Some days, the halls felt especially empty. Haros, though young, felt the weight of the world pressing against him with every step he took from the moment he came down the grand staircase in the royal family’s private wing. At ten years old, there was still laughter to be had, games to be played, and fleeting glances from girls like Amberese—perfect in her round eyes, rosy smile, rich dark skin, and that flowery smell in all her close—to tease the heart. But each glance, each moment of stolen joy, was always tethered to something darker. Duty. The Legacy. The crown that loomed on the horizon like a storm. And even worse, the dragon he was meant to inherit too soon that would rob him of himself the way it did his father, and his father’s father, and every other successor of the throne who’d carried the divine burden of being chosen.


    It wasn’t as if he had a choice in the matter, the gods had written his fate long before he had any idea that a choice might have once existed. Haros was supposed to be the future of Edithir, the eldest son, the one destined to carry the mighty dragon, the wyrm that had shaped his family’s name. Yet, he was small for his age, reckless in his pursuits, and far more interested in the wild thrill of adventure than the political machinations that his father and tutors endlessly droned on about.


    ‘You will be king one day, you must know this,’ they said, urging him to focus on his studies, molding him to some perfect image they’d decided on for him. But Haros wasn’t who they wanted. Not really. It was his younger brother, Lazroth, who seemed to have the world in his hands.


    It was a bit ironic. He’d, for a moment, died when he was born and should have been the one who was seen as failing, but Lazroth survived. Calm, intelligent, and endlessly adored by their people, he was the prince every subject wished for and deserved. Haros, on the other hand, was the one who had been teased for his size and lack of seriousness by his peers and ridiculed by every adult whose keen eye watched him wander astray from the path to the throne. But that never bothered him as much as it should, the world casting doubt on him and favoring his brother. After all, Lazroth would have been a great king. If only he’d had the sense to be born first. Not on some moonless night, overshadowed by the drowning of the Styxin queen in their forests. It was a bad omen from the start.


    Better days came, though, after the mourning period he hardly remembered. The sounds of laughter echoed through the halls as Haros and his friends raced across the courtyard. Danren, ever the faithful and endlessly loyal companion, chased after him, laughing at the way Haros skidded on the stone, his feet betraying his balance. But it was Yvin’s teasing voice that caught his attention as they slowed to a stop. He elbowed Danren in the ribs, making sure he was paying attention instead of letting his mind wander off to some romantic daydream about the girl he was sure was his destined future.


    “Haros,” she called, a wicked grin on her perfectly pink lips. “You’re spending too much time with Amberese. You’ve forgotten how to be a king.”


    Haros smirked, brushing a hand through his messy, raven black hair. “I’m not a king yet, Yvin.”


    “You might as well be; your dad’s been laid up with the sickness for months. Just wait until you’re summoned to the Priestesses, Haros. They’ll pick your future partner for you, and wham! They’ll make you a dragon the next day.”


    “That only happened in Raioben because the king was so old, Yvin.” Danren rolled his eyes. There was a formality to these things, and children as young as Haros were rarely the subject of inheritance of full dragons unless necessary. And in the case of the Raioben prince, it had been just that. No one was pleased by it, and the acceptance period had lasted a great deal of time and nearly killed him, but the king could no longer hold their dragon, and the passage was forced early. If it had not been for the partnered Priestess, the Raioben prince would have surely died, and thus highlighted further how necessary the bond was—the era of dragon bonds strengthened and fewer rebelled against the order that any dragon must be partnered. And there were fewer premature deaths for it.


    Haros, at the mention of the Priestesses, those ancient women who oversaw the destinies of the dragon, felt a shiver run like silver down his spine. The aristocrats and nobles his parents hosted had already begun to whisper about the “chosen” girls who might suit him. At ten, he was hardly interested in the idea of someone picking his life partner and deciding his future for him. He had his own ideas, and none of them involved the choices the Priestesses were about to present. None of them involved the Legacy.


    Yet when the summons came, Haros couldn’t bring himself to refuse and disappoint his parents more than he already had when he was caught stealing from the local baker. Could he have paid for the sweets? Probably, but that wouldn’t have impressed his friends. Not that being caught stealing an apple pie had, either, but he’d tried. Besides, Lazroth would have been delighted to go in his place, no doubt, and be the perfect son, the perfect prince, everyone expected. But Haros was the one who would bear the Legacy, the one who would take on the crown one day—whether he liked it or not.


    He paused a moment in the emptiness of the corridor leading into the temple. The old Styxin language was carved all around beautiful stone murals and sculptures on tall pillars. He knew some of the language, the bits that Yvin had taught him and Danren had insisted he know if they were to continue to be friends—both were of Styxin decent and knowing the old tongue mattered to them—and for what it was worth, he could make out bits and pieces of what it said. It was a strange, confusing language. Haros sighed, forgoing any further translation, and pushed through the temple doors.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    Lost in the vast halls of polished marble and dim candlelight, surrounded by cloaked women who whispered in hushed voices, watching him with unreadable eyes, he tried his best to seem unconcerned, though he knew they saw through him. His heart raced—not from fear, but from the deep, suffocating pressure that always followed the mention of his future. The priestess gathered together, chattering about this going here and that going there, about the ceremony to come, and making sure their gods were appeased. Haros leaned on his toes, peeking around the robed women at the foods they’d gathered and the ornate decorations meant to symbolize their faith, but as he was about to decide whether or not it was worth asking if he could have a snack, something caught his attention.


    There, in the corner, stood a girl who didn’t belong. She wasn’t part of the circle of Priestesses, and she didn’t don the robes of any acolyte he’d have to choose from. She was too young, too wild, her brown, mousy hair tousled like she had just run from something. Haros blinked. Was she even supposed to be here?


    Her dark eyes met his, lips parting as if she too was surprised. There was a flash of recognition, something familiar in the slight upturn of her lips, but he couldn’t place it. She stood straighter, sucking in a breath, and for the first time in a long while, Haros felt his heart beat faster—not from duty, but from something else. Something… forbidden.


    Without thinking, he skirted the women in their robes and table of enticing treats. A tremble danced from his spine to his fingers as he pressed his back to the wall and slid closer, pretending as though he was doing nothing more than getting out of the way. He glanced over at her as she looked down, picking at her fingers, smiling to herself. She knew he was there and had every intention to talk to her. It wasn’t as though he’d mastered any amount of subtlety.


    “Who are you?” he asked, stepping closer, curiosity and excitement bubbling within him.


    She looked over, her lips turning to a modest grin, a playful glint in her eyes. “I’m just a servant, trying to avoid the chaos. And you’re… here for the ceremony?”


    “Something like that,” Haros laughed, not taking her seriously. “I guess you could say I’m the guest being honored.”


    The girl raised an eyebrow, her gaze lingering on him for a moment before she shrugged. “We all have duties, don’t we? You, the future king. Me, this.” She gestured vaguely at the room. “At least we’re not alone in that, hm?”


    Her words hung between them, heavier than they should have been. Haros stared at her, long and quiet, and then he felt his heart thump hard against his ribs. Once, twice, and then back to normal. His palms grew tacky as a smile began to form along his lips, and words jumbled and caught in his throat. It was a strange and wonderful thrill that coiled through him as she giggled and rolled her eyes. Maybe, if one of the priestesses were like her, it wouldn’t be so bad having a lifelong partner.


    “What’s your name?” He asked, his voice cracking unexpectedly.


    “Mira,” she answered.


    “Oh,” he looked away, searching the floor. Mira. That was easy enough to remember. It was the most common name in the entire Styxin empire. Hell, even in G’hein he’d met at least a dozen that summer. “Mira,” he said, looking at her again, “I’m Haros.”


    “That’s a nice name,” she offered.


    His heart fluttered again. She wasn’t like the others. Most people pointed it out—Haros, as in Prince Haros of Edithir—but she didn’t, and she thought his name was nice. The girl pressed her lips into a line as the priestess passed and headed for the stage. She nimbly tucked her loose curls behind her ear and gave him one last smile before stepping away to the side of the stage and taking a seat next to the eldest priestess. Haros straightened, turning from the women and ceremonial preparations. What was this feeling? His breath came fast and short, and his head spun as an unintentional laugh slipped out.


    He wasn’t an idiot, he never had been. Mira was special. This Mira was different. She didn’t look at him with expectations, with the reverence of his title. She was like him—an unwilling participant in a story already written for them both. A servant to the High Priestess. A prince bound to a dragon and throne. He ran his hand through his hair, thinking quickly. That was right—he was a prince. He could talk to her even if she was watching a ceremony. Haros was second only to the king himself. No priestess in the world would dare silence him.


    And then, as he turned around, she was gone. The seat by the priestess was empty, and the women at the center of the room had begun their blessings over the food and ceremonial waters.


    “Haros!” Lazroth called, pulling him back into the fold, back to the business of his future. “It’s time to get dressed. You can’t wear… that.” He waved a finger at the borrowed attire. Haros had spent another night at Danren’s and had worn his spare clothes home again. Commoner’s clothes. Street clothes. Those wouldn’t do for being seen by the priestess and would look even worse when their audience came to watch Haros choose his future partner.


    “Fine,” Haros groaned, following his brother to the back rooms to be measured and practically sewn into formal attire. As the tailor fitted his jacket into place, Haros leaned slightly toward the door, catching the sound of an almost familiar voice on the other side. A woman, scolding, and a girl nearly whispering an excuse. The girl who didn’t belong. He bit his lip, straightening and slowing his breath as best he could.


    “Is everything alright, my prince?” the man said, though hardly meant it as he adjusted the shoulders of the jacket. “It’s so troubling, is it not, to hear those women bantering on about imperfections. Hard to believe the Order has been maintained for as long as it has with such… uncivilized structure.”


    “They’re sent to the Temples when they’re kids instead of to school. It’s probably just hard for them to be away from home that long,” he said, thinking back on what he’d learned in school. The Styxin were a sacred people, and it was the duty of everyone else to study and understand them. Or at least, the school expected them to care, but most didn’t. Haros swallowed hard as the scolding continued, then it faded away as they went down the hall. No matter how the tailor tried to make conversation more pleasant than the priestess outside, Haros’s mind kept drifting back to that brief exchange with Mira. For the first time in his life, Haros wasn’t sure where his future lay. It wasn’t in the hands of the Priestesses, and it wasn’t in the crown.


    It was somewhere else—somewhere he couldn’t yet reach. And perhaps Mira knew that, too.