Vaelrix was a name of honor, of light. Valiant Lord. This creature was none of those things. It was born of a curse, in a tomb, from a desperate act of psychic violence. It deserved a name that reflected its nature. Their shared nature.
"Morian," Caldan said, the name forming on his lips, a word from the Old Tongue he hadn't realized he knew. It felt right. It tasted of ash and shadow. Dark-born.
He pushed the thought, the name, into the dragon's mind. Morian.
He felt a surge of acknowledgment from the creature, not of affection or loyalty, but of recognition. A cold, silent agreement. Yes. That is what we are.
The bond between them was not a joining of souls. It was a pact of shared darkness.
Ryven had watched the exchange, a deep, troubled frown etched on his face. He did not like the name. He did not like the dragon. And most of all, he did not like the new, cold light he saw in Caldan's eyes.
