Why I (don't) regret looking for the dragon's eyes

It all started on a rainy day.

One of many, and no longer remarkable. The kind of day that soaked into the bones of the palace, dulled every surface, and made the world feel slower, heavier. Rain tapped against the stone and glass with relentless patience, as if reminding the inhabitants inside that even kingdoms erode with time.

And on this day, as on so many others, Arthur Aethersworn, prince of the Tashran Kingdom, sat wrapped in duty like a prisoner in silk. Not in glory, not in reverence, but in expectation, unspoken, unrelenting. A future sealed long before he was old enough to speak.

His purpose had never been in question.

He was to procreate.

Not because he was strong. Not because he was gifted. But because he wasn't.

Arthur had been born without a mageroot, the second heart that marked the soul of every true mage. No whisper of mana stirred in his chest. No elemental current flowed through his veins. While other royal children flared with potential, lighting candles with their breath or bending wind with a glance, Arthur remained still.

Unmoving. Untouched.

His white hair, a hallmark of his bloodline, matched his father's to the strand, noble, pristine, and carefully styled. But unlike the king, Arthur had no fire inside him. His birth was met not with awe, but with silence. He was a prince without power, a vessel without flame.

And so the crown, ever hungry for legacy, carved him a new purpose.

Breed.

Secure the line.

Beget what you can never become.

They sent him mages in silken robes, trained and beautiful, carefully chosen by the House. Each one tasked with drawing magic from a bloodline that had none to give. Each one hoping to succeed where nature had failed.

Arthur was to endure it. Smile for it. Comply with it.

A royal tool in a palace that had no more use for broken things.

It was a duty that hung over him like a blade suspended by a fraying thread.

The storm outside answered the turmoil inside. Rain hammered against the towering stained-glass windows of his chamber in a steady, brutal rhythm. The glass bore the royal emblem, a white lion with a diamond-shaped mane, gazing downward in eternal judgment. The creature's eyes, though unmoving, seemed to look directly at him. Not with pride, but with disdain.

Art, they called it. But Arthur knew better. It was a mirror. A reminder. A weight.

He sat in his grand chamber, a room dressed in riches but stripped of freedom. Gilded furniture lined the walls like obedient guards. Tapestries told the stories of kings and conquests, but none of them spoke of peace. Every thread screamed legacy. Bloodline. Obedience.

He wore a snow-white suit that clung to his form like frost to stone, every inch embroidered with gold, a design as precise as it was oppressive. On anyone else, it would have been a marvel. On Arthur, it was a shroud.

The white of his hair marked him. Bloodline. Purity. Ownership. His vivid blue eyes, however, were his own. They cut through the gloom like daggers, alive with something his father had tried to beat out of him.

His fingers turned a page in the heavy novel he cradled, though his eyes hadn't moved in minutes.

Outside, the rain drummed on.

Inside, a woman paced.

She was small. Sharp in motion, sharper in voice. Her heels cracked against the marble like whips. She moved from garment to garment, each more ornate than the last, fussing, fidgeting, trying to find control in fabric.

"Are you not bored?" Her voice snapped, jagged with frustration. She didn't wait for a reply. "Sitting there doing nothing drives me mad. And honestly, I'm sick of trying on these ridiculous dresses when you won't even look at me."

She was one of many. One of the mages sent by the king, primped and polished, each bred to serve a purpose that made Arthur's stomach turn. Names were meaningless, they changed daily. Faces blurred. Voices bled into each other until he no longer cared to separate them.

He didn't look up. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Calm. But something beneath it stirred. Something heavy. "Then go and take a bath. Use all the soap you want."

He flicked his fingers toward the bathing chamber door, the motion loose, almost bored.

She didn't move.

Instead, she stomped. A childish thing. She lifted the folds of her dress as if to emphasize the act, to demand he see it.

"I don't want to take a bath!" Her voice cracked. "Am I not beautiful enough for you? Why won't you even look at me? Do you know how much effort I put into preparing for this day? My prince, you are about to disgrace the king!"

Her words crashed against him like rain on glass, loud, but meaningless. His fingers tightened ever so slightly around the book's spine. And when he spoke again, the room changed.

Air thickened.

The space between heartbeats stretched.

He shut the book with a snap, a sound as clean and final as a sword being sheathed. Then leaned forward, his shadow stretching unnaturally across the floor.

"Are you not enjoying your time here in the palace?" he asked. The voice was not loud. But it pressed. Bent. Broke.

Dominion.

His father's gift. His curse. A power that lived not in muscle, nor steel, but in voice. In presence. The command to kneel, embedded in syllables. The weight of a crown that did not need to be seen to be felt.

"You can do anything you please." He continued, slower now. "As long as you stay away from me. You even get to leave with a royal outfit of your choice. Isn't that better than the alternative of never leaving at all?"

Her face drained of color.

He saw it, the fracture. The hairline crack running down her spine. The pressure in the air caught her chest like a vice, every breath shallower than the last.

But he wasn't finished.

"I mean…" He tilted his head. "I have hobbies too. But most of them don't leave witnesses. You think anyone would believe you over me?"

He raised his arm and revealed a knife, plain, slender, nothing decorative. Not a weapon of a prince, but a tool. Or a threat. He pointed it lazily, first at his wrist, then his throat.

"See?" he said.

"Now do me a favor. Sit down. Shut up. And stay quiet until sunset. I was enjoying my book. You've just ruined it. I can't even remember the name of the protagonist anymore."

She stared. Couldn't look away. Her gaze slid to his arms, to the skin visible past his cuff. And froze.

Scars. Not accidental. Not chaotic. A pattern. A language written in pain. And the newest one, still pink, still healing, spoke louder than any blade.

Something old and primal gripped her.

Not fear of death.

Fear of what watched her from behind his eyes.

Arthur didn't look at her again. He opened the book, fingers tracing familiar words. His mind drifted, not forward, but deeper.

They sent women like her as tools. Pretty ones, well-trained. Mages. Warriors of silk and spell, armed not with blades, but biology. Designed to bear what he could not make alone.

They called it duty. Arthur called it cowardice.

His book was no novel. It was a journal. A field guide to humanity as seen through the eyes of its caged monster.

He flipped to a page where the word Fear had been gouged into the parchment so hard, it tore through to the page beneath.

Fear was what unraveled them.

Unlike anger, which could be masked. Or sorrow, which could be worn as armor. Fear laid them bare. Fear made them real.

That's when they became prey.

That's when he saw them clearly.

He scribbled in the margins, hand tight around the pen.

They're weaker than I ever imagined.

The day ended with her gone. No names. No screams. Just silence.

Arthur stood by the door, alone once more.

He reached for the knife.

The blade glinted dully in the low light as he brought it to his forearm. His hand moved without hesitation, carving another line into a body already written full of them.

The pain was sharp.

Grounding.

Real.

But it didn't silence the storm inside.

His pulse roared in his ears, louder than the rain. His vision rimmed red.

"Never..." He breathed. "Will they compare me to the tyrant they call a king."

Each word trembled with the weight of chains.

"Never will they tell me who to be."

His fingers twitched, but the blade didn't falter. Blood welled, ran down his arm like ink from a split bottle.

"Never shall I bend to the will of this world."

The final line. Clean. Sure.

"And never…" he whispered, and the room shook beneath Dominion's return. "Never will I forgive them for this. For treating me like nothing. For their cruelty. Their games. Their lies."

Blood dripped, hit the marble, and vanished beneath the sound of the storm.

"One day, I will kill you all."

A promise, etched in iron.

"For every scar. Every wound. And every moment of this wretched life they forced upon me."

The blade slipped from his fingers. Fell. Clattered against the floor.

He turned. Walked back to his chair. Sat down.

The book lay beside him, forgotten.

His fists clenched. His chest heaved. But the rage remained.

Simmering. Waiting. Eternal.

The storm outside was fierce.

But it was nothing compared to the one within him.