The Dragon's Bride

I must make myself available to live.

Once upon a time… No, our story won’t start like that.

Desolation, Middleton.

A small village west of the Moon, east of the Sun, and the southernmost speck in the Country of Charming.

Population: 275.

Ironic, isn’t it?

Charming in Desolation—or maybe Desolation with a little Charming.

Either way, this one-mule village wasn’t like the small towns you see in movies. Unless it was a black-and-white silent film where everyone wore fur coats, the pavement was just cracked slabs of concrete, and the Capital might as well have been on another planet.

There was no Starbucks. No supermarket.

Just trade—fish for grain—when the weather wasn’t a torturous cold that froze even the sun.

The high school and preschool were the same building. One chalkboard. Elders too old to remember their own last names acting as teachers.

Only a few were smart enough to leave.

The dumb and the stubborn stayed.

Those with decent homes like the Village Chief and his foot soldiers—lived up north, where visitors would see first.

The poorer families were kept down south, away from the eyes of important guests or investors.

The middle class? Scattered randomly, as if to pretend classism—and every other “ism”—didn’t exist.

Desolation was easy. Uncomplicated, for the most part.

But it wasn’t kind. The elders were mostly barbaric and old-fashioned—slow to understand, quick to anger.

Honestly, the real name should’ve been Snoring MacBoring.

Nothing ever happened.

Well—until now.

No one saw it coming.

Not even the town crier, whose daughter claimed to possess the gift of foresight—bestowed upon her by an Oracle.

Stories. That’s all they were.

Fairy tales mothers warned their children not to believe, calling them silly, dangerous nonsense.

But what if they were true?