The guards moved with tense precision, guiding Lyra through the winding corridors of the palace. Her small frame was pressed between their firm grips, and she struggled against them, knees scraping slightly against the cold stone floor. Each step echoed through the halls, a metallic reminder of the fate she could not escape. Her sobs were muffled but persistent, and she did not dare look up. Every glance at the faces around her—noble, servant, or guard—filled her with a mixture of rage and fear.
Outside the great hall, whispers had swelled into uneasy murmurs, the courtiers and common folk trying to process what had just happened. The dragon had not only accepted the offering but had commanded her protection and the wedding's preparation. No one dared challenge him, and the entire kingdom felt the weight of that moment. Even the weather seemed to answer in kind; the wind howled through the open courtyards, rattling shutters and stirring banners. Dark clouds gathered above, their shadows racing across the city as if the sky itself had grown aware of the events below.
Lyra's steps faltered as the guards brought her to a heavy wooden door at the end of a long corridor. One guard, voice low but firm, said, "Here. This is where you will be prepared. Keep her steady. Do not let her resist."
Lyra flinched, pulling back, shaking her head violently. "No! I don't—don't want this!" she cried, tears streaking her face. Her sobs grew louder, echoing against the stone walls, and for a moment, it seemed her despair might crack the calm authority that had gripped the palace since Kael's command.
The door opened, and the guards ushered her inside a large chamber, warm and brightly lit with torchlight. Long tables held combs, silks, and delicate jewelry. Perfume and oils scented the air, heavy and sweet. Lyra's heart raced as the realization of what was about to happen pressed on her. She sank to her knees as the guards gently but firmly held her in place, her hands clawing at her dress and the floor beneath her.
From the shadows, Kiki stepped forward, his presence commanding yet calm. He surveyed the room quickly, then called in a clear voice that carried over the rustle of movement.
"Servants! Prepare the chamber! Bring Lady Amber!"
A small flurry of motion answered him as the servants rushed forward, laying out silks, combing brushes, and delicate adornments. Lady Amber, the woman in charge of preparing brides for ceremonial occasions, appeared quickly, her expression both nervous and professional.
"Here, my lord," she said, bowing slightly to Kiki. "I am ready to begin."
"Good," Kiki replied, his sharp eyes sweeping over the room and settling momentarily on Lyra. "Take care. Do not let her resist. Calm her, but do not speak unless she is ready."
Lyra struggled violently, tears still streaming down her face, her voice breaking with sobs. "No! I hate all of you! You—you brought me here! Leave me!"
The guards tightened their hold slightly but did not hurt her, merely guiding her toward a cushioned seat in the center of the room. Lady Amber stepped closer, her hands raised in reassurance, her voice soft but firm. "It's alright, child. You are safe here. Breathe."
But Lyra's mind was elsewhere. She could not calm. She could not trust. Every instinct screamed that she was being ripped from her life, from the only freedom she had ever known.
Meanwhile, back in the great hall, Lady Vaeloria hurried toward King Elric, her steps quick and uneven. She reached his side, her voice trembling despite her usual composure.
"My King! What is happening? Why… why is this happening? Explain to me!" she demanded, grasping his arm lightly, seeking some anchor.
The King's eyes remained fixed ahead, unmoving, his jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line. He did not respond immediately, the weight of Kael's command, the impossibility of arguing with the dragon, and the enormity of the ritual pressing on him. The silence stretched uncomfortably, Lady Vaeloria's heartbeat hammering in her chest as she searched his face for an answer.
"My King…" she said again, her voice quieter this time, edged with fear. "I must know. Please—tell me what is happening!"
Still, he said nothing. His hands clenched at his sides, and the air around him seemed heavy with tension. The courtiers nearby shifted uneasily, whispering to each other, exchanging glances as though trying to decipher what the King's silence meant. The uncertainty was almost unbearable.
Back in the preparation room, Lyra sat trembling, her sobs gradually quieting to soft hiccups as Lady Amber and the attendants worked to soothe her. Silk was draped over her shoulders, brushes ran through her hair, and faint perfumes filled the air. Yet every brush, every gentle word, was met with resistance. She flinched, pulled back, and wept quietly, hating everyone who touched her, hating the very thought of Kael, hating the history that had forced this moment upon her.
Kiki observed everything, his expression unreadable, a hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger—not to use it, but to remind all present that the dragon's will was absolute. He spoke once, clearly and sharply:
"Prepare her fully. She is the bride. None of you step beyond my orders, or you answer to Kael directly."
The room fell into careful silence. Even Lyra paused mid-struggle to glance at him, her wide eyes filled with equal parts terror and defiance.
Lyra sat stiffly on the low cushioned seat they had forced her onto, her wrists trembling in her lap as if every nerve in her body screamed to run. She looked around the room—the tall carved wardrobes, the heavy red curtains pulled across the windows, the gold-dusted lanterns hanging from the ceiling—all of it foreign, oppressive. This wasn't a place for her. It was a cage dressed in silk.
The servants glanced at one another nervously, unsure of who should make the first move. And then the door opened again. The sound of footsteps—firm, deliberate—entered the chamber. A woman swept inside, older than Lyra but graceful, with a proud posture and a soft but commanding presence. Her gown was deep emerald trimmed with silver, and her dark hair was tied neatly into a bun.
This was Lady Amber, head of the servants and the one responsible for preparing royal brides. She carried herself like someone who had seen countless ceremonies, countless trembling girls forced into silk and jewels—but her eyes still carried a strange gentleness.
She stopped in front of Lyra and studied her for a long moment, then sighed quietly as though she understood the storm of fear in the girl's eyes. Slowly, she knelt down so she could be at Lyra's height. One hand reached forward, lightly brushing the edge of Lyra's arm.
"Do not tremble so much, child," Amber said softly, her voice careful, warm. "You are safe now. You are not to be sacrificed."
Lyra flinched at the touch, pulling her arm back as tears welled in her eyes. Her voice broke as she spoke, her words coming out desperate. "Safe? How is this safe? I don't want this—I don't want any of this! Please… just let me go. Please." Her chest heaved as she tried to swallow the sobs rising in her throat.
Amber's hand hovered in the air for a second, then she gently set it down again on Lyra's trembling hand, holding it firmly this time. "Listen to me," she whispered. "Do you know how rare this is? Never—never in all the history of this kingdom—has a girl spared from sacrifice been chosen by both king and prince. The King knelt before you, child. The Prince admired you. That alone makes you extraordinary."
Her words carried awe, like she was speaking of something holy. But to Lyra, they were chains tightening around her. She shook her head furiously, hot tears streaking down her cheeks. "I don't care! I don't care if he knelt or if the prince admires me. That is not love! That is not what I want. I don't want a king's throne or a crown or any of this—" Her voice cracked, and she gripped her own arms tight as if trying to shield herself from Amber's words. "I just want to go home. I just want my life back."
Amber's lips pressed into a thin line, her expression flickering between pity and practicality. She stroked Lyra's hair softly, a gesture that would have been motherly in another setting. "I know it feels cruel now. But believe me, you are blessed. Others would give anything to be where you are. To be chosen instead of slaughtered. You will not die on a stone altar. You will wear silk, not chains. You will be wife to a king."
"No!" Lyra shouted suddenly, her voice rising in the chamber. She pushed Amber's hands away, shaking her head so hard her hair fell loose from its tie. "It's not love! You don't understand—it's not love. I don't care about silk or jewels or thrones! I don't want to be his bride. I don't want to be admired by a man I barely know. I don't want this life!" Her sobs spilled out uncontrollably now, her whole body shaking with the weight of her refusal.
The other servants stood frozen around the room, their arms full of fabric and ornaments, unsure if they should intervene or remain still. Lady Amber's eyes softened as she looked at the broken girl in front of her. She let out a long breath and squeezed Lyra's hands one last time.
"You will see in time," she said quietly, though there was a trace of sadness in her voice. "For now, we must prepare you. The King has commanded it. And whether you see it as love or not… you have been chosen. That cannot be undone."
Lyra only shook her head again, tears blurring her sight. "Then I will never forgive him. Not ever."
Amber signaled to the servants, her face unreadable now. Slowly, cautiously, they began to move closer with gowns of white silk and trays of jewelry, while Lyra sat trembling, her cries filling the chamber like a wound no amount of gold could cover.