THE HIDDEN DRAGON

The General’s Daughter

The wind screamed across the obsidian cliffs of Frosthold Ridge, biting into exposed skin like icy teeth. Snow spiraled from the mountains, swallowing the trail behind them. Rey adjusted the cloak around Lyra’s shoulders as they crouched behind a frozen outcrop, the enemy patrol fading into the misty ravine below.

“You alright?” he whispered.

Lyra nodded, but her face was pale. “I’m fine,” she lied.

He could see the gash on her arm—the one she refused to let him tend to. Stubborn. Proud. But bleeding all the same.

“We need to find shelter,” he said, not waiting for agreement.

A few hundred meters up the ridge, they found it: a shallow cave framed by jagged stone and thick snowdrifts. The inside was narrow, cold, and reeked of damp earth, but it was safe. Rey ignited a small flame between his palms to warm the air. The fire didn’t roar—it pulsed gently, flickering in tune with his heartbeat.

He looked up.

Lyra was staring at the flame. But she wasn’t afraid anymore.

“Your power,” she murmured. “It doesn’t frighten me.”

Rey said nothing. He had no idea how to respond to that. So few people ever spoke to him like he was more than his fire.

She knelt beside him. The shadows danced on her face, highlighting the sharp defiance in her jaw and the softness around her eyes.

“I used to think I hated the Drakar,” she admitted, voice low. “Because my father told me to. Because the world told me to. But lately... I’m not so sure.”

Rey swallowed.

He knew he should stay silent. Stay distant.

But he was tired of silence.

“They murdered my clan,” he said. “All of them. My mother… she died screaming my name, wrapped in fire and blood.”

Lyra closed her eyes.

“I’ve seen the reports,” she whispered. “The Empire’s version. I never believed them.”

He looked at her then—not as the General’s daughter, not as a rival, but as Lyra. Just Lyra.

And she was looking back.

“You shouldn’t be near me,” he said. “I’m cursed.”

She moved closer, her hand brushing his. “Then curse me too.”

The kiss happened like lightning striking dry grass—unexpected, hungry, and unable to be taken back.

Her mouth was warm against the cold cave air, her fingers threading through his hair as he pulled her closer. She tasted like storm wind and rebellion.

For a moment, he let go.

Let go of the prophecy, the burden, the rage.

He was just a boy. And she was just a girl. And for once, the world outside didn’t matter.

They broke apart, breathless. Her forehead rested against his.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

“So am I.”

Her lips brushed his again—softer this time. Slower. He laid her down on the worn blanket near the firelight. Snow continued to fall outside, blanketing the world in silence.

Their bodies moved like a forgotten dance. Hesitant at first. Then fervent. Her fingers explored the scars on his chest—the ones from the fire, the training, the pain—and kissed each one as if she could heal him.

And maybe, for a heartbeat, she did.

Rey traced the curve of her jaw, the strength in her shoulders, the vulnerability in her breath. His touch was reverent, trembling, and she welcomed it.

Their connection was not lust.

It was survival.

It was two souls clawing for warmth in a world of frost and flame.

Later, wrapped together beneath his cloak, her head against his chest, she whispered the question he feared most.

“Who are you really?”

Rey stared into the fire.

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully. “But when I’m with you… I feel like I could be more than what they made me.”

She looked up. “Then be that. For yourself.”

He wanted to say yes.

But in his heart, he knew the storm was coming.

They returned to the Academy three days later, frostbitten but alive.

Master Juno had already recovered—though the scar across his ribs hadn’t.

Rey could feel the eyes following him more than usual. The instructors. The guards. Even the statues in the Tower halls seemed to glare harder now.

Word had spread.

And somewhere beneath it all, General Kael had begun watching his daughter more closely.

In the war chamber beneath the northern spire, General Kael stood before a large obsidian mirror. In it swirled visions—moments—shadows of his daughter and the boy.

He clenched his fists.

“So… the heir lives,” he muttered.

Beside him, Drax stepped from the shadows. “Do we act?”

Kael stared hard at his daughter’s reflection, resting her head on Rey’s chest.

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

“But—”

“I want her to see it. See what he is. I want her to choose to turn on him.”

Drax tilted his head. “And if she doesn’t?”

Kael’s eyes turned colder than the grave.

“Then I will burn them both.”

Back in the Tower gardens, Rey and Lyra stood at the edge of the fountain.

“You haven’t spoken much since we got back,” she said.

He looked at her, eyes tired. “I keep thinking about what you said. About choosing who I want to be.”

“And?”

He reached for her hand.

“I don’t know if I can be anything but the weapon they made.”

“Then let me remind you you’re more.”

Their fingers laced together.

And far above, the stars watched silently.

But fate was already turning.

And blood was on the horizon.