Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~9 min read
Two Weeks Earlier
Prince Lysander of Drakemyr was bored out of his mind.
The human diplomatic function was exactly as tedious as he’d predicted—pompous lords droning about trade agreements, watered-down wine that barely passed for drinkable, and the constant undercurrent of fear that followed him everywhere in human lands. They smiled and bowed and pretended he was just another visiting dignitary, but he could smell their terror.
Good. A little healthy fear kept the peace treaty intact.
“You look like you’re contemplating murder,” Lord Theron murmured beside him, his best friend’s voice laced with amusement. “Try to at least pretend you’re not plotting which nobles would burn fastest.”
“The one in purple velvet,” Lysander said without hesitation. “All that fabric would go up like kindling.”
Theron choked on his wine. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.” Lysander’s dragon stirred restlessly beneath his skin, wanting out, wanting sky, wanting literally anywhere but this stifling ballroom. One hundred and twenty-seven years old, and he was still getting dragged to these diplomatic disasters. “Remind me why I’m here?”
“Because your mother, the Dragon Queen, insisted. Something about maintaining good relations with our human neighbors.” Theron gestured vaguely at the crowded room. “Also because she’s tired of you sulking in your tower with your book hoard.”
“I don’t sulk.”
“You absolutely sulk.”
Lysander growled low in his throat—a sound that made three nearby nobles flinch and step away. He didn’t care. Let them be afraid. Let them remember that the Drakemyr Court could reduce their pathetic kingdoms to ash if they ever forgot the terms of their precious treaty.
Not that he would. Probably. His mother frowned on unnecessary violence.
“At least the food isn’t completely terrible,” Theron said, attempting diplomacy. He’d always been better at the political games than Lysander. Wind dragons were naturally more adaptable, more charming. Lysander was fire and fury wrapped in human skin, and everyone knew it.
“The food tastes like cardboard.”
“You’re impossible when you’re in a mood.”
“I’ve been in a mood for a century.”
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? One hundred and twenty-seven years of existence, and Lysander still hadn’t found his fated mate. He’d watched his parents’ bond—the way his father looked at his mother like she was his entire world, the way their magic sang together, completing each other in a way that made his dragon ache with longing.
Every dragon found their mate eventually. The ancient magic that bound their kind didn’t make mistakes. Somewhere out there was the one person destined for him, the one whose soul would recognize his, whose scent would drive his dragon wild with need.
He’d waited. Searched. Traveled to every dragon court, every fae gathering, every—
The scent hit him like a physical blow.
Lysander’s entire body locked up, his dragon surging forward with a roar that only he could hear. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to hunt, to find the source of that smell—wildflowers and honey and something uniquely, devastatingly her.
His mate.
“Lysander?” Theron’s hand gripped his arm. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re about to shift.”
He couldn’t speak. His dragon was going absolutely feral, clawing at his control, demanding he claim what was theirs. The scent wrapped around him, so perfect it hurt, and he’d never wanted anything more in his entire existence than he wanted to follow that trail.
“I can smell her,” he managed, his voice coming out rough, barely human.
Theron’s eyes widened. “Her? Your—”
“My mate.” Lysander was already moving, shoving through the crowd with single-minded focus. Nobles scattered in his wake, their protests dying when they saw his face. His eyes were probably glowing silver. He couldn’t stop it. Didn’t want to stop it.
One hundred and twenty-seven years, and she was here. In this gods-forsaken human ballroom.
The scent grew stronger as he prowled through the crowd, his dragon tracking her with predatory precision. Close. She was close. Just beyond those doors, in the corridor leading to—
He found the source.
A woman stood near the windows, silhouetted against the evening light. Auburn hair catching the last rays of sun. Honey-brown eyes distant, lost in thought. Petite by dragon standards but perfectly formed, like she’d been crafted specifically to fit against him.
Mine, his dragon snarled. MINE.
Lysander’s hands clenched into fists, fighting for control. He couldn’t just rush over there and claim her in front of all these humans. That would violate about seventeen different treaty clauses. He had to approach carefully, introduce himself properly, let the mate bond develop naturally—
She turned, her gaze sweeping past him without recognition, and walked away.
Every instinct screamed at him to follow.
“Lysander.” Theron appeared at his elbow, his expression somewhere between excited and horrified. “Did you just find your mate?”
“Yes.”
“That’s incredible! After all these years—”
“She’s human.”
Theron paused. “Oh.”
“She’s human,” Lysander repeated, because apparently his brain had stopped working properly. A human mate. Not unheard of, but rare. Complicated. His mother would have opinions. The court would have opinions. The entire Drakemyr realm would probably have opinions about their crown prince bonding with a human.
He didn’t care about any of that.
“Well,” Theron said carefully, “at least she’s here. You can talk to her, explain about the bond—”
“I need to know who she is.”
It took fifteen minutes of strategic questioning—and one mildly threatening conversation with a gossipy noble—to learn her name. Lady Freya Thornwood. Daughter of Lord Edmund Thornwood, a minor noble whose family had fallen on hard times. Twenty-three years old. Unmarried.
Unmarried. Thank the ancient gods for small mercies.
“So you’ll court her?” Theron asked as they stood in an alcove, watching Freya from across the ballroom. She was talking to another woman, her expression carefully polite but distant. Like she was somewhere else entirely.
“Yes.” Lysander’s dragon was practically vibrating with need. “I’ll return tomorrow. Start the courtship properly. Give her time to—”
“My lord.” A servant appeared, bowing low. “A message for Prince Lysander of Drakemyr.”
He took the sealed letter impatiently, breaking the wax. Royal crest. From the human capital. Official business that he absolutely did not care about right now because his mate was thirty feet away and every second he wasn’t with her felt like physical pain.
He scanned the letter.
Froze.
“What is it?” Theron leaned over to read. “Announcement of… oh. Oh no.”
The letter congratulated him on receiving an invitation to the upcoming royal wedding. Prince Viktor of the Northern Kingdom, heir to the throne, would be marrying Lady Freya Thornwood in a fortnight. All dignitaries were invited to attend the joyous celebration.
Lysander read it again. Then again. The words didn’t change.
Lady Freya Thornwood.
His mate.
Getting married.
In two weeks.
To someone else.
The growl that tore from his throat made every human in the ballroom go silent. Magic crackled along his skin, barely contained, his dragon roaring for blood and fire and the complete destruction of whoever thought they could take what was HIS.
“Lysander.” Theron’s voice was urgent. “Control yourself. You can’t shift here. The treaty—”
“I don’t care about the treaty.”
“Yes, you do. Your mother would—”
“My mother,” Lysander bit out, “would burn this entire kingdom to the ground if someone tried to steal Father from her. The mate bond is sacred. It’s older than any human treaty.”
Theron grabbed his arm, dragging him toward a private corridor before the gathering crowd could witness a diplomatic incident. “I understand. But you can’t just—what are you planning to do?”
Lysander looked back toward the ballroom, where Freya had disappeared into the crowd. His mate. The woman his dragon recognized as the other half of his soul. Preparing to marry another man.
Not aware she was making the biggest mistake of her life.
“I’m going to stop the wedding,” he said simply.
“How? You can’t just walk up to her and explain about the mate bond. Humans don’t understand our magic. They’ll think you’re insane.”
“Then I won’t explain.” Lysander’s dragon was already planning, calculating, strategizing. Two weeks. He had two weeks to figure out how to claim his mate without starting a war between their kingdoms.
Or maybe starting a war was exactly what needed to happen.
“Lysander.” Theron’s expression was pure alarm. “Whatever you’re thinking—”
“She’s mine.” The words came out as a snarl, final and absolute. “The bond doesn’t lie. The magic doesn’t make mistakes. She’s mine, Theron. I’ve waited over a century for her. Do you really think I’m going to let some human prince take her from me?”
“What about her choice? What if she wants to marry him?”
Lysander laughed, sharp and bitter. “Did you see her face? She looked like she was attending her own funeral. That’s not a woman in love. That’s a woman trapped.”
“And you think kidnapping her is better?”
“I think,” Lysander said slowly, his dragon rising to the surface, eyes glowing pure silver, “that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my mate from making a decision she can’t undo. Even if she hates me for it. Even if the whole human kingdom declares war. She’s mine, and I’m taking her home.”
Theron was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed, the resignation of a best friend who knew when arguing was pointless. “Your mother is going to kill you.”
“Only if she finds out before the wedding.”
“When’s the ceremony?”
“Two weeks. Cathedral of Saint Lucia.” Lysander’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Dangerous. Predatory. “I’ll be there.”
“To object during the vows?”
“No.” His dragon rumbled with satisfaction, the decision made, the path forward clear. “To take what’s mine.”
He looked toward the ballroom one last time, memorizing the scent of wildflowers and honey, the image of auburn hair and honey-brown eyes.
Wait for me, he thought, sending the words out into the universe like a prayer. I’m coming for you, mate. And nothing—not treaties, not kingdoms, not even your own protests—will stop me from claiming you.
His dragon roared its agreement.
The hunt had begun.
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