The skies above Ravaryn burned gold and crimson as the twin moons began their slow climb. Below, the kingdom of Eldara lay cloaked in eerie silence, save for the distant roars echoing through the mountain peaks—the cry of dragons.
Isolde Renn sat stiffly in the silk-covered carriage, her fists clenched tight in her lap. Her heart pounded like a war drum, each beat screaming protest. Today was the day her fate would be sealed—not by love, not by choice, but by a treaty signed with fire and blood.
She was to marry the Dragon Prince.
Outside, the guards of House Renn rode in silence, steel glinting in the dying sunlight. None dared speak to her. None dared meet her eyes. To them, she was a sacrifice dressed in white lace and duty.
The carriage rattled to a halt. Her breath caught.
Castle Ignis.
She peeked out the velvet-curtained window. It wasn't a castle—it was a fortress carved into the black stone cliffs, with towers that clawed at the sky and flames dancing from dragon-shaped spires. Ancient power lived in these stones. It smelled like smoke, sulfur... and something darkly seductive.
A shiver coursed through her.
Then the doors were thrown open.
He stood there.
Tall. Impossibly broad-shouldered. Eyes glowing with the fire of his kind—molten amber rimmed with gold. His presence stole the breath from her lungs. Prince Valen Ignis, heir to the Flame Throne. Dragon in human skin.
He didn't smile. Didn't bow.
He just said, voice smooth as smoldering embers, "You're late."
Isolde stepped down, chin high despite the trembling in her legs. "You didn't seem like the type who'd mind keeping a woman waiting."
A spark lit in his gaze. Not amusement—something sharper. Hotter.
"Careful," he murmured, stepping closer, towering over her. "You're not in your soft little kingdom anymore, Lady Isolde. Here, fire is law. And I'm its master."
Their gazes locked.
And in that moment, she knew—this wasn't going to be a union. It was going to be a war.
And she had no intention of losing.