The corridors of the palace stretched before her like a gilded prison. Every footfall echoed off marble floors, each step a reminder of the inevitability that awaited her. Gold banners lined the walls, the firelit braziers casting dancing shadows that seemed to watch her, whispering of loyalty and betrayal alike.
Nobles craned their necks for a glimpse, murmuring to each other behind hands as she passed.
The sound of trumpets and ceremonial horns cut through the hum, announcing her procession with a majesty that made her stomach churn.
Her robes, heavy with dragon embroidery, clung to her body like a cage, gilded threads biting into her skin. Servants had dressed her with careful precision, each knot and fold a testament to tradition and to control.
Metheea kept her face neutral, though her thoughts threatened to betray her.
Every step feels like walking deeper into a cage, she thought, the corridors narrowing in her mind until she could almost feel the walls pressing in. Guards flanked her at every turn, their eyes trained and unblinking.
The ceremonial herald's voice rang out, clear and sonorous:
"Metheea Feylisse, Princess of Katarthan, second to the Imperial Line!"
The crowd erupted. Applause thundered like rolling storms; shouts of joy and reverence pierced the air.
Among them, common folk wept openly, their faces pressed to the barriers as though sheer devotion might reach her. Nobles dipped their heads, some in deep respect, others with barely concealed skepticism.
Metheea's chest tightened. They saw a lost princess to the kingdom but she felt only a sacrifice. Her freedom had never seemed more distant.
At the hall's center, the throne waited.
Therion IX sat atop it, draped in ceremonial robes that gleamed like molten gold.
He looked stronger than he had in weeks, though sickness clung faintly to his sharp features. His eyes, predators masked in paternal guise, scanned the hall with a measured gaze. Beside him, Azrayel stood at his right, tall, rigid, expression carved in stone.
Therion's voice boomed, steady and commanding.
"Welcome, lost princess, to your rightful place! The bloodline of dragons flows through your veins, and today the world shall witness your proof!"
The crowd roared her name again, their voices rising to a fevered pitch.
Metheea's mind, however, focused on the hollow expression behind Azrayel's eyes. He was present, but there was no pride, no relief — only a shadow that chilled her more than the fire before the throne ever could.
The trial began. Before her, a brazier burned, its flames unnaturally bright, heat pressing against her skin with the weight of centuries.
Azrayel descended from the dais, slow and ceremonial. He extended his hand.
Reluctantly, she took it. His grip was firm, steady, but distant, and she felt the pang of something familiar yet unplaceable. Her gaze lingered on him, and for a fraction of a heartbeat, a dangerous thought surfaced.
But his soft eyes, no longer the commanding stare of a prince, of a potential mate but the warmth of a brother — familiar, protective, devastatingly tender.
And then reality crashed back: He is my brother.
Azrayel drew a ceremonial dagger, etched with dragon runes that shimmered in the firelight.
For a moment, their eyes met, and she caught the flicker of a bond she couldn't name, a closeness that defied the world's expectations but belonged entirely to the two of them.
The blade pressed against her palm. Blood dripped into the brazier.
The flame trembled, then roared, a living pulse that licked her skin, smelled of iron and power, and roared like a beast recognizing its kin.
The crowd erupted in cheers, chanting: "The Princess! The Blood of Dragons!"
Dizziness swept over her.
The fire's heat was suffocating, intoxicating, a wild pulse she could almost hear in her own veins. Triumph should have filled her, but instead, she felt only loss, as if the fire had consumed the last fragment of her freedom.
Therion rose, voice like a drumbeat across the hall:
"Behold! Metheea Feylisse, Princess of Katarthan, rightful daughter of the dragon lineage! With the Emperor, the Crown Prince, and the Princess united in dragon's blood, the empire is unstoppable!"
Cheers thundered back, shaking the hall. Therion's smile was broad, victorious, arms raised high. Behind him, Azrayel remained still, unreadable, a shadow in the brilliance of victory.
Metheea knelt as the ceremonial tiara was placed on her head — silver and onyx, shaped like dragon wings. Its weight pressed down on her spine, a physical reminder of her confinement. The crowd's chants rose, unrelenting, echoing in her ears.
This isn't a crown. It's a chain.
She was guided to her new seat, left of the throne, completing the trinity of dragons: Therion at the center, Azrayel to the right, herself to the left.
"Katarthan is unshakable, for it is led by three dragons!" The crowd roared in celebration, but her mind remained elsewhere.
Azrayel's eyes found hers for the briefest moment. There was no triumph in them, only devastation.
He knew what this meant. The pull between them, the bond she had once misread as destiny, was now fully revealed — it could never be anything more than blood.
She is his sister.
Therion basked in the adulation of his people, proud, triumphant.
Her eyes sought his searching for even the smallest flicker of recognition, a trace of the father she had imagined in her dreams.
But his gaze swept over her like a wind over the plains—acknowledging the ceremony, the bloodline, the title, but never her.
In that emptiness, she felt the weight of her isolation deepen, more suffocating than the fire ever could.
The fire roared, the crowd cheered, yet she felt no triumph.
Proof had been demanded and given, and now every eye would be on her—not as a daughter, not as herself, but as a tool of lineage and legacy.
Freedom had been sacrificed before the flame even cooled.