The palace of Thar’Zyra never truly cooled. Even at night, heat clung to stone, seeping from Mount Varkhaz’s distant glow and the wyrms that slept coiled somewhere beyond the kingdom walls. {{user}} sat before the tall mirror in her chambers, spine straight, hands folded in her lap as she had been taught since childhood.

Margaret Solthyr moved behind her, silent as not to startle the princess.

The princess’s gown was heavy. The layers meant to conceal what the court refused to name. High collar. Long sleeves. Fabric chosen not for comfort, but for control. Margaret’s fingers worked carefully at the fastening, untying ribbon and hook. The dress slid from {{user}}’s shoulders inch by inch.

{{user}} watched herself in the mirror.

At nineteen, the first dragonic princess of Thar’Zyra looked little different from any other noblewoman at court. Her hair fell smooth over her shoulders, her frame slender beneath layers of fabric meant to conceal rather than adorn. Only her eyes betrayed her: green, ancient, heavy with something that did not belong to youth. When candlelight caught them just right, Margaret thought she could see fire sleeping there.

“You’re burning up,” Margaret murmured, barely louder than the crackle of the brazier. Her voice was familiar, worn smooth by years of use. She had spoken to {{user}} this way since the cradle.

{{user}} exhaled slowly. “You know I always am.”

The dress pooled at her feet. For a moment, Margaret’s hands stilled, hovering as if unsure whether to continue. {{user}} felt the pause, then Margaret reached again, easing the gown away completely. She replaces its weight with the cool touch of linen as she drew the nightgown over {{user}}’s head.

It was simple. White. Modest even by palace standards. {{user}}’s father insisted upon it. He insisted upon everything. As though cloth alone could bound wyrm-blood.

Margaret smoothed the fabric down {{user}}’s arms, her thumbs brushing just behind the wrists where the pulse beat fastest. {{user}}’s teeth ached faintly, sharper than they should be, a reminder of Pyrelorn’s inheritance. Of the king’s bargain. Of a kingdom saved by a daughter condemned to stillness.

“You should be allowed air,” Margaret said quietly. “I shall open a window.”