Chapter 24 The Beast King Takes a Bride.
The bells toll at dawn. Their sound rolls across the valley, stirring the mist from the gardens and shaking the snow from the high balconies. The air smells of roses and cold iron. The storm has passed, leaving behind a sky so bright it hurts to look at. The courtyard is bathed in warm sunlight. Red roses line the aisle, their scent thick and cloying in the heat. White chairs are stacked in perfect rows as far as the eye can see, filled with nobles and villagers alike—every soul in my kingdom comes to witness the impossible.
The Beast King takes a bride.
That’s what they’re calling it. That’s what they’ve been whispering since dawn. I can hear it even now in the hush between breaths, in the rustle of silk and the scrape of polished boots on marble. The air itself seems to hum with disbelief. The garden has never looked like this before. My groundsmen have outdone themselves—crimson petals scattered across ivory stone, gold-thread banners hanging from the old sycamores, fountains spilling over with clear water that catches the sun like glass. Beyond the outer walls, I can hear the distant roar of dragons circling high above the castle, unseen but ever watchful. Everything gleams. Everything blooms. Everything feels like it’s waiting.
I stand at the altar carved from obsidian. The scent of roses and magic sits heavy in the air, masking the faint trace of smoke that always seems to cling to me, no matter how clean I dress. The people stare. Some with awe. Some with fear. A few with pity. I can’t blame them. For years, they’ve known me only as the monster in the mountain. The king who burns his enemies alive and sleeps on a bed of bones. The cursed one who outlived his own heart. And now they think they’re about to see a fairy tale. A Beauty and her Beast. If only they knew how wrong they are.
The string quartet begins to play, the melody sharp and fragile as glass. The sunlight drips through the leaves like spilled gold, catching on the edges of my rings and the black embroidery of my coat. Somewhere behind the grand doors at the end of the aisle, my bride waits. The mortal girl promised to me in parchment and blood. I haven’t seen her yet. I don’t even know if she’s afraid, but she has every right to be. The thought of her walking toward me through this sea of roses and ruin makes something restless shift beneath my skin. My beast is not happy. I roll my shoulders once, feeling the heat coil low in my chest, and let my claws scrape faintly against the obsidian rail before forcing my hands still again. The bells will ring soon and when they do, the world will finally see if the Beast King can love, or if he’ll simply devour what was given to him.
Time stretches. The violinists shift uncertainly, their bows hovering mid-air, waiting for the cue that doesn’t come. The guests begin to murmur. A ripple of unease rolls through the courtyard. The bells should have rung by now. I keep my gaze fixed on the great white doors at the end of the aisle, sunlight spilling across them in bright gold slants. Any moment, they’ll open and she’ll appear. She has to. My jaw aches from how tightly I’m clenching it. Every second grinds like sand against my skin. Beneath it, something restless prowls, the beast pacing inside its cage, claws dragging along the bars of my ribs.
Why does she keep us waiting? He asks.
Because she’s afraid.
Afraid? She should be grateful. We are king. We are power.
Maybe she’s wise. I murmur.
I exhale slowly, steadying myself. My hands are clasped behind my back, but I can already feel the tremor in my fingers, the faint heat that wants to bleed through. I can’t lose control. Not here. Not before them. But the silence grows unbearable. The roses sway in the breeze. The crowd whispers. Somewhere, a child starts crying, hushed quickly by a mother’s hand. And still—no music. No bells. No bride.
Then the doors move, and every head turns towards them. I straighten instinctively, heart punching against my ribs. But it isn’t her. Marius stumbles through the entry instead, his face pale and slick with sweat. His robes are wrinkled, his expression frantic. He doesn’t stop to bow or announce himself; he runs down the aisle, past the nobles and the guards and the frozen musicians. Straight to me. The whispers rise like wind through grass. I don’t move. I can’t. My chest feels tight, my beast pressing against my skin with every heartbeat.
Marius reaches me, bends low, and his words strike like a blade to the gut. “The bride is not coming.”
For a moment, the world tilts. Not coming. The phrase repeats in my head, over and over, until the meaning cuts through everything else. I hear laughter in the crowd, stifled and nervous. I see the flicker of pity in the eyes of my council. And then I feel him move. The beast surges forward, a dark tide rising inside my chest.
She dares to refuse us?
Stop.
She humiliates us before our people!
Stop.
Then let them see what we are!
My vision fractures. Heat blooms under my skin, white-hot and wild. The scent of smoke floods my throat. My claws break through first, long, curved, black as night and the crowd gasps.
“Your Majesty…” Marius begins, but I can’t hear him anymore.
The sound that tears from me isn’t human. It’s a low, guttural snarl that vibrates the air itself. Smoke spills from my nostrils. My eyes burn with firelight. Somewhere, glass shatters. Somewhere else, a woman screams. They scatter, my people, my guests, my witnesses, all running from the thing they already believed me to be.
Good, the beast growls. Let them remember.
But beneath the fury, the heartbreak burns deeper. She didn’t come because she couldn’t stand the thought of me. Of this. Of being tied to the monster they all whisper about. I was a fool to think she might have been different. I turn away from the altar, from the roses, from the world that will forever see me as its curse, and as the roar breaks free of my throat, I let it shake the sky. For once, I don’t hold him back. Let them run. Let them tremble. Let them see what their Beast King truly is.
The roar tears through me like the sky itself has cracked. Fire rips from my throat, bright and blinding, curling into the heavens in a plume of gold and crimson. The ground trembles beneath my claws as marble splinters under my weight. My wings—massive, black as storm clouds—unfurl with a sound like thunder splitting open the world. The shift consumes me. Bone stretches. Skin hardens. Scales burst through. The pain is exquisitely familiar. My human thoughts fracture into instinct, fury and flames. I am no longer Damien, the king they mock behind closed doors. I am what they truly fear. The Dragon. The Beast.