A/N: No promises…

Jon...

Jon...

Jon...!

The Dragon awoke in midair, its oddly dark brown eyes mirroring the crisp blue sky he was currently falling from. His vision blurred, unblurred and was swept across by panicked harpies, seeking to escape this falling mountain of a creature. With a confused, indignant roar, the Dragon unfurled his wings, lashed out his immense tail – reducing several helpless harpies to paste in the process – and roared, rattling the sky with the power in his lungs. Beating those massive wings, the Dragon hovered in the sky, blasting everything away from him as he gazed up at the portal that had so ceremoniously spat him out above the Cassardi sea.

"Don't think I don't know you're there, Seneschal," he growled louder than the pounding wind cast by his wings.

"How uncouth," came the answer from above, light, mocking and brimming with power. "To think eloquent, wise, philosophical Grigori would be succeeded by one with such crass command of language."

Following those words, the Seneschal himself, blazing with light and reeking of smugness, dove out of the portal and slammed to a halt just in front of the Dragon's enormous jaws, which could easily have swallowed him in one bite. In theory, anyway. Irritated as he was, the Dragon knew better than to pick a fight with the Seneschal – one who had proven himself to be capable of slaying dragons, and who watched over the land of Gransys as an unknown god.

The Seneschal looked over the colossal red Dragon, nodding slightly as his eyes travelled up the Dragon's body and pausing briefly at his dark brown eyes. "Everything seems to be in order - you look quite draconic to me. Can you tell me your name?"

"I…" the rumble in the Dragon's chest died for a moment as he delved deep into his memories, resurfacing with a face looking up at him from water at the edge of the long pier in Cassardis. With the return of the Dragon's identity came words:

"My name is Jon Ashfell," came the voice of Jon Ashfell, albeit a hundred times deeper than he remembered it. The Seneschal nodded.

"So it is. What else?"

"I was… in Cassardis. Why was I in Cassardis?"

The Seneschal peered at him with narrowed eyes. "A more appropriate question would be, why can you recall Cassardis, but naught else?"

Jon the Dragon returned the god-thing's glare tenfold. "Or better yet: why haven't I eaten you? You're puny compared to me."

Immediately the Seneschal called Jon's bluff, and raised both hands warningly, that smug aura never leaving him. "Go on, try. I won't kill you, as I need you to make more Arisen, but I am more than capable of giving you a beating you won't soon forget."

They hung there in the sky, Dragon and dragon-slaying god, until finally Jon's snout dropped in reluctant deference. The Seneschal nodded in smug satisfaction, and gestured towards the distant island duchy of Gransys.

"You know what to do."

Not deigning to gratify the god with an answer, Jon gave one mighty flap and blasted landwards, his heart already seeking another to beat in sync with. Even from such a distance, a resonance was unmistakeable.

"Arisen…" he growled, the word instinctively rolling off his ridged tongue. And he then remembered something else, looking into the water: a bloody shirt torn nearly in half, and a long, faintly glowing scar running across his chest. These were the signs of the Arisen. Seeing them in himself meant…

Jon set his great jaw and flew onwards.

It wasn't long before the great Dragon was casting the shadow of his wings over the small fishing village of Cassardis. Predictably, panic ensued, the unprepared villagers tripping over themselves in their bid to escape. His long tail fiercely lashing the beach, sending sand and rocks cascading into the village, Jon scanned the crowd for one who would not turn tail and run. Soon, the figure became clear: a man with distinctive long red hair, a muscular physique, and the eyes of a warrior. His heart, Jon knew, was the one he had been feeling.

The Dragon landed on the beach in a burst of sand and water, letting loose a harmless but frightening column of flame. The red-haired man, picking up a discarded arming sword, sped directly for him, heedless of his own safety, seeking only to protect those around him. The Dragon zeroed in on this man, waiting until he came just within reach, and then lashed out with one of his forepaws.

Fast as the Dragon was, the man was faster. Surprising Jon with his speed, he dashed under the dragon's paw, slicing at the passing limb as he did so. Even though the blade has slid ineffectually over his scales, it had been an impressive blow nonetheless.

This man, Jon thought as he looked down at his relatively diminutive adversary, would make a fearsome foe, were he properly equipped and experienced. With this in mind, he struck again, lunging his neck forward and biting. His jaws closed with a sharp snap, but met with nothing but air. The man had taken hold of one of Jon's horns, and was trying to angle his sword to ram it into the Dragon's eye. With a roar, Jon shook his head, sending the man tumbling back. Still he rose to his feet and met the dragon again, perhaps even with greater vigour. The red-haired man, darting between Jon's legs, leapt fearlessly onto the dragon's left foreleg. Seizing one of the ridges on his leg, the man pushed off, aiming his sword straight at the vulnerable heart in the center of Jon's massive chest.

With a screech, the Dragon reared up and smacked the lunging would-be hero away, at last scoring a direct hit. The man was sent flying brutally across the sand, bouncing and rolling before finally skidding to a stop and lying motionless in the low tide.

At last knowing his foe to be beaten, Jon crept almost leisurely across the beach, the entire world dulling around him as his entire being focused tighter and tighter on this man, who had dared defy him – whose sword was still embedded in his paw. Examining it coolly, he let the sword fall to the sand as if it were no more than a needle (which to him, it was), and stood towering over his fallen opponent. As the man snarled in defiance, trying in vain to rise in spite of his obviously broken arm and ribs. The Dragon gazed down at this fighter – one who, he had no doubt, if gifted the power of the Arisen, could and would bring about his end.

A moment later, he had made his decision. Lifting one razor-sharp claw, the Dragon brought it down to hover just over the prone man. As the defeated villager snarled his defiance, The Dragon removed his claw and nodded.

"Farewell."

A questioning grunt was all the brave man could offer as the Dragon took flight, slamming the beach with the gale-force winds from his wings, and soared North, leaving the village of Cassardis behind altogether.

How do you like that, Seneschal? He thought triumphantly as the warm South wind carried him higher, until he was only a speck in the sky. Flapping his wings to gain speed, the Dragon made for a place he vaguely remembered – a forest of dead trees, with a secluded abbey hidden in its heart. The Wilted Forest, that was it. Therein lay his quarry.

For, faraway, Jon the Dragon had sensed another heart – one nothing like his at all. In fact, it was a heart that defied the very nature of the Arisen.

That was the heart he wanted.