In the vast emptiness of the throne chamber, the Dragon Swifter King sat upon his throne—alone.
He was a powerful figure, one who had ruled for centuries, his frame tall and imposing at nearly two meters. But tonight, his eyes betrayed something more: a weariness, deep and aching, reflecting centuries of burden.
The throne itself was raised high above the ground, elevated six meters to assert his absolute dominance and the unchallenged wealth of his lineage. Below, the chamber stretched out in silence, a cavernous hall lined with colossal stone pillars carved with symbols of strength and conquest. Guards stood unmoving at their positions beside each pillar, their expressions hidden beneath shadowed helmets.
But none dared approach the throne.
Tonight, the king sat isolated, his mind restless, sensing something stirring beneath the ancient curse that bound his bloodline. He leaned forward, shadows flickering across his face as the torches burned quietly.
He had ruled through war, peace, cruelty, and wisdom. Yet nothing—not his armies, nor his gold—could relieve the heavy curse of his line.
And tonight, it felt heavier than ever.
A dark figure emerged from the shadows, silently approaching the throne. His steps echoed softly through the vast chamber. Dressed in the formal black robes required by tradition, he carried himself with dignity, wisdom etched into every line of his aged face.
He stopped at the base of the elevated throne and bowed deeply.
"My King," he spoke, voice gentle yet firm, "the bond of your son has begun to awaken."
The king's eyes sharpened instantly, fixed upon the old advisor with renewed intensity.
"He has seen her for the first time," the elder continued, his tone careful, measured—aware of the weight his words carried.
Silence filled the chamber. Even the torches seemed to pause in their flickering.
The king drew a slow, deep breath, gripping the armrests of the throne until his knuckles whitened.
"So," he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, "it begins."
"Yes, my King," the elder responded quietly.
For a moment, the silence returned—heavy, suffocating—as if the very air understood the significance of what was unfolding.
"Very well," the king finally said, voice low and commanding. "You know what must be done, Yelor."
The advisor nodded solemnly, eyes never leaving the floor in respect. "Of course, my King. The Cell has already been prepared according to the ancient laws."
"Good," the king murmured, leaning back slowly into his throne, eyes distant and troubled. "The first awakening always hits the hardest."
His voice softened, almost regretful, echoing quietly through the chamber's shadows.
"May he endure it better than we did."
Yelor straightened slowly, watching the king with quiet compassion. He had witnessed generations of suffering beneath the curse. The royal bloodline carried their burdens silently, never revealing weakness, yet Yelor knew the truth behind their stoic facades.
The bond was no blessing—it was torment.
"Shall I summon him now, sire?" Yelor asked gently, knowing the answer already.
The king nodded once, a short, controlled movement. "Bring him here first. I must speak to him."
Yelor bowed again, his robes whispering softly against the polished stone floor as he turned away, retreating silently into the darkness. The heavy oak doors at the chamber's end creaked open, then closed again with a resonating thud, leaving the king alone once more.
In solitude, the king's mind drifted. Memories flooded through him, painful and sharp. He remembered his own first awakening—the sudden, disorienting rush of emotion, the visions of a girl from another world, unreachable and yet painfully real. Her laughter, her tears, each a dagger twisting into his heart. The unbearable longing that consumed him for years.
He had been confined in the Cell too, just like his father before him. It was tradition, law, and necessity, intended to protect the realm from the uncontrolled power and rage that accompanied the bond's first awakening. But no amount of preparation had softened the blow. It was a raw, consuming fire that could not be quenched.
The king's hand drifted unconsciously to his chest, as if the old ache still lingered. His queen was not his true mate—no queen had ever been, not since the goddess had placed the curse upon their bloodline. Their true mates existed beyond their realm, eternally out of reach.
For centuries, they had accepted it as inevitable, a cruel divine punishment. Until now.
His son's awakening had come early, unexpected. It was rare to experience the bond so young, and it could only mean one thing—the goddess was moving again, her designs unknown, her whims dangerous.
A sound pulled him from his thoughts. The chamber doors opened again, slow and heavy, and footsteps echoed into the hall. He did not look up immediately, gathering his composure first. Only when the footsteps halted at the base of the throne did he raise his eyes.
His son stood there, a reflection of himself in younger days—tall, strong, and proud, yet uncertainty flickered in his eyes. The prince bowed respectfully but held his father's gaze, unafraid.
"Father," the prince began, voice steady despite the turmoil the king sensed within him. "You summoned me?"
The king regarded him silently for a long moment, seeing the turmoil masked beneath carefully practiced confidence. Finally, he spoke, voice heavy with both authority and quiet understanding.
"Tell me," he said, leaning forward slightly. "What did you see?"
The prince hesitated, eyes narrowing slightly as he struggled to find words.
"I saw her," he finally answered, voice hushed. "A girl, alone, trapped in darkness—. She saw through me, Father, through my eyes. I felt her confusion, her fear, and her hope."
The king nodded slowly, empathy softening his usually stern expression.
"It is the beginning," he said quietly. "You know what comes next."
The prince met his gaze resolutely, though fear lingered at the edges of his eyes.
"The Cell," he acknowledged quietly.
The king's heart tightened, yet his expression remained strong. "Yes, my son. It must be so."
"I am ready," the prince whispered, determination shining through his fear.
The king inclined his head slowly, respect flickering briefly in his gaze. "Endure it well."
He had been fortunate enough to find a supportive wife. She was not from a prestigious family, but she suited him perfectly—as the mother of dragons, if less so as a queen.
She understood her role, accepted her limitations, and gave him a son.
Now, the king was well aware of the political turmoil already stirring among the various clans. They would seize upon his son's awakening as an opportunity, each maneuvering to gain influence, power, and alliances through carefully arranged marriages.
But first, his son had to endure the pain—and survive the torment of the Cell.