Stories of Drak'Heim. Story 1: The First Daughter

Each click of Winona’s heels against the stone floors echoed off the palace walls, resonating through the cold, empty corridors. Now, this was her palace, her fortress, her home. Thoughts of her former home tightened her heart, making it hard to breathe. She could still clearly recall the dark gardens of her family’s estate, the ever-warm breeze of the eternal night, and the soft songs of the birds. But Nyx’Veil was no longer her home; her home was now here, on the island of Eldoria, in her husband’s palace—the Dragon Lord.

She had seen her husband only twice. The first time was when her father had brought her to Eldoria to meet him before the wedding. Rhian had needed just two minutes to assess her slight, delicate frame before he gave her father a curt nod, turned on his heel, and left without a word. Winona had trembled like a leaf at the sight of her future husband. He was imposing, with a solid, muscular build, short black hair, and pale skin. His dark armour and face were splattered with the blood of his enemies, the same enemies her father had helped him defeat in exchange for Rhian’s promise to take her as his bride.

The memory stung. The second time Winona saw Rhian was at their wedding, just a week ago. He hadn’t spoken a single word to her, nor had he offered her a single glance—except during the ceremony when they were to drink each other’s blood, binding their fates together. For what felt like an eternity, Winona couldn’t tear her gaze away from his almond-shaped, piercing blue eyes, their narrow pupils watching her intently. His blood had a searing, icy taste, yet Winona had forced herself to drink, each swallow a test of her resolve. Rhian’s eyes followed her every movement, even as he sipped her blood from his chalice.

“I, Winona Darkweaver, first daughter of Aldéric Darkweaver, take you, Rhian of the Emberclaw clan, as my husband. From this day forth and forevermore.”

“I, Dragon Lord Rhian of the Emberclaw clan, take you, Winona Darkweaver, first daughter of Aldéric Darkweaver, as my wife. From this day forth and forevermore.”

But as soon as those three long minutes were over and sacred vows were said, his attention returned to his people, to the women surrounding him, whom he did not hesitate to touch, even at his wedding. All the while, Winona sat beside him, feeling like an outsider, swallowed by the realization of her new, isolated role in his world.

The day after the wedding ceremony, Rhian left for war. Winona had anxiously awaited their first wedding night, imagining the weight of his robust frame pressing her down, his strength crushing her delicate bones. And he came. Winona watched him with a mixture of fear and wonder, following every movement of his powerful form as he silently removed his armour. Yet Rhian was gentle, cautious, and tender. Every touch seemed measured, every gesture thoughtful. Despite his imposing presence, he treated her with a care that surprised her.

But when Winona awoke the following day, she was alone. She’d spent the entire week in solitude, wandering through the palace’s endless halls, looking out over the Eldorian lands from her balcony, mesmerized by the lava waterfalls surrounding the fortress.

Now, she found herself standing before the massive doors to Rhian’s study, her hand clenched in a fist, hesitating just before knocking. The door was slightly ajar, and inside, she could hear the low murmur of voices—two men and a woman, judging by their tones. They spoke in Drakonis, a language foreign to Winona, filled with hissing and growling sounds that created a resonant, heavy cadence, nearly impossible for an outsider to decipher. Abruptly, the voices went silent, and the door swung open. Rhian stood in the doorway, towering over her like a dark fortress.

Inside, three figures remained—his Dragon Generals, she realized. Rhian growled a command in Drakonis, “Grgka’st Se,” and the generals began to move. None spared her a glance as they passed by.

“Come in,” he finally said in the Common Tongue, stepping aside and allowing her into the dim, smoke-scented room.

Winona stepped into the spacious study. The pieces on the strategy table in the centre of the room were arranged as if they were in the midst of planning something. The map sprawled out before her was unfamiliar, and the names of the territories were written in Drakonis, making them unreadable to her.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Winona said, turning back toward Rhian. “Not that I could understand anything,” she added, allowing herself an uncertain smile.

Rhian stood in silence, studying her with those cold, calculating eyes. She noticed his right hand clench as if he were trying to shake off some uncomfortable thought.

“Are you… comfortable?” Rhian asked, his voice deep and tinged with a heavy accent. His brows furrowed as if he were struggling to recall the words in the Common Tongue.

“Oh, yes, I have everything I need. Thank you,” Winona replied, blushing as she lowered her gaze.

“You lie. I can smell it,” Rhian growled, and Winona flinched. She had nearly forgotten that Draconiads could sense dishonesty. But it was more than that—his presence, the weight of his gaze, made her feel deeply uncomfortable.

“You’re right. I apologize for that,” Winona admitted, shifting nervously from one foot to another. “But truly, I do have everything I need. It’s just… well, I feel a bit lonely here in the palace.”

Rhian’s eyebrows shot up, clearly not expecting such a response.

“Well… I believe we can remedy that,” he finally replied after a moment of consideration. Just then, a knock on the study door interrupted their conversation. One of the Dragon Lord’s generals entered, bearing news from the battlefield, brought by a swift messenger. Rhian’s attention immediately shifted as he took the report from his second-in-command, General Cerys. Without turning back to her, he dismissed Winona with a curt, “We’ll talk later.”

Winona felt the weight of Cerys’s dark, disdainful gaze on her as she briefly glanced in her direction before refocusing her attention on Rhian. Winona lowered her head respectfully, excusing herself, and left the study, the heavy doors closing behind her with resounding finality.

***

The following morning, Winona’s maid informed her that the Dragon Lord had once again departed on official business and would be away for several weeks. However, before his departure, he had issued orders to remodel the palace wing where Winona resided, tailoring it entirely to her preferences. The maid presented Winona with the architectural plans proposed by the palace’s head architect. The designs included a new library stocked with books in the Common Tongue and in Winona’s native language, a greenhouse filled with flowers from Nyx’Veil, a luxurious bathing room with milk-water pools, and many other touches reminiscent of her father’s estate, yet foreign to these lands.

“But I don’t need all of this,” Winona protested, holding the plans and anxiously sorting through sketch after sketch.

“The Dragon Lord wishes for you to be comfortable here. It is his command,” the maid replied, her tone steady, her expression unreadable. Even the servants in the palace seemed to hold a certain disdain for Winona and her heritage, though they maintained a neutral facade. After all, this was only a political marriage. And though Rhian kept his distance, he was attempting, in his own way, to provide her with comfort, regardless of her origins. She should be grateful.

Week after week passed, and the palace walls gradually transformed, adopting the style so characteristic of Nyx’Veil. Rough stone structures gave way to dark, polished surfaces, and the rooms were draped in rich, shadowy fabrics that echoed the shades of her homeland. Each day, Winona felt the semblance of home forming around her. And yet, despite the familiar surroundings, she remained as isolated as ever, surrounded only by the watchful eyes of a dozen servants.

Winona wandered through the renovated wing for hours, occasionally falling asleep in the library amidst the soft glow of reading lamps, surrounded by books, or admiring the exotic flowers whose scent could lull mortals into a tranquil slumber. She lived in her small, solitary world, an existence that was both beautiful and unbearably lonely.

On the fifth week of Rhian’s absence, her maid brought her a letter. Winona’s hands trembled as she broke the seal of the Dragon Lord.

“Wife,

The battle in the Mortal Realms continues. I had hoped to return this week, but I must remain here longer. I trust you are enjoying your wing. Do not reply to this letter.

—Dragon Lord Rhian.”

The simplicity of his words hit her with the weight of distance and duty. Winona traced the letters on the page, lingering on each word as though they could somehow bridge the chasm between them. Despite the grandeur, the flowers, and the quiet luxury, she was still just an afterthought in Rhian’s world—a presence acknowledged but kept at arm’s length.

She carefully folded the letter, tucking it away in a drawer. The reminder of her isolation was tucked out of sight but never out of mind.

***

“My wife,

The war in the Mortal Realms is brutal and bloody. I am grateful you are spared from witnessing what I see here every day. I trust you are safe and well-nourished. Do not respond to this letter.

—Your husband, Dragon Lord Rhian.”

Winona traced her fingers over the words “my wife”. This was the third letter from Rhian in the past month, and she had followed his instruction to leave each unanswered. His messages were brief, offering only the barest glimpse into his life on the battlefield, yet each letter made her hands tremble. Every time, she half-dreaded reading the words that would say he’d lost the fight or, worse, that he’d been killed.

She imagined General Cerys, with her sharp, steely gaze, penning the news of his death and dispatching it to Winona. Sometimes, unwanted visions intruded—images of Cerys kissing Rhian, weary from battle and drenched in the blood of his enemies. Each thought left Winona unsettled, frustrated by her own jealous imaginings.

At the same time, she couldn’t understand why he wrote to her at all. They had barely exchanged words, and he was always so distant. She gently placed a hand on her still barely noticeable belly, where new life was beginning to grow. The shaman, who had been sent to her chambers when her monthly blood failed to come, had told her it would be a girl. Perhaps Rhian had been informed of her condition. So, she carefully folded each letter, hiding it safely in the drawer of her bedside table as if each one were a fragile, precious thing.

***

“Winona,

Tonight, I dreamed of you. Your small, delicate figure in my arms. This war feels like it’s driving me mad. I cannot wait for the day I can finally come home to you. I would love nothing more than to read a letter penned by your hand, but that could be dangerous. I look forward to our reunion. Do not respond to this letter.

—Your Rhian.”

Winona’s fingers clutched tightly around her husband’s tenth letter, and a foolish smile mingled with happy tears on her face. Her trembling fingers traced over the words, feeling the slight texture of the ink on the page, and she tried to imagine Rhian writing these words just for her. She struggled to recall his face, which she hadn’t seen in nearly three months now, and her heart ached with longing.

The faint image of his stern features lingered in her memory, those piercing blue eyes watching her intensely, even if only for the briefest moments on their wedding day. Now, with each word in his letters, she felt as if the distance between them lessened, even if only by an inch. She wondered if he thought of her often or if his words were a fleeting comfort written amidst the brutal chaos of war. But each letter breathed new hope into her, and she yearned for the day she would no longer have to imagine his presence beside her.

***

Winona’s heart raced as the maid handed her another letter from Rhian. With a mix of anticipation and nervousness, she broke the seal, her trembling fingers unfolding the page.

“My dearest Winona,

The war is over. We have won. I will be home soon. I cannot wait to hold you, to kiss you, my beloved Winona.

Forever yours,

Rhian.”

Her breath caught as she pressed the letter to her chest, biting her lower lip. Soon, her husband—her Rhian—would be home. She recalled his imposing figure, piercing blue eyes, and dark hair as black as raven’s feathers. How he had spoken with that slight uncertainty in the Common tongue… And yet, the care he poured into each precious letter he sent captivated her. Winona devoured every word, cherishing each line Rhian had penned, each promise of return. The thought of seeing him again, wrapping her arms around him and feeling the strength of his embrace, filled her with a joy she could hardly contain. Just a little longer, she would finally have him by her side.

***

The noise of the servants bustling through the palace corridors startled Winona awake. She quickly threw open her door, still in her nightgown, to find out that Rhian, along with his generals and army, had finally returned to Eldoria. Excitement surged through her as she darted toward the balcony that offered a sweeping view over the lands of the Emberclaw Clan straight down the main road leading to the fortress. And indeed, from the balcony, she could see the grand procession approaching the palace.

Smiling to herself, Winona hurried to her wardrobe, sifting through her dresses to find the perfect one for greeting her husband. Most of her gowns were now too small, but the maids had thoughtfully updated her wardrobe with attire better suited for her expanding figure. Her belly had grown considerably, a visible sign of the life she now carried.

She quickly readied herself, choosing the finest dress she could find, and, once dressed, she dashed out of her chambers, her heart racing, heading straight for the grand hall to welcome Rhian home.

The grand hall was already filled with people. Residents of the fortress gathered to welcome the Dragon Lord. Winona had to weave through the crowd to reach the front row, as most of the maids ignored her presence, indifferent to her as though she were invisible.

Rhian entered first, still astride his horse. Winona held her breath, admiring the sharp features of his face, the almost sickly paleness shared by all his kin. Even the splatters of blood on his face couldn’t diminish the sense of awe that overcame her as she gazed at her husband. Beside him rode Cerys, a pleased smile playing on her thin lips. All of the Dragon Lord’s generals were splattered in blood, as though they hadn’t had time to wash away the signs of battle—or perhaps didn’t want to. But Winona’s gaze reluctantly drifted from Rhian’s face to what rode behind him. A procession of soldiers followed, each bearing pikes with the heads of mortals, Elves, and even the Shadowsouls—her people.

A sickly, acidic sensation rose to her throat, and her head began to spin. She tried to avert her gaze from the war trophies, but her eyes locked onto one head in particular. Her father’s face, frozen in a mask of horror, mouth twisted as if in a silent scream. Bile rose even higher, and she clasped her hand over her mouth, trying to stave off the nausea, but it was futile. Winona doubled over and vomited onto the floor before her, and those around her recoiled in horror, their faces contorted in disgust.

The procession halted, and still bent over, Winona heard the sound of boots striking the stone floor, heavy footsteps echoing as they approached her.

“Are you alright, my wife?” Rhian’s voice was as low and rough as she remembered, his thick accent sending a shiver through her. His large hand gripped her chin, lifting her tear-streaked face to meet his gaze. Winona’s golden eyes met Rhian’s cold blue ones, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He was breathtaking—more beautiful than she remembered. The warmth of his hand on her face made goosebumps ripple across her skin, but the image of her father’s lifeless, horrified face lingered in her mind.

“I will take care of you, my wife. And of our first daughter,” he murmured into her ear, his voice soft yet chillingly possessive.