The night of the Feast began with thunder.
It wasn't the kind born from clouds, but from the volcanoes themselves—a rumbling that rolled beneath the stone of Dranevor Keep, vibrating through the foundations as if the mountain were growling in warning.
Outside, ribbons of molten fire streamed down the cliffs, casting red veins across the black landscape. The sky glowed faintly orange, and a soft mist of ash hung in the air like drifting snow.
Inside, the palace came alive.
The corridors that had been quiet by day now shimmered with light. Fire-orbs floated above the ceilings, flickering in hues of crimson and gold. The scent of roasted meat, spice, and sweet smoke filled the air. From somewhere deep below came the rhythm of drums—slow, primal, like the heartbeat of something ancient awakening.
Lysandra stood before a mirror in her chamber, her breath caught in her throat.
The dress they had given her was unlike anything she'd worn before—woven from silk so light it almost shimmered like flame when she moved. The fabric hugged her form before flowing into a trail that brushed the floor. Silver embroidery traced patterns of wings and fire down her arms. Around her throat rested a delicate collar of obsidian and ruby—beautiful, but heavy, as if it were meant to remind her who she belonged to.
Serath, the fox-eared attendant, watched from the doorway, arms crossed. "Try not to trip. The last human who fell in front of a noble beast ended up serving as entertainment."
Lysandra turned, uneasy. "Do you always speak like that?"
"Only when I care enough to warn." Serath tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "He chose that dress himself, you know."
Lysandra blinked. "The Emperor?"
"Who else?" The woman smiled thinly. "He never does anything without reason. You'll learn that soon enough."
Before Lysandra could respond, a knock sounded. The door opened, and a soldier with the head of a hawk stepped inside. His armor gleamed like molten steel.
"The Emperor summons his guest."
---
The banquet hall of Dranevor Keep was a place out of nightmares and dreams alike.
Massive columns carved into the shapes of dragons held up the vaulted ceiling, each one etched with runes that pulsed faintly as the room filled with life. Long tables of blackwood stretched from one end to the other, overflowing with golden platters—meat sizzling over enchanted coals, fruits that glowed faintly, wines that shimmered like starlight.
Dozens of beasts filled the hall—wolves with fur like polished obsidian, serpents coiled in humanoid form, foxes, lions, and even bird-like creatures whose feathers glowed faintly in the dim light. Each carried themselves with a pride that bordered on savagery.
And at the far end of the room, elevated on a throne carved from volcanic stone and gold veins, sat Veyrath Dranevor.
When Lysandra entered, conversation rippled through the crowd like wind through tall grass. Heads turned. Whispers slithered between tables.
"A human?"
"The Emperor brings her here?"
"She wears his color…"
Lysandra could feel every gaze pierce her skin, sharp as claws. She wanted to shrink back, but the hawk soldier's hand on her back forced her forward.
At the foot of the dais, she lowered her eyes.
"Rise," Veyrath's voice came, deep and smooth as flowing magma.
She obeyed.
His eyes met hers briefly—golden, assessing—and something unreadable passed through them. He gestured for her to take the seat beside him, one usually left empty for high-ranking generals.
That single act was enough to turn the whispers into full-blown murmurs.
Across the table, a lion-man with a scar running down his face laughed, low and dangerous. "So it's true," he said, baring sharp teeth. "The Dragon Emperor keeps a human pet now."
The room went still.
Veyrath didn't move for several seconds. Then, without looking away from his wine, he said, "Careful, Lord Kael. You sound jealous."
The lion's smirk faltered. "I mean no disrespect—"
"Then choose your words wisely next time." Veyrath's tone was soft, but the air itself seemed to tighten around him. The nearby candles flickered, their flames bending toward him as if pulled by invisible gravity.
Kael lowered his head. "Of course, Your Majesty."
Lysandra watched in silence, heart pounding. The power in Veyrath's presence wasn't loud—it was inevitable, like gravity itself. Even those who despised him couldn't escape it.
---
As the feast continued, servants moved like shadows, refilling cups and replacing platters. Music rose—strange instruments of bone and glass creating melodies that seemed half-human, half-beast. Dancers took the floor, their movements fluid, primal, hypnotic.
But all through it, Lysandra felt the tension coiling beneath the laughter. Every smile was sharp, every toast edged with threat. The beasts weren't a unified empire—they were a court of predators playing nice only because their Emperor demanded it.
She leaned slightly toward Veyrath, whispering, "They hate me."
"They hate what they fear," he murmured back without looking at her.
"What could they possibly fear about me?"
He turned his gaze on her then, slow and deliberate. "That I might choose you over them."
Her breath caught. "That's not—"
"Politics is perception, Lysandra. Here, affection is a weapon sharper than any blade."
Before she could answer, a sudden movement drew her eyes. One of the nobles—a serpent-woman with skin like polished emerald—rose gracefully from her seat.
"Your Majesty," she purred. "May I offer a toast… to your impeccable taste?"
Veyrath raised a brow. "You may."
She smiled and lifted her goblet, her golden eyes flicking toward Lysandra. "To the Emperor, whose hunger knows no bounds—not even the limits of species."
The room erupted in laughter.
Lysandra's cheeks burned. Every instinct screamed at her to stand, to say something, but she froze. Her hand clenched the fabric of her dress so tightly her knuckles turned white.
The laughter died when the Emperor stood.
Veyrath's voice came quiet, yet it silenced the hall instantly. "Lady Seris," he said, descending one step. "Do you know what happens when a serpent mocks a dragon?"
Seris tilted her head, still smiling. "It depends… does the dragon stoop low enough to notice?"
For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
Then, before anyone could move, Veyrath vanished. One moment he stood on the dais; the next, he was behind Seris, hand on her throat, claws glowing faintly red.
"Consider this," he whispered near her ear, "my notice."
He released her, and she fell back into her seat, trembling but alive.
Veyrath turned to the crowd. "Let this be remembered. My feast is a celebration, not a den of jackals. Anyone who forgets that will burn for their reminder."
Silence reigned.
Then, slowly, conversation resumed—tense, cautious, measured.
---
Lysandra hadn't moved. Her heart hammered against her ribs. When he returned to his seat, she whispered, "You didn't have to do that."
He poured himself more wine, his expression unreadable. "Didn't I?"
"She was only—"
"Mockery spreads like plague. Kill it early, and the world stays clean."
Lysandra frowned. "That's not justice. That's fear."
He looked at her then, long and steady. "And fear, little human, keeps peace far better than mercy ever will."
She held his gaze despite herself. "Then maybe your empire isn't peace at all."
The faintest ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Perhaps not. But it's mine."
---
As the feast wore on, Lysandra found her appetite fading. She watched the beasts laugh, fight, flirt, and challenge each other—all wrapped in elegance that was just a mask for primal instinct. They lived by dominance and desire. The line between affection and power was so thin it almost didn't exist.
When a lioness brushed her hand across a wolf's throat, it wasn't tenderness—it was a test of who would bare fangs first. When two foxes danced together, their eyes glimmered with lies.
It was beautiful, terrifying, and intoxicating all at once.
And in the middle of it all, Veyrath sat like the sun—too bright to stare at, too dangerous to touch.
---
Later, when the music faded and the nobles began to leave, he turned to her quietly. "You handled yourself well."
She blinked. "I didn't say anything."
"Exactly."
He rose, offering a hand—not as a command, but as a choice.
She hesitated, then took it. His hand was warm, almost burning against hers.
As he led her from the hall, she asked softly, "Why bring me there at all? You knew they'd mock me."
"Because," he said, glancing down at her, "the first step in surviving this world is learning how others see you. The second is making them regret it."
His words lingered long after they left the hall.
---
That night, alone in her room, Lysandra lay awake listening to the distant echoes of drums still pounding from deep within the volcano. Her body trembled—not from fear, but from something else.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face lit by the glow of fire, his eyes like molten gold. And each time, the warmth under her skin stirred stronger, the same way it had near the candle the night before.
She pressed a hand to her heart. "Don't," she whispered to herself. "Don't feel anything."
But it was already too late.
Because deep within her, the spark that shouldn't exist had begun to breathe.
And somewhere in the depths of Dranevor Keep, the dragon felt it too...