The morning sun struggled to pierce the thick mist that blanketed the Northern Kingdom on October 18, 2025. Elara stood at the chamber window, the dragon-scale ring glinting on her finger, a constant reminder of the lie she wore. The wedding ceremony had bound her to Draven, but the weight of her task—making him love her to save her family—pressed heavier with each passing hour. The castle's stone walls seemed to pulse with life, the roars of harpies and the guttural growls of shadow wolves echoing from beyond the courtyard. Last night's glimpse of Draven's dragon form had shaken her, yet it had also sparked a curiosity she couldn't suppress.
A knock broke her reverie. Sylvi, her cat-eyed attendant, entered with a tray of bread and a steaming mug. "The king requests your presence in the training grounds," she said, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Dress warmly. The north is unforgiving."
Elara nodded, pulling on a fur-lined cloak over her borrowed gown. The castle's corridors were a maze of cold stone and tapestries depicting draconic battles, each step a lesson in the kingdom's history. She reached the training grounds, an open expanse ringed by towering pines, where Draven stood amidst a group of warriors. His human form was striking—tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair tied back to reveal the faint scales along his neck. He wielded a sword with effortless grace, dispatching a training dummy with a single, precise strike.
"Elara," he called, lowering his weapon. His golden eyes assessed her, a mix of challenge and curiosity. "You should see your new home's defenses. Join me."
She hesitated, then stepped forward, her boots crunching on the frost. "I'd like that," she said, forcing a smile. The warriors parted, their gazes wary—some human, others with clawed hands or glowing irises. Draven led her to the perimeter, where harpies circled overhead, their wings cutting the air with a sharp whine.
"These are my sentinels," he explained, his voice low. "Bound to me by ancient pacts. The shadow wolves patrol the forests, and demons guard the mines. All answer to my will."
Elara's mind raced, recalling Tales of the Eld—stories of shifters controlling beasts. "How do you… bind them?" she asked, feigning the curiosity of a princess versed in such lore.
"Blood and fire," he said, his eyes darkening. "A ritual passed from my ancestors. It's a burden, not a gift." He paused, studying her. "You seem unafraid. Most southerners cower."
She laughed softly, adapting a tale. "My tutors spoke of dragons as noble guardians. I see that in you." It was a half-truth, but it worked—his expression softened, a rare warmth breaking his stoic mask.
They walked the grounds, Draven pointing out fortifications—rune-etched walls, trap-laden paths. Elara listened, her mind whirring. She needed to impress him, to build trust. "These traps could be improved," she ventured, drawing on village ingenuity. "In Thornwick, we used weighted nets to catch wild boars. Perhaps a similar design for the wolves?"
Draven's brow lifted, intrigued. "Show me." He handed her a sketchpad from a nearby table, and she drew a crude net system, explaining how it could be triggered. He nodded, calling a blacksmith to refine the idea. "Clever," he murmured. "You surprise me, Elara."
The praise warmed her, but it also deepened her guilt. She was no princess, just a commoner playing a role. As they worked, a shadow wolf approached, its fur a swirl of darkness, eyes red as embers. Elara froze, but Draven knelt, stroking its head. "This is Kael," he said. "He senses loyalty. Touch him."
Her hand trembled as she reached out, the wolf's fur coarse yet warm. It nuzzled her, and Draven's smile widened. "He likes you. That's rare."
The moment lingered, a fragile connection forming. But the day held darker turns. After the training, Draven invited her to the library—a vast chamber of ancient tomes, its air thick with dust and magic. He pulled a book, its cover etched with scales, and read aloud a passage about dragon mates—bonds forged by trust and sacrifice. "In my line," he said, "love is rare. My kind mates for life, but I've seen too much betrayal."
Elara's chest tightened. She had to make him love her, yet every word felt like a thread in a web of deceit. "Trust can be earned," she said, meeting his gaze. He closed the book, his hand brushing hers. "Then prove it. Tomorrow, we hunt a demon that's breached the eastern border. Show me your courage."
She nodded, terrified but committed. That afternoon, she explored alone, seeking allies or weaknesses. The castle's lower levels revealed a dungeon, its cells holding chained demons, their eyes glowing with malice. A guard, a grizzled man named Torin, caught her. "Lost, Princess?" he grunted.
"Curious," she replied, thinking fast. "I want to understand this place."
Torin smirked. "Watch yourself. The king's got enemies—some say he's too soft. Others say he's a tyrant. You're a wildcard."
His words hinted at division, a potential leverage. She thanked him, retreating to her chamber, her mind racing. The hunt loomed, a test she couldn't fail. As dusk fell, Draven visited, a fur cloak in hand. "For tomorrow," he said, his voice softer. "Rest well, Elara."
Alone, she clutched the cloak, guilt deepening. The hunt was her chance, but love required truth she couldn't yet give.