Malleus dragonia

It all began at a dusty flea market, the air thick with the scent of old paper, sweat, and candy floss. The sun beat down mercilessly, and she was laughing with the others—a bright sound, yet somehow hollow, like an echo in an empty room. Her fingers, slender and cool, brushed over a stall of old trinkets and stopped at it—a ring with a large, uncut emerald, dark as a forest deep on a moonless night.

The moment the metal touched her skin, the world for Malleus Draconia turned inside out.

He, the ancient and powerful lord of the Briar Valley, summoned by a tiny shard of his own soul trapped within the stone, stood invisible, mere steps away. Her touch was unlike any other. It did not burn; it was not crude. It was... a key. And he felt a lock deep within his being, a lock he never knew existed, click open. Then he heard her friends' laughter: "Get a grip, it's just glass!" The ring was tossed back onto the velvet, but the connection was already forged. A hook was set deep in his heart.

From that day, he became a shadow. Cursed by this newborn, agonizing feeling, he watched. He saw her weary smile in the college hallways, painted a dismal green, heard her voice drowning in the cacophony of the teenage crowd. He saw her bright, lonely soul straining for freedom while her body went through the rituals of daily life. But most of all, he saw the nights.

Every night, in the blue glow of her screen, her mask would dissolve. Her cheeks grew damp with silent tears, and her gaze, staring into nothing, was filled with a longing that made his own shadowy heart clench. He chastised himself for this weakness, for this treacherous desire to touch her, to comfort her... to take her away.

For he could give her what she only dared to dream of. Disappearance.

The night her whisper, full of despair, slipped from her lips—"I want to disappear"—Malleus stopped fighting himself.

Magic, thick and velvety like the petals of a black rose, enveloped her room. The air grew dense, saturated with the scent of withering flowers and damp earth. To her, it felt like sinking into the deepest sleep—gravity released its hold, the sounds of the world outside dissolved into a soft hum. She felt no fear, only all-consuming relief.

And then—silence. Not dead, but ringing, alive.

She was in the Castle of Thorns.

The air here was cool and sweet, with an undertone of bitterness. Vast halls lay bathed in gloom, where the only light came from amethyst and violet hues that played upon the walls like reflections of an unseen aurora. Stained glass depicted scenes from forgotten legends, but instead of sunlight, they were pierced by a dim, mystic glow from outside. Everywhere, thorny branches of briar wove, bearing blossoms of black and deep purple, their velvety petals seeming woven from the very fabric of night. All of reality shimmered like a mirage, flowing like silk. It was a waking dream, beautiful and terrifying.

And at the center of this dream stood He.

Malleus Draconia. Tall, aristocratic, clothed in garments of pure night itself. His hair was as black as a starless sky, a stark, dark crown. But the most captivating features were his eyes. Vivid emerald green, like the very stone that had bound them, but alive and burning. In them swirled immeasurable age, maddening power, and... that same agonizing tenderness that had compelled him to shatter the boundaries between worlds.

He looked at her, his sleeping princess, stolen from a grey reality into his kingdom of dreams. He watched as her eyes, still holding the ghosts of tears from her old life, slowly opened, trying to comprehend the impossible beauty and mystery that now surrounded her.

Her disappearance had only just begun. And his eternal dream had finally found its meaning.

The cold seeped into her very bones. The thin cotton dress she had worn for weeks had become a pathetic excuse for clothing, and the crow cloak that had accompanied her through all her wanderings in this cursed world now felt like a useless rag.

Around her, the night forest stood like a wall. Fairytale-like, dark, alive. Here, tree roots reached for travelers like tentacles, and in the branches, shadows hooted instead of birds. A dark fantasy world. She had learned the meaning of that name through her own skin. A world where magic was not just a beautiful fairy tale, but a force capable of breaking a person.

She was running.

Branches whipped her face, leaving scratches; sharp stones bit into her bare feet, but the pain was somewhere far away, in the background. The main thing was the feeling—a sticky, paralyzing terror that drove her away from the castle, whose spires were still visible through the gaps in the treetops, illuminated by the sinister light of three moons.

Just a few hours ago, she had been there. Inside.

---

She remembered how she had fallen into his power. The market. Dirty, stinking of sweat and fear, where she, exhausted and broken after her long wanderings, was placed in a row with other "curiosities." She had heard so many stories from other lost girls. Stories about what happens after you are "bought." Cruelty, dark rituals, the fate of becoming no more than a toy or a sacrifice for the beings that rule this world.

And then HE appeared. Even now, in a panic, forcing her way through the thorny undergrowth, she saw him before her eyes so clearly, as if he were standing right next to her. Tall, with a figure full of predatory grace. Pale skin with a slight pearlescent sheen shimmered in the torchlight. Thick, long, jet-black hair fell over his shoulders, framing a face of inhuman, terrifying beauty. But the most frightening and mesmerizing were his eyes—vertical pupils, burning with green flame against a golden iris. The eyes of a dragon. Eyes from which it was impossible to hide. He bought her without saying a word. He simply threw a heavy purse at the merchant.

His castle was quiet. Majestic and cold. The black stone of the walls, the tall pointed windows offering a view of the endless, moon-flooded gloomy forest. She was given the best room, brought warm water and soft clothes. No one touched her. Malleus himself didn't even try to speak to her, only occasionally, passing by her in the corridor, would fix his long, unblinking gaze upon her, a gaze that made the blood freeze in her veins.

There was no cruelty in his gaze. But that was precisely where the greatest horror lay. She didn't know what to expect from him. The stories heard at the market weighed heavily on her mind: "They pretend to be kind," "First they wash you and feed you, so the sacrifice is pure," "Dragons are the worst of all, they play with you like a cat with a mouse."

She couldn't take it. As soon as everything quieted down in the castle and the servants retreated to their corners, she fled. She threw on that same old, tattered cloak they had miraculously not thrown away, and slipped out into the night.

Now, stumbling over roots and gasping for cold air, she cursed herself for her naivety. Running into the forest at night in a dark fantasy world was certain death. But staying in Malleus's castle and waiting for an unknown, but seemingly inevitable, terrible fate was beyond her strength. A branch lashed violently across her cheek, leaving a bloody trail. God knows how many hours passed before she ran out of strength... and, falling onto all fours, succumbed to exhaustion and pressed herself to the grass, unable to think clearly.