The morning sunlight spilled through the latticed windows of the private breakfast hall, falling in golden slants across the polished silver and gold tableware.
Metheea sat stiffly at one side of the long table, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the untouched breakfast before her. Fresh fruits, warm bread, spiced meats—each carefully prepared dish sat like a small accusation. She had no appetite. The effort to even glance at the table seemed monumental.
Across from her, Azrayel ate with slow precision, each bite controlled, almost ritualistic.
He did not look at her, yet his presence pressed into her chest like a weight she could not shift. The silence between them was heavier than any words could be.
The memory of the balcony, of the crowd, of their longing eyes, still lingered in her mind. Her mind screamed to flee, but the weight of Katarthan pressed her down, heavy as iron chains.
Metheea's heart ached as she imagined herself running, tearing through the streets of Katarthan under the night sky, the wind cutting across her face, freedom alive in her lungs. Every corner of the palace felt like a chain around her ankles, yet she stayed, rooted in fear.
"Metheea." Azrayel's voice cut through the quiet, low and measured, almost gentle in its severity.
Azrayel's presence pressed into her like a shadow she couldn't shake. He reached for a slice of bread, then paused, his gaze lingering on her hands, steady, unyielding.
She flinched, her pulse skipping.
"Tomorrow," he said, setting down his knife with deliberate calm, "you will be tested by the Dragon's Fire."
She froze, her mind skipping in panic. "What?" she whispered, barely audible.
Azrayel's gaze was steady, unwavering.
"The First Flame," he continued, as if speaking to a child who needed instruction. "It has burned in Katarthan for hundreds of years. They say it has never died. Not once. The flame knows blood. The fire tests the legitimacy of the dragon's lineage. Your blood will tell the truth."
Metheea's fingers clenched in her lap. "I… I don't understand."
"You will pour a drop of your blood into the fire." His tone was clipped, almost mocking, yet there was no malice in his voice—only inevitability. "If your blood carries the dragon's essence, the flame will consume it and grow stronger. If it does not… it will burn you instead."
Her heart sank.
Her mother had always told her that she was Katarthan's daughter, that their blood ran in her veins, that she carried the power of their line. But what if the fire revealed something else entirely? What if she was not what they claimed?
Different fire. She swallowed hard. What if the fire will harm her?
The whispers of the people, the hunger in their eyes, the calls of "Princess Metheea!"—all of it pressed on her chest.
The First Flame would not care about her feelings. It would not care about her fears. It would reveal the truth.
"And Emperor Therion?" she asked quietly. "Will he be there?"
Azrayel's lips pressed into a thin line. "Not today. He is still recovering. Sick enough that he cannot receive anyone even you, let alone witness the trial." His eyes briefly met hers, sharp, calculating. "Tomorrow. You will meet him then on the trial of the fire. It cannot wait."
Her stomach twisted. She had always longed to be free, to escape the crowns and the chains and the world that demanded her body, her power, her submission.
But even in her fantasies of running, the thought of it was tainted.
Where would she go?
The kingdoms would not let her vanish without pursuit. The fires of Katarthan, Dythrid, and Makuteya would hunt her. She could run, yes, but freedom might not follow. It might only be the illusion of it, brief and hollow, as fleeting as the wind through her hair.
Her mind went to her first meeting with Emperor Therion IX, her father. Private. Suffocating.
Azrayel had introduced her then as a potential mate. The memory left her uneasy, a knot of fear tightening in her chest. She remembered his cool gaze, the way it measured and weighed her, testing, expecting, yet leaving her body unmoved.
She looked at Azrayel eating, the pull they had, have been a sign of their familial relation but...
Why is it different with their father?
Her gaze dropped to her untouched plate. Even the memory of Therion, her father, flitted through her thoughts.
When he had introduced her, she had expected some recognition, some echo of the pull she felt with Azrayel. But there had been none.
Nothing stirred, no instinct, no signal of blood-bond.
That truth made her pulse quicken.
Metheea's eyes flitted to Azrayel across the breakfast table. There was a softness to his gaze now, a warmth that felt almost… human, almost familiar in a way that made her chest tighten.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered if everything they'd felt—the pull, the instinctive closeness—could have been something else, something she might have embraced.
It was a dangerous thought, one she almost let herself entertain.
But the truth pressed against her mind like cold iron.
No.
He was her brother.
She shivered and pressed her palms to her thighs, trying to ignore the memory. But it refused to fade. She had felt nothing for Therion, yet everything stirred when she looked at Azrayel, a man she neither wanted nor could fully resist, whose presence commanded her even when his words were soft.
The contrast made her blood run cold. Is she really his daughter?
"I don't want this," she whispered finally, barely audible over the quiet clinking of Azrayel's cutlery. "I don't want to be your princess. I don't want to be proof for your flames, or anyone's expectations. I want my freedom."
Azrayel's eyes lifted from his plate, cold and unyielding. "Freedom?" His voice was calm, almost patient, but there was no room for argument. "You will never have it. Not while Dythrid, Makuteya, and Katarthan draw breath."
Metheea's stomach sank. The words fell around her like stones. "I… I can't—"
"If you flee, you will always fight for your life," he said, leaning forward, his gaze holding hers. "There are those who would see you dead, those who would use your blood for power. You may not be the heir, but you are the princess of Katarthan. That title is your shield. You will be bound, yes, but within those chains, you can carve your own freedom. The kingdom itself can protect you, if you learn to move wisely within it."
Her pulse quickened at his words. The truth stung her, a cruel edge to a world she had imagined might still allow her flight. To become the princess they expected, would be to accept chains she could not see but could feel in every bone.
And yet, to refuse would mean peril, death, and endless pursuit.
She pressed her lips together, staring down at the untouched plate before her.
The bread, the fruits, the meat—symbols of the normalcy she could not claim. She imagined the fire tomorrow, the test, the revelation. And with it, the irrevocable choice she would be forced to make.
Azrayel's voice cut through the quiet again, low and firm. "Think carefully, Metheea. The fire will reveal you tomorrow. Once it does, you will not be able to run."
Her throat tightened.
She wanted to push it away, to close her eyes and ignore the truth, but the thought of the fire, of her blood, of the kingdoms waiting, pulled her gaze up to his.
"If the fire accepts me…" she whispered to herself, voice trembling. "…I'll never be free."
But if didn't. She shudders at what it could mean.
Azrayel leaned back, his expression unreadable. He did not offer comfort, did not soften the blow. There was no room for comfort here. Only reality, stark and unyielding. He had warned her. He had commanded her attention. The trial awaited, and with it, the truth of her blood.
She clenched her fists in her lap, nails digging into her palms.
Every instinct in her screamed to run, yet every part of her knew that tomorrow, the fire would not allow it. She would stand. She would bleed.
She would either be claimed by her lineage or destroyed by it.
And with that knowledge, she felt the invisible chains tighten around her spirit, binding her to the destiny she had never chosen.
The breakfast table was silent again, save for the faint clinking of silver against porcelain.
The sunlight through the lattices caught on Azrayel's eyes, bright and unflinching, and Metheea felt the pull of him, the weight of the expectations, the inevitable trial.
The room, though gilded and beautiful, felt smaller, suffocating, a cage she could not escape.
She wanted to protest, to scream, to run from the truth of what was coming.
But she did not.
She only sat, frozen in the awareness that the First Flame awaited, that the blood in her veins would speak, and that whatever the result, she would never again be the girl who could imagine freedom.