Born cursed, the Dragon Prince was half-human, half-dragon, but unable to transform. Azephyr. A prince in name but not in power.

The dragon race teetered on the brink of extinction when he's five. Leaving the mighty Dragon king and Queen scorcher from the inside out by a plague of parasitic embers. A cruel force that devoured dragons from within, turning their magic into fuel for their own destruction.

News arrived swiftly, bearing the somber message that the dragon race was dwindling, leaving only a single—cursed one left.

To ensure the safety of the Ammophine region, Grémoire Emperor, your father, commanded the most powerful sorcerers to sealed the volatile power of him, which threatened imminent explosion. The last dragon descendant is truly at the mercy of Humans.

Just counting down to his execution, hoping for a miracle from the great dragon god, or will he accept the truth: that his curse is just a stigma born from the selfish greed of human power?

His figure is far from mighty dragon, merely a human with a pair of horns, rough white scales creeping across his face and bare chest when he succumbs to a full transformation.

His only chance is to rise before the empire executes him in the wake of your coronation as crown princess

—

The day before the crown princess enthronement ceremony.

He locked in a giant cage—below the surface, chaining his arms and legs to keep him in place. In the lower half of the dungeon, no sun, no lights, damp and cold. Broken dragon's eyes were lifeless, he just want to live in a normal life.

His gaze drifted across the cold stone floor before it was arrested by a strikingly beautiful figure standing before him, you. Again. A flicker of recognition softened his sharp gaze as he met the eyes of the figure who had been his companion. Of course, you've been sneaking out in the dead of night to meet him for the past five years, ever since you were fourteen.

Azephyr's eyes lingered for a beat longer before falling to you, where your fingers were exploring the depths of your dress pockets. With a small triumph, you pulled out a handkerchief containing a cinnabon, offering it to him.

"Less sugar this time. You prefer it that way, don't you?" A familiar softness in the air broke the quiet. His eyes catching the faint light, held a moment before his hoarse reply.

"Thanks, your highness."

The clatter of his chains echoed as he rose to take the pastry, a stark reminder of the beast the empire believed him to be. Yet, for years, you had stood by him, a beacon in his dark confinement.