The Dragon King's Blind Mate

Bed

The throne room erupted into pure chaos.

"In your bed? Without the council's approval?" Lord Boros bellowed, his face turning a deep, angry crimson that clashed with his silver hair. "This violates every protocol of the dragon court!"

"Who is this woman?" another lord demanded, stepping over the velvet carpets to press toward the dais. "What is her lineage? Is she a pureblood? We have a right to know who will carry the royal line!"

"Is she of a noble bloodline?" a younger lord shouted from the back, his hand gripping the hilt of his ceremonial sword.

Xalvador didn't answer. He leaned back on his throne of shadows, waving a careless hand through the chilly air. A small cluster of glowing blue berries materialized between his fingers. He popped one into his mouth, chewing slowly, his dark gold gaze sweeping over the shouting assembly with absolute boredom.

The nobles continued to yell, their voices bouncing harshly off the high stone arches. They argued about politics, ancient bloodlines, and the succession law, each trying to outshout the other.

"Silence!" Boros tried to command his peers, but his voice was swallowed by the din.

"We demand an explanation, Your Grace!" Malakor yelled, slamming his heavy fist against a marble pillar.

But the longer the King sat there silently eating, the more their collective anger curdled into uneasy confusion. One by one, the voices fizzled out, swallowed by his total indifference. Within minutes, the hall returned to a tense, suffocating silence. Every single eye was fixed on Xalvador.

He swallowed the last blue berry, dusted his palms together, and looked up. "Are we finished with the tantrum?"

No one dared to breathe.

"Good," Xalvador said, his voice smooth and cold as ice. "Does anyone have a legitimate question, or should I return to my chambers?"

Lord Boros cleared his throat, his posture stiffening to mask his humiliation. "Your Grace. If we are to accept this... sudden arrangement, we must at least have a name. Who is the girl?"

"Her name is Lyra," Xalvador said.

Behind the throne, Vaelen’s eyes narrowed slightly at the sound of the human name, but he kept his features perfectly blank.

"Lyra?" Boros repeated, searching his memory for any prominent human houses. "From which territory? The eastern borders or the southern ports?"

"It does not concern you," Xalvador replied flatly.

Boros bowed stiffly, his eyes flashing with hidden resentment. "Then we are pleased you have found a companion, Your Grace. We look forward to her introduction. But remember, the court has eyes everywhere. A vessel must be flawless. If her vision of this kingdom is... lacking, the lords will notice."

Xalvador’s eyes darkened at the cryptic jab, but his mocking smile didn't fade. "She will be introduced in two days' time. Prepare the court. Ensure the wine is bitter enough to match your dispositions."

He stood up, his dark cloak billowing behind him like a shadow, and walked off the dais without another word.

"Two days?" Malakor muttered angrily under his breath. "This is madness."

The nobles muttered after him, but he ignored them, striding through the grand doors and heading straight back to his private wing. When he entered his chambers, he gestured to a servant lingering in the hall. "Bring a feast now. And ensure it is fit for a mortal palate."

"Right away, Your Grace," the servant squeaked, bowing so low his nose nearly touched the floor.

Minutes later, a massive silver tray loaded with roasted meats, seasoned vegetables, and sweet breads was set on the table near his bed. Xalvador dismissed the servants with a sharp flick of his wrist and pulled up a chair.

He didn't eat. Instead, he sat in the dark, his gold-flecked eyes fixed entirely on Lyra. He watched the steady, shallow rise and fall of her chest beneath the heavy fur covers. Hours bled together in the sunless room.

“Wake her up,” Yves grumbled in his mind, the dragon spirit pacing restlessly against his consciousness. “She is weak. She needs sustenance. Why do you let her sleep so long?”

“Because she is terrified of me,” Xalvador snapped back internally. “Let her rest.”

“She is hungry. Wake her or I will.”

Before Xalvador could reply, the sheets shifted. Lyra stirred, her eyelids fluttering open to reveal those wide, unseeing pupils.

The first thing that hit her senses was the rich, savory aroma of roasted meat and sweet spices. Her stomach gave a loud, treacherous rumble in the quiet room. Lyra winced, her face flushing with immediate embarrassment. She struggled to sit up, her muscles still feeling heavy and completely drained from the encounter before. Trembling, she tentatively stretched her right hand out, trying to find the edge of the mattress to ground herself.

Before her fingers could sweep through the empty air, a cool, broad palm caught her hand, wrapping around her slender fingers.

"Be still," Xalvador commanded.

Lyra froze instantly, her breath catching in her throat. She pulled her arm back against her chest, nodding rapidly. "I... I am sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Do not move," Xalvador repeated, his tone flat and unyielding.

Every muscle in her body went rigid. Don't move, she told herself, terror gripping her chest. Don't make him angry. If you disobey, he will hurt you. Just like Stephanie, just like the guards.

Xalvador’s eyebrows straightened as he noted her absolute submission. She was like a statue, deadly quiet, her face pale with fear. He picked up a silver spoon, lifting a portion of warm, thick broth from the tray.

"Open your mouth," he said.

Lyra hesitated for a fraction of a second, the rich smell overwhelming her senses. She parted her lips slightly. "Is... is it poison?" she managed to breathe out, her voice trembling.

"If I wanted you dead, human, I wouldn't waste my royal broth on you," Xalvador snapped. "Now eat."

He slid the spoon in. The warm, rich broth tasted incredible against her parched, scarred throat. She swallowed greedily, desperate for the strength. But before she could even process the taste, another spoonful was pressed against her lips.

"Again," Xalvador murmured.

"It is... very good," she whispered between bites, trying to appease the terrifying man sitting in the dark beside her.

"Then keep swallowing," he said.

He didn't slow down. He fed her piece after piece of tender meat, followed by spoonfuls of heavy grains and sweet fruit.

"Take more," Xalvador ordered, forcing another large portion past her lips.

"Sir, please—"

"Quiet. You are half-starved. Eat."

Lyra chewed and swallowed as fast as she could, her heart hammering against her ribs. She wanted to tell him she was getting full, but the fear of his dark, heavy presence locked her throat. She couldn't say no to a king. Spoonful after spoon, her stomach stretched, growing uncomfortably tight and heavy. The rich, greasy food began to churn violently in her gut.

Xalvador lifted another piece of meat. "Eat."

"I... I cannot," she choked out, tears prickling her blind eyes.

"I said eat, Lyra."

Lyra opened her mouth to try, but the moment the food touched her tongue, her stomach completely revolted. A violent spasm racked her small frame. Lyra gasped, and before she could turn her head, she threw up. The warm, acidic contents of her stomach sprayed directly across Xalvador’s immaculate silk robe and onto his chest.

A low, deep growl rumbled from the King's throat.

Oh no, Lyra thought, her mind spiraling into absolute, blind terror as she sat frozen in the dark. He's going to kill me. I've ruined everything. This is the end.