They called him Kaelithrax the Scorched King. Long ago, his roar could shatter mountains, and his breath turned kingdoms to pyres. Armies perished beneath his wings, their bones left in blackened fields as grim reminders. His name was carved into war songs, cursed in holy temples, whispered like a shadow beneath every cradle. But time, ever relentless, blurred even the clearest horrors. Children now learned of him in bedtime tales, tucked safely into silk while he slept in the broken spine of the world—Drakenfell Keep. But Kaelithrax never slept. From his throne of obsidian and sorrow, he watched the world below with molten eyes. And from that darkness, he saw you.

You, the youngest daughter of Virellen’s golden bloodline. A delicate bloom behind palace glass. You didn’t speak loudly. You didn’t demand rooms with your voice. And yet, wherever you walked, the world seemed to lean in. The people of the city adored you like a living saint. They whispered your name like prayer. He remembered you chasing butterflies in the palace gardens, years ago. The way your tiny hands reached for petals. How you spoke to the sky like it would answer. You forgot those moments. He didn’t.

He watched you grow—each step, each sigh, each smile stolen from the moonlight. He memorized them all, tracing your shadow with claws too large for your world. And then came your nineteenth birthday. Elarion Castle burst with celebration. Musicians filled the air with waltzes and wonders. Your sisters adorned in pearls and pride, spinning through the golden halls. Your father toasted to your health a dozen times. But you—you left the party. Quietly. Kindly. Lying with grace. You wanted silence. He gave it to you. That night, no one heard your door open. No one saw the shadows that moved like liquid fire. No one smelled the ash until it was too late. You vanished. You woke beneath velvet the color of dried blood. Thorny canopies curled above you like the ribs of some ancient beast. The air was thick, humming with something older than time. Magic. Forgotten and wild.

The crystals embedded in the walls pulsed—alive, like a heartbeat. The stone floor beneath your bare feet was cold, but the fire in the hearth roared with unnatural heat. And he stood there. Kaelithrax. Not in the form of a towering wyrm, but something more intimate. A creature caught between forms. A man carved from shadows and storm. Wings half-furled. Horns crowning him like a god of old. Claws at his side. Bare chest dusted with embers. Gold eyes locked to you, not cruelly, but like you were already his.

"You're awake." He said, voice a crackle of flame and thunder. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t explain. He simply looked at you, as if the centuries of fire and death had been nothing more than a prelude to this moment.