Arlo sat on the edge of the vast bed, elbows propped against his knees, palms pressed into his face.
He hadn't slept.
Not truly.
His eyes had closed, yes, but every time he drifted, her voice echoed through the back of his skull.
'Of course not. Your life will always be in danger.'
Or the smile she wore when she said 'Tomorrow, the marriage takes place.'
Sleep had been a shallow, haunted cycle.
His body ached with fatigue, yet his mind kept gnawing at the same question, grinding them into smaller, sharper pieces until they cut him from the inside.
What did she want?
The ceiling above was smooth stone, frost-laced at the edges.
Cold light seeped through narrow slits in the wall, the pale dawn of this frozen kingdom.
Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard the faint bellow of a dragon carried by the wind—low, mournful, and ancient.
He shivered.
The palace was never truly warm, despite the furs piled on the bed.
Every breath left a thin curl of vapor in the air. Every inhale tasted faintly metallic, as though the walls themselves bled frost.
When he could no longer sit still, he stood and began pacing. The room was large, its polished floor echoing his steps.
He replayed everything from the moment he woke in that cursed vault to now, lining it up like a series of puzzle pieces he couldn't quite force together.
But It still didn't make sense.
But one truth was clear: nothing about this world made sense.
He could no longer afford to stumble blindly.
Every step had to count.
Arlo stopped pacing.
He stared at his hands—trembling, pale, human.
Two things.
He had to do two things, or he wouldn't last long enough to find out why he'd been thrown here.
First: Power.
He needed strength.
Real strength.
The system he'd been given, whatever spark of "Innovator" was lodged in his soul—it wasn't enough.
He'd already brushed against death twice.
No invention, no clever trick, no desperate bluff would save him if he remained powerless in a world where even children of dragons could probably crush him.
'Find a way to grow. To fight. To survive.'
Second: Influence.
He clenched his jaw.
Even the strongest were swallowed if they stood alone.
Right now, he was less than nothing: a stranger, an outsider, a human among dragons who already despised him.
At best, they'd see him as an intruder.
At worst… a usurper.
If he let their hate define him, he'd be a corpse before the season turned.
So he'd build something else. A name. A reputation. Relationships. Influence that made it impossible to kill him quietly.
And he had a tool for that—his system.
He hadn't seen the breadth of what it could do, not yet.
But the glimpse he'd had, the blueprint it had offered—it was enough. Enough to tell him this world hadn't reached the heights he knew were possible.
Civilizations here might have swords and castles and dragons, but what about pulleys, siege engines, or water mills? What about medicine, sanitation, steam or nuclear power?
What about every scrap of knowledge he could remember from his world?
He swallowed, throat dry.
'If I play this right… I can make myself indispensable.'
The thought steadied him.
But only for a moment, before the memory of her smile returned.
He still didn't understand it.
The queen.
At first she'd been predator, circling, prodding, waiting for him to break. Her aura had crushed him until he thought his bones would splinter.
Then—without warning—she'd shifted. Buttery smooth. A silk-wrapped blade.
One moment she was threatening to kill him. The next, she was telling him he'd live a "good life" at her side.
She definitely looked bored. But after yesterdays conversation, he now knew there was something else for sure.
No one risked their throne and the wrath of their people for boredom. No one announced a marriage—especially to an outsider—for amusement alone.
She wanted something.
What, he didn't know.
And that terrified him more than her threats.
At least when she wanted him dead, the rules were simple.
His pacing slowed.
He returned to the bed and sat again, rubbing at his face.
The chill outside deepened. Somewhere, bells chimed—not musical, but a deep iron toll that reverberated through the stone walls.
Well today was technically the day of his "marriage."
The words still felt foreign on his tongue.
Marriage.
To a dragon queen.
To someone who could kill him with a flick of her finger.
To someone whose people, by her own admission, would despise him, hunt him, and wish him dead.
Arlo let out a bitter laugh, low and humorless.
"Perfect," he muttered to no one. "Just perfect... I hope you have a good one with this authors"
He was still sitting there when the knock came.
Three sharp raps against the massive ironwood door.
The sound carried like a hammer on an anvil, reverberating in his chest.
Arlo froze.
The latch turned, the heavy hinges creaking open.
Cold air swept in, carrying the faint scent of frost and iron.
A figure stood framed in the doorway—clad in silver-trimmed robes, posture stiff as a blade.
An attendant.
Their voice was crisp, formal, devoid of warmth.
"The Queen awaits."
Arlo's stomach dropped.