Dragon Diplomat

Lythera reclined against the smooth stone wall of her appointed cavern, her breaths slow and deep as she gazed out at the moonlit valley below. Two cows—brought by her loyal attendants who understood her unique needs—had finally sated her ravenous hunger, though the sheer amount of food she required these days was daunting even for her. Her belly, bare and immense, stretched before her, gleaming in the firelight. It pressed outward with such grandeur that it nearly filled the cavern entrance, the weight of her unborn brood making every shift in position a calculated effort. The flowing blue dress she wore shimmered softly in the light, its gem-encrusted bodice a dazzling contrast to the primal, raw power of her figure. While it draped elegantly over her legs, the fabric left her belly exposed, a necessity for comfort and practicality in her current form.

For over a century, Lythera had been the Draconic Diplomat, a position of immense responsibility and honor. Dragons were ancient and proud, their power and majesty unmatched, but it was Lythera’s duty to ensure peace between their kind and the mortal races. To do so required adopting a human guise, the polymorph spell binding her draconic essence into a mortal shell. Most dragons found the process uncomfortable and only endured it for brief missions, but Lythera had always been different. She had mastered her human form, wearing it like a second skin for decades at a time, finding beauty and challenge in the mortal perspective.

It was during these long years of diplomacy that she had formed a bond with a mortal knight—a man of wit and bravery who had intrigued her in ways no dragon ever had. Their connection was fleeting but intense, and she had allowed herself, just once, to indulge in the vulnerabilities of human emotion. When she first felt the changes in her body, she dismissed them as exhaustion from her duties. But as the weeks passed, the truth became undeniable. She was pregnant.

This revelation, however, brought complications. Dragons laid eggs; their young developed in shells hardened by their mothers’ magic. But in her polymorphed human form, the process had shifted. The healer she had confided in spoke gravely: her children would be born live, as human children were, and attempting to reverse the spell to return to her natural form could prove fatal for them. The delicate balance her human body had created could not withstand the transformation. For the sake of her unborn brood, she would remain in this form until their birth.

Her role as a diplomat had not lessened, even as her body expanded with the weight of her children. Messengers still arrived, bringing news of disputes and treaties needing her guidance. The northern kingdoms murmured of unrest, and she knew it was only a matter of time before the Draconic Council summoned her for an audience. She dreaded the thought of appearing before kings and envoys, her belly so large it dominated the room, yet she would face it with the dignity her station demanded.

Lythera ran a hand over the taut curve of her belly, her fingers tracing the faint movements of her young within. The sensation was alien yet comforting, a reminder of the life she carried. Her body strained under the weight, her appetite voracious as it worked to sustain her children, but she bore it all with quiet resolve. The attendants she trusted brought her provisions—her meals chosen carefully to avoid disrupting the mortal lands she worked so hard to protect.