The bells of Eldermere did not ring for weddings, victories, or births. They rang for only one thing—the Choosing.
Their sound was always the same, deep and heavy, like iron being dragged across stone. A sound that made even birds hush in the sky. A sound that settled into bones. A sound Elara had grown up hearing but never learned to get used to.
Don't look at the castle, she reminded herself, though her eyes drifted up anyway, drawn like a tide she couldn't fight.
High above the clustered houses, far beyond the market square and the river that curled like a silver ribbon, stood the Obsidian Keep. Black stone. Sharp towers. A fortress swallowed in shadow even under full daylight. The place where the Dragon King lived—or slept—or watched. No one knew. No one had ever known.
Because no one had seen him. Not in decades. Not even the elders remembered what he looked like. Only stories remained, and stories changed with whoever whispered them.
Some said he was beautiful enough to break the world. Others said his face was too terrible to look upon. Some said he had scales hidden beneath his skin. Others whispered he was not a man at all, but a creature pretending to be one.
But one thing was certain:
Once a year, he chose a bride.
And none ever returned.
Elara pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, fingers stiff from the cold. Spring had arrived everywhere else—but Eldermere did not get warm anymore. Not since the Dragon King sealed himself away. They said his sorrow changed the weather. Or his anger. Or his grief. Or maybe the people just wanted something poetic to blame.
"Stop frowning," a voice beside her muttered. "You'll get chosen for sure if you look like you're thinking too hard. Men hate that."
Elara turned to look at Mila, her best friend—wide-eyed, dramatic, and currently shivering in an embroidered dress two sizes too tight.
"I'm not trying to think," Elara said. "Thinking just happens. Annoyingly."
Mila snorted. "Well, stop it. Save yourself."
Together they joined the gathering crowd moving toward the square. Girls. Families. Mothers clutching daughters as if they could anchor them to the earth through sheer grip alone. Fathers pretending they weren't terrified.
Because no one wanted to be chosen.
Not truly.
Despite the rumors of golden halls and silk bedding. Despite the stories of feasts and eternal youth. Despite the whispers that the Dragon King cherished his brides.
They vanished.
And humans feared what they could not see.
Mila leaned close. "If I get chosen, I'll die dramatically. Like in a poem. I'll fling myself off the keep. Make it elegant. Memorable. Tragic."
Elara gave her a flat look. "You trip over your own shoes when the ground is flat. You'll fall before you even reach the door."
"That is ALSO dramatic," Mila said, as if proud.
Elara smiled despite the fear twisting low in her stomach.
That fear had always lived in her—quiet, patient, waiting for this day.
She had seen fifteen Choosings in her life. Fifteen times when another girl was taken. Fifteen times she'd watched a carriage leave and never return.
Today was her sixteenth.
And today… she was of age.
Please, she prayed—to no one in particular because the gods had long since abandoned this mountain. Not me. Let this year pass. Just one more.
They reached the square.
The Heartstone stood in the center—taller than any man, carved from shimmering crystal. It glowed faintly, pulsing like something alive. Like a heartbeat. Like a warning.
It was said the stone had once belonged to the Dragon King himself. A piece of his power torn from his chest. A fragment of his soul. A vow made physical and unbroken.
Whoever the stone called… belonged to him.
No one could refuse it.
The crowd quieted. The wind stilled. Even the clouds seemed to hold their breath.
A priest approached the stone. Robes trailing. Voice solemn.
"By the ancient bond," he intoned. "By the sacred blood. By the oath of flame. Let the Choosing begin."
The stone shivered.
A faint hum filled the air.
Mila squeezed Elara's hand so tightly their bones pressed together. "Don't pick me," she whispered. "Don't pick me don't pick me don't pick me—"
The Heartstone gave a soft, ringing tone. Then another. And then—
It went silent.
The crowd didn't breathe.
Then the crystal flared with brilliant gold.
Its light shot outward—searching—moving through the gathered girls like a warm, invisible wind.
One girl fainted.
Another whimpered.
Mila was praying again. Loudly.
Elara closed her eyes.
Please pass me. Please.
The light moved…
And turned back.
And stilled in front of her.
Her breath stopped.
The golden glow wrapped around her like hands made of flame and starlight. Warm. Gentle. Final.
Mila's hand slipped from hers.
"No," Elara whispered. "No no no—"
The priest's voice broke the silence.
"The Heartstone has chosen."
"Elara of Eldermere."
Her world cracked.
Her knees trembled.
Somewhere in the crowd, someone gasped her name. Someone whimpered. Someone began to cry.
Mila covered her mouth, tears streaming silently.
Elara felt nothing.
No fear.
No scream.
Just a hollow, ringing quiet inside her chest.
Like the world had stepped away from her.
Guards began to approach to escort her to the carriage.
Not forcefully.
Not cruelly.
Just… inevitably.
The same way winter comes.
Elara lifted her chin.
If this was her fate, she would face it.
She would not beg.
She would not cry.
Not here.
Not where everyone could see.
As the guards led her toward the black carriage waiting at the edge of the square, she heard the whispers behind her:
"She'll never return."
"She's already gone."
"May the gods watch over her."
She didn't look back.
---
The carriage door closed.
Silence.
Alone.
Elara let the first tear fall—silent and small.
She wiped it away.
She pressed a hand to her chest.
Her heart was steady.
If I am to die, she thought, I will not die quietly.
She would see the Dragon King with her own eyes.
She would know the truth.
And if there was a monster inside that castle—
He would learn she was no easy meal....