

Instead, he felt hollow, wrung out by hours of being on display. His throat still tingled where Katsuki had marked him, and he could still hear the echo of Queen Mitsuki’s words: pet, tribute, exotic distraction.

The door opened with a soft click, and Denki slipped inside, balancing a tray with what looked like food and drink.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he said, setting the tray on a nearby table. “Court ceremonies tend to run long, and kneeling for hours works up an appetite.”

Izuku looked up at him, surprised by the casual kindness. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Denki settled into a chair across from him, his usual bright energy subdued. “Hell of a day, huh?”

“Is that what you’d call it?”

Denki’s mouth quirked up in a rueful smile. “I was being diplomatic. Eijiro owes me a coin, by the way—I bet you wouldn’t faint during the ceremony. Though there were a few moments where I wasn’t entirely sure.”

Despite everything, Izuku felt his lips twitch. “I considered it.”

“But you didn’t. That’s what counts.” Denki’s expression grew more serious. “You did well out there. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”

The simple acknowledgment hit harder than it should have. Izuku found himself blinking back unexpected tears.

“She called me ‘the sacrifice,’” Izuku said quietly. “In front of everyone.”

Denki’s expression softened. “Yeah, she did. That was... harsh. Even for Queen Mitsuki.” He leaned forward slightly. “But you didn’t break. You didn’t flinch when she said it, and you didn’t fall apart when Katsuki marked you right after. From where I was standing, that took real strength.”

Before Izuku could respond, heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. They both turned as the door opened to reveal Katsuki, his formal armor exchanged for simpler clothes, though he still moved with the controlled tension of barely leashed anger.

“Denki,” he said, his voice clipped. “Leave us.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Denki rose smoothly, but not before giving Izuku an encouraging nod. “Enjoy the food. And the fireworks—they’re about to start the grand finale.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Izuku alone with the prince. Katsuki stood by the windows for a long moment, his silhouette dark against the colored lights painting the sky outside.

“Are you hurt?” he asked finally, not turning around.

Izuku considered the question. Physically, no. Emotionally... that was more complicated.

“No,” he said.

“Good.” Katsuki’s hands were clenched behind his back. “You didn’t embarrass me.”

The words should have been reassuring. Instead, they felt like another weight added to an already crushing burden.

“I heard what your mother said,” Izuku said quietly. “About tribute. About—”

“Forget what she said.” Katsuki turned sharply, his red eyes blazing. “She was testing me. Testing us. That’s what she does.”

“Was she wrong?”

The question hung between them like a blade suspended by a thread.

“About what?”

Izuku’s throat felt tight, but he forced himself to continue. “About me being a pet. About what people are saying. About the political complications.”

Katsuki was quiet for so long that Izuku began to think he wouldn’t answer. Outside, the fireworks had begun in earnest, explosions of gold and silver and deep crimson that painted the chamber in shifting colors.

“You licked me,” Izuku whispered. “In front of everyone.”

“I marked what was mine,” Katsuki said, his voice low and rough. “So there would be no question.”

“And I didn’t stop you.”

“No. You didn’t.”

The admission hung between them, heavy with implications neither of them seemed ready to face directly.

“Why?” Izuku asked. “Why didn’t I stop you?”

Katsuki moved closer, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. “Why do you think?”

“I don’t know.” Izuku’s hands twisted in his lap. “I should have been angry. I should have pulled away. I should have—”

“But you didn’t.”

Katsuki stopped directly in front of him, close enough that Izuku had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes. In the shifting light from the fireworks, the prince looked almost ethereal—beautiful and terrible and utterly inhuman.

“You’re learning,” he said finally.

The words should have stung. Should have made Izuku angry, defiant, anything but the strange flutter of warmth that bloomed in his chest.

“Learning what?”

“That belonging to someone isn’t the same as being owned by them.” Katsuki’s hand moved to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over the golden collar at his throat. “That devotion freely given is worth more than submission forced.”

“Is that what this is?” Izuku’s voice was barely a whisper. “Devotion?”

“What do you think?”

Outside, the grand finale had begun—a cascade of fire that seemed to set the very sky ablaze. The light painted them both in gold and crimson, dragon colors, royal colors.

“I think,” Izuku said slowly, “I’m more afraid of wanting this than I am of not wanting it.”

Katsuki’s thumb traced the line of his jaw, gentle despite the claws that could tear stone.

“And what do you want?”

The question was so simple, so direct, and yet Izuku found he couldn’t answer it. Because the truth was too complicated, too dangerous, too close to surrender in ways that had nothing to do with politics or power or the games that kingdoms played with each other.

“I want to matter,” he said instead. “Not as a symbol or a pet or a political tool. Just... as myself.”

“You do matter.” Katsuki’s voice was fierce, almost angry. “You matter to me.”

The words hit like a physical blow, stealing the breath from Izuku’s lungs. Because there was something in Katsuki’s tone, something raw and unguarded, that suggested this admission cost him something.

“Even if it makes things difficult?” Izuku asked. “Even if your mother disapproves? Even if other kingdoms start to question your fitness to rule?”

“Especially then.”

Outside, the fireworks reached their crescendo, the sky exploding in colors that had no names. The celebration would continue deep into the night, but here in this quiet chamber, removed from the political machinations and public displays, something else was happening.

Something that felt dangerously close to choice.

“We leave in three days,” Katsuki said. “After the closing ceremonies and the diplomatic preparations are complete. The tour will take us to Solara first, then Glacium, and finally...” He paused. “Noctis.”

“Your mother made them sound... challenging.”

“They will be.” Katsuki’s expression grew thoughtful. “Solara will try to charm us into favorable trade agreements. Glacium will test our resolve, probably through some form of political theater. And Noctis...” His jaw tightened. “Noctis has old grievances. They’ll try to find weakness and exploit it.”

“And I’m coming with you to all of them.”

“Yes.”

“Even though your mother thinks I’ll be a liability?”

“Because my mother thinks you’ll be a liability.” Katsuki’s smile was sharp, predatory. “Let them whisper. Let them question. Let them wonder what hold a sheep hybrid could possibly have over the Dragon Prince of Draconis.”

He leaned down, close enough that Izuku could feel the warmth of his breath.

“They’ll never understand that some things are worth more than political convenience.”

The fireworks outside began to fade, the celebration winding toward its close. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new tests, new opportunities for everything to fall apart.

But tonight, in this quiet space between the public performance and private reality, Izuku allowed himself to believe that maybe—just maybe—devotion could be something other than surrender.

That being claimed so thoroughly might actually be a kind of freedom.

That mattering to someone, even someone as complicated and dangerous as Katsuki, was worth every risk that came with it.

The Festival of Ash was ending, but something else was just beginning.

Chapter Text

The courtyard was quiet in the early dawn, servants moving like shadows as they prepared for departure. Izuku adjusted the strap of his pack, the weight of it already digging into his shoulder.

“Izuku.”

The voice came from behind, low and even. He turned to find Shinsou stepping out of an alcove, the torchlight catching faint silver in his violet hair.

“…Shinsou?” Izuku blinked. “What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you don’t stumble into this blind,” Shinsou said, stopping close enough to block the narrow path. “You’re leaving Draconis. Out there, the games get sharper.”

Izuku shifted, uneasy. “Games?”

“Politics,” Shinsou clarified. “Foreign courts won’t see you as a boy with horns. They’ll see you as leverage. A way to test him. A way to break him.” His mouth curved faintly, humorless. “You’ll need to be smarter than you look.”

Izuku swallowed hard. “I… I’ll try.”

“Try harder,” Shinsou said, stepping closer. His voice dropped to a quiet warning. “And understand this: when he takes his true form, he can’t talk. You’ll have only instinct to go by—his, and yours. If you panic, you fall. If you hesitate, you’ll die.”

The words chilled Izuku more than the morning air. “He really… transforms?”

Shinsou tilted his head, watching him squirm. “You’ve seen the edges of it. Claws, smoke, temper. That’s nothing. The rest… you’ll see soon enough.”

Footsteps sounded at the far end of the courtyard. Shinsou leaned back, already half in shadow again.

“Remember what I said,” he murmured. “Don’t be the crack they drive the blade into.”

Then he was gone, as silent as he’d appeared, leaving Izuku rooted in place with his pulse racing and a new fear lodged deep in his chest.

✦◦❀◦✦

The courtyard bustled in the pale morning light, servants loading crates and tightening straps on packs. The air smelled of dew on stone, sharp and cold. Izuku shifted his own bag higher on his shoulder, trying not to stare at the dragons’ sigils carved into the gate.

“Ready?”

Izuku turned. Katsuki strode out from the main doors, not in crimson silks but in fitted leathers and boots meant for travel. He carried himself with the same authority, but there was something different without the trappings of the throne—something leaner, rougher. A soldier, not just a prince.

“I think so,” Izuku said, though his voice wavered.

Before Katsuki could answer, familiar voices cut across the stones.

“Oi, leaving without us?”

Denki jogged up, Eijiro close behind. Mina and Hanta followed at a steadier pace.

“So this is it,” Denki said, grinning even as he rubbed at tired eyes. “Off to Solara. Try not to start any wars, yeah?”

Katsuki snorted. “I’ll be perfectly diplomatic.”

“Sure you will,” Eijiro said, smirking. “Like you were with that Glacium envoy.”

“He tripped Izuku, didn’t he?” Katsuki shot back.

Mina rolled her eyes but softened when she looked at Izuku. “Take care of yourself out there, okay? Don’t let him get too dragon-y with the royals.”

“I’ll… try,” Izuku said, unsure how else to answer.

Hanta clapped Katsuki’s shoulder. “Bring something back from Solara. I hear their wine’s good enough to knock a dragon on his ass.”

“If I remember,” Katsuki said, though there was a trace of fondness under the dry reply.

The air shifted then, heavier, as another figure approached.

Mitsuki.

Her steps were sharp, her eyes sharper. She didn’t slow, didn’t soften—not for her son, not for Izuku.

“Don’t waste resources on sentiment,” she said flatly. Her gaze cut to Izuku, then back to Katsuki. “If you insist on dragging the lamb with you, make him useful.”

Katsuki’s jaw flexed. “He already is.”

Masaru followed behind her, quieter, warmer. He pressed a folded pair of gloves into Izuku’s hands. The lining was soft, thick enough to block the wind. “For the flight,” he murmured. “And—” he slipped a small wrapped bundle from his coat pocket, “—something for later.”

Izuku blinked, throat tight. “Thank you, sir.”

Masaru’s kind smile lasted only a moment before Mitsuki’s voice sliced through again.

“Remember your duty.”

“I remember everything,” Katsuki said coldly.

The moment hung, taut, then passed. Mitsuki turned away, Masaru with her.

Katsuki adjusted his pack and started toward the gate without waiting, leaving Izuku to hurry after him.

✦◦❀◦✦

They left the castle walls behind, following a dirt path that wound down into a meadow still silvered with morning dew. The grass brushed at Izuku’s boots, wet and cold. His pack tugged at his shoulders with every step, but his nerves weighed heavier.

When Katsuki finally stopped, it was in the center of the open field. He shrugged his pack off and set it down carefully on the grass.

“Stand back,” he said. His tone was casual, but it wasn’t a request.

Izuku obeyed, retreating a few steps until he stood near a patch of wildflowers trembling in the breeze.

Katsuki rolled his shoulders, loosened the ties of his jacket, and began to undress. Not slowly, not coyly—just efficient, practical, as if this was routine. Leather hit the ground, then boots, then trousers. In the pale light, scars cut across his body like maps of old battles. Izuku’s throat worked as he tore his gaze away.

“The clothes don’t survive it,” Katsuki said, matter-of-fact, folding his tunic and setting it atop the pile. “Magic only carries so far.”

Izuku nodded, though his ears burned.

“Watch.”

It was less a command than a challenge, and Izuku forced himself to look back just as the change began.

At first, it was subtle: a shimmer crawling across Katsuki’s skin, the faint outline of scales rising beneath the surface. Then the shift took hold. His frame stretched, expanded, muscle flowing like molten iron beneath a skin that was no longer skin. Horns burst from his skull, ridged and sharp. His face lengthened, his teeth flashing white and jagged.

A sound rolled out of him—low, grinding, somewhere between a growl and thunder.

Wings tore open from his back, enormous sails of crimson-black membrane unfurling wide enough to blot out the sun. His hands became claws, each talon gleaming. His legs bent and thickened into the haunches of a predator built for both running and soaring.

When the transformation ended, Izuku’s breath caught.

Before him stood a dragon.

Katsuki’s dragon form was monstrous and magnificent—twenty feet tall at the shoulder, his body armored in scales the color of burning coal, streaked with sparks of red that caught the morning light. His wings, fully spread, stretched wider than the meadow itself.

But what froze Izuku in place were his eyes. The same molten red, fixed on him, sharp with intelligence. Still Katsuki.

Izuku realized too late he’d been holding his breath. He let it go in a trembling rush.

“Gods,” he whispered.

The dragon’s head lowered, nostrils flaring. A rumble rose from deep in its chest, not quite a growl, not quite a purr. The familiar scent of smoke and cedar rolled over Izuku like heat from a hearth.

One clawed hand gestured—not threatening, but insistent. An invitation.

Izuku’s stomach dropped. He understood. He had to climb.

His first attempt was pathetic. He grabbed for one of the ridges along the dragon’s spine, boots slipping uselessly on the slick scales. He hit the ground with a thud that knocked the breath out of him.

The dragon tilted its massive head, eyes glinting with what Izuku swore looked like amusement.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Izuku muttered, pushing to his feet.

The dragon’s snort sent warm air ruffling his hair.

The second attempt went better. Katsuki lowered one wing, the leathery surface folding like a ramp. Izuku scrambled up it, clinging to the bony ridges, and managed to haul himself onto the dragon’s back, just behind the curve of his neck. The scales were hot against his thighs, the heat seeping straight through his clothes.

He clutched one ridge with both hands and tried to steady his breathing. “I’m ready,” he said, though his voice cracked high.

The dragon crouched low, muscles bunching.

Then they launched.

The meadow dropped away in a blur of green and silver. Wind screamed past Izuku’s ears, his cloak snapping violently behind him. His stomach lurched into his throat as they climbed higher, higher, until the castle was a toy on the horizon and the valley stretched endless below.

He pressed himself down against Katsuki’s back, eyes wide, breath shallow. For a terrifying heartbeat, he thought he would fall. His fingers ached from how tightly he gripped the ridges.

But then the dragon leveled out, wings beating in steady rhythm. The glide was smooth, powerful, each shift of muscle beneath Izuku carrying them forward like an unstoppable tide.

Izuku risked lifting his head.

The world opened beneath him.

Mountains knifed up from the earth, their peaks capped with white. Forests spread in endless green waves, rivers glittering like scattered glass as they cut through valleys. Villages dotted the landscape in miniature, their smoke trailing like threads into the sky.

It was breathtaking. Terrifying. Beautiful.

The fear loosened its grip on his chest, replaced by something almost like wonder.

Izuku’s mouth parted on a shaky laugh. “It’s… incredible.”

The dragon’s head turned slightly, one great eye catching him. The rumble in its chest came again, softer this time.

And for the first time since leaving home, Izuku didn’t feel only like prey.

✦◦❀◦✦

They landed in a clearing near dusk, the dragon’s claws tearing furrows in the earth as he touched down. Izuku clung until the very last moment, heart hammering as he slid shakily to the ground. His legs trembled, unsteady after hours of gripping scales.

Katsuki shifted back to human in a ripple of light and shadow. The massive wings folded into nothing, claws shrinking back into hands, scales flowing into skin. When it ended, he stood bare in the fire-colored glow, sweat beading his temple, breath heavy.

Izuku spun half away, face hot. He busied himself with their packs until he heard the rustle of clothes being tugged back on.

The clearing smelled different here. Not just pine and damp earth—sweeter, like something flowering beneath the soil. A vine curled over a nearby rock, its leaves faintly glowing in the gathering dark.

Katsuki noticed his stare. “Wild magic runs thick in these border forests,” he said, kneeling to arrange tinder. “You’ll see strange things at night. He struck flint. Sparks leapt.

The fire caught quickly, painting their faces in shifting light. Izuku sat opposite, cloak pulled close around his shoulders, watching Katsuki work.

After a while, Izuku found his voice. “Does it… hurt? Transforming like that?”

Katsuki flexed one hand, claws faint at the tips. “It burns through energy. Doesn’t hurt. Just leaves me wrung out if I stay too long.”

Izuku noticed the tremor in his fingers—the way Katsuki flexed them stiffly, like the joints hadn't quite settled back into human shape.

It reminded him, suddenly and sharply, of his father's hands after long days in the fields. The way they'd shake when he came home, knuckles swollen, and how Izuku's mother would take them gently and work the ache away with practiced patience.

“May I?” The words came out before he could think better of them.

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. “May you what?”

“Help.” Izuku’s throat felt tight. “Your hands. They look stiff.”

For a long moment, Katsuki didn’t move. Then, slowly, he extended one hand across the space between them.

Izuku took it carefully, his own hands small against Katsuki’s larger ones. The heat was unnatural, like touching banked embers, but he worked the joints gently, pressing where the tension gathered between claw and flesh.

Katsuki went still, watching him with hooded eyes.

“Better?” Izuku asked, voice soft.

Katsuki’s mouth curved faintly. “Yeah.” His voice was low, rough. He flexed the hand once, then offered the other. “Do this one too.”

Izuku flushed but obeyed, taking his second hand. Silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of flame and the pulse of the forest around them.

When Izuku finished, Katsuki caught both his hands in one of his own, grip firm, possessive.

“You’re mine.”

Izuku’s breath caught. His instinct screamed to pull back—but Katsuki’s heat pinned him in place.

Before he could think, Katsuki tugged him closer. Their knees brushed, then their thighs. Izuku’s heart hammered as Katsuki leaned in, his breath hot against Izuku’s cheek.

“K-Katsuki—”

The dragon prince didn’t answer with words. His tongue slid out, searing hot, the forked tip flicking sharp against the shell of his ear.

Izuku gasped, the sound breaking high, helpless. His whole body jolted, a tremor running through him. His hands fisted in Katsuki’s tunic, desperate for something to hold.

Katsuki rumbled low in his chest, a sound more beast than man. His lips brushed Izuku’s ear as he spoke, voice guttural. “Still think it’s just for talking?”

Izuku shook his head without meaning to, breath catching as heat coiled low in his belly. Shame burned through him—sharp, undeniable—but his body betrayed him, arching faintly toward the heat that pinned him in place.

Katsuki followed the line of his throat, tongue dragging down in one long, wet stripe that left his skin tingling. The forked tip teased at his collarbone before retreating, only to return with another slow, claiming pass. Izuku’s head tipped back without his permission, baring more of his throat to the firelit dark.

The weight of him was crushing—hot muscle, sharp edges, hips rolling down with enough pressure to make Izuku choke on another gasp. It wasn’t enough to hurt, but enough to trap, enough to feel every shift of Katsuki’s body against his own.

The friction was unbearable. Cloth scraped on cloth, heat sparking where their hips ground together. Izuku tried to twist away, but his legs betrayed him, spreading just enough for Katsuki to press closer, deeper, grinding him down against the rough wood of the fallen log.

“Ah—don’t—” Izuku’s protest dissolved into a whimper as his body jolted under the pressure.

“Don’t what?” Katsuki’s voice was molten, his mouth hot against Izuku’s throat. “Don’t claim what’s already mine?”

Izuku shuddered. His face burned; his chest heaved. The shame was dizzying, but worse was the traitorous flicker of want that lit in his gut with every roll of Katsuki’s hips.

Katsuki’s grip tightened on his waist, claws dimpling through cloth. For a long moment he didn’t move, just pressed down, breathing ragged against Izuku’s throat. The firelight caught his eyes, red molten bright, hunger unmasked.

Then—abruptly, sharply—he tore himself back, as if dragging his body out of a furnace.

Izuku blinked up at him, dazed, lips wet and tingling from where that tongue had touched. His thighs ached from the weight still ghosting there.

“Not yet.” Katsuki’s voice was raw, guttural, the words forced through clenched teeth. “You’re not ready. And I don’t share what’s mine with the fucking trees.”

He released him in one fluid motion and rose. The air felt colder instantly, empty where the heat had been.

“Sleep,” Katsuki said, jaw tight, eyes still glowing faint in the firelight. “We move at dawn.”

Izuku’s knees were weak. His chest still heaved. He curled into the cloak, the fire warm at his side—but nothing compared to the burn still seared into his skin, the heat he couldn’t forget no matter how tightly he pulled the fabric around himself.

✦◦❀◦✦

The next morning, they took to the skies again. The clearing fell away beneath them in a wash of color and light. By midday, the brightness softened into farmland, neat rows of golden grain stretching toward the horizon.

Izuku held fast to the ridges of Katsuki’s spine, the wind sharp against his face. His fear had dulled into something steadier now, almost trust.

When the land shifted again, his breath caught.

Solara spread below them like a dream. Pale stone towns nestled among orchards heavy with fruit, rivers twisting bright and clean, and in the distance—a city of marble that gleamed as if carved from sunlight itself. At its center rose towers so tall they seemed to scrape the clouds, banners of gold and white streaming from their heights.

Katsuki descended toward a broad field marked with Solara’s sigil—a golden sunburst. Even here, Izuku could see the delegation waiting: guards in armor that gleamed like polished brass, horses decked with flowers, and banners that fluttered cheerful in the breeze.

The dragon landed heavy but sure. Izuku slid down shakily, his knees nearly buckling when his boots hit grass again.

Katsuki shifted back to human form, pulling his clothes on with brisk efficiency. By the time the delegation reached them, the mask had already slipped into place—no longer weary traveler, but Crown Prince of Draconis, sharp and unyielding.

“Remember,” he said low, fastening his cloak. “Here, you don’t kneel unless I tell you to. Solara doesn’t share Draconis’s customs.”

Izuku nodded.

A figure strode ahead of the delegation, and even from a distance, his presence commanded attention. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with golden hair that seemed to catch the sunlight, and his smile was dazzling—the kind that could disarm or deceive depending on his intent.

“Prince Bakugou!” His voice carried warm and clear across the field. “Welcome to Solara. I am Prince Mirio Togata, and I bring greetings from my father, King Toshinori. He eagerly awaits your arrival at court.”

Katsuki inclined his head with perfect courtesy, but his posture remained guarded. “Prince Mirio. Draconis honors its ancient bond with the Golden Kingdom.”

Mirio’s gaze shifted to Izuku, curiosity bright in his blue eyes. “And your companion?’’

The question hung in the air, seemingly innocent but weighted with implication. This was a test—how would Katsuki introduce him? As what?

“Mine,” Katsuki said simply, his hand moving to rest possessively at the small of Izuku’s back. “That’s all you need to know.”

Mirio’s smile never wavered, but something shifted in his expression—assessment, perhaps, or intrigue. “Of course. Solara welcomes you both.” He gestured toward the waiting horses and carriages. “Shall we? The palace has been prepared for your arrival, and I’m certain you’ll find our hospitality most... accommodating.”

As they moved toward the delegation, Katsuki leaned close enough that only Izuku could hear. “The game’s begun. Stay close, stay quiet, and remember—Solara’s smiles hide teeth as sharp as any dragon’s.”

Chapter Text

The palace of Solara rose before them like a monument to light itself.

Where Draconis loomed black and jagged, carved from fire and stone, Solara gleamed—white towers catching the afternoon sun in sharp flashes of gold, spires piercing a sky so blue it seemed painted. Terraced gardens spilled over the hillsides in symmetrical precision, each hedge trimmed, each flowerbed curated. Nothing grew wild here. Nothing was left to chance.

Even the air felt different. It smelled of citrus and honeyed petals, warm and soft, but sterile in its perfection. The wind itself seemed gentler here, as if it had been smoothed before touching them.

The carriage rolled through gates of gilded iron, past guards whose armor gleamed like mirrors. Unlike Draconis’s sentries who stood watchful and silent, these smiled faintly as they passed. Not threatening. Not quite welcoming either. Just... observing.

Izuku sat in tense stillness, half-wrapped in his travel cloak despite the warmth. Beside him, Katsuki’s gaze moved constantly, cataloging exits, counting guards, noting sight lines. His jaw was set, shoulders tight beneath his formal jacket.

Mirio rode ahead on a white horse, turning back occasionally to gesture at landmarks. “The aqueducts run from the valley springs all the way to the upper districts,” he called cheerfully. “Every citizen has access to clean water, regardless of station.”

“Expensive,” Katsuki observed.

“Necessary,” Mirio replied with an easy smile.

The carriage slowed as they approached the main entrance, where a small crowd had gathered—not just courtiers, but common folk. Children perched on stone ledges beside elderly citizens in fine shawls, all watching with open curiosity as the draconic banners came into view. No one jeered. No one cheered. They simply watched, quiet and controlled.

“Your people seem comfortable observing royalty,” Izuku said quietly.

Mirio dismounted smoothly. “A prince who hides from his people isn’t worth their trust.”

The palace doors stood open, warm light spilling across marble floors veined with gold. The entrance hall stretched upward impossibly high, its painted ceiling depicting doves in flight and twin suns circling in eternal dance. Stained glass windows transformed sunlight into pools of colored radiance on the polished stone.

And waiting at the top of the broad staircase, flanked by advisors in ceremonial robes, stood the king himself.

The man was exactly as the stories described. Tall and broad-shouldered, his golden hair swept back like a sunburst, he descended the stairs with the easy confidence of someone who had never questioned his right to command a room. His robes of white and cloth-of-gold flowed around him, and when he smiled, the warmth seemed genuine.

“Prince Katsuki,” he called, his voice rich and welcoming. “Draconis honors us with your presence. Welcome to Solara.”

They met at the base of the stairs. Katsuki didn’t bow, but he inclined his head with careful respect. “King Toshinori. We accept your hospitality.”

The king’s smile widened, and his gaze shifted briefly to Izuku. Something flickered in his expression—curiosity, perhaps, or concern—but he said nothing about the collar gleaming at Izuku’s throat.

“Please,” the king said, gesturing to the figures beside him. “Allow me to introduce my chief advisor, Aizawa Shouta.”

The man in question looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Dark hair pulled into a low tie, dressed in simple black robes, his expression was professionally neutral as he gave a brief nod. His eyes, however, were sharp—cataloging, assessing, missing nothing.

“And this is Yamada Hizashi, our royal herald and diplomatic liaison.”

The contrast couldn’t have been starker. Where Aizawa was shadow and silence, Yamada was light and energy. His jacket was stitched with spiraling flame-thread in shades of orange and gold, and he bounded forward with an enthusiastic wave.

“Welcome, welcome! You can call me Hizashi—or Yamada, or ‘that loud guy,’ I’ve heard them all and I answer to most of them. We’re so glad you’re here. The journey must have been exhausting. Dragon flight is impressive but I imagine it’s not exactly restful—”

“Hizashi,” Aizawa said quietly.

“Right, right. Too much. Got it.” But his grin didn’t fade.

Despite himself, Izuku felt a small smile tug at his lips. There was something disarming about the man’s unguarded enthusiasm.

“Prince Mirio will show you to your chambers,” the king continued smoothly. “We’ve prepared everything for your comfort. We’ll convene tomorrow morning for preliminary discussions—nothing formal, just an opportunity to establish common ground before the true negotiations begin.”

“Understood,” Katsuki said.

Mirio stepped forward, gesturing toward one of the corridors branching off the main hall. “This way. I promise the walk isn’t too long—we try to keep our honored guests close to the central gardens.”

As they followed him through wide corridors lined with tapestries and tall windows, Izuku found himself overwhelmed by the sheer openness of the space. Everything was designed to let in light. There were no dark corners, no shadowed alcoves. It felt like the entire palace had been built to ensure nothing could hide.

“Here we are,” Mirio said cheerfully, pushing open a set of carved doors.

The chambers were excessive by any standard. A massive bed dominated the center of the room, its frame carved from pale wood and dressed in silk the color of cream. A sitting area flanked the balcony doors, where sheer curtains stirred in the breeze. Beyond, terraced gardens stretched toward distant mountains. The whole room smelled faintly of lavender and clean linen.

“Your belongings have been brought up,” Mirio said. “And baths have been drawn—through that door for you, Prince Katsuki, and we’ve prepared the guest bath for your companion.”

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed slightly. “He stays with me.”

Mirio’s expression remained pleasant, but something shifted in his posture—a subtle tension. “Of course. Though I should mention—our bathing suites include restorative treatments. Particularly effective for magical strain from transformation. They work best in solitude.”

The implication hung in the air: We know what you are. We know what you can do. And we’re watching.

“One hour,” Katsuki said flatly. “He goes. He comes back. No longer.”

“Perfectly reasonable.” Mirio gestured toward the door, and it opened to reveal a young man Izuku hadn’t noticed before.

The attendant was tall and lean, his dark indigo hair half-pulled back, the rest falling around a face that managed to be both sharp and gentle. He wore understated court robes in earthy tones, and when his eyes met Izuku’s, there was no judgment—just quiet observation.

“Tamaki Amajiki will escort your companion to the baths,” Mirio said. “He’s one of our most trusted attendants.”

Katsuki studied Tamaki with the intensity of someone memorizing a potential threat. Tamaki didn’t flinch under the scrutiny, merely inclined his head with calm respect.

“I’ll return him within the hour,” Tamaki said simply.

Something in his tone—steady, honest, without pretense—made Katsuki relent. He turned to Izuku, and for a moment his hand hovered near Izuku’s arm, possessive and uncertain.

“Go,” he said quietly. “But don’t wander.”

Izuku nodded.

Mirio clapped his hands together. “Excellent! Tamaki, if you would?”

Tamaki gestured toward the door. “This way.”

As Izuku followed him into the corridor, he glanced back once. Katsuki stood in the doorway of their chambers, backlit by golden afternoon sun, watching him leave with an expression Izuku couldn’t quite read.

Then the door closed, and he was alone with a stranger in a palace made of light.

✦◦❀◦✦

The halls Tamaki led him through were quieter than the main corridors—narrower, more utilitarian. Servants moved past with polite nods, their eyes lingering on Izuku’s collar before quickly looking away. No one stared outright, but the weight of their attention followed him like a shadow.

“Do they always watch like that?” Izuku asked after the third passing servant had done the same careful not-looking.

Tamaki didn’t slow his pace. “They watch because they’re trained to notice things. And you’re... noticeable.”

“Because of this?” Izuku’s fingers rose unconsciously to touch the golden collar.

“Because of what it means,” Tamaki said quietly. “In Solara, we don’t mark ownership that way. It makes people uncomfortable.”

“But they don’t say anything.”

“No. They’re too polite for that.” There was something dry in his tone, almost bitter. “Solara’s very good at being polite.”

They reached a smaller chamber built of pale tile and frosted glass. Steam curled up from a sunken bath at the center, herbs floating on the surface—lavender, eucalyptus, something citrus-bright. Folded linens and small bottles of oil waited on a nearby table.

“You have privacy,” Tamaki said, stepping back toward the door. “I’ll be outside. Knock if you need anything.”

“You don’t have to stand guard,” Izuku said.

“I’m not guarding you.” Tamaki leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I’m waiting. There’s a difference.”

Izuku hesitated. “You’re calmer than I expected.”

“And you’re more nervous than you’re pretending to be.” Tamaki’s expression softened slightly. “It’s alright. This place does that to people. All that light makes it hard to hide.”

There was understanding in his voice—not pity, but recognition. Like he knew exactly what it felt like to be watched, assessed, judged by a kingdom that smiled while it measured your worth.

“Thank you,” Izuku said quietly.

Tamaki just nodded and pulled the door closed, leaving Izuku alone with the steam and the silence and the unfamiliar gentleness of a place that felt nothing like home.

✦◦❀◦✦

The morning sun streamed through tall windows, painting the negotiation chamber in shades of gold and white. Unlike the grand throne room or the open gardens, this space was designed for serious work—a round table of polished oak, chairs arranged in careful equality, maps and documents already laid out with precise organization.

Izuku sat slightly behind Katsuki’s right shoulder, positioned as an observer rather than a participant. The collar felt heavier here, in this room full of watching eyes and careful words.

All Might sat directly across from Katsuki, flanked by Aizawa on his left and a scribe on his right. Mirio had taken a seat near the window, relaxed but attentive. Hizashi stood near a side table, organizing additional documents with barely contained energy.

“Shall we begin?” All Might’s voice was warm, but there was steel beneath the honey. This was a king at work, not a host at dinner.

Katsuki leaned back in his chair with deceptive casualness. “We shall.”

Aizawa pulled one of the maps forward—a detailed rendering of the eastern trade routes that connected Draconis, Solara, and several smaller territories. His finger traced a mountain pass marked in red.

“The Eastern Gate,” he said without preamble. “Currently controlled by Draconis, but essential for our merchants reaching the coastal markets. We’re proposing shared jurisdiction—regulated passage, agreed-upon tariffs, joint security.”

“Shared jurisdiction means shared authority,” Katsuki said. “Draconis built those roads. Draconis maintains the infrastructure. Why would we split control?”

“Because your merchants benefit from our ports,” Mirio interjected pleasantly. “And our caravans need safe passage through your mountains. It’s symbiotic.”

“Or it’s you wanting access to our strategic positions without paying for them.”

Aizawa’s expression didn’t change. “We’re offering fair compensation. Reduced tariffs on agricultural goods, technology exchange, coordinated defense against raiders—”

“Raiders you could handle yourselves if your military wasn’t so concerned with looking friendly.”

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

All Might raised a hand gently. “Perhaps we should establish our intentions before debating specifics. Draconis, what do you hope to gain from this alliance?”

Katsuki met his gaze steadily. “Security. Trade stability. Assurance that Solara won’t try to undermine our sovereignty with economic pressure.”

“And Solara,” All Might continued, “seeks the same—with the addition of certain assurances regarding treatment of citizens within the trade zones.”

There it was. The real issue beneath the maps and tariffs.

“Treatment,” Katsuki repeated, his voice flat.

Aizawa pulled out another document. “Reports from merchants passing through Draconis-controlled territories. Detentions without trial. Laborers pressed into service without compensation. Executions carried out by local authorities without oversight.”

“Those territories were unstable,” Katsuki said. “We brought order.”

“You brought force,” Aizawa corrected. “And while we understand that different kingdoms have different methods, we cannot in good conscience enter an alliance with a nation that—”

“That what?” Katsuki’s voice sharpened. “That doesn’t pretend strength and kindness are the same thing? That doesn’t smile while letting chaos fester because taking action might look ‘unkind’?”

“That treats living beings as expendable,” Aizawa finished quietly.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Izuku felt the weight of it pressing down on his chest. He could feel eyes shifting toward him—not obviously, but in small glances, quick assessments. The collar at his throat might as well have been screaming.

All Might’s expression remained calm, but something sad flickered across his face. “We’re not asking you to abandon your principles, Prince Katsuki. We’re asking for compromise. For recognition that strength without restraint becomes tyranny.”

“And kindness without strength becomes surrender.” Katsuki leaned forward, his red eyes blazing. “You want to police how we govern our own people. You want to dictate our methods, our laws, our right to defend what’s ours. That’s not compromise—that’s conquest with better manners.”

“Is it conquest,” Mirio asked quietly, “to ask that people not be collared like animals?”

The words hung in the air like a blade.

Katsuki went very still. His hand, resting on the table, curled slowly into a fist.

“My companion’s circumstances are not part of this negotiation,” he said, each word precise and dangerous.

“Aren’t they?” Aizawa’s gaze moved to Izuku, direct and unflinching. “You brought him here. You seated him at this table. His presence is a statement—whether you intended it as one or not.”

“He’s under my protection.”

“He’s wearing a collar.”

“He’s mine.”

The word echoed in the chamber—possessive, absolute, undeniable.

All Might sighed, and for the first time, he looked genuinely tired. “This is what we mean, Prince Katsuki. You use the language of ownership, of claiming, of dominance. And you don’t see how that undermines everything else you’re trying to build.”

“I see exactly what I’m building,” Katsuki shot back. “A kingdom that doesn’t apologize for surviving. That doesn’t pretend the world is gentle when it’s not. That protects what’s valuable instead of letting it be destroyed by people too weak to hold onto anything.”

“Protection and possession aren’t the same thing,” Aizawa said.

“In my world, they are.”

The statement settled over the room like ash after fire.

Mirio was the one who finally broke the silence. “Perhaps we should take a recess. Let everyone cool down and reconvene this afternoon.”

All Might nodded slowly. “Agreed. We’ll resume at the fourth bell.”

Katsuki stood immediately, chair scraping against stone. “Fine.”

Izuku rose with him, silent and shaking. As they moved toward the door, he could feel the weight of judgment following them—not cruel, but disappointed. As if Solara had hoped for something better and found only confirmation of their worst suspicions.

In the corridor outside, Katsuki’s hand found the small of Izuku’s back—possessive, grounding, almost desperate.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t listen to them.”

But Izuku had heard every word.

And he didn’t know who was right anymore.

✦◦❀◦✦

Dinner was held in a smaller dining hall, intimate rather than grand. The table seated perhaps twenty, with All Might at the head, Katsuki and Izuku positioned to his right, and the various advisors and courtiers arranged in careful social hierarchy around them.

The food was exquisite—roasted meats glazed with honey and herbs, vegetables so fresh they still carried the taste of garden soil, fruits arranged like art. Wine flowed freely, golden and light, and the servers moved with practiced silence.

For the first course, conversation remained safe. Weather. Architecture. The quality of Solara’s vineyards compared to Draconis’s mountain orchards. Hizashi told a story about a diplomatic mishap involving mistranslated poetry that had everyone—even Aizawa—cracking reluctant smiles.

But by the third course, the pleasantries had worn thin.

Izuku noticed Tamaki refilling wine glasses along the far side of the table, moving with the same quiet efficiency as before. When he reached Mirio’s seat, there was a brief touch—fingers brushing as the glass was set down—too deliberate to be accidental.

“Tell me, Prince Katsuki,” All Might said, setting down his wine glass with careful deliberacy, “what does Draconis believe makes a kingdom strong?”

Katsuki didn’t hesitate. “Will. The strength to make hard choices and stand by them. The power to defend what’s yours and take what’s needed.”

“And the people?” All Might asked. “Where do they fit into this strength?”

“They’re part of it. A kingdom without people isn’t a kingdom—it’s a wasteland. But people need guidance. Protection. Someone willing to make decisions they can’t make themselves.”

“Because they’re not capable?” Mirio asked, tone curious rather than confrontational.

“Because they’re not responsible for the consequences.” Katsuki met his gaze steadily. “A farmer can tend his fields. A merchant can run his shop. But they don’t see the threats gathering at the borders. They don’t understand the negotiations that keep trade flowing. That’s what rulers are for—to carry the weight they can’t.”

“Or won’t,” Aizawa murmured.

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” All Might said gently, “that there’s a difference between leading and controlling. Between protecting and possessing.” His gaze drifted—briefly, pointedly—to Izuku. “Draconis seems to struggle with that distinction.”

The table went quiet.

Katsuki’s hand tightened on his fork. “And Solara believes what? That if you’re kind enough, gentle enough, the world will simply... cooperate?”

“We believe,” All Might said, “that people flourish when treated with dignity. That strength without compassion becomes cruelty. That a kingdom built on fear will eventually crumble, because fear breeds resentment, and resentment breeds revolution.”

“Pretty words,” Katsuki said. “But the world doesn’t run on pretty words. It runs on power. On the willingness to use it when necessary. Draconis survives because we understand that truth.”

“And how many people have been crushed beneath that truth?” Aizawa asked quietly.

Katsuki’s voice went cold. “Fewer than would have died without it.”

“Are you certain?” Mirio leaned forward slightly. “Because from where we sit, it looks like Draconis sacrifices individuals to maintain power. Treats people as resources to be managed rather than citizens to be served.”

“Everyone’s a resource,” Katsuki shot back. “The difference is whether you’re honest about it or dress it up in flowery language and pretend otherwise.”

“We don’t pretend,” All Might said, and for the first time, there was an edge to his voice. “We strive. We fail sometimes, yes—but we try to build a world where people matter beyond their utility. Where a person’s worth isn’t determined by how useful they are to the crown.”

His eyes fixed on Izuku again, steady and searching.

“Tell me, young man—what do you think makes a kingdom worth serving?”

The question hit like a physical blow. Every eye at the table turned to Izuku. He could feel Katsuki tense beside him, could sense the warning in the way his jaw clenched.

But All Might had asked him directly. And refusing to answer would be its own kind of statement.

“I...” Izuku’s voice came out smaller than he intended. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know if I’m qualified to answer that.”

“You’re more qualified than most,” All Might said gently. “You’ve seen both sides now. Draconis and Solara. Fire and light. So tell me—what matters more? Safety or kindness?”

It was a trap. Any answer would be used as ammunition.

But Izuku found himself speaking anyway.

“I think,” he said slowly, “both matter. And neither matters if it’s not real.” He looked down at his plate. “Safety without kindness is just... survival. And kindness without safety is just... hope that gets crushed the first time something goes wrong.”

“So you need both,” Mirio said.

“Yes. But...” Izuku hesitated. “I don’t know if any kingdom can give both. Because they require different things. Sacrifice different things.”

“What do you sacrifice for safety?” Aizawa asked.

Izuku touched the collar at his throat without meaning to. “Choice. Freedom. Sometimes... yourself.”

“And for kindness?”

“Power. Control. The ability to act quickly when action is needed.”

The silence that followed was heavy with implication.

“It sounds,” All Might said quietly, “like you understand the cost of both. And you’re not sure which price you’re willing to pay.”

Izuku didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

Beside him, Katsuki pushed back from the table with controlled violence. “We’re done here.”

“Katsuki—” All Might began.

“I said we’re done.” He stood, and Izuku rose with him automatically. “Thank you for the meal. We’ll see you at tomorrow’s session.”

He walked away without waiting for dismissal, and Izuku followed, heart pounding against his ribs.

Behind them, he heard Mirio’s quiet voice: “That could have gone better.”

And Aizawa’s even quieter response: “Or exactly as expected.”

✦◦❀◦✦

In the corridor outside, Katsuki walked fast enough that Izuku had to hurry to keep pace. His shoulders were rigid with barely controlled fury, hands clenched at his sides.

“Katsuki—”

“Not here.”

They didn’t speak again until they reached their chambers. The door slammed shut behind them, and Katsuki paced to the balcony doors, staring out at the gardens bathed in moonlight.

“They think they can lecture me,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Think they can judge how I rule, how I protect what’s mine, how I—” He cut himself off, jaw working.

Izuku stood near the door, uncertain.

“You like it here,” Katsuki said finally. Not a question.

“I...” Izuku hesitated. “It’s different. Gentler.”

“Gentler.” Katsuki turned to face him. “Is that what you want? Gentle?”

“I don’t know what I want,” Izuku admitted. “But I know what I don’t want. I don’t want to be used as proof in an argument I don’t understand. I don’t want to sit at tables where my existence is treated like evidence of everything wrong with you.”

“They don’t understand—”

“Maybe they do.” The words came out sharper than Izuku intended. “Maybe they see exactly what this is, and I’m the only one still pretending it’s something else.”

Katsuki crossed the space between them in three strides. His hands came to rest on Izuku’s shoulders—not gripping, just holding, anchoring.

“What do you think this is?” he asked, voice rough.

Izuku looked up at him, at red eyes that burned even in the dim light. “I think it’s complicated. I think you want to protect me but don’t know how without controlling me. I think I want to matter but don’t know how without belonging to you. I think...” His voice cracked. “I think neither of us knows what we’re doing.”

Katsuki’s forehead dropped to rest against his, breathing ragged.

“I don’t know how to do this their way,” he admitted. “Don’t know how to be gentle without being weak. How to care without claiming.”

“I don’t want you to be weak,” Izuku whispered. “But I don’t want to be collared forever either.”

The words hung between them, true and terrible.

Outside, music drifted up from the gardens—some evening celebration, laughter and strings and the soft murmur of a kingdom that believed in joy.

Inside, two people stood in the dark, holding onto each other because letting go felt like falling.

✦◦❀◦✦

The morning came too quickly.

They returned to the negotiation chamber in tense silence, Katsuki’s jaw set like stone, Izuku’s hands trembling slightly as he took his seat. The room felt colder today, despite the sunlight streaming through the windows.

All Might and his advisors were already present, documents spread across the table in neat stacks. The casual warmth from their arrival had evaporated, replaced by professional distance.

“Shall we continue?” All Might asked.

Katsuki nodded once.

Aizawa wasted no time. He pushed a document forward—a formal proposal, written in precise legal language.

“The terms,” he said without preamble. “Shared jurisdiction of the Eastern Gate, regulated tariffs, coordinated security. In exchange, Draconis agrees to the following reforms within the trade territories: cessation of detentions without trial, elimination of forced labor practices, establishment of oversight committees for local authorities.”

“You want us to gut our security apparatus,” Katsuki said flatly.

“We want you to implement accountability.”

“Which is the same thing.”

Aizawa’s expression didn’t change. “If your methods can’t withstand scrutiny, perhaps they shouldn’t be used at all.”

“Scrutiny from whom? Solara? Kingdoms that have never faced the threats we face? That have never had to make the choices we make?”

“Threats don’t excuse cruelty,” Mirio said quietly.

“And softness doesn’t excuse weakness.” Katsuki leaned forward. “You want to pretend the world is kind. Want to believe that if you’re just gentle enough, compassionate enough, everyone will play by the same rules. But they won’t. And when your kingdom burns because you were too soft to do what was necessary—don’t come crying to Draconis.”

“We’re not soft,” All Might said, and there was steel beneath the gentleness now. “We’re deliberate. We choose compassion not because it’s easy, but because history has shown us that empires built on fear eventually devour themselves.”

“And kingdoms built on hope eventually get conquered by someone with sharper teeth.”

The argument spiraled, growing more heated with each exchange. Trade routes became battles over philosophy. Security measures became indictments of character. Every practical negotiation point transformed into ideological warfare.

And through it all, Izuku sat silent, feeling the weight of being the unspoken argument at the center of everything.

Finally, Aizawa slammed his hand on the table.

“Enough.” His voice cut through the chaos like a blade. “Let’s stop dancing around this. The real issue isn’t trade routes or tariffs. It’s what you brought into this room.” His gaze locked onto Izuku. “Him.”

Katsuki went very still. “Leave him out of this.”

“He’s already in it,” Aizawa said. “The moment you collared him, the moment you brought him here as a statement of ownership—you made him part of this negotiation whether you meant to or not.”

“He’s under my protection—”

“He’s wearing a collar,” Aizawa repeated, each word precise. “He sits beside you silent and subservient, and you dare to tell us that Draconis values strength and honor? All we see is possession dressed up as protection.”

Katsuki surged to his feet. “You don’t know anything about—”

“Then explain it.” All Might’s voice was quiet but commanding. “Explain how a young man in chains represents anything other than the exact philosophy we’re objecting to.”

“He’s not in chains.”

“Isn’t he?” Mirio gestured to the collar. “Because from where we sit, that looks an awful lot like bondage.”

“It’s a symbol—”

“Of what?” Aizawa demanded. “Of your authority? Your possession? Your right to claim another living being?”

“Of my protection!” Katsuki’s voice cracked like thunder. “Of my promise that nothing in this world will hurt him. That he belongs somewhere. That he matters.”

“To you,” Aizawa said. “He matters to you. But what about to himself?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

All Might’s eyes moved to Izuku, and there was genuine sadness in them. “Tell me, young man—if we offered you sanctuary here, would you take it?”

The chamber went deathly silent.

Katsuki’s hand moved to Izuku’s shoulder, grip tight enough to hurt. “Don’t answer that.”

“Why not?” All Might asked gently. “If he’s truly free to choose, if your protection is genuine and not possession—what are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid of you manipulating him. Offering him things you can’t deliver. Making promises about freedom while you plan to use him just as much as you claim I do—just with prettier words.”

“We would never—”

“Wouldn’t you?” Katsuki’s laugh was bitter. “You’d turn him into a symbol just like everyone else. Proof that Solara saved someone from cruel Draconis. Evidence that your way is better. You’d use him for propaganda and call it kindness.”

“At least he’d have a choice,” Aizawa said.

“He has a choice.” Katsuki’s voice dropped, dangerous and desperate. “He’s always had a choice.”

“Then let him make it,” All Might said. “Right now. In front of all of us.” He looked at Izuku directly. “If you want to stay in Solara, if you want freedom from that collar and everything it represents—say so. We’ll grant you asylum. Protection. A life of your own choosing.”

The offer sat in the room like an opened door.

Izuku could feel everyone watching him. Could feel Katsuki’s hand trembling against his shoulder. Could feel the weight of kingdoms balancing on his answer.

He stood slowly.

“You want me to choose,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “Want me to prove something about Draconis, about Katsuki, about myself.” He looked at All Might, then Aizawa, then Mirio. “But none of you actually care what I choose. You care what it means for your argument.”

“That’s not—” Mirio began.

“It is.” Izuku’s hands clenched at his sides. “You look at me and see a victim to be saved. He looks at me and sees something to be protected. Neither of you sees me—just what I represent.”

“Then tell us,” All Might said gently. “Who are you, if not what we see?”

Izuku’s throat tightened. “I’m the boy my village voted to sacrifice. I’m the offering that was supposed to be consumed. I’m the one who survived when I wasn’t supposed to.” He touched the collar at his throat. “I wear this because it means someone wanted to keep me alive. Because it means I belong somewhere, even if I don’t know how to belong.”

“You could belong here,” Mirio said.

“Could I?” Izuku looked at him. “Or would I just be the rescued lamb? The proof that Solara is good and Draconis is cruel? Would I be a person or just a different kind of symbol?”

Silence.

“I’m not saying Draconis is perfect,” Izuku continued. “I’m not saying the collar doesn’t hurt sometimes. I’m not saying I understand what this is or what I want it to be.” He looked up at Katsuki. “But I’m saying I chose to stay. I chose to follow him here. And maybe that choice doesn’t make sense to you—maybe it shouldn’t make sense—but it’s mine.”

He turned back to All Might.

“So thank you for the offer. Thank you for wanting to save me. But I don’t need saving from him.” His voice steadied. “I need both of you to stop using me as ammunition.”

The chamber held its breath.

Then Katsuki’s hand moved from Izuku’s shoulder to his hand, fingers lacing together in full view of everyone present.

“We’re done here,” he said.

And this time, no one tried to stop them.

✦◦❀◦✦

As they walked back through the corridors, Katsuki didn’t let go of his hand. Didn’t speak. Just held on like Izuku might disappear if he loosened his grip.

When they reached their chambers, the door had barely closed before Katsuki pulled him close—not violently, not possessively, just desperately.

“You meant it,” he said. “What you said.”

“I meant it.”

“Even knowing what it costs?”

“Even then.”

Katsuki’s forehead pressed against his, breathing ragged. “They’ll never understand.”

“I know.”

“They’ll judge us. Condemn us. Use this against Draconis.”

“I know.”

“And you still choose this. Choose me.”

Izuku pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “I choose me. I choose surviving. I choose mattering, even if I only matter to one person.” He touched Katsuki’s face. “Stop asking if that’s enough. Just let it be enough.”

Katsuki kissed him—possessive and desperate and somehow tender.

When they broke apart, the sun was setting over Solara’s perfect gardens, painting everything in shades of gold and shadow.

“How long do we have to stay?” Izuku asked quietly.

“Until they stop hoping they can change my mind.” Katsuki moved to the window, looking out at the city of light. “Could be days. Could be longer. They’ll want to keep talking, keep pushing, keep trying to ‘save’ you from me.”

“I don’t want to be saved.”

“I know.” Katsuki’s voice was rough. “But they don’t.”

Outside, Solara glittered like a jewel—beautiful, perfect, utterly convinced of its own righteousness.

And inside, two people stood in the gathering dark, holding onto each other because it was the only thing they knew how to do.

Chapter Text

The negotiation chamber felt smaller on the fourth day.

Perhaps it was the tension that had accumulated over the intervening hours—arguments that grew more refined but no less entrenched, positions that hardened into stone. Or perhaps everyone simply understood that this session would determine whether the alliance could exist at all.

Katsuki sat rigidly in his chair, his jaw clenched so tightly that Izuku worried his teeth might crack. Beside him, the documents lay in neat stacks—proposals, counter-proposals, amendments, and revisions that had been drafted and redrafted until the language had become almost meaningless.

All Might surveyed the scene from his position at the head of the table, his expression grave. Aizawa looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Mirio sat quietly, his usual cheerfulness replaced by diplomatic precision.

“Shall we begin with where we left off?” All Might asked.

“There’s nowhere left to go,” Katsuki said flatly. “Your terms haven’t changed. Our position hasn’t changed. This is a waste of time.”

“Perhaps,” Aizawa said, “but we’ve learned something valuable in these negotiations. We understand now that Draconis and Solara operate from fundamentally different philosophical frameworks. The question is whether those frameworks can coexist within an alliance.”

“They can’t,” Katsuki replied. “And we both know it. You want to reshape how Draconis governs. We want to maintain our sovereignty. Those things are incompatible.”

“Are they?” Mirio leaned forward slightly. “What if we reframed the agreement? Not as Solara imposing oversight on Draconis, but as mutual commitment to certain humanitarian standards—standards that both kingdoms agree benefit from consistent application?”

Katsuki’s eyes narrowed. “You’re asking for the same thing with different words.”

“Perhaps,” Mirio conceded. “But words matter. They determine how your people perceive the agreement. If it reads as Solara dictating terms, your kingdom will resent it. But if it reads as both kingdoms committing to shared values—”

“Shared values we don’t actually share,” Katsuki interrupted.

“Don’t we?” All Might’s gaze was steady. “You want stability. We want prosperity. You want security for your people. We want the same. Perhaps we’re not as different as we seem.”

The argument continued—circling, probing, searching for common ground that might not exist. But gradually, over the course of hours, something shifted. The positions began to bend. Not break, but flex. Trade-offs emerged. Compromises that neither side loved but both could live with.

By the time the afternoon sun began to slant through the windows, a framework had been established.

“So we have the terms,” Aizawa said, reviewing the final document. “Shared jurisdiction of the Eastern Gate. Regulated tariffs as outlined. Coordinated security patrols. And…” He glanced up. “Draconis agrees to establish an independent oversight committee for territories within five leagues of the border. The committee will include representatives from both kingdoms.”

“Staffed primarily by Draconis officials,” Katsuki said, “with Solara observers.”

“Agreed,” Aizawa replied.

“And detentions within those territories must follow established legal procedures,” Mirio added. “No exceptions.”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. “Agreed.”

The words settled over the room like the conclusion of a symphony—not perfect, but complete.

“Then we have an accord,” All Might said, his voice warm with relief. “The alliance between Draconis and Solara will proceed.”

There was no celebration. No cheering or congratulations. Just the quiet satisfaction of work completed, of compromise achieved, of two fundamentally different kingdoms finding a way to coexist.

“The formal signing ceremony will be held tomorrow evening,” All Might continued. “We’ll invite representatives from the surrounding territories. It should be quite a spectacle.”

Katsuki pushed back from the table. “We’ll be ready.”

As he stood, his hand found Izuku’s shoulder—a gesture of possession that had become so automatic neither of them thought about it anymore. Izuku rose with him, and they made their way toward the door.

“Prince Katsuki,” All Might called. “One moment.”

Katsuki paused, not turning back. “Yes?”

“I want to apologize,” All Might said, and there was genuine regret in his voice. “For how we handled the situation with your companion. We used him as a tool in our argument, which was unfair.”

Katsuki turned then, his red eyes unreadable. “Yes, you did.”

“I hope that you understand we were coming from a place of genuine concern,” All Might continued. “We’ve seen too many kingdoms justify cruelty in the name of strength. We wanted to offer an alternative.”

“I know,” Katsuki said. “That’s what made it dangerous.”

He didn’t wait for a response before leading Izuku from the chamber.

✦◦❀◦✦

The corridors of Solara’s palace were quieter in the afternoon. Izuku had walked these halls enough times now that they no longer felt entirely foreign—though they still carried that same sterile quality, every corner purposefully designed, nothing left to chance or nature.

He was returning from the baths, the humid warmth still clinging to his skin beneath his clothes, when the feeling hit him.

Eyes. Watching.

Not the polite observation of courtiers or the careful attention of servants trained to notice everything. This was different. Sharper. Like a blade pressed against the back of his neck, not breaking the skin but threatening to at any moment.

Izuku slowed his pace, trying to look casual, but his heart had begun to hammer against his ribs. The corridor was nearly empty—just an elderly servant arranging flowers in a distant alcove, too far away to have noticed him.

The watching sensation intensified. The hair on his arms, already standing on end from his hybrid nature, seemed to bristle further. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to find Katsuki, to seek safety in the presence of the only thing in this castle that felt like protection.

He risked a glance over his shoulder.

Nothing. The corridor behind him was empty, sunlight streaming through tall windows and illuminating nothing but polished stone and carefully arranged tapestries.

Another glance. Still nothing.

But the feeling remained, a pressure that made his breath come shallow. Someone was there. Watching. Calculating. He could feel the weight of attention like a physical thing, pressing down on his shoulders, drawing along the line of his spine—

“Izuku.”

The voice came from the connecting corridor ahead, friendly and familiar. Mirio stepped into view, his golden hair catching the light, his smile warm and entirely guileless.

The watching sensation evaporated as if it had never been.

Izuku blinked, his racing pulse slowly returning to normal. The fear that had been coiling in his chest loosened its grip, replaced by confusion. Had he imagined it? Was he simply on edge after days of tense negotiations?

“I was hoping I’d run into you,” Mirio continued, approaching with his characteristic easy grace. “Tamaki mentioned you seemed troubled earlier. I wanted to know if you were truly alright.”

“I’m… fine,” Izuku said, though his voice still trembled slightly. “The negotiations seemed to go well today.”

“They did.” Mirio fell into step beside him as they walked. “Your prince is an impressive negotiator when he’s not busy being defensive. I think there might be a genuine agreement here.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am, a little,” Mirio admitted. “But pleasantly so. Draconis has a reputation for being… difficult. Unyielding. But Katsuki was willing to find common ground. That speaks well of him.”

Izuku nodded, though he was still shaking off the lingering unease of that strange sensation. “He’s more complicated than people think.”

“Most people are.” Mirio glanced sideways at him. “Tamaki mentioned you seemed uncomfortable during your bath earlier. That you were nervous about something.”

The shift in conversation was smooth, almost imperceptible, but it caught Izuku off guard. “Tamaki was there?”

“He tends the baths,” Mirio explained. “Part of his duties. He’s very observant—picks up on things other people miss.” Mirio’s expression remained open and kind. “He said you seemed uneasy. Like you were listening for something. Or someone.”

Izuku hesitated. The strange watching sensation had faded so completely that it now seemed absurd to mention. A phantom. A product of his own anxiety.

“I was just thinking about the negotiations,” Izuku said finally. “About whether the agreement would hold or fall apart.”

“Understandable.” Mirio’s smile was warm. “You care about him. It makes sense that you’d worry about his success.”

There was nothing inappropriate in the statement, nothing that suggested anything beyond friendly observation. And yet Izuku found himself suddenly aware of how easily Mirio’s charm could be mistaken for something more. How his kindness could be interpreted as interest. How his attention, focused entirely on Izuku, might look to someone watching from a distance.

Someone like Katsuki.

“I should get back,” Izuku said, taking a small step away. “Katsuki will be expecting me.”

“Of course.” Mirio’s smile didn’t falter. “And Izuku? Whatever you felt in the corridor—trust your instincts. They’re usually right.”

The words followed Izuku as he hurried back toward their chambers, leaving him uncertain whether they were meant as comfort or warning.

✦◦❀◦✦

The prince was pacing when Izuku entered their chambers—a controlled, predatory movement that spoke of barely restrained violence. His formal jacket had been discarded, his shirt unfastened at the collar, and his claws were extended far enough to leave shallow gouges in the wooden arms of a chair.

“You were with Mirio,” he said without preamble.

“We ran into each other in the corridor,” Izuku replied, choosing his words carefully. “He was just making conversation.”

“Making conversation.” Katsuki’s voice was low, dangerous. “Is that what you call it when he smiles at you like that? When he asks you questions? When he positions himself between you and the nearest exit?”

“Katsuki—”

“He’s charming, I know. Everyone loves Mirio. He’s handsome and kind and he doesn’t have the audacity to demand anything from you.” Katsuki’s red eyes blazed as he turned to face Izuku directly. “He’s everything I’m not.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

“Isn’t it?” Katsuki crossed the space between them in three strides. “You felt safer with him. You smiled at him. You let him into your space without that collar on your throat making you feel like a possession.”

“I don’t feel that way—”

“You do.” Katsuki’s hand came to rest on the back of Izuku’s neck, right where the collar sat. His grip was firm but not painful. “And he knows it. That’s why he keeps finding excuses to talk to you. Testing to see if I’m distracted enough to lose my hold.”

“He’s not—”

“He is.” Katsuki’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. “And you almost let him.”

Before Izuku could protest further, Katsuki moved. Not violently—but with absolute certainty. He spun Izuku around, pressing him hard against the nearest wall. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, but not painfully. This wasn’t cruelty. It was claiming.

“Mine,” Katsuki growled, the word forced through clenched teeth. “You’re mine. Not his. Not Solara’s. Not anyone else’s. Mine.”

Izuku’s hands pressed flat against the cool stone, his pulse racing as Katsuki’s body pinned him in place. The prince’s forked tongue traced a burning path along the curve of his shoulder, marking him with saliva and possession.

“Say it,” Katsuki demanded, his voice raw with something between fury and desperation.

“I’m yours,” Izuku breathed. “Only yours.”

The words seemed to ignite something in Katsuki. His hips rolled forward, creating friction that made Izuku gasp. His mouth moved up the side of Izuku’s neck, teeth scraping skin, tongue soothing the sting. He was claiming every inch of Izuku’s throat, his shoulders, everything he could reach without tearing the clothes away.

Izuku’s back arched involuntarily, his body responding despite his mind’s confusion at the intensity of it. The wall was cold against his palms, but Katsuki’s heat surrounded him on all sides—overwhelming, inescapable, undeniable.

“No one else,” Katsuki breathed against his ear. “No one gets to see you like this. No one gets to touch you. No one gets to make you feel anything but what I make you feel.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of absolute certainty, delivered in a voice that brooked no argument.

Izuku tried to think—tried to breathe—but every thought dissolved beneath the heat rolling off the dragon hybrid. It wasn’t just body warmth; it was energy, coiled and restless, humming under Katsuki’s skin like something wild straining to be let loose.

“Katsuki,” he managed, “you’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” Katsuki rasped, though his voice came out lower, rougher. “It’s nothing. Instincts. They get loud sometimes.”

Instincts.

The word made Izuku’s heart stutter. His village elders had spoken about such things only in whispers—stories of dragon hybrids whose tempers flared hotter than flame, who could lose themselves if they weren’t careful. Yet the man holding him wasn’t out of control; he was fighting for it, every muscle tight with restraint.

Katsuki’s hips moved once, deliberate, and Izuku gasped. There was friction—heat through fabric—and then another slow drag that made him tremble. Something inside him responded before he could stop it, a traitorous flood of warmth between his thighs.

Slick.

Izuku froze. His body was betraying him, responding to pressure, to dominance, to being seen.

The scent hit the air a second later—sweet and earthy.

Katsuki stilled.

“Izuku,” he said slowly, like he was tasting the word. “What is that?”

Izuku’s ears flattened. “I—it happens sometimes. When I’m stressed or—” his voice faltered, “—close to someone. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Katsuki inhaled once, sharp and deep, and the sound that followed was halfway between a growl and a groan. “It means plenty.” He braced a hand beside Izuku’s head, claws dimpling the stone. “You have no idea what you smell like right now.”

Izuku swallowed hard. “Is that… bad?”

“It’s dangerous,” Katsuki said, and the honesty in his tone made Izuku’s pulse spike. “Not for you. For me.”

He pushed away from the wall just far enough to look at him—eyes burning red in the low light. “I need you on the bed.”

Izuku hesitated, confusion cutting through the haze. “Why—”

“Because I’m trying not to hurt you.” Katsuki’s voice broke around the words, raw and desperate. “Please, Izuku.”

The plea undid him. He nodded.

Katsuki scooped him up with terrifying ease and carried him into the adjoining room. The bed met Izuku’s back in a rush of soft sheets and heat. Katsuki followed, caging him in, his movements clumsy from restraint.

Their clothes were half-gone before Izuku realized it—Katsuki’s tunic open, his own shirt shoved up to his ribs, the air between them slick and hot. Katsuki’s hips pressed down again, the weight of him solid and overwhelming.

Something hard brushed between Izuku’s thighs. He looked down and caught his breath.

At the base of Katsuki’s length, just above where the skin darkened into faint scales, there was a swell—thicker, pulsing faintly.

“Katsuki,” he whispered, eyes wide. “What… is that?”

Katsuki’s jaw clenched. “Don’t—don’t look at it like that.”

“I’ve never—” Izuku’s voice broke on a gasp as Katsuki rolled his hips again. “It moves.”

“It’s called a knot,” Katsuki muttered, forehead dropping to Izuku’s shoulder. “It’s not for now. It’s just—instinct. It swells when I—fuck, when I’m too close.”

Izuku’s breath hitched. “Does it hurt?”

“No. It’s just… heavy.” He shuddered. “You feel too good. Smell too good.”

Their bodies found a rhythm—slow, dragging thrusts that slid through the mess on Izuku’s thighs. Katsuki’s cock ground against the thin fabric of Izuku’s underclothes, spreading the slick further until every movement made a wet sound that filled the quiet room.

Izuku’s hands clutched at Katsuki’s shoulders, half in confusion, half in need. “I don’t understand any of this.”

“You don’t have to,” Katsuki said, voice breaking. “Just tell me if I go too far.”

“You won’t,” Izuku breathed, and it was the truth. For all the strength in him, Katsuki’s touch never crossed into pain.

The dragon lowered his head, licking a slow stripe from Izuku’s collarbone up to the curve of his jaw. His tongue was hot—too hot—but Izuku arched into it, the sting and warmth blurring together until all he could do was gasp.

“Sweet,” Katsuki murmured, tasting him again. “Sweet little lamb.”

Izuku’s hips lifted helplessly, seeking friction. “Katsuki—”

“I know,” Katsuki said, rutting harder, faster, until the bed creaked beneath them. “I know.”

His knot pressed insistently against the damp fabric between them, not breaching, just there—throbbing with the effort to stay restrained. He buried his face against Izuku’s neck and groaned like it was killing him not to lose control.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he demanded, voice rough with something primal.

“I’m yours,” Izuku whispered, dizzy with heat. “Only yours.”

Katsuki’s rhythm faltered, hips stuttering through the last few slow drags until the tension finally eased out of him. He collapsed forward, catching himself on trembling arms before his weight could crush the smaller body beneath him.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. Only the sound of their ragged breathing and the faint crackle of the hearth filled the air.

Izuku’s fingers found the back of Katsuki’s neck, tentative. “You’re warm.”

Katsuki huffed out something like a laugh. “You smell like trouble.”

“Does that mean you’re angry?”

“It means,” Katsuki said, lowering his head until his lips brushed Izuku’s temple, “I’m not letting anyone else near you until this scent fades.”

✦◦❀◦✦

They were still tangled together in the sheets when the knock came at the door—soft, respectful, the knock of a servant trained to announce themselves without intruding.

Katsuki’s entire body tensed, but he called out permission for them to enter.

A young woman Izuku recognized as one of the palace servants stepped inside, her eyes carefully averted from the rumpled state of the bed and its occupants.

“Pardon the interruption, Your Highness,” she said, her voice practiced and neutral. “A messenger from Glacium has arrived. They request your presence for a formal audience—or, if you prefer, they can leave a letter to be delivered.”

Katsuki sat up, his hand still firm on Izuku’s hip. “A letter,” he said curtly. “Leave it here.”

The servant bowed and stepped forward, placing an ornate envelope on the writing desk before retreating as silently as she’d come.

The door clicked shut behind her.

For a moment, the room was quiet again—save for the soft rustle of sheets as Katsuki rose, unselfconscious in his nakedness, and crossed to the desk. The envelope gleamed in the lamplight, cream-colored parchment sealed with deep blue wax bearing the sigil of Glacium: a snowflake wreathed in ice crystals. He broke the seal with one decisive motion.

His expression was difficult to read as he scanned the contents. When he finally looked up, there was something like resignation in his eyes.

“We’ve been invited to Glacium,” he said. “Prince Shoto extends the invitation himself.”

Izuku sat up, pulling the sheet around himself. “When?”

“Three days from now.” Katsuki set the letter down with deliberate care. “The signing ceremony here tomorrow, and then we travel to Glacium for ‘preliminary discussions regarding mutual defense and territorial security.’”

“Another kingdom,” Izuku said quietly. “Another court.”

“Another set of people who will judge us,” Katsuki corrected. He turned to face Izuku fully, and his expression had shifted—back to something more controlled, though the jealousy still simmered beneath the surface. “But this time, you stay close. No wandering. No private conversations with charming princes.”

“Mirio and I were just—”

“I don’t care.” Katsuki’s voice was absolute. “In Glacium, you’re mine. Visibly. Obviously. Anyone who looks at you will know exactly who you belong to.”

Izuku should have objected. Should have pointed out that possession and devotion weren’t the same thing, that Katsuki’s jealousy was irrational, that Mirio had done nothing wrong.

Instead, he found himself nodding. “Okay.”

Katsuki crossed back to the bed and kissed him—claiming, possessive, thorough. When he pulled back, his red eyes were still burning.

“We leave tomorrow after the ceremony,” he said. “Pack light. We’ll be flying again.”

Outside, Solara’s perfect gardens continued their orderly existence, completely unaware that the Dragon Prince had made his decision. The alliance was sealed. The negotiations were done.

And now they were moving on to the next kingdom, the next trial, the next opportunity for everything to fall apart.

Izuku held the letter for a moment, reading the elegant script: Prince Shoto of Glacium cordially invites Prince Katsuki of Draconis to state discussions of mutual interest. Your companion is welcome.

The words seemed innocent enough. But there was something in the phrasing—the emphasis on “welcome”—that suggested Glacium already knew more about their dynamic than they should.

He set the letter down carefully and turned back to Katsuki, who was watching him with an expression that was equal parts possessive and afraid.

“We’ll be fine,” Izuku said quietly.

“Will we?” Katsuki pulled him close again, his forehead resting against Izuku’s. “Or is Glacium just going to be another battlefield where everyone tries to pull you away from me?”

Izuku had no answer. But he held onto Katsuki anyway, because in this moment, holding on was all either of them knew how to do.