Dà Jiāo Huǒ had not been in his human form in three hundred and seventy-two years.
There had been no reason to. Human forms were for diplomacy, for deception, for dealing with creatures too fragile to withstand a dragon's true presence. He had no use for such things.
He was the Burning Sky. The oldest living dragon of the First Generation. If lowlanders wanted to speak with him, they could learn to understand a roar.
But he couldn't very well cradle a human infant against his chest while in full dragon form without accidentally impaling her on a horn, so here he was.
Standing on his own landing platform.
In front of his entire court.
Wearing nothing but his own scales.
The problem was that the dignity was rapidly evaporating.
Because the tiny creature, the one he had definitely not just risked his life to catch, the one he had absolutely not felt his ancient heart crack open for, was currently screaming at him.
Not in fear. Not in distress.
In outrage.
