The carriage shuddered to a halt, its wooden frame groaning under the relentless northern chill that seeped through every crack. Elara pressed her forehead against the frost-etched window, her breath fogging the glass in uneven puffs. Beyond the skeletal trees, the Northern Kingdom loomed—a jagged silhouette of spires and blackened stone, cloaked in a mist that seemed to writhe with an unnatural pulse. It was October 17, 2025, and at 22 years old, she had never ventured beyond the sunlit fields of her southern village, Thornwick. Her world had been one of cracked leather books and fairytales—tales of dragons with scales like molten gold, demons with eyes of fire, and maidens rescued by valorous knights. She'd always dismissed them as fanciful lies, stories to lull children to sleep. Now, those pages felt like a cruel jest, for she was being hurled into a realm where such creatures might stalk the shadows.
The door wrenched open, and a guard in fur-lined armor barked, "Out, Princess." The title sliced through her, a lie she'd been forced to don like a ill-fitting crown. Two weeks ago, her quiet life—mending nets, reading by candlelight, laughing with her parents—had shattered when a royal envoy stormed their cottage. Lord Cedric, the advisor, had loomed over her, his gaunt face twisted with malice, his voice a venomous hiss. "You're the true blood princess, swapped at birth to weaken the throne. Your place is north, to wed the Dragon King." Her protests—that she was Elara, a commoner's daughter raised on bread and hearth tales—were drowned out as he pressed a dagger to her father's throat. "Fail, and they die," he'd whispered, his breath hot against her ear. The memory still clawed at her, a chain binding her to this fate.
Clad in a velvet cloak too fine for her calloused hands, Elara stumbled into the icy courtyard, the cold biting through her thin boots. The air carried a metallic tang, sharp and foreign, mingled with the distant roars that reverberated from the jagged mountains—sounds no human throat could forge. Guards flanked her, their spears tipped with runes that glowed a faint, eerie blue, their faces obscured by helmets etched with draconic motifs. They escorted her through towering gates, the iron creaking as if alive, into a castle that seemed carved from the earth itself. The interior was a cavernous expanse of black stone, its walls slick with moisture, lit by torches that cast dancing shadows across tapestries depicting dragons in mid-flight, their claws rending the sky.
Servants scurried past, their eyes averted, as if afraid to meet her gaze. The air thrummed with a strange energy, a hum that vibrated in her bones, and she wondered if it was magic—or fear. Her heart pounded as she was led to the throne room, a vast hall where the temperature dropped further, the stone floor chilling her feet. There, she faced him. Draven, King of the North, sat upon an obsidian throne that seemed to meld with his presence, its surface carved with scales and runes. He was tall, his human form cloaked in a dark tunic that hinted at the armor of scales beneath, his hair black as midnight falling in waves to his shoulders. His eyes—molten gold, burning with an ancient fire—locked onto hers, piercing through her fragile facade. At 30, he carried the weight of centuries, a dragon shifter whose lineage bound the kingdom's demons and monsters to his will. Rumors from Thornwick had painted him a monster, a beast who devoured dissenters, and the sight of him—sharp jaw shadowed by stubble, faint scars tracing his cheek—did little to ease that dread.
"Elara of Thornwick," he intoned, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to shake the very stones, resonating in her chest. "You come as my bride, to seal the southern alliance. Speak."
Her knees trembled as she curtsied, the motion awkward, unpracticed. Her mind scrambled for the script Cedric had drilled into her during the grueling journey north—words of royalty she'd never known. "My lord," she began, her voice quavering but steadying with effort, "I am honored to unite our kingdoms. My blood is yours to claim." The phrase tasted like ash on her tongue, a lie forged from stolen identity. She was no princess—her life had been one of mending nets by the river, reading Tales of the Eld by flickering candlelight, sharing bread with her parents. Yet the threat to their lives loomed, a guillotine over her head, and she forced a smile, lifting her chin to meet his gaze.
Draven's eyes narrowed, a flicker of suspicion crossing his features, as if he could scent the falsehood beneath her words. But he inclined his head, a regal gesture that held no warmth. "We shall see," he said, his tone clipped. "The ceremony is tomorrow. Until then, you are my guest." He waved a hand, and a servant—a woman with pale skin and eyes that glinted like a cat's—stepped forward. "Sylvi will attend you," he added, before turning his attention to a map on a nearby table, dismissing her.
Sylvi led her to a chamber that stole her breath—a vast room with a canopied bed draped in furs, its walls adorned with tapestries of dragons soaring over fiery landscapes. The luxury overwhelmed her, a stark contrast to her straw mattress at home, but so did the isolation. A window revealed a courtyard where shadowy figures moved—harpies with leathery wings, their screeches piercing the stillness, and something darker, a wolf-like shape with eyes like embers. Monsters. Real. The sight sent a shiver down her spine, her fairytale world colliding with a brutal reality.
Elara sank onto the bed, her mind a whirlwind. The weight of her task settled like a stone in her chest—Cedric's order to make Draven love her, or lose her family. Love a dragon? The notion was absurd, a fairytale twist gone wrong. She traced the velvet cloak's hem, its softness a mockery of her rough hands. A knock sounded, and Sylvi reentered, carrying a tray with bread and a steaming mug. "The king bids you rest," she said, her voice melodic yet edged with something unreadable. "Tomorrow, you become his."
"Is he… truly a dragon?" Elara asked, her voice barely above a whisper, the question spilling out before she could stop it.
Sylvi's lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. "He is. Shifted now, but his fire runs deep. Be wary—he tolerates no deceit." With that, she set the tray down and left, the door clicking shut with finality.
Elara stared at the food, her appetite gone. The castle groaned around her, a living entity, and she crept to the window. Below, a figure emerged—Draven, his form shifting as scales rippled across his back, wings unfurling like midnight sails. A dragon, massive and majestic, took flight, its roar shaking the glass and rattling her bones. Elara's hand pressed to the pane, awe warring with terror. This was no fairytale beast—it was real, powerful, and her husband-to-be. The sight both captivated and terrified her, a reminder of the impossible task ahead. How could she, a commoner with no royal blood, make a dragon king love her? And what would happen when he learned the truth?