The Cursed Dragon and His Bride

All Fires Were Extinguished

The festival was huge. For three days, the people of Voltaire celebrated their country’s birth. Streets were filled with cheerful music all day long. Vendors and merchants from across the country gathered in the capital in hopes to gain more profit. There was one commodity that was commonly sold, the small statue of Eric the Great, the first king of Voltaire. Smiles and laughter, even dances can be seen on every corner.

Lyria frowned at their happiness. A suffocating feeling spread on her chest as she saw a kid smiled brightly when he received the infamous statue.

This country that refused to help her country in dire need Tollyria had helped Voltaire hugely before. This country, who did not care that the world was at stake. This wretched country saw Lyria only as a doll to gain the power of Tollyria.

The taste of bile had risen to Lyria’s throat again. Her stomach churned. A rising heat covered her body.

Before she felt the urge to puke, she looked away from the window. Unfortunately for her, her eyes glimpsed herself in the mirror wearing the cream-colored dress that madam Gina had picked for her. Lyria actually thought that the color suited her white skin and honey-colored hair.

They braided her hair to one side, covered by pearls and silver dust. A small but elegant tiara sat on the crown of her head.

She looked at her face. Madam Gina had grumbled beforehand that Lyria’s skin was too white for her to put on any decent makeup. In the end, Madam Gina only put red powder on Lyria’s lips and black ink to trace her eyes. “None of the powders fit your skin tone here, so you have to make do with your natural skin,” Madam Gina had said.

Lyria did not answer her. She had no interest in pleasing the eyes of Voltarians. After all, it would be a masquerade ball. Masks would be worn to cover the faces.

But as she gazed at her own reflection, an odd feeling reached her. She felt like looking a stranger wearing her own skin. She could not see the trace of the girl she had been. She bit her own lips because of the way her own gaze unnerved her. Lifeless and gaunt.

What can you do alone? She asked herself.

Helpless.

A knock on the door woke her up from her trance.

“Lyria?” Marquis Bollein appeared from behind the door. The old man had on a black vest with a velvet tie. He had trimmed his beard earlier, resulting in a neat look for a middle-aged man.

The man stopped when he finally took in Lyria’s whole appearance. His pupils shook a little.

“You look like your aunt,” he said. His tone sounded weak but full of love. Seeing this side of her uncle, Lyria forced a smile on her lips.

“Was she beautiful?”

“Better,” his uncle answered firmly. “She was radiant. Marrying her was the best choice of my life.”

A thorn had pricked Lyria’s heart when he said those words. Marquis Bollein married Lyria’s aunt, a princess of Tollyria. Despite being white-skinned, her uncle considered her aunt as the apple of his eyes. Her chest felt suffocating now as she thought of how her aunt had died young due to an illness.

Marquis Bollein offered one of his hands to Lyria. Casting a warm glance to her uncle, the only one on her side in the cruel and prejudiced country, Lyria took his arm.

A white carriage brought her uncle and Lyria to the palace. When the palace staff announced her name, the crowded ballroom went still. All eyes went to Lyria, raking her very being as if vultures waiting for someone to die. Unconsciously, Lyria gripped her uncle’s arm harder. Gently, her uncle put his other arm to Lyria’s knuckle. He gave her a squeeze as if to support her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered very faintly. Lyria’s eyes went blurry. She blinked fast and hard to return her vision.

“No,” she said. Her throat felt clogged by stones. “It’s my own fault for not being strong enough.”

“Lyria…” Marquis Bollein turned to her. But before he could say anything, Lyria had stepped down the stairs. She stopped two stairs below Marquis Bollein as if waiting for him. Without any say, her uncle followed her lead and started escorting her to the ballroom floor.

While Marquis Bollein was worried about how Lyria got all the attention of the nobles, Lyria was more busy scanning the ballroom to find someone. She forced down the anxious feeling due to the gaze of nobles as she reminded herself to focus on her sliver of hope. She needed to find the King of Voltaire.

Found him.

A bronze-skinned man wearing an eagle-shaped mask. He wore a velvet satin vest with golden vines strewn on the arms and shoulders. They put rubies on the collar, which makes him stand out even more. Not because of his expensive clothes, but because of his confident and overbearing aura.

“Uncle,”  called Lyria, “There’s something you can do to help me.”

Her uncle beamed at the chance.

“Tell me what it is. Anything.”

“Escort me to the King.”

***

The King of Voltaire was surrounded by high-ranking nobles. All were wearing their best garments and smiles to get along with the number one person in the country. Lyria could immediately smell sweet empty flatteries leaving their mouths as their eyes glinted with greed. They circled the King, almost leaving no room for Lyria and her uncle to enter. 

But the marquis's position still held power in the social circle. As soon as the nobles saw her uncle, they parted to give room to the marquis. Lyria urged her uncle to walk directly to the King. Some noble ladies already started to whisper about Lyria. The words 'audacity' and 'shameless' pricked Lyria's ears.

Sensing that he was sought, the King turned his attention to Lyria and her uncle. As per custom, the marquis greeted the King first then introduced Lyria. At the mention of her name, Lyria curtsied. "May the Eternal Sun of Voltaire always shines," Lyria recited the customary greeting to the King. 

Then Lyria took a risk.

"Might I have the honor to dance with the King?" 

Lyria could hear gasps escaped the nobles' mouths and her uncle's mouth. The marquis' grip on Lyria tightened. 

"What are you planning, Lyria?" the marquis whispered to her ear. 

"My only chance of survival," Lyria whispered back.

The atmosphere had sunk as the King stretched his silence. More nobles gathered to see the theatric drama. And Lyria held her breath. Cold sweats formed on the back of her neck.

Unexpectedly, the King burst into laughter. As if on cue, the nobles laughed as well. Lyria let out the breath she was holding. 

"It would be my pleasure," said the King. Lyria smiled at this minor victory. She would have the chance to appeal to the King. She had a chance to finally send help to her home country. Hope, finally did not seem impossible. A fire had rekindled inside of her. 

"I would love it all the more to have a private dance with you, far from prying eyes." The King took steps toward Lyria. "How about you wait for me at the balcony?" 

Lyria blinked. She could hear snickers and laughter from the nobles. Even Lyria knew that his words were laced with mockery. An engaged woman in Voltaire should uphold her virtue by not seeing another man in private. Lyria could easily be falsely accused by Duke Frelie and it would be the King's words against her. 

But the small hope to save her country was too sweet that she waved all of her doubts. Against her better judgment, she nodded to the King. She saw the King's smile widened. Immediately she heard whispers of degrading words such as 'slut,' 'improper,' 'dirty' from the nobles that were watching. She pretended to not hear them. 

She still clung to the little fire inside her as she curtsied the King again and walked toward the balcony. She passed nobles who glared at her action that was considered improper for ladies. 

'Ridiculous,' Lyria thought, 'The King was the one who asked me but only the woman who got backlashed.'

Lyria had gotten to the point of not being able to withstand any more of Voltaire's bigotry. And yet she held her chin high and walked calmly. She told herself that there was still hope.

The air was cold that night on the balcony. Yet she held on to that hope.

Even if she had waited for more than she had thought she would, she tightened her grip on that hope. "I have been through a lot. It's enough misery for one, don't you think? I'm not asking much," she whispered quietly to the night, "Just give my country a chance to save itself."

After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, the curtain of the balcony finally moved. A man was entering the balcony. Lyria's heart began to beat feverishly at the anticipation. 

The curtain revealed a tall man dressed in a simple black suit carrying two glasses of champagne. He was wearing a dragon mask. He had the same shade of skin as the King. He had the same intimidating aura. But he was by no mean a king. The man looked at Lyria with pity from behind his mask.

Lyria's heart lurched to the ground. All fires she had inside her were extinguished in one sweep moment. 

Why is it so painful to hope?