Ficool

The Dragon Bride

bahti
7
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
--
NOT RATINGS
176
Views
Synopsis
He bowed to her. The dragon—chained, cursed, and born of fire—lowered his head before the girl meant to die. Every century, a virgin is chosen—offered to the mountain as sacrifice. This time, it’s Lyra, the healer’s daughter. Veiled in white. Chained to stone. A life given to keep the curse sealed. But the moment her heartbeat echoes through the cavern, his fire stills. Something ancient stirs. Something forbidden. Kael, the fallen prince turned dragon, feels it—the pull, the match, the bond. And the old prophecy returns like a whisper in the dark: If the dragon ever spares the girl who stirs his flame, she will be the one to destroy his kingdom. Only her blood can break the curse. Only her love can end it all. Now he must choose: sacrifice her… or fall. And Lyra must decide: give her life to save the realm, or follow her heart and let it burn. One heartbeat bound them. One choice could destroy them both. A forbidden love born of fire, fate… and ruin.
VIEW MORE

Chapter 1 - chapter 1

"Sacrifice."

The word echoed like a curse through the marble chamber.

The High Priest knelt before the obsidian throne, his head bowed beneath a hood woven with silver thread. Firelight flickered off the black stone walls as nobles and guards stood in silent anticipation.

"It is time, Your Majesty," the priest intoned. "The girl has been chosen."

King Elric stood slowly, his voice deep and unwavering. "Is she pure?"

"Yes, sire. Nineteen winters. The healer's daughter. Defiant... but untouched."

The king's lip curled faintly. "Good. The dragon will not accept damaged offerings. Only power drawn from innocence. The fire demands it."

He stepped down from the throne, his robes dragging like smoke. The court watched silently—ministers, nobles, even the Captain of the Guard. None dared interrupt when the sacrifice was being discussed.

"The last two," the king said coldly, "burned before they could even scream."

A murmur rippled through the council. The High Priest dropped his gaze lower.

"They were pure in body," he muttered, "but not in mind. One carried hatred in her heart. The other—fear."

Elric's jaw tightened. "The offering must be more than untouched. She must be clean. Willing. Balanced in spirit. The flame senses everything."

Another minister—a woman with sharp eyes and blood-red silk at her throat—spoke softly, "And if the dragon rejects her?"

"Then the curse deepens," the High Priest answered. "You know this. Fire will spread. The northern crops will fail again. The sea storms will return. The skies will bleed ash, and we'll lose another century to darkness."

Silence.

"And what of rebellion?" asked Lord Morian, a young noble with too much pride. "We sacrifice one of our own—every hundred years—and what do we receive in return? Ashes? Fear?"

Elric turned to him, eyes like frost. "We receive life. We receive protection."

He stepped closer.

"When the dragon Kael was first cursed, the world shook. Entire kingdoms vanished beneath flame. You are too young to remember, but I do. It took the blood of the First Priestess to bind him—and a vow from our bloodline to keep feeding the mountain what it demands."

"A girl," the priest whispered. "Every hundred years. A bride. Not a prisoner. Not a slave. A willing offering, untouched, untainted, born beneath the eclipse."

"The chosen," Elric said. "And this one—Lyra—is the last of that bloodline. The end of the healer's legacy. She carries the mark."

The nobles stirred. Even the captain's posture stiffened.

"Then let this be done properly," the king said. "If we fail this time, there may be no reprieve. The dragon is waking. We've all felt it."

He raised his hand, sharp with rings. "Sound the bell. Let the realm bear witness."

A guard turned on his heel and disappeared.

The distant toll of the bell echoed across the cliffs of Elarion—a kingdom carved into the bones of mountains and shadows. Where other lands basked in sunlit fields and rivers that sang, Elarion endured. Always watching the smoke that curled from Mount Kael, a reminder that their survival depended not on strength… but on sacrifice.

Within the marble chamber, torchlight flickered violently now, like it too feared the words just spoken.

King Elric returned to his throne slowly, dragging the heavy silence behind him like a cape. "The bloodline ends with her," he repeated, voice taut with meaning. "We must ensure the rite is unbroken."

Lady Vaeloria, the minister cloaked in red silk, stepped forward. Her tone was careful but edged with doubt. "Your Majesty, if this girl is the last… what becomes of the next century?"

"We do not plan for the next century," Elric said coldly. "We plan for tomorrow. Let the next kings find their own blood to spill."

The High Priest lifted his head slightly. "There are whispers in the wind already. The mountain groans in its sleep. Kael's hunger will not be delayed again."

Suddenly—

The chamber doors burst open.

A figure stumbled in, barely taller than a child, though his presence commanded attention.

"Gods preserve us…" murmured a guard, reaching for his blade.

"Peace!" The High Priest raised a hand, but his voice trembled. "Let him speak."

The small figure shuffled forward, cloaked in tattered green velvet, with hair like wind-blown straw and eyes that gleamed yellow in the firelight. A long tail of braided charms clinked softly behind him—bones, feathers, even scorched bits of gold.

"Kiki…" the King muttered, his voice tight. "What does he want?"

Kiki, servant of the dragon, bowed low—an exaggerated movement that made the nobles recoil. He smelled of ash and old smoke, of mountain caverns and forgotten magic.

"Your Majesty," he croaked, grinning with sharp teeth. "I thought it polite to warn you—Kael stirs. He breathes deep now. And he dreams of fire."

The chamber tensed.

"You should not be here," growled Captain Arien, stepping forward. "Your kind belongs in the mountain, not among the council."

"My kind?" Kiki turned, lips curling. "You mean servants who keep your skies from burning? Who polish Kael's scales and whisper lullabies so your cities don't melt?"

He chuckled—a high, rasping sound. "I come only to ensure you do not fail him again."

The king narrowed his eyes. "We have chosen the girl. She meets every condition. She bears the mark."

Kiki's eyes gleamed brighter. "A mark does not mean willingness. She may be untouched in flesh… but what of her spirit?"

A beat of silence.

The High Priest opened his mouth, but Kiki cut him off.

"The dragon's fury is older than your empire," he hissed. "He was bound by blood and moonlight, but the threads grow thin. One wrong offering, and the mountain will open its jaws once more."

Lady Vaeloria's voice quivered despite her strength. "What would you have us do, Kiki? Sacrifice another? We have no more bearers of the blood. The line is ending. The girl is our only chance."

Kiki's grin softened into something almost sad.

"Then you better prepare her well. Feed her your prayers, your songs, your lies. Make her believe she is a gift, not a victim. If she walks into that cave with doubt in her bones, he will burn her… and all of you with her."

He turned then, but paused at the door.

"Oh—and one more thing." He glanced back, eyes flickering with gold. "He's not as asleep as you think. Last night… he spoke her name."And this morning, the mountain bled smoke."