The Godblood Bride: Mending the Cursed Dragon Lord

Anya POV:

The convoy stopped at a desolate outpost named Dragon's Claw, a collection of rough stone buildings huddled against the biting wind. I sat alone in my dim room, the faint, acrid scent of crushed herbs lingering in the air.

I was carefully coating the tips of my newly crafted bone needles with a mild paralyzing sap—a low-tier dragon poison formula that had naturally surfaced in my awakened memories.

Martha paced frantically, her whispers a litany of worry, convinced my defiance of Lord Beaumont would turn my life in Carlisle's castle into a living hell.

I ignored her. I knew the real battlefield lay ahead.

The door burst open, slamming against the stone wall. My two "dear sisters," Isis and Livia, swept in, flanked by their sneering maids.

Isis, promised to the crown prince Alaric, was a vision in a fiery red riding habit. Her golden hair was perfectly coiled, her lips curved in a look of pure disdain. "Well, well. If it isn't our little sister, rushing off to her doom."

Livia, her ever-present shadow, chimed in with a giggle. "Don't be so harsh, sister. Perhaps the crippled lord has a taste for sickly little things."

Their maids tittered. Martha shrank into a corner, her face white with terror.

I slowly set down my needle, letting the ancient, arrogant blood of the Dragon God simmer beneath my calm exterior. I forced the soft, harmless smile of the old Elsa onto my face. "Did you two follow me all this way just to say that?"

My calm seemed to enrage Isis. She stalked forward, snatched a cup from the table, and sneered.

It was the inn's cheapest mead, a drink considered "coarse fare" by dragon-blooded nobles. She flicked her wrist, and the dark, sticky liquid arced through the air, soaking the front of the only decent cloak I owned.

"Oh, dear," she said, her voice dripping with fake surprise. "My hand slipped."

I looked at the dark stain, then back at her. They expected tears. They expected the familiar cowering. Instead, I smiled, my newly awakened predatory instincts humming.

"It's alright, sister," I said softly. "My hand slips sometimes, too."

Before she could process my words, my dragon-blood reflexes took over. I took a sharp step forward, my movements fluid and imperceptible, my foot intentionally "catching" on the leg of the table.

I stumbled, sending an entire platter of honey-drenched pastries sailing through the air. It landed with a wet smack squarely on the front of Isis's pristine, expensive riding habit.

A shriek tore from her throat as the sticky jam and crumbs slid down her bodice.

"You dare!" Livia screamed, her hand flying toward my face.

To my awakened senses, her slap moved in slow motion, clumsier than a newborn hatchling. I sidestepped with effortless grace, my foot hooking neatly around her ankle with calculated precision.

Livia yelped, losing her balance and pitching forward, crashing directly into Isis who was desperately scraping the mess off her dress.

They went down in a tangle of flailing limbs and furious curses, their perfect hair undone, their dignity in tatters. Their maids just stared, mouths agape, too shocked by this "accident" to help.

I walked over to them, looking down at their sprawled forms. My voice was gentle, but the latent, icy pressure of my true bloodline leaked into my tone. "Are you alright, sisters? You should be more careful."

My gaze fell on a small object on the floor, knocked loose in the scuffle. A brooch, fashioned with a single, small red dragon crystal. It was the only thing my mother had left me. I picked it up, letting a fraction of my dormant power touch the stone. It instantly flared with a warm, inner fire.

"And another thing," I said, pinning the glowing brooch back onto my dress. "My things? You don't get to touch them anymore. Every bit of suffering you inflicted... I will collect that debt. In full."

They stared up at me, breathless, a primal, inexplicable fear dawning in their eyes. The oppressive aura rolling off me was not the weak Elsa they knew.

"We're leaving," I said to the petrified Martha.

By the time a frantic Lord Beaumont arrived, all he found were his two precious daughters—one hysterical, the other shivering with a terror she couldn't explain—and an empty road stretching toward the mountains.

In the carriage, Martha finally found her voice, looking at me with awe and terror. "My lady..."

I ignored her, turning the dragon crystal brooch over in my fingers. Lord Beaumont must be furious, realizing the "lamb" he'd sent to the slaughter had suddenly grown fangs. But his real worry would be the lack of an official welcoming party from the groom—a profound insult in dragon society.

I, on the other hand, didn't care. If Gideon Carlisle wouldn't come for his bride, then his bride would march right into his lair. I was getting into that castle, armed with my ancestors' arts, one way or another.