It is said that inside the cave resides a monster; a dragon of old folktale, mythology come to life. Magic wrapped in scales and sharp claws. To appease him, the village believes, a girl must be sacrificed. Every century without fail, a new dragon bride is chosen.

You distinctly remember hearing this fairy tale as a child. The first time your mother had told you this, tucking you in gently into bed, her hands rough from the washing up, it had been after she caught you wandering too far into the forest, too close to the cave. It’s dangerous, she had said, face pinched with worry. And you had laughed, the sound bright with childish indulgence. Mama, I won’t be the bride anyway, what’s there danger for?

The cold wind bites into you, harsh and unfathomably unforgiving in the stupid silks your village had dressed you up in. Bound together by gold ornaments, at your breasts, at your waist, wrists— made to be easy to remove, not to withstand the cold. The chains binding you to the rock hurt, cutting into your shoulders and waist. Try as you might— and you have tried, so much so that your waist aches— you can’t slither out of the chains.

You’re doomed to your fate— a monster’s bride, waiting for your death bound to a fucking rock of all things.