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The Last Dragon Princess
—-
Damian vividly remembered the first time he saw Princess Anya Forger of Westalis and her dragon, Starlight. It was a clear summer day, the castle bathed in golden light. The attendants had fussed over Damian, scrubbing him clean in a long bath and fitting him into crisp new clothes adorned with the Desmond sigil: a majestic griffin in grey and black, the emblem of their ancient and proud lineage. While the griffins of old had vanished, the sigil remained a powerful reminder of their family’s noble bloodline. Damian, eager to see a real dragon, had devoured every book he could find, fantasizing about their size, their power, and their majesty. He stood rigid and restless, overshadowed by his father’s presence and his mother’s firm grip on his shoulders, which anchored him in place beside his brother Demetrius.
Demetrius, the crown prince and future ruler of Ostania, was already tall, his expression carefully neutral, but Damian could sense his brother’s indifference to the proceedings. For Demetrius, this was just another duty, another performance in the endless parade of royal obligations. Unlike Damian, who was forever aware of his role as the spare, often overlooked and dismissed, Demetrius was the center of their parents’ attention, though not by his own choice. He never seemed to enjoy anything, and his disinterest in people and politics was palpable, his expression perpetually blank as though nothing ever truly reached him.
The grand doors of the castle swung open, and knights bearing the vibrant forest green of House Forger entered, their armor gleaming under the afternoon sun. The sigil of the chimera on their chests was a symbol of Westalis’ newfound power—a recent creation rather than a relic of the old world like the griffin. The chimera was a reminder that House Forger had clawed its way to power through innovation and force, rather than tradition as they were now the last family who were able to bond with dragons. A blonde knight with piercing blue eyes led the way, clearly the princess’s bodyguard, followed closely by Anya herself, petite and ethereal in a silver dress that made her pink hair stand out even more starkly against the opulence of the hall. Beside her was her other guard, a woman with dark hair and crimson eyes, dressed in the somber garb of an assassin.
Damian’s eyes fell on Anya—small, almost fragile-looking, with a quiet demeanor that belied her titles. At just six years old, she seemed more like a porcelain doll than the guardian of dragons she was proclaimed to be. He couldn’t reconcile this delicate figure with the weighty titles and power that her presence commanded. Someone, maybe his mother or perhaps Jeeves, his attendant, had mentioned that she was an orphan, and Damian felt a strange mix of pity and curiosity toward her.
“Please see first in her name, Anya Forger, Princess of all Westalis and guardian of its dragons,” her knight declared, his voice echoing through the hall as they stopped before the Desmond family.
Damian’s breath caught as Anya’s vivid emerald eyes met his, so bright and alive that he nearly flinched under their gaze. They reminded him of the finest jewels his father kept locked away, the kind of treasures that were beyond the reach of mere mortals.
“Welcome to Berlint and Desmond Castle, Your Highness,” King Donovan said, his voice a polished veneer of royal protocol. The Desmonds bowed in unison, a carefully rehearsed display of respect that felt hollow to Damian, who had always felt like an afterthought in such family spectacles.
Anya curtsied, her eyes flicking to the floor, her shyness evident in the way she clung to her knight’s presence. “Thank you for having us,” the knight said in her stead, his voice the embodiment of control and poise, speaking for the princess who was still too young to shoulder the burden of her role fully.
As the adults engaged in a series of polite exchanges and formalities, Damian grew impatient. Where was the dragon? He had heard tales of their grandeur, of beasts that could swallow men whole and set forests ablaze with a single breath. But all he saw was a timid little girl and her entourage. His heart sank, disappointment creeping in like a slow tide.
As if sensing his frustration, Anya’s gaze lifted from the floor. Her small voice carried through the hall, unexpectedly commanding, “Starlight, come.”
A shrill cry echoed from the skies, and a silver-white dragon swooped into the hall, its scales shimmering in the sunlight with a vast array of colors. Starlight circled above, its wings beating rhythmically, before landing delicately beside Anya. It was smaller than Damian had imagined—closer in size to a pony than the gargantuan beasts he’d envisioned—but there was a latent power in its movements, a grace that spoke of a creature still growing into its full potential. The dragon nuzzled against Anya, their matching green eyes gleaming with a bond that was clearly unbreakable.
The adults soon retreated to discuss matters of state in more private quarters, leaving Anya and her dragon to rest. Queen Melinda turned to Damian, her tone brisk and expectant. “Damian, escort the princess to her quarters while her belongings are arranged.”
Damian nodded, concealing his irritation at being treated like a servant rather than a prince. He approached Anya hesitantly, mindful of the dragon’s watchful gaze. “Hello,” he greeted her, awkwardness creeping into his voice as he tried to strike the right balance between formality and friendliness.
Anya looked up at him with an air of calm that seemed far beyond her years. Her presence was disarming, the vibrant pink of her hair and the sharpness of her eyes making her seem otherworldly. “Can you follow me?” he asked, feeling the weight of her gaze as much as that of the dragon’s.
They made their way to one of the furthest towers in the castle, a secluded space that offered privacy but little else. Damian wondered why she’d been placed so far from the heart of the castle until he realized that this was no ordinary guest—Anya needed space for her dragon. As soon as they reached the room, Starlight let out a small, impatient sound, and Anya moved to the large double window, flinging it open. Without hesitation, Starlight took flight, its sleek form cutting through the air as it soared above the cliffs on the castle’s edge.
“She hates being inside for too long,” Anya said quietly, her eyes following the dragon’s path. There was a wistfulness in her voice, a longing for freedom that Damian couldn’t quite place.
Damian watched in silent awe, his gaze shifting between the dragon and the girl who commanded it with such ease. “I’m Anya,” she finally said, turning to face him fully, her expression softening. “And you are?”
“Prince Damian Desmond,” he replied, offering a polite bow as protocol dictated, though it felt strangely out of place in the informal intimacy of the tower room.
From that moment on, Damian and Anya’s paths became intertwined. She spent much of her time within Desmond Castle, partaking in lessons with Damian and Demetrius, though it was Damian she found herself paired with most often. Months turned into years, and her visits became a constant in his life, punctuated by the rhythmic beat of dragon wings as Starlight grew into a formidable creature, far too large to fit within the castle walls. Each time Anya returned, Damian felt a strange flutter in his chest, a mixture of anticipation and something deeper that he couldn’t quite name.
Now, at nineteen, Damian stood much taller than his mother, no longer needing her guiding hands on his shoulders. He matched his father in height, though his presence in the court still felt like that of an afterthought. Demetrius, at twenty-six, was slight of build and perpetually stooped, his demeanor more akin to an old man’s than that of a young prince. He stood beside Damian, his expression unreadable as the announcement that everyone had been anticipating finally came.
“It is time that we propose a proper union of our houses: the betrothal of Crown Prince Demetrius of House Desmond, the future ruler of Ostania, and the future queen of all Westalis and guardian of its dragons, Anya of House Forger,” the high clergyman proclaimed, his voice echoing through the hall.
Demetrius remained stoic, his face a mask of disinterest as always. He had never shown any desire for companionship, his nature seemingly immune to the usual trappings of human connection. The prospect of marriage, even a political one, seemed to phase him as little as any other courtly duty. He was simply a vessel for the throne, nothing more, and certainly nothing less.
Anya, standing with her head held high, glanced toward her guardians—the knight and the assassin who had become her surrogate parents. She took a deep breath before speaking, her voice strong despite the tumult of emotions she must have been feeling. “I accept,” she said, her words clear and steady. Even at eighteen, her presence was commanding, her beauty radiant in a summer dress that clung to her form in all the right places, accentuating the grace she had grown into.
Damian’s eyes lingered on her, caught by the elegance and strength that radiated from her. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of something—jealousy, anger, maybe even longing—as he watched the scene unfold. This was the culmination of years of expectations, a destiny everyone had seen coming but no one had dared to name until now.
Demetrius, still impassive, finally spoke. “I accept,” he said simply, his voice devoid of warmth or interest, as if he were agreeing to something as mundane as the weather.
But instead of turning her attention to Demetrius, Anya’s gaze found Damian’s. It was a fleeting glance, but it carried the weight of all the years they had spent together, the unspoken words, the hidden smiles, and the quiet moments stolen away from the watchful eyes of the court. Her eyes spoke volumes, a silent communication that passed between them, igniting the tension that had always simmered beneath the surface.
The celebrations that followed were customary, a display of unity that neither Anya nor Demetrius seemed to care for. Demetrius, as usual, did not partake in the revelry, his lack of enthusiasm plain for all to see. Anya moved through the motions with the grace expected of her, but her smile never quite reached her eyes.
Later that night, as the castle settled into darkness, Damian slipped from his chambers, moving through the hidden passages he knew by heart. The walls of Desmond Castle were like a second skin to him, and the shadows were his closest companions. He navigated the narrow, pitch-black tunnels with ease, his steps silent on the cold stone floors. This was not the first time he’d made this journey, nor would it be the last.
He knocked quietly on a familiar door, his heart thudding in his chest. When it opened, he was greeted by Anya, dressed in a silk nightgown that clung to her in a way that made Damian’s breath hitch. She looked more like a queen already married than a girl betrothed to another.
“Oh, Damian,” she breathed, her face lighting up as she saw him. She wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace, her lips finding his in a kiss that was desperate, almost frantic. Damian returned the kiss hungrily, lifting her effortlessly as she wrapped her legs around his waist, the door clicking shut behind them.
In that stolen moment, they were neither prince nor princess, nor pawns in the games of their houses. They were simply Damian and Anya, tangled in a web of forbidden love, clinging to each other in the dark of Desmond Castle, even as the world outside demanded their obedience to a fate neither of them wanted to face alone.
---
The wedding day arrived, draped in the weight of expectation and the unspoken truths that everyone in the castle knew but never acknowledged aloud. The halls of Desmond Castle bustled with the energy of guests arriving in their finest attire, the atmosphere charged with the significance of the union that would finally bind Westalis and Ostania after years of enmity. For Damian, the whole spectacle felt like a grandiose illusion—a carefully crafted play where every actor knew their lines but not the heart of the story.
Damian stood at a distance, watching the guests take their seats in the grand hall, each one a representative of the tenuous peace that had been brokered through this marriage. His gaze flicked over to his father, King Donovan, whose expression was as inscrutable as ever, the lines on his face betraying the strain of a lifetime spent navigating the treacherous waters of politics and power. His mother, Queen Melinda, stood beside Donovan with a forced elegance, her eyes occasionally darting to Damian as if to remind him of his place—a place that was always beside his brother, but never in the spotlight.
Theirs was a family bound by appearances, held together by necessity rather than love. Everyone knew of the king and queen's own fractured union, a marriage more of convenience and political strategy than any genuine affection. The war had taken its toll on them all, leaving cracks that no amount of royal pretense could hide. In the aftermath of conflict, where houses that once despised each other now sought alliances, even the most unconventional relationships found a way to exist in the shadows.
As Anya entered the hall, every eye turned to her, but Damian’s gaze was different—more than admiring, it was possessive, filled with the unspoken claim he had laid on her long ago. Anya’s wedding dress shimmered like the scales of her dragon, Starlight, the falling of silvery-white fabric that seemed to move like dragon wings as she walked. Her pink hair was intricately braided with delicate silver threads, mirroring the iridescence of Starlight’s own form, and her emerald eyes shone with a fierce determination. She looked every bit the queen she was destined to be, but to Damian, she was his—his queen, in heart if not in title.
The ceremony unfolded with the expected formality, each vow recited with the gravity of duty rather than love. Damian stood off to the side, his frustration simmering as he watched Demetrius go through the motions, as lifeless as ever. His brother’s indifferent expression and rigid posture were a stark contrast to the vivacity that Anya exuded, and Damian couldn’t help but feel the injustice of it all—that this man, who cared so little, would be the one publicly recognized as Anya’s partner.
But the truth was an open secret within the walls of Desmond Castle. Everyone, from the lowest servants to the highest lords, knew that it was Damian, not Demetrius, who held Anya’s heart. The king and queen were no exception, their knowing glances and the occasional subtle nods acknowledging what was quietly understood but never spoken of aloud. The Desmonds had long learned to navigate the complexities of appearances, and with the history of war and the scars of enmity still fresh, the quiet affair between Damian and Anya was merely another layer of intrigue in their already tumultuous lives.
After the ceremony, the obligatory celebrations commenced, filled with the hollow cheer of forced merriment. Demetrius moved through the festivities like a ghost, his disinterest evident to all. Queen Melinda occasionally glanced at her eldest son with a mix of resignation and mild embarrassment, fully aware of how his aloofness contrasted with the vitality that was expected of a crown prince. The king and queen knew their son was odd, distant in a way that no amount of grooming for the throne could remedy, but they tolerated it as another quirk of their imperfect family.
Later that evening, Damian received an word to join Anya and Demetrius on their honeymoon, an invitation extended directly by Anya herself. It was not a surprise to him, nor to anyone in the castle. This was how things had always been—Demetrius, disinterested and content to remain a figurehead, and Anya, seeking the companionship she truly desired in Damian. For years, the Desmonds had turned a blind eye to the obvious, accepting the arrangement as part of the fragile peace that held their family together. After all, the marriage was a political necessity, a way to secure an alliance and put an end to the bloodshed that had once defined their kingdoms.
Damian’s fate was sealed the moment the decree came down: he would serve as one of the royal guards, just like the elite protectors that surrounded Anya. The role came with a heavy price—he would never be allowed to marry, wield his own political influence, or pursue his own ambitions. His life, from this point on, was bound to the future King and Queen. It felt like cruel irony, a kind of karmic retribution for the bloody war between Ostania and Westalis that had decimated both their families and wiped out the other dragon-wielding houses of Westalis.
Damian and Anya had shared this grief as children, finding solace in each other’s company even as the world around them burned. Now, as adults, the weight of their losses felt even heavier. Damian hated the twist of fate that had left Anya in such a precarious position—stripped of her family and thrust into the unforgiving world of court politics—and despised how utterly powerless he was to protect her from it.
But Anya, ever resilient, would brush off his concerns with a gentle smile and a defiant gleam in her eyes. She assured him that it didn’t bother her, that she would rebuild her house from the ashes and preserve the dragons, no matter the cost. She was the last Forger, a queen without a crown, and Damian knew, deep down, that she would defy fate itself to carve out a future on her own terms. And though Damian’s heart burned with unspoken vows, bound by duty and unrequited longing, he knew he would stand by her side, always—her silent protector, her forbidden knight, her greatest weakness.
Their destination was a breathtaking expanse of Anya’s native Westalis, a land of rugged cliffs and volcanic beaches where the wild dragons roamed free. The landscape was raw and untamed, a place where the earth’s power was on full display in the steaming geysers and the black sand beaches that stretched into the sea. It was a land that mirrored Anya’s spirit—fierce, beautiful, and unyielding. Here, she and Damian found solace away from the prying eyes of the court, a place where their bond could exist without the weight of titles and expectations.
Demetrius, as expected, kept to himself, retreating into the solitude of books and silent contemplation. He showed no interest in the adventures that Anya and Damian embarked on, leaving them to explore the jagged paths along the cliffs and watch the wild dragons that soared above, their cries echoing like a call to freedom. It was during these moments, as they stood together on the windswept edges of the world, that Damian felt closest to Anya—free from the constraints of their stations, their hearts beating in sync with the wild rhythm of the land.
One evening, under a sky painted with the soft hues of twilight, Anya and Damian found themselves alone on a secluded beach, the waves crashing rhythmically against the shore. Anya’s dress flowed in the breeze, her silhouette framed by the dramatic backdrop of Westalis’ rugged beauty. She turned to Damian, her emerald eyes reflecting the fading light, and in that moment, the distance between them seemed to vanish.
“This place, it’s like the soul of my kingdom,” Anya said softly, her voice carrying the depth of the ocean’s whisper. “Untamed, powerful… and ours.” She looked at Damian, her gaze piercing and intimate. “But you know, Damian, you’re the one who makes me feel alive here. Not him. Never him.”
Damian stepped closer, his hands finding her waist as he pulled her to him. “You’ve always been my queen, Anya,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “No matter what they say, no matter the titles. You’re mine.”
Anya’s fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, her touch soft but charged with an intensity that bordered on possession. Her gaze, fierce and unwavering, locked onto his. “And you, Damian, are my true king,” she murmured, her voice low and laced with a promise that transcended crowns and thrones. “Not by title, but in every way that matters. I want you, Damian—not for show, not for duty, but for what’s real between us.” She hesitated, a flicker of sadness crossing her eyes as she thought of the sacrifices he was making, all the things that could never be publicly acknowledged.
Before the shadows of doubt could settle, Damian pulled her into a kiss, fierce and immediate, his lips capturing hers with a hunger that told her everything words never could. “My life is yours, Anya,” he whispered against her mouth. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Anya leaned in closer, her breath hot against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “You are aware that I’m expected to produce an heir soon, Damian,” she whispered, her voice a blend of defiance and yearning. It was the expectation that would truly solidify her reign over Westalis. Her hands slid over his chest, fingers deftly unbuttoning his shirt with an urgency that made his pulse quicken. “But it’s always been your seed I want to carry. Our legacy, Damian—not some hollow continuation of a lie.”
His grip tightened, fingers digging into her hips as her words sunk deep into his core. His heart pounded, each beat a thunderous echo of his desire for her. The fire that had been smoldering between them for years roared to life as he crushed his lips against hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was raw, desperate, a silent vow made flesh. Anya met his passion with equal fervor, her hands tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer, her body aligning with his as if drawn by some inevitable, magnetic force.
“Then it will be our legacy,” Damian growled against her lips, his hands exploring every curve of her body with a need that was primal, unrestrained. “Our children Anya, I’ll give you everything you want. I’ll make you a queen a thousand times over.”
The promise hung heavy in the air between them, a shared defiance against the world that had tried to keep them apart. In that moment, with Anya pressed against him and their future a tantalizing whisper away, Damian knew he would burn kingdoms to the ground if it meant keeping her by his side.
They moved together with a fierce urgency, driven by the knowledge that their love, though an open secret, would never be publicly acknowledged. It was a defiance of the roles they had been cast into, a silent rebellion against the customs that bound them. In each other’s arms, they found the freedom to be who they truly were—king and queen of a world they had carved out for themselves, hidden in the shadows of tradition and expectation.
As the night deepened and the stars glittered above, Damian and Anya lay entwined on the soft sand, their breaths mingling in the cool night air. Anya rested her head against Damian’s chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles over his skin, while Damian held her close, his mind filled with thoughts of the future they would build together—a future that defied the hollow facade of duty and embraced the fierce, undeniable truth of their bond.
In the distance, the dragons roared, their calls a wild and unrestrained echo of the love that thrived between them, against all odds. And in that moment, under the vast Westalis sky, Damian knew that no matter what the world demanded of them, he and Anya would always find their way back to each other, their hearts forever beating as one.
—-
The castle gardens brimmed with life, laughter ringing out as dragons of various shapes and sizes danced through the air. Tiny dragons with iridescent scales darted between the trees, and larger ones basked lazily in patches of sunlight. In the midst of the playful chaos, Damian stood watch, his golden eyes glowing with a warmth that softened his usually sharp features. He couldn’t help but steal glances at Anya, who sat nearby on a cushioned bench, her hand resting lovingly over the swell of her belly, the promise of their next child nestled within.
She looked radiant, her hair catching the sun in a rosey glow. Damian’s heart swelled with a fierce tenderness every time their eyes met, his love for her and their growing family written in every stolen glance, every lingering touch. He moved closer, feeling an overwhelming need to be near her, to savor every precious moment.
“Uncle Damian! Look!” their youngest daughter called out, breaking him from his reverie. She bounded over with her tiny dragon, Stellare, perched on her shoulder. The little girl had inherited Anya’s striking, emerald-green eyes and long delicately pink hair that shone like her mother’s. Her dragon, with its golden scales, mirrored Damian’s own eyes in its brilliance. He scooped her up, spinning her around as she squealed with delight, her little arms wrapping tightly around his neck.
“I saw, little star,” Damian said, pressing a kiss to her cheek before setting her back down. “Stellare’s chosen well.”
As he watched his daughter rejoin her siblings, his gaze softened further, his expression one of pure adoration. Anya smiled at him, her eyes shining with a mixture of love and contentment. Damian moved to her side, kneeling down so that he was at eye level with her, his hands resting gently on the curve of her belly. He leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to her rounded stomach, feeling the faint movement beneath his lips.
“They’re active today,” he murmured, his voice filled with wonder as he savored the sensation of their unborn child kicking gently against his touch.
Anya ran her fingers through his dark hair, her touch light but full of affection. “They know their father’s here,” she whispered, her eyes locking with his, a secret smile playing on her lips.
He chuckled softly, resting his forehead against her belly, his golden eyes closing as if he were committing this moment to memory. “I wish I could be more than just ‘uncle’ to them,” he said quietly, his voice laced with a longing that only she could truly understand. “But even if they never know the truth, I’m grateful for every moment I get to be with them.”
Anya cupped his face, guiding him to look up at her. “They may not call you father, Damian, but they feel it. They know you love them, and that’s what matters most.” She leaned in, kissing him softly, her lips brushing his with a sweetness that was familiar yet always new.
He deepened the kiss, savoring the taste of her, the closeness of her. Each touch was deliberate, his hands roaming gently over her, as if he couldn’t get enough of her warmth, her presence. “I love you,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with emotion. “Every day, I’m reminded how lucky I am to have you. To have this.” His hand moved to her belly again, cradling it as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
Their older children approached, pulling Damian’s attention away the couple well used to hiding their physical affection for one another as a second nature. Their firstborn son, with his tousled dark hair and a mischievous glint in his eye that was unmistakably Damian’s, tugged at his sleeve. His eyes, a striking mix of Anya’s green and Damian’s gold, sparkled with curiosity. “Uncle Damian, why doesn’t father ever play with us? He never really talks to us, even when he’s here.”
The question hung in the air, and Damian’s grip on Anya’s hand tightened for just a moment. He forced a smile, keeping his voice gentle and reassuring. “Your father has a lot of responsibilities,” he explained softly. “But that doesn’t mean you’re any less important. Sometimes… things are just complicated. But you don’t need to worry about that now. Someday, when you’re older, I promise I’ll explain it to you.”
The boy nodded, his curiosity satisfied for now, and he quickly rejoined his siblings, already distracted by the lure of another game with the dragons. It was him who would be the future King of what would be the combined kingdom of Westalis and Ostania and it was crucial that he experience a loving and fulfilling childhood in order to become a fair and just ruler. Damian watched them go, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.
Anya squeezed his hand, drawing his attention back to her. “They have you,” she said softly, her eyes filled with understanding. “And that’s more than enough.”
He looked at her, his heart swelling with gratitude and love. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, savoring the intimacy of the moment. “You know, I never really had a family,” he said quietly. “I was always more a ghost in my own home, seen but never truly acknowledged. And you—”
Anya’s eyes softened as she interrupted gently. “And I was orphaned, with no place to call home until you and the children came into my life. We both know what it’s like to be alone, to feel like there’s no one to turn to. But now…” Her voice broke slightly as she placed a hand on his cheek, her eyes shimmering with emotion. “Now we have this. We have a family—a real, loving family.”
Damian’s eyes glistened as he took her hand in his, pressing a kiss to her palm. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted. Every touch, every laugh, every quiet moment with you and the children—it’s all a dream come true. I never thought I’d find this kind of happiness.”
Anya smiled, her eyes reflecting the deep love they shared. “And we’ll always have each other,” she whispered. “No matter what.”
In that quiet moment, Damian held Anya close, his hand resting protectively over her belly, feeling the flutter of their unborn child. It was a simple promise, but one that meant everything to them both—a promise of love, of family, and of a legacy built not on titles or crowns, but on the fierce, unbreakable bond they shared. Theirs was a love forged from the ashes of their pasts, a testament to the strength of their connection and the family they had created together.