The Golden Dragon's Hoard

1 - 3

"And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it."
― Roald Dahl

Hey guys! Sorry for not uploading last week, I promise I'll be getting more consistent soon! Also, for those who are coming from my other books, is this still enjoyable content for you or are you still liking my other content more?
And I know that this chapter is more a filler than anything, but next chapter and every one after that really gets into it! So please don't be afraid to stick around, it's only the third chapter and is slowly building :)
Anyway, I hope you guys like this chapter and have a good day! Don't be afraid to comment (I live off them, lol).

Part One - Chapter Three
"The Rare Little Dragon"

An ancient dragon with gleaming red scales is curled into the corner of a big room—twice the size of a large horse and an infinite times more deadly. Sharp talons, spikes that can impale, long fangs and powerful wings. A heartfire strong enough to burn down a whole forest.

This is not a creature most would dare to upset.

He lays in the middle of a nest made out of soft, warm things.

This dragon is curled around something precious, guarding it from the world.

A hatchling rests between his front legs—the little thing is white and gold, though his scales do not gleam as they should. The poor thing is absolutely covered in scars, from the tip of his tail to the edge of his snout, horrible gray scales mark the injuries of his past.

There have been far too many to count them properly.

His front leg, broken but now wrapped up properly, is held to the youngling's chest with white bandages.

The edge of one of his wings—which had been scrapped raw—now has a healing ointment on it, the soft webbing between the fingers of the wing going from a reddish bruise to its proper light gold.

It's a sad sight: something so small, so young, hurting so much.

Athanasius grumbled softly, the steady chuff still not letting up even as the baby was safe and calm now. He stared at the other, mind whirling, heart aching.

Dragons like them are rare.

Finding a young one, especially like this...

If the poor thing had a protector or a hoard before now, they were as good as dead.

He could feel Ras' worry and Oziamon's lack of patience. It was eating away at the witch's anxiety, laying stagnant in the back of his mind.

He didn't like it but he couldn't focus on that right now.

Atlas was anxious too, instincts roaring at him to bundle up the little one until he was truly hidden and guard him. The room they were in was safe, but it wasn't a den. Wasn't as good as it possibly could be.

It was the best they could do while remaining home, however. Their side of it was one that his witch and covenmate weren't welcome in even though they were part of his hoard.

They weren't dragons and his overprotective hindbrain insists that they're predators.

His witch and best friend were sitting at the edge of the room on one of the couches, both reading but Atlas knew their focus would occasionally come back to him and the youngling.

The house was much bigger than it looked—thanks to the magic—and accommodated to his sheer size, and he's never been more thankful before that he's able to build a nest inside and one that's so warm.