Till Death Do Us Part

I could no longer remember what it felt like to sleep without fear clawing at my chest.

The barrier encircling the palace—our last fragile defense against the firestorms of the dragonkin—was failing. Its once-gleaming surface now shimmered with fractures, like a wineglass on the verge of breaking. The court mages worked tirelessly, but their efforts barely held it together. They were running out of strength. Out of time.

I had never known peace. Not truly. I was born into war, nursed on stories of heroism and horror, cradled in silk while the world outside burned.

My mother was the first thing the war took from me.

She had been a queen, once. Regal, dutiful, and far too brave for her own good. When I was five, she volunteered as a medic. It was meant to be temporary, symbolic—a gesture for morale. My father did nothing to stop her. He never cared much for her to begin with. So she went, dressed in white and gold, and vanished into the blood and smoke of the frontlines.

I waited for her return. Day after day, in my little tower room, perched in the bay window with my hair done up in ribbons and my hands folded just so. Dressed like a doll. Protected like one, too.

But even then, I understood. I was the first daughter born to this bloodline in a century. I had a purpose. A role to play in this kingdom’s survival.

And like all women born into thrones and cages, I would fulfill it.

They were going to marry me off, you see.

My elder brothers—of which there were four—had never been close to me. The gulf between our ages was wide, and their lives had always belonged to the battlefield. To the throne. They were a talented brood of war-born sons.

Valrick, the eldest, was a swordsman without equal, undefeated in battle for years.

Sevrin, the second, practiced both blade and spell, and claimed mastery of neither only because he demanded mastery of both.

Keir, the third, was yet another swordsman, stoic and quiet, and held the position of third-in-command behind my father and Valrick.

And lastly—Soren. The youngest. The only one who had ever spoken more than ten words to me.

I had not seen any of them in six years. They were all at the front, leading our armies in a desperate effort to reclaim the land we’d lost to the dragonkin.

With four sons to fight his war, my father had use for only one daughter. And he made sure I understood that use long before I even knew what marriage meant.

When I was seven—two years after my mother vanished into the chaos of the war—he began molding me into something presentable. A bride. A bargaining chip. A bridge to appease the appetites of the dragonkin.

I was to be delicate, but well-read. Trained in their tongue, though the harsh syllables grated against mine. I was to wield the arcane, though I had never shown much aptitude for it—at best, I could summon a jagged shard of ice and hurl it with questionable accuracy. And I was to master the art of seduction, for winning the favor of the dragonkin, I was told, would require more than diplomacy.

It was almost laughable. He must have thought me divine, if he truly believed I could charm a species that had burned kingdoms to ash.

No—this wasn’t a peace offering. It was a sacrifice. A hostage. Something they could use to twist the knife deeper. Not that it would matter. Hostages only mattered to those with hearts soft enough to care. And my father? He hadn’t cared in years.

Truthfully, I doubted the dragonkin would even accept the proposal. It was far more likely they’d strike off my head the moment I arrived. If they couldn’t kill my father, they’d settle for his daughter.

By now, I had read enough to understand the dragonkin—how they lived, how they thought, how this war came to be.

It began long, long ago. A century past, under the reign of King Rhydan Ardenthal. Back when Biran still thrived. When the dragonkin were first discovered.

It had been a strange encounter—two civilizations, wholly unfamiliar, circling one another with suspicion. The dragonkin deemed us weak. Mankind called them monsters. Demons. Shapeshifters. And yet, King Rhydan, in his boundless idealism, pushed for unity. He took a dragonkin bride—Princess Sylara—and together, they forged a fragile peace.

They bore two sons—my great-great-great-grandfathers—half-blooded princes born of fire and flesh. Their union changed the world. Biran followed their example. Humans and dragonkin mingled. Children were born, and with them came magic.

But peace is a brittle thing.

When Queen Sylara was poisoned—murdered by a traitor within our own palace—the illusion shattered. The dragonkin saw it not as a crime, but as a declaration. Betrayal. An unforgivable insult. Their retribution was swift and merciless. The first attack on Biran left hundreds of thousands dead. Dragonkin who had once pledged allegiance to us turned their backs, abandoning their half-blood children to swear loyalty to their own king—Fafnir.

Fafnir. A prideful creature with a name soaked in legend and blood. He blamed himself for the failure of conquest. Said he had sullied the purity of his people by allowing them to mix with humans. Said it was a stain. One he would cleanse.

The dragonkin hail from a distant nation called Kravad, separated from Biran by thousands of spans of sea. Once, portals had linked our kingdoms, allowing nobles to step through space as easily as walking through a door. Those portals have long since been destroyed. Now, only tales remain.

Those who’ve seen Kravad say it is... otherworldly. Unreal. Some claim its palace floats above the clouds, hidden from the eyes of common men. Others say it shifts shape like its people, changing form at will. The truth is buried beneath layers of myth and awe.

What is known is this: dragons can shapeshift. In their true forms, they are massive—hundreds of feet tall, with wings wide enough to blot out the sun. But they rarely appear that way now. They take on human forms for convenience, for strategy, for war. Still, you can spot them, if you know what to look for—the horns curling from their skulls, the strange colors in their eyes, like precious stones catching fire.

And now... my father wishes to marry me to one. The very thought still sends a shiver through me. This was, in his mind, a fair trade. A gesture of goodwill. Just as High Sovereign Fafnir had once given a daughter of Kravad to Biran, my father now offers me—someone they could torture, break, or kill to their heart’s content.

My finger traced lazy circles along the fogged glass of the carriage window. We’d been traveling for two weeks now, dragged forward by weary horses, the wheels groaning beneath us like they, too, resented this journey.

I was kept alone in the center of the caravan. A single carriage, flanked on both sides by four silent guards who may as well have been statues. They spoke only in rehearsed phrases. “Is there anything I can provide for you, Your Majesty?” or “It is time to rest, Your Majesty. Please step out of the carriage and into the tent.” In truth, I preferred the quiet. Their silence felt more genuine than their empty courtesies.

My father rode ahead on horseback, always a few spans in front, barking orders whenever he sensed even a flicker of mana in the distance. He had, of course, prepared no luxuries for this journey—not for me. The carriage seat was little more than splintered wood. My gown had snagged in a dozen places, and I had long since lost feeling in my spine. The thin bedding in our travel tents did little to ease the ache.

I had been wearing the same dress for days now. There had been no opportunity to change. The gown he had selected for the meeting with the dragons had been sealed away—untouchable until the moment of my presentation. The rendezvous had been arranged a month prior, when he sent a letter to one of their generals. Rhygal, they called him.

I had heard stories about Rhygal. Gruesome ones. His talents were said to lie not in warfare, but in the slow artistry of pain. He was known for particular methods—ones I refused to dwell on.

I didn’t know what the letter said. I didn’t know what dress I would be forced to wear when I was handed over like a prize pig at auction.

I stared into the murky window, trying to catch a glimpse of myself through the smudged reflection. Beyond the glass, the forest stretched on endlessly, but all I could see was the weariness in my face. My grey eyes were sunken, ringed with sleepless shadows. My skin was pale, dulled from hunger and dread. My hair, honey-brown and heavy with the scent of sweat and old perfume, had been braided into a strange, foreign style—two tight coils resting over each ear, with thick lengths of hair falling over my shoulders in twin ovals, bound by golden clasps.

My ears, just slightly pointed at the tips, peeked between the braids. A subtle feature, but one that marked my bloodline.

I sighed, tired of seeing the same hollow face staring back at me for what must’ve been the hundredth time this morning.

Outside, the forest was beginning to thin, its walls of green giving way to patches of sunlight that spilled through the canopy like gold poured from a cracked goblet. The warmth touched my skin, and I closed my eyes, letting it settle over me. It reminded me of her.

Was this the path she had taken, all those years ago?

I wasn’t a fool. I knew we were nearing the front. I knew that, perhaps thirteen years ago, my mother had ridden down this same road, cloaked in the same dread.

When she died… did she suffer?

Was it quick?

Or worse… did Rhygal get to her?

Was she broken slowly, piece by piece, until there was nothing left?

Would I share her fate?

The palace without her had never been a home. I was not permitted to speak to anyone beyond what decorum required. The servants obeyed that rule as though their lives hung in the balance. I didn’t know their names. They didn’t know mine beyond “Your Majesty.” I was confined to my hall like a ghost left to haunt polished floors and empty rooms. The only places I had known were the study, my bedroom, the bath, and the tearoom—which had no use, considering I’d never had a single guest.

I could go out onto the balcony. That much they allowed. But even there, guards stood rigid as statues, helmed and silent. I never stayed long. I hated the sight of the barrier. It always looked a little more cracked than the day before, like a vase on the edge of a shelf, moments from shattering. I had nightmares about the day it would.

So—had I ever seen a forest?

Yes. From a distance. Through smoke. Through flame. Through the distortion of glass and distance and fear.

Had I ever stood in one?

No.

In some strange, twisted way, this journey had been a gift. My first and last glimpse of the world beyond the palace gates. A kindness from the gods, perhaps. Shame it came tethered to my own demise. That this… was all I would ever be. A girl in a pretty dress, offered to monsters.

“Halt!” a voice barked—loud, brassy, close.

The caravan groaned to a stop. I sat up straighter, straining to see what lay ahead, but from within my enclosed cage, the world beyond was hidden.

“State your name!”

What followed was a flurry of low voices—murmurs too hushed to make out. A quick exchange, a few clipped commands, and then the caravan began to move again.

It wasn’t until nearly a minute later that I caught a glimpse of the one who’d called out. He stood just off the path, staring directly into my carriage with a gaze that felt like a judgment passed. What I could see of him was striking. One eye was marred by a long, curved scar that ran down to the edge of his cheekbone. His arms were thick with muscle, too large for the mismatched armor he wore, and he stood tall—so tall I couldn't see the top of his head, only the faint glint of something dark. Horns, maybe.

And then we passed through a gate. A wall of pale stone loomed up around us, jagged and tall, like a spine rising from the earth. I couldn’t tell if it was meant to keep something out—or keep us in.

The caravan moved slowly now, winding deeper into what could only be described as a camp—but it was unlike anything I had ever seen.

Soldiers moved with a kind of quiet intensity, their armor sleek and dark, trimmed in iridescent hues I had never seen in Biran—deep obsidian purples, flame-kissed bronze, blood reds that shimmered when the light caught them. Some wore no armor at all, their chests bare, skin scaled in patches, marked by tattoos or glowing sigils I couldn't decipher. A few were sharpening blades that curved like talons, while others sat in quiet groups, whispering low beneath sloped tents made of some heavy, blackened canvas.

And then we stopped. The guards around my carriage dismounted. They moved to the rear of the caravan, beginning the process of setting up camp. Crates were unlatched, tents unfurled, stakes driven into hard-packed dirt. No one said a word to me.

My ears caught the low roar of the ocean, somewhere not far off. The wind brought its scent—salt, brine, and something faintly metallic.

We were at the front.