The dragon killed Talia today. For a time, I believed she might save me. Now I fear no one can. But why wouldhekill her? I cannot understand.
I skim onward, heart hammering.
Spring, 306 A.C.
No brides survived the Bloodmoon this year.
Spring, 418 A.C.
I know I haven’t written in a while, but it doesn’t matter. The dragon brought me four brides this time, each beautiful and unique, but I can only think of Talia. Arther says I must move on. I cannot.
Summer, 418 A.C.
Arther insists I spend one day with each bride before the third Trial. He says I need to reopen my heart. Perhaps he’s right.
Fall, 418 A.C.
The dragon killed all the brides in the third Trial.
Summer, 476 A.C.
The years blur together. The dragon still brings brides. Many are eager to please the cursed king. I rarely spend my nights alone anymore—one of the few benefits of this wretched curse.
My stomach turns as I flip forward, scanning jagged handwriting fractured by decades of silence.
Spring, 500 A.C.
I have become the thing I feared most—a beast bound to fire and blood. Each bride I take brings new hope of release. Yet in five hundred years, none have pierced the curse, not even Talia. I have watched the dragon burn homes and carry off the innocent. I believed mercy lay in swift destruction. Yet tonight, I smile as I greet another batch of women who are to be used and discarded as the beast sees fit.
Fall, 502 A.C.
Tonight, I watched the dragon burn Mary, a Grathmoor bride I greatly admired. No matter what I tried, she refused every advance—the first to do so in centuries. Fierce, wild, untamable. I was certain she’d survive the final Trial. But as I watched the flames consume her, her eyes held no malice—only pity. She reminded me of Talia.
I stare at the page, numb. The dragon he described can’t be the same one who asked me to read him stories, who carried me to see my sister.
I keep reading, this time more urgently.
502 A.C.
From now on, I will do everything I can to help the brides succeed. I will find loopholes to help them escape the dragon. There’s no hope for me, but they don’t have to suffer. The next woman to share my bed will be my wife. I swear it.
The next pages blur together—records of names, lands, and small mercies.
Spring, 598 A.C.
Fire.
My breath catches. I turn the page.
The girl from the garden. Even from all the way across the room, I could see it—the sharpness in her gaze, the defiance in her jaw. Strong. Beautiful. I could feel the dragon stir, its hunger sharpening into something dangerous. Possessive. Her crimson hair is like molten lava, her posture straight, chin tilted high. Not weak. Not meek. She’s a predator among prey.
This girl is fire.
Heat rises to my cheeks. I read on.
I know this feeling. I’ve felt it once before. This ache. This hunger. But I promised never to take advantage of another bride, no matter how much I desire her. How can one woman make a man feel so much with one look? The way we danced… She was flame incarnate. Mine. The dragon wants her, and so do I.
598 A.C.
