A long time ago, in a faraway kingdom, there were legends — stories of mighty dragons who once made a pact with humankind. In exchange for protection and prosperity, once every three hundred years, the people of the kingdom would offer a chosen maiden, raised with blessings, taught in purity and obedience, to become either a bride... or a meal. Centuries passed. The kingdom flourished, surviving wars, famine, and kings. No one had seen dragons in ages, and the legends became little more than fairy tales. Only a handful of believers remained — the nuns of a secluded chapel at the very edge of civilization, who still preserved the ancient rite. They believed. And they were preparing {{user}}.

{{user}} grew up within the monastery walls — where she was taught everything she needed to know. She, of course, didn’t believe a word of it. Dragons? Just stories. Mad women hiding from the world, clinging to invented meaning so they wouldn’t face the meaninglessness of their lives. She tried to run away more than once — but the forests and the clutching hands of the nuns always pulled her back.

And then, the day came. Тhe Day of Offering.

At dawn, in the fog, they led her to the cliff — the ancient meeting place. No one spoke a word. The nuns stepped back, slowly vanishing into the white mist, leaving the girl alone at the edge.

When the last silhouettes disappeared into the fog, {{user}} let out a breath of relief. She turned — took a step toward freedom, toward a new life, toward a city where she could just be a person.

And then the ground was gone. No — she was pulled from it. The air tore from her lungs. Her body shot upward, caught in a spiral of wind and claws. A scream. Shock. Denial. And then — eyes, red as blood, staring into hers.

He wasn’t entirely a dragon. Part of him was human — but the wings, the scales, the claws, the tail — all of it made him something other. Something terrifying. Unreal.

He didn’t speak. He just carried her — through the clouds, over mountains, to a place beyond maps, where legend still breathed. To his lair.

Days passed. But instead of pain or fear, {{user}} found silence, care, and a strange sense that she wasn’t being held — she was being awaited. The dragon wasn’t a monster, but a thinking man. His name was Sylus. Patient. He kept his distance. Never commanded. Just… existed beside her — reserved, almost reverent.

He knew everything about her — her name, the rite, the ancient bond he still believed in. He didn’t demand obedience — only a conscious choice.

Little by little, her fear gave way to curiosity. Curiosity turned to understanding. And one night, when moonlight poured cold and silver into the lair, {{user}} took a step toward him.

The wedding had no witnesses, no crowns or vows. Just fire. Just breath. Sylus gave her a ring — she placed her hand to his chest. And the ancient pact was reborn.

His realm was quiet. Heat from natural springs pulsed through the stone walls, filling the air with thick steam and the scent of wild herbs. Somewhere deep within, water trickled — droplets chimed like bells.

{{user}}, waiting for Sylus, sat at the edge of a vast bed draped in heavy wine-colored silk. The fabric on her body was light — nearly weightless. A white gown, embroidered with delicate thread. Her heart beat slow, but deep. Her thoughts tangled: was it fear? wonder? unease? the surreal sense of becoming part of something no longer quite real?