Chapter Two: The Chosen Bride

The wind was gentler here—higher in the keep, far above the smoldering wreckage of her kingdom. But it still carried ash. The scent of it clung to the stone, sharp and acrid, ghosting through the air like a memory that refused to die. It coated the back of her throat with bitterness and made her lungs burn every time she dared to breathe too deep.

Sera stood by the arched window of her chamber, watching distant lava flows thread down the black mountainside like veins of molten gold. The fortress clung to the volcano like a crown of thorns, and she—somewhere inside it—was the jewel pressed into its center. Claimed. Contained. She could see nothing of her homeland from here. Only endless stone, endless smoke, and the weight of fire slumbering below.

She hadn’t slept. Her eyes ached, her throat raw from silence she hadn’t dared break. But her mind spun with questions she couldn’t smother. Every thought felt jagged, edged with betrayal.

Why her?

She had always known she was valuable. Not loved, not truly, but useful. A pawn with polished edges, groomed for diplomacy, for arranged marriages, for alliances sealed with soft-spoken vows and womb-bound heirs. She had prepared for duty. Learned to smile when ignored. Learned to disappear in plain sight until someone needed her to shine.

But not this.

Not to be given.

There had been no council, no farewell. Only the decree. Her mother’s downcast eyes. Her father’s turned back. Her sister, pale and silent, not daring to protest. No one had argued. No one had fought for her.

She remembered once—barely ten, hidden in the corner of the royal solar—watching her father place a guiding hand on her sister’s shoulder as he explained the weight of the crown to foreign envoys. Sera had been there too, older, sharper, aching for a place in the conversation. But he never looked her way. Later, she was sent to the archives to study diplomatic treaties alone, while her sister sat beside him during council sessions, watching and learning with wide, obedient eyes.

She had thought then, perhaps, that he was preparing her differently. That her time would come. But it never did.

Sera clenched the windowsill so hard her knuckles went white. They had chosen her. Not because she was the only option. Because she was the best one to offer.

She had been nearing her ascension—twenty-one and no longer a girl, no longer easy to shape. The court had whispered of it for months, her power growing, her presence becoming harder to ignore. But her father had never intended to yield power, not truly. Not to her. He favored her younger sister—softer, sweeter, easier to control. If Sera had taken the crown, there would have been no room left for his rule. So, he did what he always had.

He got rid of the threat, cloaked in duty.

Beautiful. Untouched. Tempered. A perfect sacrifice.

The wind shifted, curling into her chamber like a breath from something deeper than the mountain. It carried heat. And behind it, a soft chime echoed from the hall. A signal. Someone approaching.

She turned from the window, spine straightening out of instinct. The Warlord hadn’t returned—not yet—but his staff had begun to circle her like vultures, as if they sensed how quickly her blood was warming to the rhythm of his realm.

Sometimes she thought she could still feel him—like the brush of breath against her neck, the ghost of heat curling behind her ear.

Have you ever seen a dragon’s rut?

The memory made her jaw lock. It lingered on her skin like smoke. Like prophecy.

The chamber doors opened.

Two women entered—if they were women. Their movements were too graceful, too inhuman. Scaled pauldrons shimmered along their shoulders, and their eyes burned like embers beneath silken veils. Dragonkin. Their presence made the room feel smaller, heavier, as if the walls bent toward them.

"You are summoned," the taller one said. Her voice was like warm steel, smooth but unyielding.

"Summoned," Sera repeated flatly, the word sour in her mouth.

"To be prepared. You will be bathed, dressed, and escorted."

Sera’s jaw tightened. "Escorted where?"

The shorter one smiled. It was not kind. Her fangs glinted through parted lips.

"To the Sanctum. Where the Warlord names what is his."

Her stomach turned, roiling with dread.

Still, she did not resist.

Not yet.

They led her through halls carved of black stone and veined crystal, past murals of fire and conquest. The air grew hotter the deeper they walked, laced with an earthy tang that hinted at the volcanic depths below. The walls were carved with reliefs of dragons in flight and battle—some winged and regal, others monstrous and crawling with serpentine menace. Torchlight flickered along glassy surfaces, casting fluid shadows that made the scenes move as if alive.

Once, they passed a narrow hallway choked in steam, sealed with a heavy iron gate. Sera felt heat radiating from it like a heartbeat. One of the dragonkin glanced toward it briefly, then looked away. They didn’t explain, and Sera didn’t ask. She only noted the way the stones seemed to breathe around her. The walls pulsed faintly with residual heat, as if the fortress itself remembered war. Glowing fissures ran through the floor, veins of the mountain’s blood visible beneath her bare feet. With each step, she felt less like a guest and more like something being led to altar or cage.

Everything here whispered of power ancient and absolute. She didn’t know if the heat in her veins came from the walk or from the way every servant they passed looked at her.

With reverence.

Or hunger.

The bath chamber was vast and echoing, filled with steam and the scent of crushed roses and sulfur. Incense burned in dragon-shaped sconces, curling fragrant smoke through the air in winding tendrils. The floor was obsidian, polished until her reflection stared up at her from below—a girl standing in a dragon’s world, draped in nothing but memory and dread.

She was stripped without ceremony and lowered into water that glowed faintly red. Her skin prickled at the heat, but she didn’t flinch. Not even when it reached her throat, when it kissed old bruises left by fear. The water slid over her like molten silk, thick with minerals and magic. She sank deeper into it, her arms floating weightless at her sides as the heat worked its way through her bones.

Hands moved over her—efficient, precise, impersonal. One held her wrist while another guided a cloth along the curve of her back, down her spine, over her hips. It should have felt violating. Instead, it felt ritualistic. A purification.

The air was heavy with the scent of crushed roses and heat-bloomed citrus. Steam clung to her lashes. The world narrowed to sensation—the pulse of the bath, the rhythmic drag of cloth against skin, the whisper of claws through her hair as they combed it smooth.

By the time she was lifted from the water, she didn’t know whether she wanted to weep or dissolve into the heat entirely.

She was Vaelir.

Even now, she had her pride.

They scrubbed her with scented oils and combed her hair until it gleamed like molten copper. Their claws never scratched, but she could feel the strength behind their gentleness. As if they were preparing her not just to be seen—but to be claimed.

They dressed her in black and gold—nothing beneath. The fabric was sheer, draping and regal, but offered no protection. It was a display. A statement.

She was meant to look like a queen.

But she felt like a sacrifice.

She wondered if they had done this before—if others had been washed and scented and draped in silks before being led through these same halls. Were their names remembered? Had they screamed? Or had they, like her, walked quietly toward the fire, holding onto pride as their last armor?

The dragonkin said nothing. Offered no comfort. But one, the shorter one with the cruel smile, glanced at her just once before the Sanctum doors came into view. Not pity. Not warning. Something older, stranger.

Recognition.

By the time they stood her before the Sanctum doors, her heart was hammering.

The corridor outside was lined in red-veined stone and unlit braziers. The doors themselves loomed—twice her height, black as volcanic glass, engraved with an emblem she didn’t recognize: a coiled dragon wrapped around a bleeding sun.

She caught sight of herself in the polished stone. The sheer black-and-gold fabric clung to her damp skin, her hair a copper flame down her back. She looked regal. Alien. Like a bride carved for ritual.

A queen, she thought bitterly, fit to be broken.

The Sanctum. Even the word tasted wrong.

Like ash on her tongue.

For a heartbeat, she imagined turning and running. Flinging herself into one of the burning vents that fed this fortress, just to see if even dragonfire could consume her rage.

But her feet wouldn’t move. Not because she lacked courage—but because some part of her already knew what waited behind those doors would follow.

This was no ceremony.

This was a branding.

And she was the offering.