A/N: This story was written for the Bringing Back The Past contest at Romanticide forum. I don't own the Teen Titans-- namely, Malchior and Rorek, who are both owned by WB/DC Comics (can't quite figure that one out)-- nor do I own Kyrie, who is an OC created by Zoicytes-Shadow.

I'll try to have new chapters up at a fairly regular pace, but school has been a Room 101 recently, (See? I'm even quoting the stuff we have to read in English! It's evil, I tell you!) so I'm not quite sure as to how that will work out. I actually have everything written out, but I tend to be a rather obsessive editor, so I don't know how long it'll take.

Rating will possibly (probably) go up once I get to... around the ninth chapter, I think.

Black Flame

Malchior, the dread dragon of Nole, was in an exceptionally foul mood.

He was at that moment sulking in one of Nole's seediest taverns, nursing his tankard of ale and pointedly ignoring the many flirtatious looks he could feel being sent his way. Instead, his gaze was fixed on a white-haired wizard—more specifically, Rorek of Nole, perhaps the most renowned man in the kingdom of Alaëa, and Malchoir's most hated foe. The irony of the situation had occurred to Malchior many times before: an entire kingdom, and they both choose to live in the same small village, located more or less in the middle of nowhere. Admittedly, Malchior didn't so much live in the village itself as in a cave at the top of Nebulexeser Peak in the Cloudeater Mountains—though, by now, he had pretty much hollowed out the entire mountain, so the word "cave" didn't really do it justice. However, the reminder that he was ignominiously hiding out in his lair while Rorek paraded all over the kingdom, covering himself in glory no matter what he did, did nothing to improve Malchior's mood.

Rorek did not share Malchior's gloom. He was currently celebrating his engagement to a minor sorceress whose name escaped Malchior at the moment, and Malchior could feel the exuberance rolling off of him in waves.

Arrogant bastard, he seethed, glaring at the back of Rorek's head with enough force to burn a hole through it. Self-righteous cocky misbegotten son of a—

His mental rant was cut off when Rorek, perhaps sensing the hostility in the air, turned and cast a curious glance at the corner where Malchior was fuming. Instantly, Malchior dropped his gaze to the dilapidated counter of the bar and called on the concealing charm that he had made prior to setting out. Rorek had never seen his human form—in fact, he probably didn't know that he even had one—but caution never harmed anyone. Malchior hated to admit it, even to himself, but picking a fight with Rorek in the middle of a human village would not be a particularly intelligent idea.

Rorek's eyes lingered on him for a few long seconds, sending Malchior into a state of near-panic, but then he shrugged and turned back to the crowd of mortals that he was currently regaling with the tale of how he had romanced Kyrie of the Black Flame. According to him, it had been an arduous task, and only after he had performed many acts of daring heroism had the fair maiden consented to accept his love—though Malchior heard a lady seated at one of the tables near his snigger to her friend, "It wasn't hard: Kyrie's been absolutely besotted with him for ages."

Kyrie? That sounds familiar, Malchior mused, not daring to look up again for fear of being spotted. He couldn't remember where he had heard the name, which was an oddity of itself: he had existed for a millennium, and he could recall nearly every second of it. The only hazy bits were from when he had stayed in his human form for too long, but that had been four decades ago—he couldn't have met the wench then if she was still young enough to be getting married. It was puzzling…

A shout of joy interrupted his thoughts. Malchior risked a quick glance upward as he heard Rorek announce, "And the angel herself had deigned to visit us!" A girl with hair as white as Rorek's had appeared in the door of the tavern. She was pretty enough, Malchior admitted grudgingly, with a slim figure and porcelain-like skin. She was dressed oddly, in a black gown with white panels of fabric in the skirt, overlaid with a delicate coat of chain mail. Malchior thought he caught a glimpse of a sword's hilt beneath her black cloak, but then she had been swept up in Rorek's enthusiastic embrace and he could no longer see it.

From his vantage point in the corner, Malchior watched the girl's face flush with both pleasure and embarrassment as Rorek kissed her passionately in front of the avidly watching audience. Several seconds later, they broke apart to the sound of catcalls and much good-natured ribbing from the bar's patrons, though Malchior noticed that everyone was very careful to avoid saying anything discourteous about Kyrie in front of Rorek. So, the wizard is defensive about his little pet, Malchior thought. Sentimental fool.

Kyrie blushed again and tried to extricate herself from Rorek's arms as one of her friends made a comment about her wedding night. Rorek merely tightened his grip, laughing indulgently at her. "Come now, sweetheart," he said, "let's find somewhere away from these ill-mannered boors."

"Oh-ho now, not going to bother waiting for it to be official?" someone called from the back of the throng.

Rorek opened his mouth heatedly, but Kyrie beat him to it. Her eyes blazing, she said in a deceptively sweet voice, "If I ever discover who said that, I will personally ensure that every piece of metal you touch snarls, breaks, jams, or all three."

Malchior arched an eyebrow at the young woman's sudden mood change. From a blushing bride-to-be to a fiery witch. Interesting.

Kyrie, apparently still bothered by the comment, told Rorek, "I was just going to inform you that a messenger from the king arrived yesterday. He sends his best wishes, and regrets that he won't be able to attend the ceremony."

Rorek nodded, then sighed. "I'm going to have to let go of you now, aren't I?" Malchior smirked in the shadows, thinking, The idiot sounds like a child, and not a very bright one, at that.

Kyrie laughed softly, saying, "Yes, I have a spell I need to finish."

Groaning, the wizard released his fiancée, caressing her waist as though trying to entice her to stay in his arms. Kyrie laughed lightly, brushing her lips against his cheek and raising her left hand to display the jeweled ring that was on her fourth finger.

As she turned to leave, Malchior caught a glimpse of her eyes, and nearly jolted out of his seat. Some of his neighbors were giving him strange looks, but he was beyond caring. Of course. One red eye, one gold eye. Kyrie of the Black Flame. The prophecy. How could I have forgotten?

Later, in the safety of his cavern, Malchior scanned the copy he had made of the old crone's divination. He hadn't paid it a lot of attention at the time—he seemed to remember having imbibed his fair share of alcohol that night—but he later realized the value of the information that he had been given. Chaos mages were rare, and their talents were very specific, almost like anti-magic. They could confuse the barriers between worlds, allowing beings from other dimensions and spiritual planes to enter this realm. One would usually find a chaos mage studying necromancy, but they had all sorts of powers…

A slow, predatory grin spread across the dragon's face. Rorek's fiancée was about to meet her worst nightmare.

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