The Dragon's Bride: The Blood Vow

A thousand silver lamps smoldered beneath the vaulted dome of the Great Cathedral in White Rock City. Their light was pale and biting, like a winter moon frozen onto the surface of a river, stretching the shadows of the stone pillars into long, jagged blades. Standing in the gloom of the side aisle, Seraphine Weatherington left a silent trail of snow behind her. She raised a hand to touch the side of her neck, where a silver chain sat just above her collarbone. It was positioned perfectly to hide an old scar—a mark left by a flying stone twenty years ago, still faintly red beneath the surface of her skin.

Outside, the bells tolled three times.

"There is still time for you to leave."

Iris emerged from the shadows behind her. Her sister’s face was softer, more rounded; her dragon pupils flickered once in the lamplight before narrowing into a human amber. She gripped Seraphine’s wrist, her nails digging into skin where the scales had not yet fully receded.

"There is Dragon-Slaying Stone Powder beneath the floorboards, sister. Freshly laid yesterday. They are arming themselves against you even at your own wedding."

Seraphine took her sister’s hand, her resolve unshaken. "I know," she said. "That is exactly why I must walk through those doors. I need them to see the sincerity of the dragons."

"Sincerity?" Iris lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. "You know who Dorian Barlow is better than I do. Your father burned his home when he was seven. He has spent twenty years orchestrating this wedding. Do you really think he wants 'sincerity'?"

"He wants to carve out my heart on the altar and pour my blood into the Dragon-Slaying Bell. I know this, too." Seraphine turned her head, her silver eyes calm to the point of emptiness in the dim light. "But if I do not walk through that door, the Dragon Mobilization Order will be issued within three days. My father is already gathering troops at the border, Iris. I can be the one to stop this war, but I cannot let him be the one to draw the first bow."

Iris’s lips trembled, but she said nothing more. She let go and stepped back, a low, stifled whimper escaping her throat—the sound a white dragon hatchling made only when consumed by terror. Seraphine did not look back. She lifted her train and stepped out of the shadows.

The silver lamplight hit her face. Her pupils contracted, liquid silver shifting at the edges of her irises. She took a deep breath, forcing the physical reaction back down.

The main hall of the Great Cathedral was even vaster than she remembered. Thousands of guests lined the pews—nobles of White Rock City, knights of the Brotherhood of the Silver Blade, lords of the various territories, and their families. Every eye was fixed on her, and the very air seemed to frost over as she passed. she could read the weight of those gazes—curiosity, suspicion, loathing, greed. She was a dragon in a human gown, walking into the very heart of humanity.

Standing before the altar was Dorian Barlow.

His face was leaner than she recalled, his lips thin as razor blades. The polished silver breastplate of the Silver Blade knights glinted coldly. He stood with his back straight, hands folded over the pommel of his sword, a hunter waiting for his prey to step into the snare. Yet, a smile graced his features—warm, appropriate, the smile a bridegroom was expected to wear.

Seraphine came to a halt before him.

Dorian reached out. His fingertips were ice, and when he took her gloved hand, the chill seemed to seep through her bones and into her pulse. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice like a fine blade slicing through silk.

"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

His breath hit the hollow of her neck, smelling of iron and a cloying, honeyed incense. She remained motionless, her gaze fixed on the Silver Blade emblem hanging behind the altar—a sword piercing a dragon’s eye.

"But beautiful things," Dorian continued, his lips touching the silver chain below her ear, "are usually the ones most deserving of destruction."

Seraphine’s fingers twitched. Beneath her skin, her scales began to churn, a flicker of Silver Flame warming her fingertips before she suppressed it against the silk of her gloves. She remembered her father’s words—humans were far more skilled at hiding daggers behind smiles; while their mouths spoke of peace, their hands were already on the hilt.

She kept her eyes lowered, her voice steady. "The priest is waiting."

Dorian pulled back, his smile widening slightly. He released her hand, took a step back, and turned toward the altar. The High Priest entered from a side door, his silver-white robes sweeping across the stone floor as he held a roll of yellowed parchment. He unfurled it, his voice echoing through the dome.

"Today, beneath the Silver Flame and the Holy Light, humans and dragons forge a century-long pact of peace. Witnessed by the union of General Dorian Barlow of White Rock City and Seraphine Weatherington, eldest daughter of the White Dragon King, the blood feuds between our races are extinguished. We shall remain in harmony for all eternity."

Thin, scattered applause broke out among the guests.

Seraphine scanned the crowd. An elderly noblewoman was dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief; nearby, a knight of the Brotherhood had his jaw clenched so tight the veins bulged in his neck. Harmony? she thought. No one here believed this marriage would fix anything. Least of all her.

Yet she stood there, hands clasped before her, listening as the priest reached the final line of the prayer.

"...In the name of the Sacred Silver, may this bond be eternal—"

Dorian moved.

He recoiled faster than a viper, putting three paces between them in an instant. A dozen men suddenly stood up from the pews—knights of the Brotherhood. They threw back their cloaks to reveal inner armor, the mechanical click of crossbows cocking echoing against the stone walls. The High Priest dropped the parchment and pulled a black iron longsword from beneath the altar, its blade winding with dark-red etched runes.

The Dragon-Slaying Blade.

Dorian gripped the hilt, his voice rising sharply, tearing through the facade of the cathedral.

"In the name of the Brotherhood of the Silver Blade, this wedding marks the beginning of the hunt!" He raised the sword high, the blade reflecting the silver light into Seraphine’s pupils. "Dragons are not fit to coexist with men!"

The four doors of the cathedral slammed shut simultaneously. Crossbowmen swarmed the second-floor gallery, their bolts coated in Dragon-Slaying Stone Powder that shimmered with a sickly green glow. The pews erupted in chaos—screams, the crashing of overturned furniture, the clang of steel—but no one tried to intervene. Most had known this was a murder from the start; they had simply sat and waited for the moment to arrive.

Seraphine did not move.

Beneath her gown, her legs were trembling. The searing heat of dragon blood surged from her spine to her head. But she did not run. She lifted her chin, the liquid silver light flooding her eyes entirely. White claws extended from her fingertips, and a thin layer of scales began to creep from her collarbone toward her throat. Her breath misted in the air—the herald of a dragon’s fire.

Dorian approached her, sword in hand.

"What did you think gave me the right to marry a dragon?" He stopped five paces away, his sword pointed at her throat. The warmth had vanished from his voice, leaving only the stench of twenty-year-old rot. "When I was seven, your father burned Vera Town. My parents, my sister—"

His sword tip shifted slightly, pointing toward the silver chain at her neck.

"—they all turned to ash."

Seraphine felt her skin crawl under his gaze. Dorian stepped forward and used the tip of his blade to flick open the clasp of the chain. The links snapped, but the chain did not fall.

Dorian stared at the scar.

"This mark... a flying stone hit you while your father was setting the fires," he whispered. "I remember it. I remember every detail. That day, you sat on his shoulders as he took flight. The debris shattered, and your neck was sliced open. Your silver blood sprayed onto the ruins, onto my mother’s face... that stone should have hit me instead."

He reached out with a finger, tracing the line of the scar on her neck.

"I remembered for twenty years. And now, I can finally return the favor."

Seraphine did not retreat. She stood her ground, her silver eyes reflecting the steel in his hand. She could hear the core of her Dragon Vein thumping deep within her chest. This was the blade she had waited twenty years for—the ending she had known before she ever stepped foot in this cathedral. Now, it had taken physical form.

"You hate my father," she said, her voice a mix of human speech and a low, guttural draconic rumble that shook the dome. "Then why do you not go kill him? You want to use me as bait to lure him here... so you can shoot out his wings bolt by bolt and watch him bleed out in the ruins of Vera Town. That is your true plan."

Dorian smiled. It was a look of jarring, almost intimate honesty.

"You are very clever," he said. "Unfortunately, cleverness cannot save you."

With a flick of his wrist, the Dragon-Slaying Blade sliced into her left shoulder—exactly one inch below the old scar. He knew that spot. He knew it was where the scales were thinnest and the Dragon Vein was closest to the surface.

Silver Blood erupted from the wound, splashing onto the stone floor. The Dragon-Slaying Stone Powder in the crevices ignited upon contact, hissing as silver chains erupted from the ground to bind her limbs. She was dragged down to her knees, her white gown turning a dark, sodden red, her knees hitting the stone with a dull thud.

The cold glint of arrows rained down from the gallery.

Seraphine knelt amidst the chains, shimmering coldly under the silver lamps. She looked up and saw Dorian standing above her on the altar, the tip of his sword dripping. One drop, then another.

He said, "Your heart is the key to the Dragon-Slaying Bell. Once you are dead, the dragons will come for revenge. And then, we will kill them all."

Guards rushed in from the sides, dragging her out of the chain formation. Her feet left two streaks of blood on the floor as the wound in her shoulder tore deeper against the friction of the iron. She turned her head, her gaze piercing through the narrow gap of the cathedral’s side door.

A black carriage sat in the plaza outside. It bore no crest, and its wheels were dusted with the frost of a long journey from the North. The curtain was lifted just an inch, and for a fleeting second, her eyes met those of a young man.

Deep gray eyes. Cold as winter iron. There was no fanaticism there, no hatred, none of the twenty-year-old bile that filled Dorian’s face. In those eyes, there was only something she couldn't name—shock. A shock bordering on bewilderment. His gaze moved from her blood-stained gown to the scar on her neck, lingering for less than a heart-beat.

Then, the curtain fell.

The guards dragged her into the depths of the corridor.

The carriage turned slowly, its wheels crunching heavily over the cobblestones of the plaza. Inside, the fabric of the seat was bunched tight in a white-knuckled grip. His lieutenant, Alaric, sat opposite him, speaking in a hushed tone. "Your Highness, if the King’s men find out you returned to the city today—"

"They killed a white dragon in the cathedral," Valdris Balthazar interrupted, his voice hollow. "In the name of a wedding. Dorian Barlow carved her open on the altar."

Alaric fell silent. The carriage jolted as it hit a gap in the stone paving.

Valdris looked down at his knuckles. There was a faint, invisible Dragon-Scale Mark beneath the skin of his collarbone—it had been there since he was a child. His father called it a birthmark, but his mother had told him before she died, "That is the mark of dragon blood." The princess they had just broken... she had an old scar on her neck. From Vera Town, twenty years ago. The year his mother died.

"Back to the palace," he said.

The carriage vanished into the twilight of White Rock City, the silver lights of the cathedral fading behind them. Inside the dark cabin, Valdris closed his eyes. His hand was still clenched, holding a tiny, silver scale—it had torn from her during the struggle and he had caught it as it drifted through the air. He pressed it into his palm, the sharp edge cutting into his skin until his own blood began to seep out.

He wasn't saving her just for the sake of justice. She was the only living thing left that held a connection to his mother’s memory. That scale had been a part of her; perhaps it still remembered the scent of his mother.

In the plaza, the guards dragged Seraphine toward the dungeon. As she was hauled over the final threshold, she glanced back one last time. The black carriage was gone, lost in the corners of the street. But she remembered those gray eyes.

The one person who had been shocked for her.