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Drakonians have this strange perception of perfection.

They must never show anything except strength, beauty and flawlessness.

It is utterly ridiculous. I’ve seen the way princess Aithne’s hands shake when she thinks no one can see.

She is so scared of making the slightest mistake.

It makes my heart hurt for her and what she must endure.

Tabitha Wysteria

Mal awoke on the morning of her wedding as if it were any other day.

There was no great realisation, no rush of excitement, no fluttering anticipation.

Only the quiet hum of servants bustling about her chambers, their movements a well-rehearsed routine.

Some laid out breakfast, their delicate hands arranging platters with care, while others prepared the steaming bath, the scent of lavender and myrrh thick in the air.

The rest tidied the room, ensuring that every surface gleamed, every corner remained untouched by dust, before the royal designers arrived to deliver her wedding gown.

Mal had not yet seen the dress in its entirety.

The fittings had been practical, uninspired—merely a slip of fabric, a skeletal outline of what was to come.

She had not been asked for her opinion on the final design. Not that it mattered .

The aesthetic of the gown was of little concern. This was not a wedding of love, nor of joy, nor of celebration. It was a union of necessity, a carefully arranged binding of two worlds. A cage, wrapped in silks and jewels. But there was one thing she had insisted upon.

The dress had to be black. As was tradition in her kingdom. Nothing else had mattered to her—not the embroidery, not the cut, not the weight of the fabric against her skin. Just black, the colour of the wyverian queens before her.

A knock, and then Haven swept into the room just as Mal slipped into the bath. The warm water lapped at her skin, but her sister’s presence was the first thing that settled her.

‘Where is Vera?’ Mal asked, voice sharp with irritation.

‘She has been taken ill, your highness,’ a servant replied.

Mal frowned but said nothing.

‘You ought not frown on your wedding day,’ Haven teased, plucking a rotten apple from the golden tray.

Even now, despite the court’s slow adaptation to wyverian customs, Mal caught the way the servants glanced warily at the rotting fruit, their expressions betraying their unease.

Haven, however, bit into the apple without a care. ‘Your skin will wrinkle and deform.’

Mal grunted as deft hands massaged oils into her scalp.

‘Why should I care what my skin looks like?’ she muttered. ‘I do not believe good skin is what keeps a marriage strong.’

Haven smirked, tossing the apple core onto the tray.

‘Every little helps, Mal.’

Perhaps. But not when the groom barely tolerated his bride.

It was no secret that Ash Acheron had kept his distance.

For two days, Mal had only glimpsed him in the training yards, where his sword was his only companion.

He had not sought her out, had not spoken to her, had not even spared her a glance.

Not that she had expected otherwise. Perhaps it was for the best.

‘The dress has arrived, your highness.’

The announcement sent a ripple through the room. Mal stepped from the bath, water gliding from her skin as she wrapped herself in the softest towel she had ever known. Haven followed, her usual mischievous smile softening into something almost tender.

‘I am sure it will be beautiful,’ her sister said.

The tailor, a small drakonian man with a golden mustache curled like fire’s edge, stepped forward, his chest puffed with pride as he lifted the gown from its silk-lined box.

Mal’s stomach turned to ice.

The dress was red. Not black.

Red.

A colour so deep, so rich, it gleamed like freshly spilt blood.

Her lips parted in stunned silence, but the words took a moment to form.

‘But it is… red.’ She turned, her purple eyes sharp as steel, locking onto the tailor. ‘The dress is red, like blood.’

The man’s face brightened with pride, utterly unaware of the mistake. ‘Yes, of course,’ he declared. ‘Drakonian women always wear red at their weddings. And drakonian men wear gold, to symbolise the flame.’

Mal bristled. ‘But I am not a drakonian.’

The tailor’s face drained of colour. He took a careful step back, as if suddenly aware of the storm he had stepped into.

Haven’s expression tightened. ‘I am sure there was a mistake in communication,’ she offered, though there was little certainty in her voice.

Mal’s teeth clenched.

‘I am not wearing that .’

‘ Mal…’Haven reached for her arm, her voice gentle, coaxing. ‘I do not think you have a choice.’

Mal’s jaw hardened. ‘It is red, Haven. The only thing I asked for was a black dress .’

‘I know, my love,’ Haven whispered. ‘But you are to be married in a few hours, and we have no other dress for you to wear.’

Mal’s gaze dropped to the damned thing, now spread across the bed in all its crimson defiance.

It was beautiful. A masterpiece of drakonian craftsmanship.

The bodice was an intricately laced corset, the long sleeves reaching her hands but leaving her fingers bare.

The fabric cascaded in layers upon layers of deep, rich red, small diamonds sewn in delicate patterns catching the light like embers caught in the wind.

It was a dress meant for Alina. For a drakonian queen. For a bride who wanted to belong here. And yet—it was now hers.

Mal stepped into the gown, the air in the room stilling as they fastened the last of the buttons. She did not resist when they placed the red roses in her hair. Nor did she flinch when the veil—tailored perfectly around her horns—was settled into place.

She turned to the mirror and the room fell silent.

‘My skin looks even whiter,’ she muttered to Haven, keeping her voice low so that only she could hear. Her sister smiled.

‘You look beautiful.’

And she did. The dress fit her perfectly.

A vision of regal elegance, of careful refinement.

And yet—the red made every part of her wyverian blood stand out.

Her black hair seemed darker. Her horns, sharper.

Her skin, ghostly pale, almost unnatural.

And her eyes—her purple eyes—glowed like amethysts set against fire.

Haven hummed in approval.

‘I think red rather suits you,’ she mused. ‘We ought to implement it into our own colours.’

Mal snorted, but the sound was hollow. Because in that moment, standing in the dress of a drakonian queen, with a drakonian prince waiting for her at the altar—

She had never felt further from herself.

…

The Temple of Fire stood like a sentinel at the very edge of the bay, perched where the land stretched out into the sea before curving away into the horizon, vanishing into mist and water.

It was not far, but tradition dictated that the wedding party walk the path—a solemn, almost ceremonial procession to the sacred ground where the vows would be sealed.

Ash would already be there, waiting. Alongside the drakonian royal family, he would stand at the temple’s heart, bathed in sunlight and expectation, while Mal would be the last to enter.

The weight of it—of this moment, of the inevitable march forward—settled in her chest, making the tight corset feel even more suffocating.

And then there was the dress.

Layers upon layers of crimson fabric tangled around her legs, the intricate embroidery catching at her fingers as she tried to adjust the suffocating bodice.

The heat of the land wrapped around her like a second skin, the air thick with the scent of scorched earth and salt from the nearby bay.

Each step was an effort, the shoes cutting into her feet, the corset cinching her ribs like a vice.

Yet, despite her discomfort, Mal was keenly aware of the eyes that flitted towards her.

Flora Hawthorne walked a few paces ahead, her graceful frame wrapped around Zahian Noor’s arm.

The sight made Mal’s brow lift ever so slightly.

Interesting. The sisters of House of Sand whispered between themselves, casting lingering glances in her direction, their veils fluttering like desert silk in the breeze.

Mal clung to Kai’s arm, grounding herself in the familiar weight of her brother’s presence. Ahead, Haven and Kage led the way, Kage’s shadow crow circling above them, its caws breaking the heavy silence.

‘Are you nervous?’ Kai asked, his voice low, teasing.

‘Right now I’m just trying not to faint.’

‘So that’s a yes.’

Mal rolled her eyes, but the movement made her head spin slightly. ‘Why did father have to choose such a hot land? Couldn’t I have married the prince from the Kingdom of Ice? They are basically our neighbours. And he is very good-looking.’

Kai snorted.

‘We still have time. Let’s turn around,’ he mused, his voice dripping with mischief. ‘Surely no one will notice if we get on our wyverns and fly off.’

A smile threatened to break through her lips. For a fleeting second, Mal allowed herself to imagine it—the look on their faces when they found the princess missing from her own wedding.

‘But then I would start a new war that would probably last another hundred years.’

‘Well, they do say there’s always a downside to getting married.’ Kai elbowed Mal in the ribs. ‘Yours is starting war.’

‘Ow, Kai, don’t elbow me! I can hardly breathe in this damn thing.’

A sharp voice cut through their playful banter. ‘Stop it. I can hear both of you. Behave yourselves.’

Haven’s tone was all steel and authority, her future-queen voice in full command. The moment she turned back around, both siblings stuck their tongues out at her.