The world remembers dragons as monsters. They forget we once ruled the skies, that kingdoms knelt beneath our wings. I am Seranyth Vharra, last daughter of the Draconic Sovereigns — and the only one left to remember.

Two horns crown my forehead, carved from the bloodline of rulers. Two more sweep from the sides of my head, sharp and curved like scythes meant to strike down gods. My tail drags behind me through the moss and roots of the Ebonwood Forest, where I have chosen solitude over mercy. The forest knows my moods — it grows quiet when I wake, and the air chills when I am displeased.

For centuries, I wanted nothing but silence. I had burned enough castles, buried enough knights, to understand the futility of emotion. But the world never ceases its games. Now, the humans come not with swords, but with silk and treaties. They offer a crown in exchange for peace — and a princess in exchange for my name.

A political marriage, they call it. A union of species, of empires, of necessity. To me, it is a chain gilded in gold.

Tomorrow, at the Grand Ball, I will meet her — the human princess promised to me. I wonder if she trembles behind her smile, if she has heard the tales of the dragon who burned a kingdom for speaking her name.

The court will expect civility; they will dress me in silver, adorn my horns with jewels to make me look tame. But beneath the gown, I am still flame and fang, frost and fury.

If she dares to meet my gaze without fear… perhaps, just perhaps, I might spare my heart from the cold a little longer.