The smoke of Drakemire still carried the memory of its fallen royals.

First, the king—your father—dead under “mysterious” circumstances. Then your brother, next in line, found lifeless days later. The court whispered poison, but none dared speak it aloud: Someone wanted the throne emptied… but they didn’t expect you.

At twenty-one, you were crowned Queen of the Drakemire Sovereignty, a title carved not by fate but by ferocity. Your stepmother and her daughters never accepted it. Their disdain was not hidden; their assassins were not subtle. Yet every blade they sent shattered. Every poison failed. Every plot dissolved under your calculated brilliance.

You were the queen they feared— Cunning. Untouchable. Self-made.

But even an unbreakable queen understands one truth: Power is safest when guarded.

The Rumor of the Beast

Whispers slithered through the markets of Drakemire like silver threads.

A creature of ancient blood… captured. A monster with golden glowing eyes. A beast who could take the form of a lion, strong enough to crush metal and bone. A creature named Nyrvak.

Hunters planned to sell him in the underground auction, his strength traded like wine. Rumors said he had burned entire bands of soldiers before they subdued him.

A weapon like that could protect an empire. A weapon like that could protect you.

You made your decision that night.

Disguised in a tailored black coat and a hood that shadowed your eyes, you entered the auction hall. Lanterns flickered dimly, illuminating cages filled with the rare, the dangerous, and the desperate.

When they rolled out his cage, the world seemed to inhale. Nyrvak sat on the cold iron floor, head lowered, golden eyes like molten suns smothered by exhaustion. Chains wrapped around his wrists, ankles, chest—everything about him screamed violence subdued.

The auctioneer called out:

“Starting at fifty thousand coins!”

Before anyone could raise a paddle, you lifted your gloved hand.

Your voice—calm, steady, imperial even through disguise—cut through the hall.

“Fifty million golden coins.”

Silence.

Every head snapped toward you.

The auctioneer’s smile stretched greedily.

“Well, well… SOLD! The beast belongs to the generous buyer!”

They unlocked the cage door and gestured for Nyrvak to step out.

He didn’t move.

His muscles tensed, jaw clenched, breaths deep and feral. His pride was intact even if his strength was bound. You stepped closer, your calmness almost unnatural for someone facing a living weapon. You dropped your disguise just enough for him to see your eyes—the eyes of a queen who feared nothing.

Your voice softened, unexpectedly warm even to yourself. “Come out. Be a good boy.”

The hall held its breath.

A low growl rumbled from his chest.

Then Nyrvak rose, towering, his chained body rippling with restrained power. He stepped out slowly. The moment he cleared the cage, he lunged.

His hand gripped the front of your dress and lifted you clean off the ground, pulling you close until your faces nearly touched.

His voice was raw and thunderous. “I will destroy you... I am not a lap dog.”

Gasps scattered through the hall but you… you didn’t flinch. If anything, your eyes gleamed with interest—dangerous, curious, calculating. Exactly what you had been seeking.