The village elders dressed me like a virgin sacrifice in some ancient tale, all white linen and silver thread, as if aesthetic presentation mattered to a creature that would probably just char me to ash.

The irony wasn't lost on me. Virgin, I was not. Willing, even less so.

"Hold still," Marta muttered, her weathered fingers fumbling with the ceremonial ties at my waist. She wouldn't meet my eyes. None of them would, not since Lord Cassian Vael had spoken my name three days ago in that cold, calculated voice that made my skin crawl.

"Elara Thorne," he'd announced to the gathered villagers, his blue eyes finding mine across the square with the precision of a blade. "The spirits have chosen."

The spirits. Right.

What the spirits—or rather, what Cassian—had actually chosen was the one person in Thornhaven who'd seen him meeting with those hooded figures in the forest. The one person stupid enough to have been gathering nightshade at midnight and stumbled onto whatever dark business required coin purses that heavy and conversations that quiet.

The one person who didn't matter enough for anyone to question her sacrifice.

I studied my reflection in the tarnished mirror as Marta stepped back. The white robes were beautiful, I'd give them that. Flowing and ethereal, embroidered with silver runes meant to honor the dragon lord. Or appease him. Or make me look appetizing. The village lore wasn't clear on the details.

What the robes didn't show were the two daggers strapped to my thighs, the garrote wire sewn into my hem, or the three vials of poison tucked into the wrapped silk binding my breasts.

If I was going to die on a dragon's altar, I'd at least make it interesting.

"Your mother would be proud," Marta lied, her voice cracking.

My mother had been dead for eight years, worked to death in Lord Cassian's fields. Proud wasn't the word I'd use. Unsurprised, maybe. Her daughter had always been the expendable one.

"I'm sure she's looking down with joy," I said, adjusting the neckline to better conceal the vial pressing against my sternum. "Nothing says maternal pride like ritual sacrifice."

Marta flinched. Good.

The procession to Ashcroft Mountain took four hours. Four hours of walking through increasingly sparse forest while the village priest droned prayers I didn't listen to and the handful of witnesses kept their distance like my impending death might be contagious.

Lord Cassian rode at the front on his black gelding, perfectly composed in his fine clothes. He'd volunteered to lead the tribute escort personally. Civic duty, he'd called it. Making sure I actually reached the dragon's lair, more like. Couldn't have me running off and returning with inconvenient questions about midnight meetings and mysterious coin.

I caught him watching me once, those cold blue eyes assessing.

I smiled back with all my teeth.

His jaw tightened before he turned away.

The path grew steeper, rockier. The trees thinned until there were none, just bare stone and the looming face of the mountain. Somewhere up there, in caves carved by claws and time, lived Draeven Ashcroft. Dragon lord. Terror of the valley. Collector of tributes.

My future murderer.

Probably.

The entrance to the lair yawned before us like an open mouth, natural stone worn smooth by centuries. No gate. No guards. Just darkness and the faint smell of smoke.

"This is where we leave you," Cassian said, dismounting with practiced grace. "The dragon lord prefers to... receive his tributes privately."

I bet he did. Probably didn't want witnesses to the screaming.

"How considerate of him." I gathered my robes, careful not to dislodge any hidden weapons. "And here I thought we'd make it a party."

"Elara." The priest stepped forward, hands wringing. "May the old gods watch over—"

"The old gods can fuck themselves," I said pleasantly. "They're doing a stellar job so far."

Someone gasped. Cassian's mouth curved in something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Walk into the main chamber," he instructed, as if I were heading to market instead of my death. "The dragon lord will know you've arrived."

Of course he would. Probably smelled fear like wine.

I started toward the entrance, then paused. Turned back. Looked Cassian directly in those ice-chip eyes.

"If I somehow survive this," I said conversationally, "I'm coming back for you."

His expression didn't change, but something flickered there. Uncertainty, maybe. Or calculation.

"You won't," he said simply.

We'd see about that.

The darkness swallowed me whole.

I walked forward, one hand trailing along the stone wall, letting my eyes adjust. The passage was wide enough for something much larger than human to pass through. Claw marks scored the walls in places, deep gouges that made my weapons feel laughably inadequate.

But I'd never been one to let inadequacy stop me.

The tunnel opened into a cavern so vast my breath caught despite myself. Impossible architecture stretched above—natural stone columns wider than houses, a ceiling lost in shadow, and everywhere the glitter of what might have been gems or might have been dragon-hoarded gold catching the light from sources I couldn't identify.

The light itself seemed to come from the stone, a soft amber glow that pulsed like breathing.

At the far end of the chamber, on a raised dais of black rock, sat a throne.

And on that throne sat a man.

Not a dragon. A man.

My first thought was that Cassian had lied about everything, that this was some elaborate hoax. My second thought died as the man stood and I felt the weight of his presence slam into me like a physical thing.

He was tall. Imposing. Dark hair streaked with silver fell to his shoulders, and even across the distance I could see his eyes—amber, bright, and entirely wrong for a human face. He wore black, simple clothes that somehow looked regal, and he moved with a grace that made my predator instincts scream warnings my conscious mind was still processing.

The air grew heavier. Warmer.

The scent hit me then—smoke and petrichor, rain on sun-heated stone, and underneath it something ancient and indefinable that made my hindbrain want to simultaneously run and drop to my knees.

Dragon.

Definitely dragon.

Just... currently in a shape that looked devastatingly, unfairly human.

"Another tribute." His voice rolled through the cavern like distant thunder. Deep. Resonant. Tired. "How... expected."

He sounded bored.

That, more than anything else, ignited the fury I'd been banking like coals.

I was going to die here. Fine. I'd accepted that. But I'd be damned if I died boring him.

My hand found the dagger at my thigh.

"Yeah, well," I called out, starting forward with purposeful strides, "I aim to disappoint."

His head tilted slightly. Those amber eyes tracked my movement with the focus of a predator watching prey.

I closed the distance between us, robes swirling around my legs. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

Close enough to see the sharp angles of his face, the way his skin seemed to shimmer slightly in the strange light. Close enough to smell smoke and rain and power.

Close enough to strike.

I lunged.

The blade came up fast, all my weight and momentum behind it, aimed for the throat because if I was doing this I was doing it right—

He moved.

Not fast. Not even urgently. Just... moved.

One moment my blade was arcing toward his neck. The next his hand was around my wrist, grip like heated iron, and I was spun around with my arm twisted behind my back and my own dagger pressed against my throat.

"Interesting," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.

We stood there, my back against his chest, his heat seeping through the thin ceremonial robes. He was furnace-hot, like standing too close to a fire, and my body couldn't decide if it wanted to melt into that warmth or fight like a trapped animal.

I chose fight.

I slammed my head backward, aiming for his face. Connected with something solid. His grip didn't even loosen.

"Also interesting," he said, and I could hear the frown in his voice. "Most tributes cower. Or cry. Or beg. You're the first to attack me in..." He paused. "Three centuries? Four?"

"Disappointed?" I gritted out, trying to hook my foot around his ankle. "I can cry if you want. Really sell the helpless maiden thing."

"No." The word was soft, almost thoughtful. "No, this is... different."

He released me.

Just like that. Let go and stepped back, leaving me stumbling forward with my own dagger somehow still in my hand.

I spun around, weapon raised, every muscle coiled.

He stood there watching me with those impossible eyes, expression somewhere between curious and bemused. There was a faint red mark on his cheekbone where I'd hit him. It faded even as I watched.

"You're not going to kill me?" I demanded.

"Should I?"

"I just tried to stab you!"

"Yes." He tilted his head again, studying me like I was a particularly interesting specimen. "You did. Poorly, but points for commitment."

The rage that had been fueling me stuttered. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to be monstrous. Terrifying. Not standing there looking vaguely exhausted and commenting on my murder technique.

"What the fuck is happening right now?" I heard myself say.

His mouth curved. Not quite a smile, but close.

"I'm wondering the same thing." He moved then, descending from the dais with that same liquid grace. Circling me slowly. "What's your name, tribute?"

"Does it matter?" I turned with him, keeping the dagger between us. "You're just going to kill me anyway."

"Am I?"

"That's what dragons do. Demand tributes. Devour virgins. Terrorize villages." My voice was rising, hysteria creeping in at the edges. "That's the whole fucking deal."

"Mm." He completed his circle, stopping a few feet away. Close enough that I could see the way his pupils sometimes flickered into vertical slits before rounding again. "And if I told you I've never devoured a single tribute?"

"I'd call you a liar."

"Fair enough." He clasped his hands behind his back, the gesture oddly formal. "Your name?"

"Why?"

"Because I prefer to know what to call the woman who just attempted to murder me in my own home."

The absurdity of the situation was making my head spin. Or maybe that was terror. Hard to tell.

"Elara," I bit out. "Elara Thorne."

"Elara." He said it slowly, tasting the syllables. "I'm Draeven Ashcroft, though you clearly already know that. Welcome to my lair." His eyes glinted with something that might have been humor. "I apologize for the dramatic entrance. The cavern was here when I arrived. I've always thought the throne was a bit much, but it came with the mountain."

I stared at him.

He stared back.

"Are you..." I shook my head. "Are you making jokes right now?"

"Would you prefer I roar and breathe fire? I can, if it would make you feel better about the murder attempt."

"I would prefer," I said through gritted teeth, "that you just get it over with. Kill me. Eat me. Whatever it is you do. I'm not going to beg, if that's what you're waiting for."

Something shifted in his expression. The amusement bled away, leaving something older. Sadder.

"I'm not going to kill you, Elara Thorne."

"Then what—"

"I'm going to offer you dinner," he said. "And a room. And in the morning, if you wish, I'll show you the passages that lead back down the mountain. The same passages every other tribute has used to leave."

The words didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense.

"You... let them go?"

"All of them."

"But the village—everyone thinks—"

"Everyone thinks I'm a monster who devours tributes." He turned away, moving toward a side passage I hadn't noticed. "I've found it easier to let them think that than to explain the truth."

"Which is?"

He paused, looking back over his shoulder. In the amber light, his eyes glowed like coals.

"That I'm just tired, Elara. Very, very tired. And your village's fear is easier than their understanding." He gestured toward the passage. "Come. You must be hungry. And you're bleeding."

I looked down. He was right—my palm was cut, probably from when I'd gripped the dagger too hard. Blood welled dark against my skin.

When I looked up again, Draeven was watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"I can smell it," he said quietly. "Your blood. Your fear. The poison you're carrying." His nostrils flared slightly. "Nightshade and hemlock, if I'm not mistaken. Ambitious."

My hand moved instinctively toward the vial at my breast.

"Don't." The word was soft but absolute. "I'm immune to most toxins. You'd be wasting good poison."

"How did you—"

"I'm a dragon, Elara. I can smell the intent to kill on you like perfume." He smiled then, and it was sharp enough to cut. "I find it... refreshing."

Then he turned and walked into the passage, leaving me standing there with a bloody hand and a head full of questions and a growing certainty that I'd just stepped into something far more complicated than simple death.

I looked at the dagger in my hand. At the dark passage where a dragon wearing a man's face had disappeared. At the cavern entrance behind me, where freedom waited.

I should run.

I should take whatever escape route he was talking about and get the hell out while I still could.

Instead, I wiped my bloody hand on my white robes and followed him into the dark.