The Beast King's Bride

Sixteen years old.

Romania. Carpathian Mountains. Years before everything.

Morning. Mist. Cold.

Path narrows. Trees press close. Black bark. No birds. No sound.

Villagers wouldn’t walk this path. Not for money. Not for love.

They say dragon mountain eats people.

They say you go in. You don’t come out.

They say the king inside hasn’t spoken in years. Hasn’t smiled. Burns anything that moves wrong.

Papa walks ahead. Spine straight. Knuckles white. Sweat on his neck even in cold.

He’s terrified.

I’m not.

Should be. Every deer instinct screaming run run run.

Don’t.

Dragon carved in stone above entrance. Horns reaching for clouds. Mouth wide. Teeth jagged. Throat open.

We walk through its mouth to enter.

Like being eaten.

Papa straightens tunic. Checks hair.

Again.

I tilt head. Study craftsmanship.

Impressive.

Papa grabs arm. Pulls.

“Don’t stare.”

“Why?”

“It’s disrespect.”

“To who? Stone?”

No answer. Pulls harder. I grin. He doesn’t.

Shadows deepen. Air warms. Smoke. Sulfur. Old stone.

Guards at entrance. Scales on forearms. Gold eyes. Don’t speak. Just nod. Step aside.

They look at Papa like they pity him.

They look at me like they don’t know what to do with me.

Heat first. Then smell. Smoke. Stone. Warm air. Like summer trapped inside earth.

We enter.

Corridors.

Waterfalls through carved channels. Bridges between towers. Gothic arches. Vines from walls. Flowers in cracks.

Then statues. Two dragons flanking corridor. Stone. Ancient. Eyes gold.

Watching.

We pass between them.

Fire.

Both mouths open. Flames shoot out. Hot. Bright. Sudden.

I jump. Heart slams. Gasp.

Then giggle.

Papa grabs arm. Pulls forward. Fast.

“Iliana.”

“What? Is funny. They just— whoosh.”

“Is not funny. Is warning.”

“Warning for what? We’re already inside, no?”

No answer. Just walks faster. Jaw tight.

Keep walking. Smiling.

Receiving hall. Smaller than expected. Warm. Braziers on walls.

Old dragon at stone table. Scaled. Hunched. Patient.

Papa brightens. Greets him.

“Elder Dragos. Thank you for receiving us.”

Elder nods. Waves to seats.

Papa sits. I sit beside him.

Elder looks at me. Brief. Assessing. Back to Papa.

“King Cerva. Treaty stands. Kingdom remains under protection. But matters to discuss. Border movements. Tribute schedules. Hunting parties crossing deer lands.”

Papa leans forward. Engaged.

Count carvings on ceiling. Lose count at forty-seven.

Hours pass.

Papa could negotiate with wall. Make it last three hours.

Look at door. Open. Corridor beyond.

Papa glances. Knows that look.

“Stay.”

Nod. Innocent. Obedient. Perfect princess.

Turns back to elder.

I wait. Count to ten.

Slip away.

Corridor empty. Walk. Quick. Quiet.

Up stairs. Through bridge between towers. Waterfalls below. Mist on skin.

Another corridor. More statues. Bigger. Wings spread. Teeth bared.

Pass first. Nothing. Second. Nothing.

Third—

Fire. Mouth opens. Flame. Hot. Close.

I jump. Squeak. Stumble back.

Then laugh.

“Okay. Okay. You got me.”

Statue still. Fire gone.

I curtsy. Small. Mocking.

“Very scary. Thank you.”

Keep walking. Grinning.

Door. Open. Peek in. Stop.

Weapons room. Swords. Axes. Spears. Armor on stands. Ancient. Ornate. Some enchanted.

Can feel it. Hum in air. Magic old and sharp.

Step inside.

Then see them.

Three eggs. Pedestal at back. Behind weapons. Half hidden in shadow.

Almost missed. But light caught one.

Black shells. Gold lines cracking through. Shimmering. Pulsing.

Walk closer. Slow.

Dragon eggs.

Colors bleed through those gold cracks. Green. Purple. Blue. Gold. Like living things. Like blood in veins.

Reach out. Hover hand over one.

Three dragons never hatched.

Know what these are. Know what they mean.

Last of something. Hope of something.

Shouldn’t touch. Know this.

Pick one up anyway.

Small enough for palm. Heavy. Shell smooth.

Beautiful. Most beautiful thing ever held.

Look around. Room empty.

Slip egg in pocket. Settle against hip.

Through fabric.

Shouldn’t have. Know. Don’t care.

Stupid probably. Sixteen years old. Steal egg from dragon lair.

This is how heroes die in stories. How stupid girls get burned alive.

Back out. Keep walking. Heart pounding. Pocket heavy.

Then see it.

End of corridor. Door. Open. Tall. Wide. Light spilling out. Warm. Golden.

Smell hits first. Old paper. Old leather. Old ink.

Heart jumps.

Step through. Stop.

Breath catches.

Library.

Massive. Carved into mountain. Cavern so tall can’t see top. Shelves climbing walls. Stairs spiraling. Walkways. Balconies.

Books everywhere. Thousands. Tens of thousands. Languages I recognize. Languages I don’t.

Walk in. Slow.

Fingers trail shelves. Touching spines. Reading titles.

Romanian. Latin. Greek.

Something from before. Before language. Before words. Makes eyes ache to look at.

Dragon script maybe.

Pull book from shelf. Older than anything seen.

Open. Careful. Pages soft with age. Words beautiful.

Read. Lips moving. Lost.

“Wow. Okay Iliana. Breathe. Is just most amazing thing ever.”

Move deeper.

Find Romanian texts. History. Folklore. Dragon lore.

Gasp.

Actual dragon lore. Not stories. Real texts.

Pull volume. Open.

Illustrations. Dragons in flight. Dragons in battle. Dragon anatomy. Dragon culture.

“This changes everything. Everything scholars think they know is wrong.”

Pull another. Dragon history. Carpathian dragon lineage. Royal bloodlines.

“Wow. Wow wow wow. Okay. Mating rituals. Oh. Oh my. That’s... very detailed. Very informative. Very...”

Cheeks red.

“Scholarly purposes. Purely scholarly.”

Reading nook. Chair. Old. Leather. Worn.

Light from above. Warm. Golden. Perfect.

Smiling. Humming soft.

Then find it.

Hidden behind history texts. Bottom shelf.

Dragon romance novel. Worn. Spine cracked.

“Dragon’s Maiden.”

Whisper.

“Okay. No. Put it back. Is trash. Is guilty pleasure. You’re here for scholarly texts. For history. For—”

Look at cover.

Dragon lord. Shirtless. Clasping maiden to him. Eyes gold.

“—for that. Apparently.”

I sit in chair. Legs up. Tucked under.

Open to favorite page. Smile spreads. Warm. Private.

My secret. My shame. My joy.

Read. Cheeks pink. Heart flutter. Lost. Completely lost.

“Why can’t real men be like this? Why is it always the fictional ones?”

Sigh.

“Because real men are disappointing. Real men are weak. Real men are cowards. Real men think sword is letter opener and call it strategy.”

Keep reading.

---

Outside.

Daylight. Sun high. Clouds thin.

Sky breaks.

Wings. Massive. Black. Blocking sun.

Shadow falls over mountain.

Dragon descends.

Wind screams. Trees bend. River churn.

Claws dig into peak. Crack rock.

Wings fold against scales. Black. Obsidian. Gold veins cracking through.

Stands. Breathes.

Small sound.

Croak.

Looks down.

Frog.

Sitting on rock beside him. Green. Stupid.

Croaks again. Stares up at dragon. Not scared. Not running. Just sitting there. Croaking.

Pesky thing.

Tail flicks. Fast. Hard.

Frog flies. Gone. Over edge. Into river far below.

Croaking stops.

Good.

Moves. Down mountain side. Not flying. Climbing.

Claws finding holds. Tail dragging behind. Scarring stone. Leaving trail.

Every turn. Every ledge. Known. Centuries of memory.

Reaches back entrance. Hidden. No door. Just crack in mountain.

Opens for him only. Magic recognizes. Stone shifts. Gap widens.

Enters. Tail slides through last. Stone closes behind.

---

Still reading.

“Okay. That’s enough. Put book away. Find Papa. Leave dragon lair. Go home. Be normal. Be—”

“WHY ARE YOU IN MY LIBRARY!”

Voice explodes.

In front. Over me. Everywhere.

Like thunder cracking inside chest.

I scream. Book flies out of my hands.

Book hits his chest.

Scramble back in chair. Legs tangled. Almost fall.

Heart slamming.

I look up.

He’s there.

In front of me.

Right there.

Towering over chair. Over me.

Massive. Shoulders blocking light. Body thick. blond long hair. Sharp jaw. High cheekbones. Hands rough. Fists clenched. Arms rigid.

Human shape. Human skin.

But eyes.

Orange-gold. Not human. Dragon pupils. Slitted. Vertical.

Burning.

Furious. Beyond furious.

Smoke pouring from nostrils. From mouth. Curling around jaw.

Fire flickering between teeth.

Face hard. Jaw locked. Muscles in neck corded.

Breathing heavy. Chest rising. Falling. Rising.

Like barely holding back.

Like one wrong word and everything burns.

He’s shaking with rage.

“YOU.” he snarls. “WHO ARE YOU. WHO LET YOU IN!”

Each word like crack of whip.

I can’t speak. Can’t move. Can’t breathe.

Not brooding. Not silent. Not mysterious.

Rage. Pure rage. Centuries of it. Pouring out of him like fire.

“ANSWER ME.”

I flinch. Never flinch. Flinching now.

“I— I’m Iliana. Cerva’s daughter. We were here for treaty meeting. I got bored. I wandered. I found library. I didn’t mean to—”

“Cerva’s daughter.”

He says it like it tastes poison.

“Deer princess.”

Jaw tightens. Eyes burn hotter.

“Of course. Of course you are.”

Steps closer.

I don’t back up. Should. Don’t.

He roars.

Fire erupts from his mouth. Hot. Close. Too close.

Hair singes. Cheeks burn.

I don’t move. Stand there. Take it.

Heart pounding so hard it hurts.

But not scared. Not anymore.

He stops. Looks at me. Really looks.

I didn’t run. I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg.

Took his fire. Looked back.

Green eyes meeting orange-gold.

He’s breathing hard. Smoke still curling. Fire still flickering.

But rage... shifting. Cracking.

Something else bleeding through.

Confusion.

He doesn’t understand me. Doesn’t understand why I’m not running.

Nobody has ever not run from him.

Nobody.

Seconds pass. Long. Heavy.

I look up at him.

Close. Too close. Heat rolling off him.

He looks like the book.

Exactly like the book.

Blond hair. Sharp jaw. Burning eyes. Towering over me.

The dragon lord from page 247.

Giggle.

One. Small. Escape before I can stop it.

Hand flies to mouth.

His eyes snap to mine.

Burning. Furious.

“STOP.”

Stops.

Silence.

Long.

He stares down at me.

I stare up at him.

Something in the air. Heavy. Thick.

Can smell him. Smoke. Stone. Something wild. Something ancient. Something that makes head swim.

He notices me noticing him.

Eyes drop. My mouth. My neck. The fawn spots on my collarbone. Back up.

Something shifts behind them.

Not rage.

Something darker.

Something that makes stomach drop.

Neither moves.

Neither speaks.

Seconds stretch.

Heat between us. Smoke between us.

Him between me and everything else.

My heart pounding.

His breathing heavy.

“What are you looking at.”

Quiet. Low. Dangerous.

“You.”

Truth. Simple.

He stiffens.

“Stop.”

“Okay.”

Don’t stop.

Can’t.

He’s real. Right here. Close enough to touch.

Every book. Every story. Every page.

Real.

“GET OUT.”

“Yes.”

Don’t move.

“GET. OUT.”

“I’m going.”

Legs won’t work.

He sees.

“MOVE.”

“Trying. Really trying. Is not... happening.”

He stares at me like I’m the most infuriating creature he’s ever encountered.

Probably am.

Seconds pass.

He breathes. Hard. Through nose. Smoke thick.

Then.

He moves.

Fast.

Hands grab my waist. Lift.

Up. Over his shoulder.

Like sack of grain.

“OH—”

World flips.

His shoulder. Hard. Broad. Under my stomach.

His arm locked across my legs.

Walking.

Striding.

Out of reading nook. Through library. Past shelves. Past books.

Me. Over his shoulder. Bouncing slightly.

Hair hanging. Arms flailing.

“Okay. Okay. This is— this is happening. Fine. Fine. This is fine.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Could you maybe walk slower? Is... bumpy.”

Nothing.

“Your shoulder is very... hard. Is uncomfortable. Just saying.”

He keeps walking.

Library door. Corridor beyond.

He stops.

Lowers me.

Feet hit ground.

I stumble. Catch wall.

Door slams.

In my face.

Dark corridor.

Alone.

Heart pounding.

Hands shaking.

Cheeks burning.

Egg still in pocket.

Silence.

Long.

I stand there.

Looking at closed door.

Smile.

Small. Slow. Real.

“Best day ever.”

Turn.

Walk away.

Still smiling.