When I finally come to, the air is thick and oppressive, the scent of damp stone filling my nose. I blink, my vision blurry at first, and try to focus on the world around me. It's hard to make sense of what I'm seeing. I'm chained to a cold, jagged brick wall, my limbs restricted and my wings bound. There's no window, no escape, just the faint glow of candles scattered across the floor. The flickering flames cast twisted shadows that seem to dance like ghosts, but there's no warmth. Only the stifling darkness presses in on all sides.

The tightness in my chest grows—claustrophobic. Every breath feels like it's being drawn through a narrow straw. I fight it, but the panic is creeping up my throat when suddenly, the sharp scrape-scrape of talons against stone cuts through the quiet.

My head jerks up, frills snapping outward, claws flashing in reflex. My heart skips a beat as I see him—Darkstalker—sticking his head into the dimly lit room. His eyes gleam with that same smug confidence, his mouth twisting into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. I'm not sure what's worse: the sight of him or the sensation of being trapped.

"Don't you like it?" he asks, his voice a low, taunting purr as his gaze sweeps over the cell I'm confined in. He nods as if he's proud of it, and I suddenly realize that he expects me to enjoy this—this cage he's built for me.

"It's made for dragons who misbehave, you know," he adds, the words dripping with mock sweetness, as if I should be grateful for the treatment. I feel my lip curl into a snarl. There's no gratitude here, only rage.

But then, something catches my eye—a cold, metal band snapped around my snout, heavy and restricting. I can feel the faint curl of smoke slipping from the edges, and I realize it's him. The band is his doing.

Before I can say anything, his claw taps the band lightly, the gesture casual, as if it's just another part of the game. "Oh, don't worry, love," he says, his tone dripping with condescension. "You'll get this off when you're ready, and not spitting fire at me," he smirks, eyes narrowing in amusement as if he's already won some victory.

A low growl rumbles in my chest, but he doesn't seem to care. He flaps his wings, the sound like the rustle of parchment in the quiet room. "I'll be back with food later," he continues, as if he's giving me a treat. "And then a few servants will dress you up for tonight's coronation ball."

My stomach twists at the thought, but he's already turning away, not waiting for my reaction, his words trailing behind him like a cold, mocking breeze. "You're becoming my official queen now."

He leaves before I can respond, and I'm left alone in the silence, my chest tight with fury and confusion. The weight of his words presses down on me like a hundred tons of stone. He thinks I'll simply accept this fate. But I won't. I can't. Not like this.

-

The servants arrive with a soft murmur, their footsteps a quiet, almost apologetic echo against the cold stone floor. When I first see them, I don't quite register who they are—not at first. But then, as they move into the dim light, I see the unmistakable glimmer of green scales that shine like polished sea glass, and the small, iridescent pearls studded in every one.

My frown deepens. SeaWings?

And not just any SeaWings. These ones are adorned, their scales gleaming with a strange, almost obsessive amount of pearls. I can't help but wonder, Did Darkstalker do this? I know he has a strange fascination with the SeaWings, but this? This is something more. It's excessive, even by his standards.

Before I can dwell on it further, one of them—a SeaWing with scales that look like seaweed, a muddled green with faint streaks of silver—winces as I shift in my chains. His wide eyes flick nervously to the metal binding around my wings, and he takes a step forward with a whimper.

"Be—be careful, Your Highness," he stammers, his voice anxious, "You'll get a chafing if you move too much."

I barely glance at him before his hands are at my wings, deftly unclasping the chains with an expertise that's clearly practiced. His friend, a taller SeaWing with a smoother, more vibrant green color, steps forward to assist, her movements precise and quick. Together, they begin their work, clipping delicate golden adornments onto my forearms, attaching earrings to my ears, and sliding rings onto my claws. Each piece of jewelry glints in the flickering candlelight, contrasting sharply against the cold steel of the chains that still bind me.

Then, as if this wasn't enough, the female servant drapes a shawl over my shoulders—a shawl—the fabric a rich, deep satin that stretches all the way from one wingtip to the other. It billows gently with the movement of the air, fluttering like a ghost against my skin. They both step back, looking pleased with their work.

"There," the female servant says, her tone almost reverent as she tugs at a pearl earring dangling from my ear. "You're going to make a great queen."

I huff, a bitter laugh almost escaping my throat. A queen? I can barely stand the sight of myself, let alone this idea of being treated like royalty in a place that feels so wrong to me. But I bite my tongue. What good would it do to argue? I'm still trapped. Still chained. I have no power here, not yet.

Before I can say anything, the male servant steps forward again, grabbing the chain around my neck. He gives it a gentle tug, and with that, I'm compelled to follow.

"Come, come," he says, a strange cheerfulness in his voice. "Your kingdom is waiting."

I'm led through the winding corridors of the dark stone castle, the air growing warmer as we ascend. Each step feels like it weighs more than the last, and the walls seem to close in on me with every turn. My heart pounds in my chest, a knot of dread tightening as I realize where we're going.

The moment we step into the room, all eyes turn toward us. It's a vast hall, adorned with gleaming gold dragons etched into the stone, their cold eyes staring down from every decoration, every pillar. The room feels cold, not in temperature but in the way it watches me, suffocating me with its opulence. It's too much. The grandeur of it makes me feel small, insignificant, and yet... they are the ones staring at me.

The musicians stop mid-note, their instruments falling silent, as if they, too, are waiting for something. The room falls into an uncomfortable stillness. All eyes are on me. I can feel the weight of their gazes pressing against me like stones.

My heart races as I stand there, trying to hold my head up. I'm bigger than most of them—just like Darkstalker—but I'm not like them. I'm not one of them. I'm no NightWing, no SeaWing, nothing from their tribe. I'm an anomaly, a strange, misplaced piece in a puzzle that doesn't quite fit.

And Darkstalker expects me to be welcomed here? To take my place beside him, as his queen? The thought is laughable, and yet, there's no humor in it. He's more delusional than I thought, and I realize just how isolated I am in this world of dragons who belong here, who fit the mold.

I lower my head, fighting the burning heat of embarrassment, the weight of all their expectations crashing down on me.

The servants lead me forward, each step heavier than the last, until we reach a silver throne at the far end of the room. It's wrought from twisting metal, sharp and thorny, like a twisted reflection of royalty. The edges are jagged, like it's not meant to be sat on, but more like it's meant to trap whoever dares to take it. My stomach tightens as I realize that this is it—this is where I'm supposed to sit, to reign.

And there he is. Darkstalker.

He sits upon the throne, his posture perfect, his wings folded neatly around him, and atop his head rests a crown of silver. It gleams in the candlelight, almost blinding. He looks pleased, too pleased, as if this is some grand performance, a spectacle to be admired.

"Behold," he booms, his voice resonating throughout the room, a low, powerful sound that makes my scales crawl. "The new queen of the night! Welcome, Queen Azure, everyone!"

The words strike me like a slap. The murmurs rise, quiet at first, then swelling into a crescendo of applause. I hear the clapping, the cheers, but I feel nothing but cold. It's not for me. I can't help but feel like an outsider, like I'm the subject of some cruel joke, placed at the center of this throne room, dressed in pearls and forced to wear a crown I never asked for. I don't belong here.

Not in a kingdom of eternal darkness.

The applause continues, but it feels like the sound is too far away. It's a buzzing in my ears, like bees trapped in a jar. My mind races back to the dragons I've left behind—the dragons who really need me.

Toothless... Stormfly... Hookfang...

I clench my fists, the chains rattling as I fight to keep the tears from rising. I can't help them now. I can't even help myself. I'm their queen, not this rubble of dragons. I belong with them, not in this twisted place where I'll never fit in, no matter how hard I try.

A twinge of guilt twists in my chest. I'm letting them down, all of them. I'm trapped in a world I never wanted, and it's all because of Darkstalker's delusions. But the applause keeps coming, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

The sound fades into a dull throb as Darkstalker grabs the chain from the male servant, yanking it forward with a single sharp tug. I stumble as I'm dragged toward him, forced onto the cold, jagged throne beside him. My wings flutter in protest, the metal band around my snout digging into my skin as I'm seated beside him.

His talons find my cheek, cold and unyielding, and I freeze as he cups it, the touch rough and possessive. His smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"Now," he whispers, leaning close enough for his breath to mingle with mine, "I want you to be quiet and kind, alright? These are your subjects now. Show them what a good queen a wyvern can make."

His words are like poison, sweet on the outside but deadly underneath. I know it's all an act—his act. He expects me to play along, to pretend that I'm just as thrilled as he is to be here, to be a part of this kingdom of shadows.

But I won't.

I don't respond, my gaze locked on the floor as I feel his talons slip away. He lets me go, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, but I can't shake the feeling of being owned—a prize that's already been claimed.

"Let us feast," he declares, his voice booming again as if this is the grand conclusion to the show, the final applause.

And I sit there, in the middle of the room, under the weight of a thousand eyes, knowing that no matter how much they celebrate, I'll never be one of them.