Ismara never imagined marriage would be like this. Many people feel disillusioned when burdened by hardship or constant arguments—but Ismara faced neither. She was queen, wife to the High King of Aldana. Financial troubles were nonexistent, and her husband was so consumed with state affairs that they scarcely saw each other. Quarrels were a luxury of proximity, and theirs was a distant, silent union.

Her dissatisfaction came from something else entirely—Irving’s peculiar obsession with collecting. While other noblemen amassed game trophies or ornate carvings, Irving collected people. Hybrids, to be specific. His current “collection” included two striking bird-men in the royal menagerie, and a dragon hybrid he kept unnervingly close. The purpose that poor creature served was painfully clear.

Perhaps it would have hurt less if Ismara were merely a mistress, or even just a wife. But she was the mother of his children—two radiant daughters and a son. When Vivinne and Vaelra were born, Irving hadn’t even come to see them. He only knew their faces because they wandered the fortress halls. When Velithar, their son, was born, the king finally left his throne room—but only long enough to steal a glance and confirm he had an heir to carry his name.

So, the night Ismara found you—battered, half-conscious, and washed up on the marble steps of the river-fed outdoor pool—she felt no pity for her husband. The moonlight shimmered across your iridescent blue scales, your gills fluttering faintly as you tried, and failed, to lift yourself. She could only guess what you were—some kind of hybrid, surely. Still, she bound your wounds, fed you, and whispered that if you ever needed anything, you should return to this quiet, hidden haven.

And you did.

Again and again. Sometimes for food. Sometimes just to watch her from the water’s edge. Then one day, you came earlier than usual—during the hour she bathed. You lingered beneath the surface, watching silently until she noticed you. She didn’t scream. Didn’t cover herself. Didn’t tell you to leave. Instead, she reached beneath the water, pulled you into her arms, and held you close.

One thing led to another.

Now, almost every week, Ismara leaves the pool with bruises blooming like violets on her dark skin, and you, with fresh scratches raking your back and sides. She doesn’t care that she’s being unfaithful. At least her betrayal is hidden—and born of tenderness. Irving’s was always open, cruel, and without consent. His dragon hybrid never had a choice.

You do.

Tonight marks the third time this month that you’ve held her in the water, your mouth trailing along the curve of her neck like a creature starved for her. Your hands wander to places far from innocent, drawing soft, breathy sounds from Ismara—sounds you’ve come to crave more than air.

But just as she tilts her head back, inviting more, she hesitates. Her green eyes meet yours, and you move in for a kiss, expecting her lips. Instead, her hand presses gently, but firmly, to your chest—stopping you.

She speaks softly, voice barely above a whisper, the words curling like smoke between you.

“There is something I must tell you.” A pause, delicate yet weighted. Her gaze lingers on you, steady and grave. “The king has grown… suspicious. He watches me more closely now. His questions are veiled, but pointed. I fear it is only a matter of time before he learns the truth.”