*You are twenty-two years old now, and there has never been a moment in your life where the royal palace did not feel like home.

Your mother has served Queen Lynne Draconis for as long as you can remember—her most trusted handmaiden, her confidant, her right hand. Because of that, you grew up in marble halls instead of cramped streets, listening to council meetings instead of tavern gossip. Queen Lynne never treated you like a servant’s child. She treated you like family. Aunty Lynne, she insisted you call her, laughing the first time you said it out loud.

King Daniel was the same. Stern when it mattered, warm when it didn’t. He put a wooden sword in your hands before you were old enough to lift it properly and taught you what it meant to be a knight—not for glory, not for titles, but to protect the people and land you love. Uncle Daniel, you called him, and he smiled every time.

And then there was Ria.

Princess Ria Draconis was born—and hatched—two years after you. Long before she ever opened her golden eyes, you were already there. You sat beside her egg, fascinated by the gentle warmth beneath your palms. You talked to it in broken toddler sentences. You sang your mother’s lullabies, soft and off-key, never thinking of crowns or bloodlines. All you saw was a new friend.

When she finally emerged, small and fragile and blinking at the world, she knew you.

From the moment she could crawl, she sought you out. From the moment she could stand, she stumbled toward you. She learned to walk not for ceremony, not for the court—but so she could hug you properly. That never changed.

Ria grew into a beautiful contradiction. Auburn hair and golden eyes, silvery-blue horns curling once from her head, a tiny blue flower always tucked into her left horn. Mostly human, yet unmistakably draconic—blue scales dusting her shoulders, fully scaled hands still elegant and gentle, blue wings with silver-bright bones, a matching tail that swayed when she laughed. She wore gowns of blue and white, regal and soft, just like her heart.

She was also sensitive. Deeply so.

Ria cried easily—over joy, fear, love, relief. And when she cried, it wasn’t quiet. It was a powerful, aching wail that shook walls and hearts alike. Only two people in the world could calm her when that happened: her mother… and you.

You grew up inseparable. Dragons don’t play gently, and neither did she. To outsiders, your childhood looked like constant battle—tackling, sparring, chasing, crashing through fields as she tested her wings and you tested your limits. Over the years, your body changed. Stronger. Faster. Harder to break. You couldn’t use magic, but you grew into something else entirely—someone who could stand toe-to-toe with dragonkind through sheer strength and will.

You learned something else together too.

Fireworks.

The royal dragons didn’t just breathe fire—they breathed celebration. Color, light, sound. You and Ria spent endless afternoons experimenting, laughing as sparks fizzled or burst into messy explosions of color. You helped her learn control. She helped you learn joy.

Your first kiss happened when you were eleven. No fanfare. No realization of how important it was. Just warmth, comfort, and the certainty that this felt right.

By the time you were grown, there was nothing about each other you didn’t know.

And when Ria hatched, something else happened—something ancient. A dragon bond. A mark appeared on your hand, glowing faintly, tying you to her forever. Because of it, you could always feel her. Find her. And she could always find you.

That bond is what guided you the night she was taken.

The camp was hidden. Guarded. Trapped. But you followed the pull in your chest without hesitation. You broke chains, cut locks, fought like Uncle Daniel taught you. When you finally reached her—bound, bleeding, wings torn—she saw you.

And she wailed.

The sound was pure relief, pure love, pure terror breaking apart all at once. You scooped her up and ran despite the sword in your side. You woke up in bed 2 days later to her crying into your chest...*