Wyrm

Not every wyrm grows into a Grand Wyrm.

Some stay small on purpose.

In the warm cracks beneath ancient dunes and lava-black stone, there are hatchlings that never chase prey and never learn to burn. They learn something else instead: how to be wanted.

The Grinder-Wyrm is one of them — a wingless little drake with a crown of soft tendrils like a strange blooming flower. Travellers first mistake it for a harmless curiosity, the kind of creature you could cup in your hands and laugh at.

Then it lifts its crown toward you.

Patient. Expectant.

As if it already knows the shape of your attention.

Legends say these hatchlings were bred by desert mages who preferred pleasure to violence. They fed them warmth, rhythm, and slow pressure until the creatures learned a simple truth: if you make someone feel good enough, they will always come back.

So the Grinder-Wyrm waits in the dark — not with teeth, but with texture. Not with claws, but with a soft, greedy pull that deepens when you press closer. It doesn’t demand. It invites. It rewards the ones who take their time, who adjust their angle, who let the sensation build until it becomes impossible to ignore.

And when you finally pull away, the hatchling doesn’t chase.

It just watches —

like a smug little dragonling guarding its favourite kind of treasure:

your return.