The wicker tree's branch is thick enough to support my weight without complaint, and I sprawl across it like a satisfied predator, one leg dangling lazily over the edge. The hellian deer I fed on an hour ago left me pleasantly sedated—not drunk, but *content* in a way that makes the world seem softer around the edges.
*Delicious.*
The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of blood orange and deep purple. Shadows lengthen across the plateau below, and the air grows thick with the kind of tension that precedes violence.
I should probably move. Meet Chelsea at Spiral Grove as planned.
But something keeps me here, lounging in the branches, watching the world below with dark amusement.
The trees around me are trembling.
Not from wind—there is no wind. They're *afraid*, curling into themselves, branches pulling inward as if trying to make themselves smaller. The poisonous flora that covers this plateau—rare specimens that would kill most creatures with a single touch—seems to sense what's coming.
*Smart plants.*
Below, I hear voices. Harsh. Aggressive.
"They said she'd be fragile," a male voice snarls. "Easy prey. This is *bullshit*."
"Shut up and fight," another responds. "We get paid either way."
I shift on my branch, peering down through the canopy. The plateau is densely populated with vegetation—twisted trees with bark that weeps toxins, flowers that exhale paralytic spores, vines that strangle anything they touch.
And in the center of this poisonous garden, I see them.
Ten vampire hunters, grim-faced and armed to the teeth.
And three others.
*Oh.*
*Oh, this is interesting.*
The three are clearly not "fragile prey." They move with the kind of precision that comes from years of training and countless battles survived.
The first is a woman with long, frizzy dark hair pulled into a practical braid. She wields a spear with economical grace, each strike calculated to maximize damage while minimizing her exposure. I watch as she identifies a joint vulnerability in one hunter's armor and drives her spear through it with surgical precision.
*Beautiful.*
The second is smaller, faster—a woman with short dark hair barely brushing her shoulders. She fights with dual daggers, her movements a blur of speed and evasion. She doesn't waste energy on flashy techniques. Every strike is surgical, every dodge perfectly timed. I watch her slice through a hunter's neck with the kind of precision that speaks to intimate knowledge of anatomy.
*Exquisite.*
The third is a woodland elf with pale greenish-yellow skin. He doesn't engage directly. Instead, he uses earth magic—roots erupting from the ground to trip opponents, creating openings for his teammates to exploit. His magic is subtle, strategic, *intelligent*.
*Perfect.*
I lean forward, fascinated.
The vampire hunters are cursing, their initial confidence evaporating as they realize they've been lied to. These three aren't fragile. They're *lethal*.
"Who the fuck hired us for this?" one hunter spits, barely dodging the spear fighter's thrust.
"Does it matter?" another snarls back. "Kill them or die trying."
The battle unfolds below me like a symphony.
The spear fighter's strikes are the violins—precise, elegant, deadly. Each thrust finds its mark, each parry perfectly timed.
The dagger wielder is the percussion—fast, rhythmic, relentless. Her blades flash in the dying light, and blood sprays in arcs that catch the sunset.
The elf's magic is the bass—deep, grounding, the foundation that holds everything together. Roots surge and retreat, the earth itself responding to his will.
And the hunters?
They're the brass section—harsh, discordant, desperate.
*God, it's beautiful.*
I feel heat pooling low in my belly, arousal mixing with fascination. There's something about violence executed with such artistry that makes my dragon nature sing. This isn't mindless slaughter. This is *craft*.
Two hunters fall. Then a third.
Now it's seven against three, and the odds are evening.
*But I can make this better.*
I raise one hand, chaos magic swirling around my fingers. With a thought, I create a chaotic imp—a small, twisted creature that exists only to enhance the feral nature of combat. It's invisible to those below, but its influence is immediate.
The fighters' eyes widen. Their breathing quickens. The urge to fight, to *kill*, becomes overwhelming.
They can't stop.
They don't *want* to stop.
I wiggle my fingers, and the imp splits into thirteen copies, each one attaching itself to a different combatant.
And then, with a pulse of magic, I wake the three unconscious hunters.
*Thirteen against thirteen.*
*Perfect.*
The battle intensifies. The spear fighter's strikes become more aggressive, less defensive. The dagger wielder stops evading and starts *hunting*. The elf's magic grows wild, roots erupting with violent force.
The hunters fight with renewed desperation, their bodies moving beyond exhaustion, driven by the imp's influence.
I watch for an hour.
The trees continue to tremble, their branches curling away from the violence. The poisonous plants seem to shrink, as if trying to avoid being caught in the crossfire.
Blood soaks into the earth. Bodies accumulate damage—cuts, bruises, broken bones. But no one falls. No one *can* fall. The imps won't let them.
Groans of pain mix with gasps of exertion. Steel clashes against steel. Magic crackles through the air.
*This is what I've been missing.*
Not the violence itself, but the *artistry* of it. The way skilled combatants move like dancers, each one responding to the others in a deadly choreography.
I could watch this forever.
But the sun is setting, and I have an appointment to keep.
*And I've made my decision.*
I stand on the branch, stretching languidly. My voice carries down to the plateau, amplified by magic so all ten combatants can hear me.
"I choose you thirteen to be my warriors."
They freeze, looking up. Some can see me through the canopy. Others only hear my voice.
"Your genetic code will be good for my hatchlings," I continue, my tone conversational. "Those who fell in the civil war will live on through genetically modified children. You should be honored."
I raise both hands, and thirteen portals tear open behind each combatant—swirling voids of purple and black that pulse with dimensional energy.
"Welcome to my service."
A whirlwind erupts from each portal, powerful enough to lift grown warriors off their feet. They struggle, but the imps have left them exhausted, their bodies pushed beyond their limits.
One by one, they're sucked through the portals into the void.
The spear fighter goes first, her eyes wide with shock.
Then the dagger wielder, still clutching her weapons.
The elf mage tries to anchor himself with roots, but the whirlwind is too strong.
The hunters follow, their curses cut off as the portals swallow them.
Thirteen warriors. Ten perfect specimens for my breeding program and my growing army.
The portals close one by one, the whirlwinds dissipating.
Silence returns to the plateau.
The trees slowly uncurl, their trembling subsiding.
I hop down from my branch, landing lightly on the poisonous ground. The toxins don't affect me—dragon physiology has its advantages.
*I need a smaller coliseum,* I think, already planning. *How will my people enjoy the fun if they can't watch warriors like these in action?*
The thought makes me laugh—a dark, delighted sound that echoes through the empty plateau.
*An arena. A proper arena where my civilization can gather and watch combat as entertainment.*
*Where I can watch.*
I open a portal to Spiral Grove, still cackling as I step through.
Vanessa is waiting.
And I have thirteen new warriors to integrate into my growing empire.
*Perfect.*