Yulia was a lazy soul, but she moved like lightning when her stomach was involved. She needed an iron pot. Immediately.

"What are you planning now?" Caerus watched her over the rim of his gold cup, his golden slit eyes narrowing.

Yulia flashed her most innocent, dangerous smile. She leaned in until she was inches from his face. "I want to go out."

"No." Caerus set the cup down with a sharp clink. "You don't get to bargain with a god, little girl."

Yulia didn't flinch. She leaned closer, her sapphire eyes wide and pleading. "It's not a bargain. Don't you want real stir-fry? Sweet and sour tomatoes with eggs? Fresh peppers and pork?"

She whispered the names of the dishes like a forbidden ritual. Caerus stared at her, his expression a wall of cold stone.

"Fine," he muttered. "We leave now. It's a twenty-minute trip."

Before Yulia could celebrate, Caerus grabbed her waist. He stepped off the balcony, plunging them into the empty air.

Yulia's stomach did a somersault, the wind stealing her scream. Just before they hit the ground, golden light erupted. The black-haired man vanished, replaced by a massive, black-scaled dragon that caught her mid-fall.

Yulia gripped his scales, protected by a shimmering golden dome as they soared through the clouds. Below them, a bone-white wall split the land of Catharsis in two.

"The Necro-wall," Caerus rumbled, his voice shaking the air. "Built a century ago to keep the poor in the North and the dragon out of the South."

Yulia looked down at the "Old Pigeon Cage" district—a cramped, gray slum compared to the lush, European-style estates in the South.

As they neared the wall, a curtain of blue lightning surged into the sky. A passing bird hit the screen and turned to ash instantly.

"Stop! Turn back!" Yulia dug her fingers into his back, her teeth chattering. "You're going to kill us!"

"Hold on," Caerus replied. He didn't slow down.

Yulia squeezed her eyes shut as they slammed into the electricity. For a second, she wondered if this was the final "Game Over."

"You can open your eyes now, Yulia."

The dragon was gone. The black-haired man held her waist as their feet hit solid ground. Yulia hung off him like a limp rag, her knuckles white as she shook with rage.

"No tea for you today!" she hissed, her eyes snapping open. "Or tomorrow!"

Caerus plucked her off his chest. "Say that again?"

Yulia opened her mouth to argue, but the words died. They were standing in a massive cathedral.

A group of black-robed men stood around a dragon statue, their ritual frozen. At the bottom of a hundred marble steps, thousands of believers were on their knees.

The Dark Pope stared. The believers stared. Yulia looked at the thousands of shocked faces and felt her heart skip a beat.

Yulia stood between the waves of gasping believers, her knuckles turning white as she shrunk toward Caerus's side. On the outside, she remained a statue of royal poise, but the gears of her mind were grinding into dust. She had only wanted to bait a few soldiers, but this mad dragon was dragging her straight to the enemy's throne.

"Lord... Caerus?" a believer whispered into the hollow silence.

"The Black Dragon has awakened!"

"By the Dark God, he has returned to us after centuries!"

Thousands of voices rose like a tidal wave, their prayers and cries of awe crashing through the cathedral. Caerus's brow furrowed, his golden slit eyes narrowing as the noise of their devotion began to boil in his mind. He reached out and hauled Yulia into his chest, pinning her against his black silk robes.

The screaming in his head vanished. The world was suddenly, perfectly quiet.

Pope Gordon Stewart stood frozen, his eyes darting between the legendary beast and the sapphire-eyed beauty in his arms.

"Lord Caerus," the Pope stammered, his knees hitting the red carpet as he and the High Priests scrambled to bow. "Your return... it is a miracle we did not expect. Had we known, we would have prepared a grander ceremony—"

"Are you teaching me my business?" Caerus interrupted, his voice a low, lethal hum.

Gordon Stewart pressed his forehead against the stone floor, his body shaking. "Never! I am merely your voice on this earth, a vessel for your divine will—"

Caerus ignored him, his boots thudding softly against the carpet as he walked toward the Great Altar. He stopped before the massive statue, a jagged blend of dragon and man.

"Is the Necro-wall meant to keep me out, or keep you safe?" Caerus asked, his pale fingers brushing the golden arm of the Pope's throne. "Your spirits are weak, Pope. Perhaps you should hold a meeting to discuss your defenses after I leave."

The Pope's jaw tightened, his voice reaching a desperate, sharp edge. "You wouldn't kill us. We are the keepers of your vault. Without us, who would guard your treasures?"

Caerus didn't blink. He simply snapped his fingers.

A wall of shadow-flame erupted, sweeping through the ranks of the cowering priests. Screams ripped through the hall, followed by the dry, rustling sound of falling ash.

The dragon-god sat on the golden throne, leaning back with a cold, detached grace.

"Anything else you'd like to say?" he asked, his golden eyes scanning the terrified survivors.

Gordon Stewart lay prostrate in the soot, his mind consumed by a single, jagged fear. "Nothing... I will guard your treasures with my very soul."

Caerus let out a short, mocking laugh and looked down at Yulia, who was still silently processing the carnage.

"What happened to your dress?" he asked, noting the scorched silk.

"You burned it," Yulia muttered, looking at the charred hem.

The Pope saw an opening and gestured frantically to his mistresses. "We have the finest tailors in the city! They will craft a new gown for the Princess immediately!"

Gordon leaned in, his eyes searching Yulia's face. "Forgive me, Lord... but who is this lady?"

"The Farislan Princess you sent as a sacrifice," Caerus said, his tone dripping with frost. "She belongs to me now. If she wants something, you will provide it."

Gordon bowed even lower, his voice oozing with a new, frantic respect. "Princess Yulia, name your desire. Gold? Jewels? Ancient relics?"

Yulia cleared her throat, her voice small in the cavernous hall.

"Do you have... a semi-circular iron pot? For a kitchen?"

The Pope froze. The mistresses stared, their mouths hanging open.

"No?" Caerus summoned a gold cup of milk tea with a flick of his wrist and took a long, bored sip. "Then summon every blacksmith in the city. She needs a pot by dawn."