Dragons aren't supposed to notice humans. That's rule number one.
Except, apparently, I'm breaking every rule.
The sky burns red, claws scraping cliff edges like some twisted symphony, and here I am, standing in the middle of the dragon arena—because of course I am.
And him. The male dragon heir, scales glinting like molten metal, gaze sharp enough to cut. I shouldn't even be looking, but my pulse has other plans.
Step one of surviving the Sinful Games: check. Step two: don't make a fool of myself in front of Thysa—good luck with that.
The rich side of the village sprawls before me: polished stone paths, ornate fountains, houses so big they could swallow entire neighborhoods. Lanterns sway in the sun, casting gold across marble steps while silk-clad villagers whisper and glance my way. Born here, bred with privilege, wealth practically dripping off me, and somehow… I still feel like I might get burned alive.
I stroll through the square, hands shoved into my tailored jacket pockets, trying to appear casual. Everyone's eyes are on me. Judging. Admiring. Pretending not to care. I don't. Not really.
And then I see her.
Thysa. Emerging from the rotten side of town like a storm nobody warned me about. Hair black as midnight, eyes sharp as knives, smirk sharper than any blade I've trained with. She looks out of place—but impossible to ignore.
"Late again, Kento?" she calls, calm and precise, every word a challenge.
"Fashionably on time," I reply, leaning on a gilded fountain like it belongs to me—which, technically, it does. My gaze stays casual, noting her movements without letting it show.
She tilts her head. "Blending in is boring, Kento. I like standing out."
I snort. "Effortless is overrated. Dangerous? Maybe. You? Probably trouble, at best."
Her smirk tightens. Sharp. Controlled. Not teasing. "Careful. Underestimate me at your own risk."
A rich kid from the square is staring, obviously thinking he can outshine her. Cute idea. Clearly hasn't survived a fight with her—or realized how lethal her focus can be.
By the time we reach the training grounds, I brace myself. Thysa is calm, precise, infuriatingly perfect—like chaos has its own runway. Welcome to my fancy mess.