Mira woke to warmth—stifling, consuming, alive. The weight around her was not just of blankets or furs, but something larger, breathing, and powerful. The steady rise and fall beneath her cheek, the rhythmic pulse against her own, told her exactly where she had fallen. Like a tossed rag doll, she was sprawled over the coiled body of the Legacy. His immense form surrounded her like a fortress, shielding her from the world beyond the shattered temple.


    She shifted, slowly pushing herself up, body aching. In the dim light, she could make out the curved slope of his scaled back, the powerful ridges of his slumbering dragon form. Careful not to wake him, she crawled over his back and tail, her fingers brushing against the coarse texture of his hide. The movement sent a dull ache through her body, a reminder of just how weak she had been when she had last closed her eyes.


    It seemed she hadn’t slept in days. Rather, she was passing out or fainting from fatigue. What more could she do when her entire days and some of her nights were spent trying to calm the beast that had become Haros. He was relentless and demanding, her magic providing the only amount of comfort to him. Mira couldn’t blame him for that, but it didn’t help how weak she’d become from the efforts she made. He was in pain, unable to control the dragon. And she had given her blood in a promise to protect him, to keep him, and to stay with him—as if she could have made herself leave.


    Haros was kind to her, and the look he had—fear and uncertainty that called out to her like a desperate cry—wasn’t something she could ignore. He needed her, he called, and she answered. She stayed. Mira paused, looking back at the <mark>wyrm</mark>. He was surprisingly peaceful when he rested.


    At the threshold of the ruined doorway, a platter of food lay waiting. They had been leaving offerings as if placating a god. Or maybe it was to ensure neither of them starved in the transition. After all, Haros hadn’t exactly been hospitable to anyone coming into the chamber since his shift. She could still remember how <mark>Lazroth</mark> and the guards had forced their way in, only for Haros to lose control and cast them out in a single, violent sweep of his tail, slamming the door closed again. It was worse the second time when they’d tried to approach Mira to tend to her wounds. He snapped at them and ate one of the guards outright. Occupational hazard. No one would blame him when the Legacy was present and Haros had become almost dormant.


    Now and again, she saw flickers of him beneath the surface. He was trying his best, but the power of the beast was greater than most could handle. Besides, he was young. His family usually waited until at least twenty years of age, and even then, <mark>Ysara</mark> swore it took <mark>Faliam</mark> a long time to gain control. Expectations weren’t exactly high for Haros. Still, Mira felt a pang of guilt for the destruction the well-meaning efforts brought. She had been too weak to lift a finger then, too consumed by the weight of her own reckless choices to do anything useful.


    Settling by the platter, she unwrapped a small portion of bread, chewing methodically. It was still soft, and that meant it had only just arrived. Hopefully, when Haros woke—with any luck in his human form—he would have something fresh to eat. It was only a hope, though. It had been days since he’d changed back. Her fingers trembled as she examined her palm, where a deep, corded scar was forming. The wound had closed, but the mark of her choice remained. A reminder of where her future was bound.


    Haros would hate her for what she had done when he found out. The High Priestess would not forgive her, either. She had made a great mess of things on a moment of impulse, a response to a cry that touched her soul and had gone unheard by everyone else. She pressed a hand to her head. What was she thinking? It wasn’t her place to step in and push the chosen priestess aside. This wasn’t meant for her.


    A soft scrape sounded from the broken entrance, and Mira turned just as a familiar voice whispered through the silence. “How are you feeling?”


    <mark>Ysara</mark>.


    A small container slid through the crack of the door, filled with more of the priestesses’ salve. It was a warm concoction designed to speed the mending of torn flesh. Every army in the realm was eager to pay a fortune for it, and every priestess and practitioner was happy to pocket the profits. But it smelled awful. Mira hesitated before taking it, the cool ceramic soothing the ache in her hand. “I am alright,” she murmured, her voice hoarse. “Haros seems exhausted.”


    There was a pause. Then, <mark>Ysara</mark> spoke again. “It has been almost three weeks, Mira.”


    Mira froze. Three weeks?


    Her grip tightened around the salve. Time had slipped away from her, lost in the haze of recovery and the unrelenting presence of the dragon who refused to let her leave. She drew a slow breath and, after a moment, spoke the words that had been weighing on her heart every quiet moment she had. “<mark>Ysara</mark>, I need to tell you something. I… I finished the rite.”


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    Silence stretched long and heavy. Mira listened carefully for any sort of shift, but none came. There was stillness and not even the faint sound of breathing. Then, <mark>Ysara’s</mark> voice dropped, quiet and sharp. “Did you do the forbidden? Did you, the Queen of <mark>Styxis</mark>, bind yourself to the royalty of another kingdom?”


    Mira closed her eyes. She knew why it was forbidden. The balance of power between kingdoms was delicate, maintained by the traditions that had stood for centuries. A <mark>Styxin</mark> queen was never to take a true king, only a consort. To bind herself in magic to another sovereign meant merging destinies that were meant to remain apart. He was bound for the throne, and he would be a true king. And she was queen. Yet they would not be able to be far from one another for too long. Her heart sank, reality sweeping in around her. It was a mistake. She could not have a king, and that was exactly what he would be, and she had no heir to claim the throne she had never once been allowed to sit on openly. It was a disaster.


    And yet…


    “I had to,” Mira admitted. “He called to me. I couldn’t turn away.”


    A breath of laughter escaped from the other side of the door. “When you were first delivered to the temple, your mother told me something,” <mark>Ysara</mark> said, voice filled with something unreadable. “She said to trust you. That you were made to know your own path and nothing would stray you from it. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps your path is to break tradition, to end the cycle. Maybe he did call to you.”


    Mira swallowed. “And what if I was wrong?”


    “Then Haros is merely an unfortunate prince,” <mark>Ysara</mark> murmured. “But something tells me he is more than that.”


    Mira did not respond. She let the silence carry <mark>Ysara’s</mark> words away as she turned back to the slumbering dragon. Of all the stories her mother had told her about the <mark>Tandor’s</mark> Promise, it had never once been about a great beast. It was always a promised prince, a great man who was ready to give everything he had for his people—her people, their people. Haros wasn’t that. He was kind but reckless. This was only a rock in the road to where she was headed.


    As she neared him, his form began to shift. Scales receded, shrinking away until only human skin remained. Haros lay before her, his body slick with sweat, his breaths uneven. Slowly, he turned, bleary eyes meeting hers. Fatigue was etched into his face, making him look even older than he was, and yet untouched by time.


    Mira exhaled in relief. His gaze was no longer clouded with the unnatural glow of the dragon’s hold. He was himself again.


    Her heart twisted painfully. She could not stay. Not when he would soon wake, and the Legacy and relinquished its hold. The bond was complete, and there was nothing more she could offer for now.


    Leaning over him, she gently brushed his damp hair back, her fingers lingering against his fevered skin. He was handsome, even in slumber. Her gaze traced down the sharp angles of his features and settled on his lips. Her heart skipped. Something within her yearned to know what it would be like to kiss him, what it would feel like to have him kiss her in return. The urge swelled until it was nearly overwhelming, but she held herself back. It wasn’t right. He wouldn’t remember it, and it would only ever haunt her. Instead, she whispered, “I will protect you.”


    Haros turned his head, eyes peeling open into narrow slits and gave a dazed, exhausted smile. “I will never leave you.”


    Then he was asleep again.


    Mira hesitated only a moment longer before unfastening the chains that had bound his wrists and laid across his body to restrain him. The metal clanked as it hit the floor. It was over. He had accepted the inheritance. Mira turned, stepping through the broken doors, and left the sanctuary and Haros behind.


    <hr>


    Haros stood atop a jagged peak, overlooking the vast expanse of the Strait of <mark>Styxis</mark>. The distant waters lapped in waves to the shore. Birds drifted on the ocean breeze, and the faint scent of the vanilla flowers along the shore met his keened senses. Everything was brighter, smelled stronger, and tasted better. The world was more alive than ever. Even the air was sharp, bristling with the scent of salt and storm.


    His hands clenched at his sides, his thoughts no longer his own. Every flicker of anger, every pulse of longing was tainted by the Legacy’s hunger. It was a divine and desperate desire surging like the tide within him. Haros breathed through another heavy wave, and a roar echoed in his ears. The beast did not see Mira’s departure as choice, it didn’t understand why she was gone or why the magic it so craved had been ripped away—it saw it as theft.


    In his grip, an invitation crumpled under the force of his hold. The <mark>Styxin</mark> coronation. Another duty. Another chain. How could he be expected to dress up and play the part of a prince while the dragon he bore consumed his every thought and desire? It hungered; he craved. It wanted; he needed. And what did it even matter to go to some coronation for a queen who’d hid from the world all these years? She didn’t care, and so, neither did he. Besides, the Legacy needed Mira. He needed her.


    Scales rippled across his forearm, his control slipping. <mark>Styxis</mark> was too far; the temples of the Priestess Order were too far. The magic between them was weakening, and he was starving for it. He could feel the void where she had been, the unbearable distance between them. He would not accept it.


    Haros straightened, resolve hardening into something unbreakable. He would find her, even if he had to search every temple from the <mark>Tandor</mark> Mountains to the <mark>Styxin</mark> Castle. There was no question about it. He would set things right, and there would be peace with the Legacy, with Mira. But right now, he needed her, and neither he nor the Legacy could understand why she had gone—why she was pulled from him. He could fix this, then no one would take her away from him again.