People say that once someone is tied to a Dragon, their fate is already sealed—etched in fire and stone, immutable. There is no turning back, no unraveling the thread once it's spun. The bond is ancient, older than kingdoms, older than the stars themselves.
Azmira had scoffed at those stories once. Fairytales, she had called them. Warnings told to keep curious hearts in line. But her mother did not tolerate such behavior in their house. Once, she was made to stand under the rain, enduring the cold because she has spoken ill of those stories. Resha—her mother—had always been serious and upright, a woman forged by discipline and shadowed expectations. Therefore, such thoughts and words from her were immediately extinguished, snuffed out like a candle before it could light the dark corners of her imagination and influence more of her thinking.
"Dragons are not to be fantasized about," her mother used to say, eyes sharp, voice cold as winter rain. "They are to be respected. Feared, if necessary. They are our only hope."
She understands her mother's worship of them. For years, mages have ruled Asiariel, and it was not the most peaceful of reigns. There may be no one sitting on the throne like what they got used to before on the past ages. Instead, there was a council who ruled from behind closed doors—faceless, nameless to most, yet powerful enough to shape the fate of kingdoms.
They called themselves the Magisterium, and under their reign, fear became currency. Magic was no longer a gift but a weapon. Villages burned under the suspicion of rebellion. Families disappeared for speaking out of turn. And through it all, the people whispered the same plea into the night: When will the Dragons return?
Only the Dragons could match the mages—for the Dragons were gifted by birth, magic running through their veins like blood and fire. The mages, for all their discipline and study, were wielders of borrowed power. They learned their craft. The Dragons were theirs.
It was said that no spell could bend a Dragon's will, no council could bridle their spirit. And that is why the Magisterium feared them most—at least for a time. Back when the First Dragons lived, their presence alone kept the balance. They did not seek thrones or titles, only peace. But peace was not enough for the mages.
The First Dragons won the Great War—a war that scorched the skies and split the earth. Kingdoms fell. Magic itself threatened to unravel.
But victory came at a cost.
No one expected the mages to retaliate. Not so soon. Not so cruelly.
In the aftermath, as the world rebuilt itself on trembling ground, the Dragons began to disappear—not slain, not exiled… but simply gone. One by one. As if swallowed by the very magic they sought to protect.
She grew up hearing whispers by people, the bitter recollections of the elders. Tales of scorched villages, minds twisted by spells, and bloodlines wiped clean under the command of a mage's whim. Their reign had been brutal, veiled in illusions of order and progress, but beneath the gold-stitched robes and gleaming staffs were hands soaked in centuries of suffering.
Her mother had lived through it. Had lost her family to it.
That was why she never spoke of magic without disdain, and why they were raised far from people. Despite all of it, each children has their purpose. Her sisters have already been matched long before her.
And now it's her turn.
She stared at herself, finding it hard to believe that she was to actually wear this sacred clothing. White for the long veil, delicate and sheer, cascading down her back like a waterfall of moonlight. The gown, too, was white—pure and unblemished, covering much of her form, as tradition demanded. Its high collar brushed the edge of her jaw, sleeves flowing to her wrists, every inch designed to conceal and yet still declare: She is chosen.
Chosen by a Dragon.
Chosen by fate.
She reached out to her neck, feeling suffocated—but she could never complain.
It was a mere discomfort. A tightening of the collar, a prickle of skin. Tolerable, in the way a person grows used to sleeping through storms or waking to hunger. Her whole life had been a series of pain, strung together like beads on a fraying thread.
This was nothing new.
What truly choked her wasn't the collar—it was the silence.
What is to come to her after this?
"Azmira."
Her breathing hitched, looking at her sister who was squinting at her, checking her entire look. Upon reaching Azmira's eyes, her expression softened, but only slightly.
"They are waiting."
Beautifully written — you've captured Azmira's quiet strength and the weight of her path. Here's a continuation that keeps the tension simmering while bringing us deeper into her emotions and surroundings:
She swallowed hard, nodding. Taking a step, she could feel her knees trembling, but it did not falter her conviction. This needs to be done. It has been long overdue.
Her sister walked alongside her in silence, their footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor, each one a step closer to her fate. The corridor was narrow, lit by hanging lanterns whose flames flickered in response to the tension in the air — or perhaps to the magic that stirred just beneath the surface of the world tonight.
As they turned the final corner, distant murmurs reached them — voices gathered in anticipation. The Ceremony of Submission. Or as the old ones still dared to call it: The Binding.
Azmira clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms to anchor her.
Her sister halted at the great archway, where robed figures stood waiting — the Faithful, who condemned such practices yet had no choice but to participate. Their eyes were downcast, hands folded tightly as if in silent penance. Complicity, worn like a second skin.
Overall, the place looked just like what it used to be.
The same domed ceiling painted with faded color. The same cracked marble tiles beneath her feet, worn from generations of footsteps — some triumphant, many trembling. The scent of incense clung to the air, but it could not mask the underlying stench of fear, of anticipation.
Azmira's eyes flicked to the dais, where her Master is waiting. Her breathing hitched when they met gaze. His face unreadable but his eyes were glowing from its golden hues.
He wanted this.
He wanted her.
"I'll be right here," her sister whispered, eyes shining with something between fear and pride.
Azmira gave a small nod before stepping forward alone, her silhouette swallowed by the golden sunlight beyond the arch. She could feel eyes watching, judging, waiting.
The Faithful started walking, all three of them, while she followed, head bowed. Though she could not stay looking down for long. She looked at everyone present, and she could bravely do so because of the veil obstructing their view of her. There were only a few in attendance, as this is not a celebration, but a passage for her in their lives.
Each step Azmira took echoed lightly against the stone floor, swallowed by the silence of the chamber. The hall usually held the family's celebration, the Master's venue to hear his people's grievances, but now it held a different kind of ceremony—one older, quieter, almost forgotten. The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, clinging to her veil, her skin, her breath.
The Faithful moved in front of the dais while she stepped beside the man waiting for her. They stood side by side, looking in front. Nevertheless, she could feel his presence—solid, unmoving, as if carved from the very stone beneath their feet. Her whole body shivered at the thought of being owned by him, claimed by this Dragon
The eldest of the Faithful lifted his hands, his voice rising in a chant so ancient that even the walls seemed to remember it. The words, foreign yet familiar, filled the chamber like a forgotten wind, stirring the banners that hung limp in the corners.
The man beside her drew a breath, deep and steady, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if he felt the same storm inside.
Then the eldest of the Faithful lowered his hands, and the chamber fell still, waiting for the next word, the next step, that would bind fate to action.
"Let all bear witness to this binding, neither holy matrimony nor blessed covenant, but a pact as old as blood and flame. By ancient custom, she is given—not as wife, but as treasure. Not as equal, but as claimed."
His words echoed, stark against the silence.
"Do you stand here of your own will, beneath the veil of duty?"
"I do," she answered, taking in a deep breath as she knew there are more to be asked.
"Do you offer yourself, not for love, but for the strength of the House that claims you?"
"I do."
"Do you yield your name, your freedom, and your future, to be bound by ancient right?"
She glanced at the man beside her who may not be looking at her but she knew he awaits her reply. "I do."
"Do you vow to honor this bond, in silence or in sorrow, until the end of your days?"
"I do."
"Do you accept the place given to you, neither as wife nor equal, but as the Claimed?"
"I do."
The eldest Faithful lowered his hands, the echo of her last "I do" still lingering in the air like a final breath before nightfall.
He spoke once more, voice low but firm, as if speaking to the stones themselves so they would remember.
"Then let it be known: she stands Claimed. By her will, by our witness, by the blood that binds all flesh to duty."
The youngest of the Faithful stepped forward, holding a thin chain of dark iron, its links forged in the likeness of entwined dragons—wings unfurled, tails coiling, heads bowed as if in silent vigilance. The metal glinted faintly in the sunlight that filtered through the high windows, as though it held the memory of flame.
A relic of the old ways, it was said the chain had been blessed in the breath of the First Dragons, a symbol of both submission and protection.
With reverence, the Faithful draped it gently over Azmira's shoulders, the weight of it cool and unyielding, settling against her skin through the veil and gown.
"This chain binds not the body, but the soul," the eldest intoned. "Let it mark her as one claimed under the shadow of the Dragon, shielded by its power, and bound to its will. Let none dare break what the Dragon watches."
The eldest raised his hands once more, palms to the heavens, as if calling the gaze of the Dragons upon them. His voice, low and steady, echoed in the vast chamber.
"By chain and word, she is marked. But by blood, she is bound."
The last of the Faithful stepped forward, silent as shadow, bearing a dagger unlike any other. Its hilt was shaped like a dragon's claw, its blade dark steel veined with faint red lines, as though forged with fire and blood together.
He knelt before Azmira, lifting the dagger in both hands as an offering.
"The blood of the Claimed shall seal the pact. The blood taken shall bind the Claimed to the Master. Thus it was in the days of flame. Thus it is now."
Azmira did not tremble. With hands steady despite the weight of what this meant, she accepted the dagger. She drew the blade across her palm, the cut clean, the pain sharp and fleeting. Crimson welled up, warm and vivid against her pale skin. She brought her hand to a chalice where the blood dripped, each drop falling with a sound that seemed louder than it should, as though the chamber itself listened.
The youngest Faithful took the chalice with both hands. "Blood of the Claimed," he intoned, "gifted in duty, given in binding."
He offered the chalice to the man who now held her fate. Without hesitation, the man accepted it and drank deeply, sealing the bond as the old ways demanded.
The eldest Faithful's voice rose one final time, filling the hall.
"Thus is the pact fulfilled. Thus is the Claimed bound by blood and word, by chain and choice. Let the Dragons bear witness."
A final hush fell, as though the very air grew still in reverence for what had passed.
Azmira stood, the sting of the cut forgotten, the weight of her new life settling over her like the veil that hid her face. They turned, facing the people who bore witness of their union. Her gaze found her sister's first—eyes glistening with unshed tears, yet steady, offering a small nod of encouragement. A silent promise that she was not alone.
But then, beyond the gathered few, Azmira's eyes met another's—a pair of golden-hued eyes that held her fast, leaving her breath stolen and her resolve shaken. In an instant, memories of their stolen night surged through her mind: whispered words beneath the stars, the heat of his hands on her skin, the wild, aching tenderness they had shared.
How cruel, she thought, how cruel of her heart to summon such memories now, when she had just been bound to another.
She forced herself to look away, burying the past beneath duty's heavy mantle, and took a steadying breath before stepping forward into the life that was no longer hers to choose.
"Let's see what he'll do now that you're mine," the man beside her cruelly whispered and she dared not reply.
She shouldn't.