The great hall of the Dragon Palace was carved from black stone that shimmered faintly as if fire still lived within it. Torches lined the walls, their flames bowing low as if in reverence to the man seated at the far end of the room.
Prince Vanda Sanchez sat upon the obsidian throne, his broad shoulders cloaked in dark crimson, his golden eyes gleaming with dangerous intensity. Beneath that gaze, even his most hardened generals dared not shift too loudly.
Reports had poured in all morning—strange movements along the border, whispers of Arven spies caught and silenced, merchants vanishing on the roads. Each piece of news only deepened the storm brewing behind Vanda's calm expression.
When the last messenger bowed and withdrew, silence fell heavy. The prince leaned back against the throne, fingers curling along the carved dragon heads at its arms.
"They circle like vultures," he muttered, his voice a low growl. "Waiting for me to falter."
No one answered. No one dared.
At length, he rose. The generals straightened instantly, but Vanda did not address them. Instead, he strode down the length of the hall, his cloak trailing like spilled fire. His boots echoed against the stone, each step resonating with quiet power.
"Leave us," he commanded.
The men exchanged wary glances but obeyed without question. Soon, the vast chamber was empty—save for one.
Daya stood at the edge of the hall, a tray in her hands. Her slender figure seemed almost swallowed by the endless black stone, yet her presence tugged at Vanda more strongly than any war report.
When the heavy doors closed behind the generals, she lowered her gaze. "My lord… would you like—"
"Come."
The single word froze her in place. For a heartbeat, her instincts screamed at her to flee. But her feet obeyed, carrying her forward until she stood before him, the tray trembling faintly in her grasp.
Vanda's eyes lingered on the tray before flicking to her face. "Wine?"
She nodded quickly. "Yes, my prince."
Her hands shook as she poured into the goblet, and though she tried to steady them, a single drop spilled onto the edge of the tray. She flinched, expecting anger.
But instead of rebuke, Vanda reached and took the goblet directly from her hands. His fingers brushed hers briefly—warm, steady, commanding.
She looked up despite herself. And in that moment, she saw not the arrogant dragon prince the world feared, but a man weighed down by storms no one else could bear.
"Do you know what they whisper about me, maid?" he asked, swirling the wine.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
"That I am ruthless. That I burn men alive for disobedience. That I am incapable of love." His golden eyes locked on hers, sharp and unyielding. "Tell me—do you believe them?"
Her breath caught. The truth perched on her tongue like a fragile bird. She had seen his cruelty, yes—but she had also seen the fire he wielded against injustice, the fury he used to shield those weaker than himself.
Finally, she whispered, "No, my prince."
The words settled between them, soft but immovable.
For a long moment, silence stretched. Then, unexpectedly, his lips curved—not quite a smile, but something close.
"Wise answer," he murmured.
He turned, striding toward the balcony. The goblet remained untouched in his hand, the wine glinting like blood in the torchlight. Daya followed a step behind, though no command had been given. She felt as though an invisible tether pulled her along.
Beyond the balcony, the night stretched vast and endless. Stars glittered, cold and distant, but the mountains below glowed faintly with the veins of fire that ran through them.
"My kingdom stands upon fire," Vanda said quietly, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "It burns beneath our feet, waiting to devour the careless. To survive, we must be harder than stone, sharper than steel."
He turned his head slightly, his eyes catching hers. "That is why men fear me. And that is why Arven seeks to strike now—because they believe even stone can be cracked."
Her heart twisted. She wanted to speak, to reassure him, but her tongue faltered. What comfort could a maid offer a prince?
Yet he seemed to sense her silence. He lifted the goblet, watching the wine catch the moonlight. "Tell me, Daya Roman. Do you believe stone can crack?"
She swallowed. "Only if the fire inside it dies, my lord."
The words left her lips before she could stop them. Heat flooded her cheeks. She lowered her gaze, horrified at her own boldness.
But instead of anger, there was a low, amused sound from the prince's throat. "Hn. Perhaps you are braver than you look."
Her chest tightened at the faintest glimmer of warmth in his voice.
Yet before the fragile moment could settle, the sharp cry of a raven split the night.
Both of them froze.
The bird circled once before swooping low across the balcony, a scrap of parchment tied to its leg. Vanda's hand shot out with lethal precision, snatching the bird from the air. It shrieked and clawed, but his grip was unyielding.
He tore the parchment free and let the raven go. The black bird vanished into the shadows, but the damage was already done.
Unfolding the note, his eyes narrowed. The elegant handwriting was unmistakable.
She will not last in your fire. Give her to me, and I will let her live.
No name. None needed.
Daya's stomach dropped. Her trembling voice broke the silence. "Who… who sent that?"
Vanda crushed the parchment in his fist, his knuckles blazing faintly with fire. His voice was cold as steel.
"Rosa."
The name lingered in the air like poison.
The flames licking his knuckles flared brighter. For the first time, Daya saw not only the prince of dragons—but the wrath of a man who would burn the world to protect what was his.