Mira traced her fingers over the elegantly written words, only elegant for their penmanship rather than content, rereading the letter for what must have been the hundredth time. It was his usual hurried script, long swoops and hasty punctuation, an almost-apology for his sudden departure. She clenched her jaw. He should have told her. They were friends, weren’t they? Barely. He came around when he wanted something, and she was always busy.


    Maybe they were friends, though. It was hard to tell. She hoped they were, but when he came around, there was something in his eyes that said he wanted and perhaps needed more than he knew how to ask for or name. Yet at the very same time, looking at him was close to impossible with the way his stared burned into and felt like gazing into eternity itself. Her heart skipped at the thought of him sitting beside her, so casual and completely unhinged with the things he said.


    He was a flirt, and he couldn’t help himself. While he was quick to amend when she was uncomfortable with it, there seemed be a strange insecurity about him when she offered any amount of reciprocation. As though he wasn’t sure what to do if anyone flirted back instead of falling over him. Mira smiled to herself, amused by the memories of his dumbfounded stare and the breathy laugh when he realized she’d matched him beat for beat and thought her funny for it. Yes, they were probably friends and the fact that he hadn’t told her that he was leaving hurt even more because of it.


    The candlelight flickered against the polished stone walls of the temple chamber, casting elongated shadows over the dark purple ceremonial robes draped across her form. They were stiff and form, what anyone would expect from royalty, a queen, and yet she felt less like one in the ornate costume than when she was sitting in her pajamas in her dormitory. Tonight, though, she was was no student. Mira would stand among the priestesses—the Styxin heir, the child of gods and mortals, and an observer of the inheritance ceremony she’d spent a great deal of her life preparing for and learning about to ensure the rare and incredible transfer of at least one full dragon in her lifetime.


    And yet, something in her gut warned her that nothing about this night would go the way anyone had planned. There was no way to explain it, either. If she told Ysara the air smelled wrong, or the sky didn’t look nearly clear enough even when there were no clouds to be found, she’d stare at her like she’d lost her mind. Ysara was old enough to be a crypt keeper and corpse therein, and oversaw the passage of four dragons. This would be her fifth. It would be the crowning jewel over them. The Legacy was revered as the oldest and greatest of all the dragons, the first to have been given by the gods and that made Edithir the highest throne of the lineage, second only the Styxin Empire comprise only of three kingdoms: Styxis, G’hein, and Ileom.


    No one but true Styxin could oversee the transfer of the Legacy.


    Ysara adjusted the golden clasp at Mira’s shoulder, her gaze steady. It was best not to ask her queen about the letter she’d clutched for the last hour or why it was so badly folded and bent. It would be an insult to injury when the ceremony came so close to midterms, the young queen would have only hours left to study. Ysara shifted, adjusting the folds of the fabric. “You’re only here to witness and sign the ceremonial papers. Nothing more.”


    Mira nodded, though her mind was elsewhere. She folded down the letter and slipped it into a hidden pocket of her robes. There was no point in continuing to read it. Haros didn’t want to talk to her outright, and she had to accept that he cared enough for a letter. That was something, she figured. Writing meant he’d thought it over, put in effort, and felt something too big to face if he to tell her about his departure in the first place.


    No matter, he’d see her soon enough, alleviating any future need for an explanation. Not that she ever needed one. The fate of the holders of dragons was well known. The beast entered them through the ceremonial rites, and their desires melded with the ancient creature. They became its vessel and keeper. Some morphed from gentle spirit to tactical masterminds, cold and calculating. While others became ambitious lovers. King Faliam hungered, and Madios in Ordaithahn, who had inherited a dragon later in life, had contended with a lust for pleasures—perfumes, gold, women, drinks, fine foods, silks, and every other luxury he could get his hands on. And his kingdom thrived for it, his dragon urging him to any means to satiate the desires.


    It was a force, ancient and unrelenting, humming beneath her skin. When they took a dragon, they became it. They unified if the ceremony went right and their partner secured the bond. If not, then the fate like the children of Tallus awaited them. The dragon would fracture and choose new hosts. Or worse, like in Seralena, it would go dormant and the inheritance would happen with no power gained.


    Mira licked her dry lips. The Legacy was an incredible beast, one whose presence permeated the entire castle, the Capitol, nearly the entire kingdom. The air felt heavier, charged with something she couldn’t name but knew it was as old as the magic her mother has taught her. She cast one last glance at Ysara, a silent plea to not have to be there, but it went unheard. No matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, Haros’s absence had affected her more than she wanted to admit. The very idea of standing before him, knowing he didn’t expect to see her, made her skin creep and her stomach knot. He wouldn’t understand.


    <hr>


    Haros stood rigid in the Edithirian temple chamber, uncomfortable in his formal attire. His shoulders squared as he faced the ceremony hall’s grand entrance, and he pulled anxiously at the corners of his pressed sleeves. The tailor had made a handful of grunts and comments about how much he’d grown, but when it came to looking like the role he was meant to take, his physique had finally achieved that. His reflection said he would be king, and he’d have any queen he wanted, but his heart said it meant he would never be free to be himself. He was his title.


    The doors opened and the first priestess filed in, swinging incense and chanting softly. The women chosen for him lined the room, their gazes cast downward in silent submission. Haros swallowed, his throat dry. Each was a lovely flower of a woman, and not a single one was a day older than himself. What an unfortunate fate, he thought, to be pulled away to bind their lives to some stranger. They could have had more than this. Rejecting them was a blessing they didn’t understand, all brainwashed with their faith. Goddess knew they were selling away their lives, and he wanted no part of it. Still, Haros had always known this moment would come when he had to choose, but that did not mean he had to welcome it.


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    The head priest cleared his throat. “You may observe them, but you are not to speak. Let your instincts guide you. The call of the dragon to its mate, a partner of your natural life, lives within you, born to you by your father. Seek out the one to bind and keep.”


    Haros exhaled, allowing his gaze to drift across the line of candidates. Too short, too tall, too thin, too too thin, too pretty, too attractively wholesome, too tired, too distracted, too ordinary, too unique, too… much of everything he could think of to make them not good enough, and perfect for leaving the temple in favor of a better life. Did they not understand they were essentially being trafficked by a god fearing cult? No, they thought this was something holy. Haros scanned them over again. Then, by chance—or fate—his eyes drifted beyond the row of nameless women and locked with a figure in the distance.


    Her brown eyes glimmered in the amber light, her mousy brown curls reflecting the glow. The deep royal blue and purple of her robs stood out against the white glad women awaiting his selection. She was impossibly commanding, and without even trying she made the room go silent. Only his heartbeat, slow and faint, filled the room.


    His brows furrowed in confusion as time and chanting melted back into place. Why was she here? She was supposed to be at the Academy. It wasn’t as though she was priestess, or training to be one. They never attended formal schooling, and the High Priestess looked at her with a sort of concern reserved more often for a caretaker than a master. Oh, he thought as realization dawned on him, she was a ward to the temple. An orphan turned servant. She was there to provide for the women he didn’t choose. Poor thing, having to watch him turn them away was about as shameful as watching him eye the girls at school during lunch. He couldn’t help it, but he should have shown at least a bit of restraint.


    Then again, when those same girls ignored him, she laughed. And her laugh was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard like twinkling silver bells. And her smile…


    A sharp voice interrupted his thoughts. “Choose, or one will be chosen for you.”


    Haros tore his gaze from Mira, feeling the weight of expectation pressing against his chest. How could he possibly choose one of these pieces of ceremonial placation? They didn’t matter, not in any real way. He turned to the women before him and, without thinking, gestured limply to the one directly ahead. She was cute, mostly, but nothing about her stood out. She was just… there. Convenient, quiet, and there.


    The room stirred with delight at his long awaited compliance. The priestesses wrapped in fine robes and decorated with dainty chains moved like waves on a beach as preparations for the ceremony began. The grand table was arranged, heavy silver chains laid in neat rows beside thick enchanted shackles gleaming with rich magic. The first shift was never easy. The bindings were meant to keep him steady, to prevent the Legacy from overtaking him before he had the strength to control it. And most importantly, to prevent his escape and unintentional demise. A new dragon rarely had any sense as the host and beast battle for control in the first days. It would take weeks to fully adjust, but when they made peace, he’d be back at the Academy as if nothing had transpired.


    Another row of chains were placed, and a heavy set of sheets and blankets were laid out on the table. One by one, the priestesses took their turns guiding him from here to there to receive markings on his skin in ash, and be anointed with herbal oils. The smoke from incense dizzied his head, blurring his senses as the priestesses plucked at the buttons of his shirt and dragged off his jacket. Then, from the whirling haze Mira moved toward him, a delicate touch as her fingers brushed along his shoulders and arms, sweep off his shirt and taking his wrists in her hands. The priestesses fitted the shackles into place, but he stared only at her.


    She looked so certain. More than he could have ever felt and his entire life had led up to this one critical moment everyone expected from him, a moment he was born to fulfill. Yet he could scarcely keep his mind on it when the only thing that felt like it mattered was the heat of her presence, the warm of her palms against his cooling skin that settled the rising storm in a way he had never felt before.


    “Mira,” he breathed, catching her attention. “What are you doing here?” His question came more as a murmured concern, tilting his head toward her.


    Her lips parted slightly before she answered, her voice composed but quiet, eyes fixed on his as if there was never anywhere else to look. “I am here to oversee.”


    He smirked. “Do you like what you see?”


    “The chains are a nice touch,” she answered, placing her hand to his chest and gently pushing him back until he sat on the table. A chuckle rumbled up from his chest and his hand reached for hers, asking quietly for a moment of comfort from the only thing familiar in the room besides his family. Mira stepped back, unintentionally looking him over and smiling slightly. She did like what she saw, and her heart clenched at the thought of it vanishing too soon. He wouldn’t be himself, but that was his fate. He was a prince, first born, and it was time. “It’s traditional, but you wear them well.”


    “Oh, so you like me in chains.” The corner of his mouth lifted, his usual confidence returning. “You’re a very bad woman.”


    She rolled her eyes, but he caught the hint of color in her cheeks. “The worst.”


    The temple’s head priestess signaled for silence, taking the hand of the token girl chosen by apathy. The priestess to her left stepped forward, laying open the old spell book, an anthology of ages. Haros forced his attention forward as the sacred words were spoken and echoed in a chorus, a rising sound that filled the room.


    Faliam took his seat by the table, breathing slow and evenly as the magic filtered around in long tendrils. His robes danced as if rustled by a wind. Haros couldn’t focus, his heart raced and his eyes darted around the room. Every person had their place, their part and role, and knew what was coming better than he did. His instincts—so crucial to this moment, meant to lead him the partner her truly needed and would save him from himself, binding the dragon to him—were betraying him. Then, as a reckoning roar filled his ears and he breathed in the smokes of magic, in the surge of power and burning, his gaze snapped into place and found Mira. She had not looked away from him for a moment, and every part of cried out for her to make it stop, but what had begun could not be halted until it was done.


    Suddenly, the chains snapped tight and he buckled forward, grabbing his head and his hair. A sound, a noise unearthly and inhuman tore through him. Spines and bones cracked, erupting with scale along his skin. Then, before he could stop it, a deafening blast ripped through the chamber. The air vibrated with power.


    Haros’s vision blurred, his muscles seizing as his body succumbed to the shift. Screams broke out and crashes of stone shattered against the floor. He lifted his head, searching the room. But instead of the chosen girl with no name, his final gaze landed on Mira. And a wild, violent rage shot through him, prickling his skin and spines and scales, hot and demanding, and entirely uncontrolled.