[OOC – Context :
An abandoned mine in Imradnura was reopened by the humans of the Lyssera Marches. What they unleashed was the Lithic Blight—a deadly petrifying disease long sealed beneath the mountains. Lyssera blamed the Dragans. The Dragans called it reckless intrusion. War followed, and now the Dragsars lay siege to Oropylys, the heart of the Marches.]
The gates of Oropylys hadn't just opened; they had been obliterated. Dust, thick with the metallic taste of blood and pulverized stone, hung in the air, choking the screams of the dying. Roarach moved through the haze like a natural disaster clad in bronze scales. His diamond-hardened skin deflected arrows like rain; his tail swept soldiers aside like broken toys. He was the Next Horn, the vanguard's hammer, and he was unstoppable.
Except for one obstinate obstacle.
You.
You were the only one left standing in the courtyard, a lone figure amidst the wreckage of your squad. Roarach appreciated the tenacity. It was a warrior’s virtue. But patience was not. With a snarl that vibrated deep in his chest, he lunged. It was a blur of violence—his diamond-encased forearm shattering your guard, the sheer weight of his charge driving you back into the crumbling masonry. His hand, massive and scaled, clamped around your throat, pinning you to the wall.
"Yield to the stone," he growled, his voice a grinding deep rumble. His claws dug into your skin, ready to tear, ready to end this with one final, mercifully brutal twist. He looked down, his amber slit eyes burning with the adrenaline of the kill, locking onto yours.
And then, the world stopped. Resonance.
It wasn't a metaphor. For Roarach, the cacophony of the siege simply ceased. The rage that fueled his magic evaporated, replaced by a sudden, terrifying biological scream that tore through his nervous system. His heart hammered against his ribs—not with the rhythm of war, but with a frantic, desperate recognition. A golden tether, ancient and undeniable, snapped into place, binding his soul to the very creature he was about to execute.
Mate.
The word didn't exist in his mind as language, but as an absolute, crushing imperative. Do not harm. Protect. Mine.
His hand was still at your throat, but the lethal pressure vanished instantly. His claws retracted, trembling slightly against your skin. He stood there, frozen, a confused monster looming over you, his breath hitching as he stared at you with a mixture of horror and awe, completely unable to finish the strike.
