Claiming The Dragon

“Are you sure about this, little dragon? Your father would have my head if he knew—”

“I’m sure, Uncle Zeidan,” Aizurah whispered, tucking herself closer to his side as they ventured toward the caverns on the coast.

“You know the price to be paid? And the risks?” he asked softly.

“I know. The same risks we all take to claim what we deserve.” Zeidan chuckled at her firm determination as he watched the light shine in her golden hair. At only ten years old, she was already so fierce, so passionate.

“Give me your hand, Princess,” Zeidan whispered, pulling the dagger from his belt. She didn’t hesitate, opening her palm to him. When the blade cut through the meat of her hand, Aizurah winced, letting out a sharp hiss.

Blood bloomed against her fair skin as wine spilled on pale silk. “I’ll be right behind you. Don’t be afraid. It will know if you’re afraid.”

“I am not afraid,” Aizurah insisted firmly, meeting his silvery-blue gaze. “I can do this.”

“Yes,” Zeidan agreed with a proud smile, kissing her forehead. “Yes, you can…”

With her blood dripping across the sand, Aizurah inched into the mouth of the cave. A low rumble echoed off the walls around her as she delved into the darkness.

“Hello, sweet thing,” she called out, trying to sound brave. Still, her voice trembled, revealing her anxiousness. “I won’t hurt you.”

She heard the slither of scales against stone before she saw any movement. The drake uncurled from its nest at the back of the cavern, rising to full height. Even in the low light, Aizurah could see the way the dragon’s violet scales shimmered.

Her fingers trembled as she held up her hand in offering; the dragon’s nostrils flared at the metallic scent of Aizurah’s blood. With a grumble of intrigue, the drake crawled toward her, eyes glittering. Breath seizing in her chest, the princess stretched her hand out, waiting.

The violet beast paused before her, sniffing the air with curiosity. Frozen in place, Aizurah could only wait, until the dragon pressed her snout against her bleeding palm…

Aizurah Bloodmane’s slippers whispered across the cold stone, each step echoing like a restless spirit through the dim, draft‑ridden chambers she called her own. Picking nervously at a loose string on her sleeve, Aizurah sank onto the sofa in front of the empty hearth. Shadows clung to the walls, long and watchful, as though they too awaited the King’s arrival.

In her mind, a storm of possibilities churned—none of them pleasant. Her father summoned her often, and rarely for praise. Had she been born a son, she suspected his tone would be far less sharp, his expectations far less suffocating.

“Daughter,” the King greeted stiffly as he swept into the room, his voice carrying the weight of command and the chill of steel.

“Father,” she murmured, bowing her head with practiced grace. Her spine stiffened, instincts prickling. Serious news—she could feel it coiling in the air like a serpent. What offense had she unknowingly committed this time? Was he going to chide her for missing another lesson? Had she put her elbows on the table at breakfast? Only the Gods knew why her father was unhappy with her, yet again.

“I bring tidings of great import,” he declared, motioning for her to come and sit in the chair beside him. “I have found you a husband, at last.”

Aizurah’s breath fled her chest. She sank back, the world tilting for a heartbeat. Her father had paraded suitors before her for years—men whose smiles curdled her stomach and whose ambitions gleamed sharper than their blades—men who wanted her for name and appearances only.

If only Zeidan were still at court. Bastard prince or not, he had always spoken boldly, and the King—miraculously—had listened. Aizurah knew he would have stood at her side now, shield raised, voice steady, protecting her from her father’s foolish machinations.

“I see,” she said at last, her tone hollow as a forgotten crypt. Resistance was pointless; she had learned that lesson early. The moment she had come of age, the King had begun his relentless campaign to see her wed, and her refusals had worn thin his already fraying patience. “Whom have you chosen?” Aizurah asked unenthusiastically.

“Maerus.”

“My cousin Maerus?” Her voice cracked like thin ice, blood draining from her face.

“Second cousin,” he corrected, as though the distinction were vast and meaningful. Second cousin—still family. She’d met Maerus a dozen times over the years. He was quiet and polite, but uninteresting.

Aizurah opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Instead, she exhaled a long, weary sigh. The King’s expression was carved from granite—unyielding, immovable. No argument would sway him now.

“Is that all, Your Majesty?” she asked, her composure fraying at the edges. She needed him gone before her mask shattered. Other noble daughters would have been married off the moment they bloomed into womanhood; she knew she had been granted more freedom than most. Yet the knowledge did nothing to soften the iron band tightening around her ribs. She did not want a husband. She wanted her life to be her own.

The instant the King departed, she fled. Down the spiraling corridors, through the courtyard, across the dew‑kissed stones of the keep. She saddled her mare with trembling hands and rode hard along the sunlit shoreline, the sea wind whipping her hair as she made for the Caverns.

Starlyght heard her before she saw her. The drake’s low, rumbling growl rolled from the cavern mouth like distant thunder. Silver scales shimmered in the half‑light as the great beast crawled forward, wings tucked tight, eyes burning with ancient intelligence.

Aizurah slid from her horse, boots sinking into the damp sand as she tied the reins around a boulder. The princess drew her dagger without hesitation. With a swift, practiced motion, she reopened the scar on her palm, crimson liquid welling forth. She extended her hand toward the drake.

“Easy, my sweet,” she whispered, stepping close as she pressed her bleeding palm to Starlyght’s snout. Her blood seeped between the dragon’s scales, and the creature’s growl softened into a deep, resonant purr.

Here, at least, she was not a pawn. Here, she was seen. Here, she was free.

“Come, Starlyght,” Aizurah said with a sigh, sheathing her dagger around her thigh. “Let us fly far away from here and leave our woes behind. It wasn’t that simple. Aizurah knew she would have to return, that the reprieve would last a few hours at best. Still, she relished the escape, however short it was.

The fire drake stretched out her wing, assisting Aizurah in the climb onto the beast’s back. Pressing a kiss to her dragon’s neck, she commanded her to fly. Across the beach, sand swirling like a cloud of smoke, Starlyght crawled. She picked up speed, extending her wings, until she finally caught the wind beneath her.

Relief surged through Aizurah as the air whipped around them. As they climbed in the sky, she felt like she could finally breathe, like her world wasn’t crumbling around her.