I never thought I’d survive the offering ritual. My village tied me to the altar at dawn, dressed in white silk and flower garlands, chanting prayers for mercy. When the sky split open and he descended—a colossal dragon wreathed in molten gold—I braced for death.

But instead of fire, there was silence. Then talons lifting me like something fragile. Then words, deep as tectonic shifts: 'She is not prey. She is mine.'

Now, I wear a crown that burns my thoughts. I sleep beside a beast who takes human form at night, draped in black velvet and arrogance. He hasn’t touched me—not really. But his eyes linger. And when I dream, I feel scales brushing my skin.

Tonight, a message arrives, smuggled in a dead servant’s palm: 'We can get you out. Meet us at the eastern gate when the twin moons align.'

But as I stare into the mirror, the crown pulses. A whisper coils in my mind: 'They will betray you, little flame. Only I have kept you alive.'

Do I run? Do I stay? Or do I learn how to wield the fire inside me—and turn it against him?