Supreme Warlock System : From Zero to Ultimate With My Wives-Chapter 422: Dragon Sigils

Warlock Ch 422. Dragon Sigils

Across the bed, Lysandra smirked lazily, stretching her arms above her head like a lounging cat.

"Just a reminder, Warlock. Dragons…" she said, voice syrupy and casual, "have a ridiculous stamina for everything…"

Damian froze halfway through buckling his belt, squinting at her suspiciously.

"Hopefully I don't die because of it."

Lysandra laughed, a low, musical sound that vibrated pleasantly in the air between them.

"No," she said, rising smoothly from the bed without a shred of shame. "You won't."

And before he could lob back another sarcastic comment, she leaned forward and kissed him again—quick, decisive, a claiming peck on the lips.

Then she pulled back, cool and composed as ever, grabbing a cloth from a nearby dresser.

Damian, still sitting on the edge of the bed, caught the faint glimmer of crimson against her inner thigh—the unmistakable sight of virgin blood.

His gut twisted strangely.

Not guilt.

Not pride.

Just a deep, almost primal awareness of what they had just done. What it meant.

But Lysandra?

She didn't even flinch.

She wiped herself clean with methodical efficiency, tossing the cloth aside like it was nothing more than dealing with battlefield blood.

Damian stayed silent, just watching her.

Finally, when the quiet stretched too long, he muttered, "You look… not too bothered."

Lysandra glanced over her shoulder at him, her hair catching the noon light filtering through the high windows.

"Compared to life and death?" she said coolly. "This is normal."

Damian tilted his head, studying her.

"You know…" he said slowly, "for most people, their first time's a bit more… emotional."

She shrugged. "Maybe. But I've made crazier decisions than this."

He barked a short, dark chuckle.

"Sleeping with me ranks lower on the crazy scale?"

Lysandra gave him a sharp, almost teasing smile.

"Sleeping with you is crazy. No question. But not as crazy as standing beside you tonight."

Damian huffed a laugh under his breath.

"True."

He pulled his coat back over his shoulders, adjusting the strap across his chest.

Before he could stand properly, Lysandra flicked her gaze at him again—this time sharp. Intent.

"So," she said, walking toward him without hesitation, "since we've… settled our relationship…"

Damian narrowed his eyes warily. "That's one way to put it."

She smirked and extended her hand toward him, palm up.

"I shall give you my sigils," she announced calmly, like she was offering him a cup of tea.

Damian blinked. "Wait, what?"

"The sigil will speak," Lysandra explained, as if it were obvious. "It will say you are one of us—even though you are not a dragon."

Damian exhaled, dragging a hand down his face.

"Right. Because nothing about today has been normal."

Still, he reached out and took her hand.

The moment their palms connected, he felt it.

Mana stirred between them—thick and heavy and ancient.

The sigil on her forearm—an intricate, glowing pattern of runes and swirling draconic script—shimmered, detached like liquid mercury, and slithered up Damian's arm like a living serpent.

He hissed slightly at the sensation—cool and burning at once—as it wove into his mana sigils already etched across his body.

The new marking settled around his right shoulder, pulsing once with deep, vibrant power before fading to a soft, steady hum against his skin.

Lysandra withdrew her hand and stepped back, satisfaction flashing across her face.

"There," she said. "Now if something happens between you and the dragons, just show it. They will recognize you as claimed."

Damian rolled his shoulder, feeling the new weight in his mana circuits, the slight shift of resonance.

It felt…

Odd.

But not wrong.

He looked up at her, serious for once.

"Thank you," he said, voice low.

Lysandra shrugged. "Don't need to."

Then she smirked, folding her arms across her chest, the air between them heating again—this time not from sex, but something sharper.

"But just a reminder," she added, her golden gaze pinning him in place, "this is mutual."

Damian raised an eyebrow, wary again. "Meaning?"

Lysandra stepped close enough that he could feel her breath ghost against his jaw.

"I will ask for your love, Warlock," she said, voice a purr.

Damian's brain short-circuited for the third time that day.

"My love?" he repeated, feeling faintly betrayed by the universe.

Lysandra smiled—not cruel, not mocking. Just… knowing.

"I want to understand," she said softly. "What makes you special to them. To the witch. To the vampire queen. To that fae princess. To... that senator."

She leaned even closer, her lips brushing against his ear, her voice a low, steady hum that vibrated against his skin.

"I want to know why they look at you the way they do."

Damian swallowed hard, his brain still stumbling over the list she'd rattled off.

And then he caught it—the slight, almost pointed addition.

He blinked, pulling back slightly to look her in the eye.

"That senator?" he echoed, voice rough, confused.

Lysandra smiled faintly, something sharp and secret flashing in her golden gaze.

"Yeah," she said, like it was obvious. "That senator. Aria." freēwēbnovel.com

Damian stared at her, stunned.

Aria?

Aria?!

The same Aria who spent half their interactions trying to murder him and the other half subtly cleaning up her messes before anyone noticed?

Lysandra's smile widened just slightly, catching his disbelief perfectly.

"I thought she was an enemy too," she said casually, like she wasn't dropping a mana bomb right into the middle of his world. "So I made a little research. Sent out some… discreet inquiries."

She stepped back, giving him space to process, her hands sliding easily behind her back.

"My informants came back just before you arrived," she added, voice maddeningly calm.

"And?" Damian said, heart thudding, a strange feeling uncurling in his chest.

Lysandra's gaze flickered, thoughtful.

"I found something interesting," she said.

Damian narrowed his eyes. "Meaning?"

But Lysandra only shook her head lightly, crossing the room in a slow, deliberate stride.

"This isn't something I should say," she said, her back to him now. "It's not my story to tell."

Damian frowned, tension tightening across his shoulders.

"What the hell does that mean?"

She looked over her shoulder at him, her silver hair catching the light like spun frost.

"It means," she said slowly, "you should ask her yourself. When she's ready."

Damian ground his teeth.

Cryptic dragon bullshit.

Of course.