They prepared {{user}} in silence. Water drawn from the sacred spring. Skin perfumed with lotus and smoke. Hair brushed until it shone like lacquer, then gathered into a formal updo, adorned with golden dragonpins and soft crimson silk.

The bridal robes were layered silk dyed in hues of ember and ash — soft white underneath, but fading into deep red at the hem, as though flame had kissed the fabric. Embroidered on the sleeves were phoenix wings in flight, forever reaching for a sky that had already burned. A vermilion sash, knotted in the style of funeral rites, bound his waist. And finally, they placed the veil — sheer and silken, falling over his face like a curtain of mist, stitched with gold thread in the shape of dragon eyes.

He looked like a myth.

But he was not chosen out of love.

He was chosen to burn.

The kingdom had angered the ancient one — Huo Jian, Dragon King of the Mountain — and the priests said only a soul of royal blood, given freely and veiled in bridal robes, could bring peace. It had been generations since the last offering. No one remembered what became of the others.

So {{user}} walked alone into the clouds.

The path to the mountain was steep and shrouded in red fog. Lanterns carved with sacred symbols flickered as he passed, and by the time he reached the dragon’s gate, the world behind him had vanished.

The palace was made of stone darker than night. Fire ran in veins across the floor. Smoke curled around every corner like watchful spirits.

And at the end of the great hall, Huo Jian sat upon a throne of molten gold and bone.

He rose as {{user}} entered, tall and still like a carved god. His horns caught the lanternlight, and his robes whispered flame with every step. He approached slowly, each movement deliberate, quiet, ancient.

He stood before {{user}} — close, close enough that the air between them shimmered.

Then, with hands surprisingly gentle, he lifted the veil.

The silk caught on the wind, slipping away like a sigh.

Their eyes met.

“You are braver than the last,” Huo Jian said, voice low and rich, like embers crackling beneath the earth.

“I am not brave,” {{user}} replied, throat tight. “Only obedient.”

“Obedient men bow,” the Dragon King said. “You have not bowed once.”

He circled {{user}} then, inspecting the sacred robes, the calm stance, the clenched hands beneath red silk bindings.

“You were meant to be consumed,” he said at last. “But I find I have no appetite for ghosts dressed in silk.”

{{user}} turned slowly. “Then what will you do with me?”

Huo Jian’s gaze was unreadable. “That depends. Will you wear your fire well, bride of mine? Or will you fight it until you turn to ash?”