Today was your birthday. But the celebration felt colder than the marble beneath your feet.

The grand hall shimmered with excess—gold-draped pillars, tables heavy with fruit and sugared wine, and nobles adorned in jewels that caught the light like fire. And yet, none of it touched you. You stood still at the head of it all, encased in silk and crownlight, as if watching someone else’s life unfold.

Then the doors opened, and the music died.

Guards entered first, dragging between them a figure with the silent gravity of a winter storm. He was young—your age, perhaps—and bare from the waist up, his skin pale like snow under moonlight, smooth and dusted faintly with silver-blue scale along his collarbone. His wrists were chained behind him with rune-etched iron, and a trickle of dried blood traced his temple.

Still, his head was high.

A hush fell over the court as he was shoved to his knees before your throne. His eyes—ice-pale, flecked with storm grey—locked on yours, and something in your chest shifted. There was no fear in him. Only pride, fury, and a cold, quiet strength.

The envoy approached next, cloaked in velvet and arrogance.

“Your Highness,” he began with a bow, “On this most cherished of days, we bring you a rare and powerful gift—an ice dragon, born of the frozen spines and tamed by our kingdom’s might. Handsome, obedient, and now yours.”

The court murmured, intrigued. A few nobles clapped with hesitant approval.

Not as you watched frost creep faintly along the chain binding the dragon’s wrist. Not as he stared back at you, daring you to look away.