This section of your story is intense and full of emotional turmoil. I've translated it into a dramatic, "Webnovel" style—focusing on the internal monologues, the atmospheric tension, and the sharp transitions between scenes.
Night – Before the Performance
The Great Hall was overflowing. The heavy gazes of dragons and the hushed whispers of courtiers filled every corner. The flickering candlelight reflected off the stone walls, weaving an aura of oppressive grandeur into the air.
Behind the curtain, Elanor had finished her preparations. Her dress clung to her like a blooming flower, and her crimson hair cascaded over her shoulders in waves. She clenched her hands together tightly.
Her heart raced. On one hand, the memory of Draven's gaze haunted her—the way he had watched her at the table, the way he had undone her chains. On the other, the terror of the stage burned within her.
It's as if I'm not his slave... but something else entirely. But... what if he's just playing with me? What if I'm nothing more than his entertainment?
The roar of the crowd pierced through the curtain. The confusion growing inside her was enough to take her breath away.
This is not my realm. What am I doing among these people? But my heart... why is it beating so fast?
As the curtains parted, the roar vanished into an instant silence. The center stage belonged to Elanor alone.
Her chains had been removed, yet she was far from free. She stepped forward with deliberate care; her black and silver embroidered dress caught the light with every sway of her slender frame.
As the music swelled, Elanor began her dance. Her hands opened like blooming flowers, her hair flowing behind her. With every pirouette, she tried to avert her eyes from the crowd, but Draven's gaze... it was pinned to her.
Leaning back on his throne, Draven watched. His heart beat with a heavy, rhythmic thrum.
How is it... that a slave... a human... can affect me like this?
Anger, admiration, and fear clashed within him. In his vision, there was only Elanor; the others were nothing but blurred, fading shadows.
Elanor's body seemed to bloom and close with every note of the music. Her dance held the enchantment of a fairy and the fragility of a human. And Draven found himself unable to look away.
The Contact
As the music reached a crescendo, Elanor moved closer to the crowd. A dragon—a minor noble—reached out as she passed. His fingers brushed against her arm.
Elanor flinched. Terror flashed in her eyes. She wanted to pull back, but the music flowed on, and the performance had to continue. Her breath hitched.
In an instant, Draven's gaze turned to ice.
Draven's Wrath
The Dragon King rose slowly from his throne. The hall began to murmur once more. He said nothing; he simply took one step, then another. The sheer weight of his stride made the floor tremble.
He approached the dragon who had dared to touch Elanor. A single look... a single spark.
The noble's face contorted with horror; a strangled groan escaped his throat. In a sudden burst of heat, flames engulfed him. Before he could even scream, he collapsed to the floor.
A deathly silence fell over the hall.
Draven turned his eyes to Elanor. The rage was still there, but beneath it burned something far more complex. It was a look that said, "No one touches you"—yet he seemed terrified of his own feelings.
Elanor's heart hammered. She was free of her chains, but she was still a captive. And the fire burning in Draven's eyes was something far more powerful than freedom.
Draven's actions had shattered the heavy atmosphere. Whispers of "How can this be?" echoed through the hall. Eyes accustomed to the absolute rules of slavery now trembled at this defiance.
Deep down, Elanor felt a strange warmth at Draven's bold protection. She couldn't deny the fluttering of her heart, yet her eyes remained guarded. She wanted to trust him, but the scars of the past screamed warnings.
Sergie's voice whispered in her mind: "A massive step... but the real game begins now. Watch him, for this is only the beginning. If Draven truly intends to break the chains of slavery... then we are on the path to a Great Revolution."
Internal Conflict
As Draven's gaze swept over the crowd, only one thought remained: a future where the chains were broken. He did not say it aloud, but the direction of his path was now set.
Suddenly, Draven's vision darkened. The image of that hand touching Elanor's shoulder still burned in his mind. In a move no one expected, he seized Elanor's slender wrist and pulled her toward him. This harsh gesture, echoing in the center of the hall, silenced the music and the chatter instantly.
Elanor's eyes widened, a flush of shock spreading across her face. She was forced to stumble after Draven to keep her balance. Murmurs rose behind them. The nobles hissed in the shadows: "What audacity..." "He cannot do this..."
Sergie watched them go, exhaling a deep breath. "And so... the mask begins to slip," he whispered to himself.
Draven's Inner Monologue (As he drags her toward the room): What am I doing? In front of all these people... While trying to break her chains, am I just forging new ones? Do I see fear in Elanor's eyes, or trust?
Who am I? The old Draven ruled by darkness, or a new one chasing freedom? I want her by my side because she makes me feel human. But dragging her like this... isn't this just another form of slavery? By holding her wrist, am I just tightening the chains on my own soul?
Draven's grip loosened slightly. The fire of his rage was slowly turning into a question: Will I break my chains with her, or will I bind her with new ones?
The Room
Elanor's heart felt like it would burst from her chest. As Draven dragged her into the room, she felt both the sting on her wrist and the depth of his gaze. As soon as the door slammed shut behind them, the Dragon King threw her onto the bed.
Elanor's breath was knocked out of her as she hit the soft mattress. The chains on her wrists jingled softly. When she looked up, the fire in Draven's eyes was beyond words—a gaze that could burn the entire palace to ash. He leaned over her, his presence shaking the very foundations of the room. Elanor instinctively recoiled, but Draven was already looming over her.
For a moment, time stopped. Her lips were mere breaths away from his. Her heartbeat sounded like a war drum in her ears. She did not resist. Despite her fear, something else rose within her: perhaps curiosity, or perhaps a desire she refused to acknowledge. When their lips finally met, they both froze.
In that moment, the world ceased to exist. Only one thought crossed Elanor's mind: "What... what am I doing?"
Draven, too, felt like a prisoner in his own body. As he pulled his lips away, his eyes were still flashing with fire. His face was a mask of rage and bewilderment. He growled in a deep, gravelly voice:
"What are you doing to me... little fairy?"
The words pierced Elanor's heart like a dagger. Draven stood up abruptly, hiding his face in the shadows as he raked his fingers through his hair, as if battling himself. He turned and strode toward the door. His heavy steps shook the floorboards. The door swung open with violence and slammed shut just as hard. Elanor was left breathless, her mind in shambles.
She could only whisper to herself: "What have I gotten myself into?"
Outside and The Betrayal
A cold wind seemed to blow through the palace following Draven's exit. The dragon nobles remained restless. Rumors and whispers regarding Draven's obsession with Elanor spread like wildfire.
Thor stood silently in the crowd, his eyes fixed on the door to Elanor's room. A line of suspicion deepened between his brows. "This... is not going the way it should," he thought.
Unease grew among the nobility. Some spoke of Elanor's power; others saw Draven's mercy as a fatal weakness. Such privilege shown to a slave was unheard of in the Dragon Realm.
In the sky above, black wings beat against the wind. The roars of dragons from the distance shook the fortress. Dark creatures attempting to infiltrate the realm were the harbingers of a long-awaited rebellion.
Thor slammed his fist onto a table. "The dragons are dividing," he hissed through gritted teeth. "And at the center of this rift... is that girl."
The Kidnapping
Elanor was alone in her room, exhausted from the dance and left on her bed. Sergie's voice echoed in her mind: "Be careful... in this palace, Draven is not the only one watching you. There is another."
At that exact moment, the lock turned silently. Elanor bolted upright, but she was too late. Thor emerged from the darkness, his eyes glowing like embers—filled with both hatred and a twisted passion.
"You..." he growled under his breath, "You won't be Draven's slave. You will be mine."
Elanor tried to scramble back, but Thor lunged, seizing the chains on her wrists. His strength was so overwhelming it stole the air from her lungs. He grabbed her arm with a brutal grip and dragged her out.
With her heart pounding against the sound of heavy footsteps echoing on the floor, Elanor was led through secret corridors and dark passages. Thor knew every inch of the palace. Using his status as Draven's closest brother, they reached the deepest, most secluded corner of the fortress.
Finally, he threw her into an ancient underground dragon dungeon. It was a cold, damp place where the stone walls were slick with moss. Thor knelt before the stone pillar where he had chained her, bringing his face close to her crimson hair.
"Draven is making you weak, Elanor," he said. "But with me... you will see your true power. Whether you want to or not."
Fear and fury warred in Elanor's eyes. Sergie's voice rang in her head: "Stay calm. This is his weakness. His obsession will be his own downfall."
As Thor walked away, his gaze lingered on her—the look of a predator who had finally caught his prey.