The roads of Flaine, capital of Velrane, gleamed under the late morning sun—wide, paved with polished stone, and lined with banners that danced lazily in the warm breeze. The city's grandeur sprawled endlessly, its heart ever-beating with trade, chatter, and the stomping rhythm of hooves.
Down these streets, stretched long and proud, came a procession impossible to miss.
Four horses led it—white as frost, with manes kissed gold by alchemy, each step graceful and precise. They pulled a carriage of intricate wood and gold lattice, shining in the daylight like a sacred relic. A hundred horsemen followed, each clad in golden chestplates, riding beasts adorned with braided gold, jewel-encrusted harnesses, and tassels that swayed like they too were proud to serve.
And the people watched.
They sang praises as the procession passed, voices echoing through balconies and alleys:
"Lady Venara! Bless our days with their shine!"
They threw petals, and some prayers. Children pointed, mouths wide, at swords forged of golden steel, at the disciplined eyes of men sworn to protect. Some women wept with joy at the mere glimpse of what they believed to be the touch of nobility.
Inside the carriage, behind veiled curtains of silk, sat Lady Venara of House Goldmere. The golden-haired beauty was serene as ever, her gentle smile undisturbed by the parade around her. Next to her, stone-faced and vigilant, sat Elowen—her personal guard, close as a shadow, silent as a vow.
Venara wore a new gown, crafted from the softest silks, white and gold woven into shimmering harmony. Transparent weaves draped delicately over her shoulders and arms, whispering with every breath of wind. The fabric clung and flowed with grace—a skirt long but narrow, gliding like water across her legs. Her chest, modestly covered, contrasted the daring styles she often wore. It was elegance refined—neither loud nor shy, but something in between that demanded reverence rather than desire. The kind of dress that didn't shout beauty but let it glow.
Across from them sat a young man, blonde like Venara, though the sheen of his hair was dulled by sweat and nerves. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his robe, his back too straight, his jaw too clenched.
Vermon stole a glance, then another. After the third, she caught him.
"Well?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "You've stared enough. Say it. What do you think of this dress?"
"It's… good, big sis," Vermon replied, cautiously.
"'Good,' he says," Venara echoed with a teasing smirk. "Come now. You've never been good at lying."
He sighed, relenting. "Alright. Honestly—it's really good. You look… I don't know. Like some divine poem."
Venara chuckled, shaking her head. "A divine poem," she repeated. "Tragic."
And hearing Venara tease him like that, he grew even more nervous.
Venara flicked her hair lightly over one shoulder, the movement effortlessly divine. "Vermon," she said, the warmth of her voice cutting through his anxious fog, "you're going to bite your tongue if you keep clenching like that."
He looked up, startled. "But… big sis, this is the High Council. Every major noble will be there. Even the Queen herself. I—I'm not ready for this."
She laughed, soft and disarming. "You're not expected to give a speech, dear. You're going to observe, listen. Learn."
"But still," he muttered, eyes dropping, "the tension... the pressure... I hate tense air. It feels like I'm being swallowed whole."
Venara studied him a moment, her smile kind. "Then let it swallow you," she said. "Let it chew you up. You'll see—it's not so terrible once you've been through it once or twice."
Vermon exhaled, forcing a nod, though the anxiety lingered like a fog around him. That couldn't be helped. He'd always been this way—shy, reclusive, tucked safely behind books and spell scrolls. A prodigy, yes. But a delicate one.
Still, he was a Goldmere.
And the motto of House Goldmere was etched into the bones of every child born beneath its banner:
"A dragon bathes in fire."
A phrase not of pride, but of transformation. To bathe in fire was to suffer and emerge anew. To face fear until fear no longer had a name.
Vermon, though, was still a baby dragon. No fire. No wings.
Venara leaned forward again, voice playful. "You've still not given me an answer, you know."
Vermon blinked. "For... what?"
She gave a slow, dramatic sigh. "The arrangement. The proposal, brother. You're not getting out of it just by being forgetful."
Vermon flushed instantly. "W-well... I just... I don't think I'm ready to... to marry yet. I'm still young and—"
"You've come of age," Venara interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "You're of noble blood. It's the perfect time."
He stammered, face reddening further. "But... with you leading the House, there's no need for me to—"
"Ah, but there is," she said, voice still gentle but laced now with steel. "Our father is bedridden. I cannot both manage our alliances and secure the line. A man's line must continue."
He shrank a little into his seat, embarrassed.
Venara tilted her head. "Unless..." she teased, "is there someone already? Some lovely lowborn girl you're hiding in your heart?"
Vermon looked up, alarmed. "What? No!"
She smirked. "Then what is it? Do you want someone your age? Or perhaps you prefer older women?" Her smile turned wicked. "More... experienced, perhaps?"
"Sis!" he groaned, covering his face. "Stop!"
"Oh hush," she said with a musical laugh. "I'm not forcing a specific person onto you. You'll have a say. But you will marry. That is your duty as a Goldmere."
Her tone softened again. "I just want what's best for you. And the House. We're not so different, you and I."
Elowen raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing.
Venara leaned slightly closer to her guard now, voice dropping to a whisper. "After the council," she murmured, "bring four—no, six—of the best."
Elowen's expression barely shifted. "And...?"
"Y'know... lure him... bring them in... surprise! Give him a taste of life's sweeter offerings. He may just need a little encouragement. I worry he'll die a blushing virgin at this rate."
Elowen hesitated. "My lady... forgive me, but... Are you sure? That might traumatize him."
Venara waved the concern away with a giggle. "Trauma? Please. A dragon bathes in fire. And bathing in sexy hot ladies won't kill him."
Vermon leaned forward suddenly, suspicious. "Are you two whispering about me?"
Venara smiled sweetly, innocent as a dove. "Of course not, little brother. Just some girl talk. You wouldn't be interested."
He raised a brow. "Uh-huh. Well, apologies."
Venara's smile twisted into a devilish grin. "No offense taken."
Elowen sighed quietly beside her, the same sigh she'd let out a thousand times before.
And then, the carriage rolled to a halt.
A guard opened the door, sunlight spilling in, gilding their faces like prophecy.
Outside, a towering stairway leading up to the royal palace at the foot of the Crimson Mountain.
At its peak, the High Council awaited.
Vermon stared at the stairs as if they were his executioner.
Venara stepped out first, turning back only once to say, voice honeyed and wicked:
"Come now, little dragon. Time for your first bath."