Draco does not often remove himself from his wicked wiles and Dove’s side.
He was always terrible at carrying ambition and even more terrible at being a King, but he believed in a new Beqanna and his wild brother—so he comes when the war drums sound.
Perhaps not to battle; no, fighting was never the stallion’s style, but observing the bloodshed and assisting where he can—why, he thinks he is just a little capable of that.
Draco looks surprisingly suave for a twisted creature, handsome face contorted in an eager, charming grin. The acrid scent of smoke and metallic tang of blood crowd his nostrils—he loves it, bristles with it, prances and prowls and dances to the rhythm of rebirth. The snark building in his throat scratches up his larynx to get out, to make the world know this is his prime, his perfect Beqanna.
To tell them all his brother will conquer the world and Draco will sit back proudly, bask in the secondhand glory as a trusted confidant.
Draco finds the victory, the fire and the flame. He finds it with a grin, finds it with a proud sway in step.
He finds it, but what he finds as the scene fully unfolds is unlike even his darkest dreams.
Ghaul, aflame, screeching as a section of his scales shatter. Draco knows that magic, knows it so well; and with a wavering, uncertain breathe, his eyes trail upward to find Ghaul’s killer.
“M-mom?” the demon manages to stutter out, but he is across the way from her and his voice is so soft and broken that she would never hear it.
“No . . .” Draco whispers and closes his eyes, taking a meager step back. This isn’t right. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this. Not by her. No. He thinks and thinks and thinks--but just as quickly as the thoughts spin, they stop and dissipate, the eerie calm after a tornado has been sunctioned back into the sky.
The clenching in Draco's chest tears him clean in two.
Ghaul, his blood, his bone, his reason for believing in Beqanna. Gone.
There is no rage, like one might expect from a demon. No, Draco is empty, hollow. His typically glowing eyes leave his brother's burning body to stare at his mother and battered half-brother. He is overwhelmed by the sensation that he picked the wrong side. That not only has he lost Ghaul, but he lost his parents, too.
Draco understands Starsin, why she did what she did. As the dam in his chest breaks, he begins to feel a flood of what usually acccompanies sentience: empathy. An extension he does not offer most. But he is too lost now to make sense of it, too jumbled and crushed to understand what this means. He takes several numb steps back, eyes only showing a sign of life when Anaxarete tells the Pangeans she is returning Ghaul to their home.
"Home . . ." Draco whispers, then turns from the fire to return to the flood.
