The splintered wood of the front door exploded inward, a sudden violence that rattled everyone in the house. Her parents, seated at the rough-hewn table, their faces etched with the day's weariness, stood to their feet.
Her younger brother, Eldrick, barely six summers old, dropped his wooden soldier, its clatter echoing in the abrupt silence. Their expressions, moments before annoyed by the intrusion, twisted into a horror, a dawning, terrible realization blooming in their eyes.
The King's decree, whispered in hushed tones through the village, about a maiden to be prepared as Veskiel's bride, every year, now hung heavy in the air, a suffocating shroud.
Soldiers of Thavenant's Kingdom, their armor glinting dully in the dim lamplight, moved with practiced efficiency. Two positioned themselves by the gaping maw of the doorway, their broad shoulders filling the frame.
Another secured the single window, its shutters already drawn against the night. The message was clear, brutal, unspoken.
No escape.
Chayene's mother, her face a crumpled mask of grief, lunged forward, gathering her daughter in a fierce, trembling embrace. Her sobs were ragged, muffled against Chayene's shoulder.
"My light," she choked out, "my brave little light…"
Chayene stood rigid, the terror of a dragon coiling in her gut. She'd heard the whispers too, the low, mournful drone of the King's decree echoing through the marketplace years ago. One maiden, chosen by lot, to appease the great dragon Veskiel, to ensure Thavenant's survival.
It had always been some other family's tragedy, a distant, abstract horror. Never her.
A soldier, his face impassive beneath his helm, stepped forward. His voice was a monotone, devoid of pity.
"By royal decree of King Randolph, Chayene, daughter of Helen and Bahram, you are chosen as the tribute. The procession leaves at dawn."
Bahram, her father, a man usually steady as an old oak, swayed on his feet. "No," he rasped, his voice thick with disbelief. "She's… she's too young! There are others! Prettier!"
The soldier's gaze was unwavering. "The lot has been cast. The will of Veskiel, the dragon, is absolute. Any resistance will be met with force. For the good of Thavenant."
Eldrick, sensing the shift in the room, began to cry. His small hands clutched at Chayene's skirt. "Sister? Where are you going?"
Chayene's heart tore. She knelt, ignoring the soldier's impatient shift, and pulled Eldrick into a tight hug. His small body trembled against hers.
"I'm going on a journey, little star. A very important journey." Her voice was steady, a lie she needed to tell, for him.
Her mother pulled her back, her fingers digging into Chayene's arms.
"They say… they say the maidens never came back! They say he… he eats them all!"
Her words were a desperate plea, fueled by a mother's instinctual protectiveness.
"That's enough," the captain's voice cut through the despair. He was a large man, his armor bearing the emblem of the Royal Guard—a stylized dragon entwined around a crown.
"The girl will be ready. Take her to the temple for cleansing. She is Veskiel's now."
Two soldiers moved to separate Chayene from her mother. Their touch was firm, not cruel, but utterly unyielding.
Chayene didn't fight. What was the use? Her family's life was in her hands, and she couldn't risk making things worse.
As they led her out, the cool night air hit her face, a stark contrast to the suffocating warmth of her home. A pang of sadness pierced her heart as she heard her mother's anguished cries and her brother's desperate sobs, their voices carrying through the walls from outside.
The village, usually bustling, was eerily quiet. A few lanterns glowed in distant windows, but no one emerged. They all knew. They all were holding their breath, waiting for the chosen one to be taken, so they could, for another year, live.
They marched her through the silent streets, the rhythmic clang of their boots against the cobblestones echoing through the silence. Ahead, the temple of the Sky-Dragon loomed, its ancient stones covered in moss, silhouetted against the soft glow of the rising moon.
It was a place of reverence and terror, where the annual lottery was drawn, where the chosen maiden would spend her last night, preparing for her fate.
A lone high priestess stood, her gaunt face illuminated only by faint light, waiting within the temple's cold, echoing walls. Her name is Ursula, she wore robes of deep midnight blue, embroidered with swirling patterns that mimicked clouds and dragons. She offered no comfort, only a grim nod to the soldiers.
"Leave us," the priestess commanded, her voice surprisingly strong for her frail frame. The soldiers hesitated, then retreated, their duty fulfilled.
The heavy wooden doors changed shut, plunging Chayene into a silence more profound than any she had ever known.
"Come, child," Priestess Ursula said, her voice softer now, tinged with weary sadness. "There are rituals to perform. Cleansing of the body, preparation of the spirit."
Chayene followed numbly. The inner sanctum was lit by a dozen flickering oil lamps, casting long, dancing shadows on walls covered in ancient frescoes depicting Veskiel—a colossal dragon with scales like polished gold, wings like clouds infused with golden lights, and eyes that glowed with and otherworldly light.
He was shown towering over Thavenant, sometimes benevolent, sometimes wrathful, always immense.
The cleansing procession was a solemn, chilling affair. Priestess Ursula washed Chayene's body with cold, herb-infused water.
Her touch was dispassionate, practiced. She brushed Chayene's long, golden hair until it shone, then braided it with thin silver thread, each one a silent prayer, a silent farewell.
"Do you know what awaits you, child?" the priestess asked, her voice a low murmur as she worked.
Chayene swallowed, her throat dry. "They say… he takes us. Consumes us."
The priestess sighed, a sound like dry leaves rustling in the wind. "Some claim that. Others say he keeps them in his lair as companions. No one truly knows. Those who've seen Veskiel and lived speak only of his majesty and terrible power. He demands tributes, and Thavenant complies. It has been this way for centuries."
"Why me?" Chayene's whisper was barely audible, the words torn from a heart that felt like it was shattering. "Why not someone else? Someone stronger… prettier? Someone… willing?"
"The lot is drawn by the stars, child. By the will of Veskiel himself, as interpreted by the wisest among us. It falls where it falls. Perhaps it is simply your fate…" The priestess's fingers trembled slightly as she tied the last silver thread.
Fate. The word tasted bitter, like ash.
Chayene looked around the temple, at the imposing frescoes of the Dragon, at the flickering lamps that cast a sickly glow on the ancient stones. She felt like a lamb led to slaughter, dressed up for the occasion.