Thrice Blessed with the Dragon Princes

Chapter 4

I sat in the cold, damp darkness of the dungeon, the familiar scent of mildew and decay filling my lungs. How many times had I been locked in here? I’d lost count. Every time I made a mistake, or rather, every time my father decided I’d made a mistake. This was where I ended up. The stone walls were my only companions, their rough surfaces etched with the faint scratches I’d made over the years, marking the passage of time. I’d even managed to hide a key here, a small act of defiance that gave me a sliver of hope, though I rarely used it. Escaping the dungeon didn’t mean escaping my life.

As I sat there, my mind drifted back to the fragments of my past, the memories that haunted me like ghosts. I was only 6 years old when I witnessed my father kill my mother.

My mother, unable to bear my father a son, became the target of his constant frustration. Their arguments were frequent and explosive, the air between them thick with resentment. Seeking solace elsewhere, my father turned to a dragoness, a mistress who soon became the center of his world. When my mother discovered his infidelity, her rage knew no bounds. In a fit of fury, she unleashed her magic, striking down the dragoness in a blaze of vengeance.

The news of the mistress’s death enraged my father, and the two of them clashed in a violent, brutal fight. The image of that night is forever burned into my memory: my mother’s body crumpled in a pool of blood, her eyes wide and unseeing, lifeless. After that, any semblance of love my father might have once had—if it could even be called love—vanished completely. In its place came a torrent of verbal abuse and physical violence. I became his punching bag, his scapegoat, his tool. After that, our clan fell into disarray, neglected and crumbling under the weight of my father’s spiraling descent. His temper grew darker and more unpredictable, a storm that no one could weather. The servants and soldiers, once loyal and steadfast, began to flee in fear for their lives. Those who didn’t escape met a grim end—slain by my father’s own hand in fits of uncontrollable rage.

When I was twelve, my father began taking me to gatherings of the dragon clans. The events were grand yet intimidating, filled with powerful figures. It wasn’t until much later that I realized his true purpose. My father wasn’t bringing me to these gatherings to educate me or introduce me to our kind. No, he had a far more calculated plan. He was showcasing me.

But it was at one of these gatherings that I first met Justin. He was a prince from another clan, and unlike everyone else, he was kind to me. He didn’t mock my shy demeanor. Instead, he smiled and talked to me like I was a person, not a burden. We became fast friends, sneaking away to play whenever we could. He told me I was beautiful. He even told me that he would choose me as his mate when we grew up. For a while, I believed him. But then, as the male heir of his tribe, he was sent north for training. I never saw him again.

Until today.

Today, I saw him standing there, amidst the crowd, as Tiffany and her gang tore at my clothes, exposing the scars that marked my body. I had hoped, foolishly, that he would remember me, that he would step in and stop them. But he didn’t. He just stood there, his expression blank, as if I were a stranger. The laughter of the crowd echoed in my ears, their jeers cutting deeper than any blade. I was humiliated, exposed, and utterly alone.

I couldn’t do this anymore. I couldn’t keep living as my father’s pawn, a tool for his gain. I was tired, so tired of the pain, the shame, the endless cycle of abuse. What was the point of living if this was all my life would ever be?

I wiped the tears from my face, my hands trembling as I tried to steady my breathing. If I was going to end it, I needed a plan. Jumping off a cliff wouldn’t work; my dragon blood would likely keep me alive, though I might break a few bones. No, I needed something more certain. My thoughts turned to the Emberheart Dagger, a relic of our tribe that my father kept locked away. It was said to be imbued with ancient magic, capable of piercing even the toughest dragon scales. If anything could end my suffering, it was that.

The next day, when sunlight filtered into the dungeon, I knew my father had left. I reached behind the lamp, my fingers closing around the hidden key. With a deep breath, I unlocked the door and slipped out, my heart pounding in my chest.

I made my way to his study, the room dark and foreboding. I didn’t need light to find what I was looking for. I opened the drawer in his desk, my hands trembling as I reached inside.

There it was—the Emberheart Dagger.

The weapon was cold in my hands, its weight both comforting and terrifying. I had seen my father wield it countless times, his movements swift and deadly.

I carried the dagger to the living room, my mind a whirlwind of emotions.

I was about to raise the dagger when I heard it—a loud, insistent knocking at the door.

My heart stopped.

For a moment, I thought it was my father. But then I remembered I had locked the door.

The knocking came again, more urgent this time.

I tightened my grip on the dagger, my knuckles turning white.

“Go away!” I shouted, my voice shaking with anger and fear. “I’m done with you! I’m done with all of you!”

The words poured out of me, a torrent of pain and rage that I had kept bottled up for years. I screamed at my father, at Tiffany, at everyone who had ever hurt me. I screamed until my throat was raw, until I couldn’t breathe.

And then, in one final, desperate act, I raised the dagger and brought it down toward myself, and cut my neck.

The door was burst open. Light flooded the room, blinding me. I stumbled back, the dagger slipping from my hands as I fell to the floor.

My vision blurred, but I could make out the figures standing in the doorway—three silhouettes, backlit by the harsh sunlight. I couldn’t see their faces, couldn’t tell who they were. My strength was gone, my body too weak to fight or even to wonder.

The last thing I felt was the cold floor beneath me, and the last thing I heard was the sound of footsteps rushing toward me.

And then, there was nothing.