The Dragon King's Blind Mate

Strike Two

The damp air of the dungeon clung to Lyra’s skin like wet silk. Every step forward felt heavy, the rhythmic sloshing of shallow water beneath her shoes echoing against the unseen stone walls. Being blind in the Court of Shadows was already a nightmare, but down here, the darkness felt absolute, suffocating, and alive.

She paused, tilting her head. A faint metallic rattle cut through the silence.

"Who's there?" Lyra called out, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to sound brave. "Is someone there?"

"A visitor," a voice rasped from the dark. It was hollow, dry as dust, yet undeniably female. "A rare luxury in a place built for forgetting."

Lyra took a cautious step toward the sound. "Who are you?"

"My name is Lilith," the voice replied. A heavy clink of chains followed, sharp and echoing. "And who might you be, little bird, wandering into the dark without your eyes?"

"I am Lyra." She held her breath, trying to map out the room by sound alone. "Why are you here? What did you do to be locked away in a place like this?"

Lilith let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Why am I here? I ask myself that every time the torches burn out. I don’t know, truly. I only know that the dark became too much, and I prayed. I prayed to the gods for help, over and over, until my throat was raw."

Lyra felt a sudden pull of empathy, her chest tightening. "Did they answer you?"

"They sent you, didn't they?" Lilith’s chains rattled again, closer this time. "I need help, Lyra. You have to help me."

"Help you how?" Lyra asked, stepping forward, her hands reaching out into the empty air.

"Just help me," Lilith repeated, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "That is all you need to know for now. Just promise you will."

"I can't promise anything unless you tell me what exact help you need," Lyra insisted, frustration mingling with her fear. "Why won't you just tell me? And you still haven't explained why they put you in these chains. I can ask the King—"

"Xalvador?" Lilith interrupted, the name dripping from her tongue like poison. "You speak of the King so fondly. Do you want to know why I am down here in the dirt, Lyra?"

Lyra froze. "Why?"

"Because I am a seer," Lilith whispered, the words hovering in the cold air between them. "I see the threads of time. I see the blood before it spills. And I saw a prophecy. I prophecied that the King will kill his mate."

The words struck Lyra like a physical blow. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart hammering violently against her ribs. Kill his mate? Xalvador?

"No," Lyra breathed, shaking her head, backing away a step. "No, that's not true."

"It is the absolute truth," Lilith said, her voice dropping to a chillingly smooth cadence. "He discovered what I saw. He couldn't handle the truth of his own monstrous nature, so he dragged me down here. He imprisoned me to bury the prophecy. He thinks he can hide from fate. Are you scared, Lyra? You should be."

"He wouldn't do that," Lyra whispered, though her own voice sounded unconvincing to her ears. The cold dread washing over her was paralyzing.

"He would, and he will," Lilith countered sharply. "But you cannot stay here. If they find you in this corridor, you will never see the light of day again. You shouldn't pass back through the way you came. The guards are already moving."

"What? How am I supposed to leave then?" Lyra asked, panic coloring her words. "I don't know any other way out!"

"Listen to me," Lilith commanded. A sudden, sharp tear of reality echoed through the cell—a low, humming sound that vibrated right through Lyra's bones. The scent of ozone and burning sage filled the damp air. "I am opening a portal. It will take you directly to your room. Step through it. Now!"

"A portal? But how—"

"Go!" Lilith hissed. "Before it's too late!"

Lyra didn't argue further. The terror of the prophecy and the fear of being caught pushed her forward. She lunged toward the humming energy, the sensation of stepping through the portal knocking the wind right out of her chest.

In the blink of an eye, the heavy smell of the dungeon vanished. Lyra stumbled forward, landing hard on the soft, familiar rug of her own bedroom. She gasped, rubbing her arms, her heart still racing at an alarming speed. The room was perfectly quiet.

Before she could even process the words of the seer, the heavy wooden door to her chambers clicked.

Lyra scrambled up, throwing herself onto the bed and pulling the thick silk sheets over her body just as the door swung open. She forced her breathing to slow down, pretending to be trapped in a deep slumber.

"Miss?"

It was Cain’s voice. He stepped into the room, his heavy boots clicking faintly against the floorboards. He paused by the edge of her bed, the silence stretching out between them for a tense, agonizing moment. Lyra kept her muscles relaxed, her eyes tightly shut, praying he wouldn't notice the frantic thumping of her heart beneath the blanket.

After what felt like an eternity, Cain let out a soft sigh, turned on his heel, and exited the room, locking the door firmly behind him.

Lyra let out a long, shaky breath, burying her face into the pillow. The sheer exhaustion of the night finally caught up to her, her eyelids growing heavier by the second. As she finally closed her eyes to drift off into an uneasy sleep, the scene back in the deepest depths of the dungeon shifted.

Down in the dark, Lilith stood perfectly still against the stone wall. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face, pulling the corners of her cracked lips upward.

She lifted her chained hands, watching them in the dim light. They were delicate, slender, and bore the exact same markings, scars, and shape as Lyra's hands. Identical down to the very last detail.

"Strike two," Lilith muttered into the empty space, her voice echoing with a terrifying malice.

The moment the words left her mouth, a mass of pure, pitch-black shadow detached itself from her body. It swirled through the iron bars of the cell, dropping to the floor before tearing out of the dungeon corridor at an alarming, unnatural speed, rushing upward toward the unsuspecting court above.