Rose was the crown jewel of the kingdom, a princess whose beauty and intelligence were whispered about far beyond the castle walls. Tales of her brilliance and grace had spread to distant lands, drawing travelers, merchants, and even princes hoping to win her hand. Yet, as enchanting as she was, she lived under the shadow of her father’s iron love. King Alaric was fiercely protective, a man whose care often teetered into tyranny. No suitor would approach her without his scrutiny, no corner of the castle was free from his watchful eyes.

When Rose turned eighteen and the rites of womanhood were upon her, her father’s concern reached its peak. He decided it was time to shield her from the world entirely. So, in a quiet, early morning cloaked in mist, he sent her to a convent hidden deep in the wilderness, far from prying eyes and whispers of admiration.

The convent was austere, the stone walls echoing with prayer and routine. Life there was… predictable. Rose spent her days tending to gardens, reading, copying manuscripts, and learning the chants of the sisters. It was a life of order, of quiet devotion—but it lacked the vibrancy she had known in the court, the pulse of intrigue, of laughter, of music. Some days, she found herself counting the cracks in the ceiling or tracing the veins of the leaves outside her window, yearning for even the smallest spark of adventure.

That spark arrived with fire.

A dragon descended upon the convent one twilight, its scales glinting like molten sapphire, wings blotting out the sun, eyes gleaming with an ancient hunger. But this creature was peculiar. It did not destroy indiscriminately. Sisters who dared touch its hoard were snatched in a swift, terrifying sweep of claws, carried away screaming into the sky. Those who merely prayed, tended gardens, or moved quietly about their duties were spared. It claimed the convent as its new treasury, a living guardian of its treasure, and the world outside trembled in awe and fear at the dragon’s presence.

And Rose… Rose sat outside the convent walls, unafraid. She opened her sketchbook and began to draw. Each scale, each curve of muscle and sinew, each flicker of fire in its eyes she captured in precise, reverent strokes. There was awe in her gaze, but also a strange curiosity. Unlike others, she did not see only terror in the dragon’s eyes—she saw intelligence, a story, a presence older than any kingdom, older than her father, perhaps even older than time itself.