Ny's Writing Blog ✍️

In the valley where the sky glowed crimson at dusk and the mountains broke like jagged teeth against the heavens, the Dragon Queen Seralyth ruled. Her wings shimmered like molten gold, and her human form—tall, radiant, crowned with horns—burned with the fierce beauty of living flame. The dragons worshiped her. The kingdoms feared her.

But she had grown tired of worship and fear. She wanted companionship. Something that could withstand her fire without turning to ash.

Across the obsidian sea stood the fortress of King Brathor, the last of the Cyclopes—towering, broad-shouldered, and strong enough to split the earth with a single stomp. His single emerald eye saw truth in all things, even those meant to be hidden.

Their worlds touched only once every century, during the eclipse festival when magic thinned like a veil. Seralyth attended in disguise, draped in shadows and illusions. She expected nothing.

And then she met him.

—

A Dangerous Blooming

Brathor noticed her immediately. His eye lingered on her with a hunger she hadn’t felt in centuries.

“You hide your face,” he rumbled.
“You hide your heart,” she replied.

He laughed—a sound like boulders grinding together—but he listened. They walked beneath eclipse-lit clouds, speaking of loneliness, of duty, of the weight of ruling creatures who would never understand them.

Before dawn broke, he kissed her—gently, as though terrified she might shatter. She nearly set the world on fire with the heat that swelled inside her.

Over months, they met in secret—on cliffs, in caves, beneath star-torn skies. Seralyth allowed him to touch her wings. Brathor allowed her to study the magic within his eye.

Two rulers, two monsters, two hearts caught in a dangerous orbit.

But their love was forbidden. Her dragons despised Cyclopes. His warriors feared dragons more than death itself. And magic between their kinds was unstable—volatile enough to warp flesh and break the laws of creation.

Still, they fell deeper.

And deeper.

And deeper.

—

The Betrayal of Fire

When the Dragon Council discovered her secret, they demanded she end it. They feared the Cyclops kingdom would weaken her bloodline, taint her fire, or worse—allow the Cyclopes to control her through love.

Seralyth refused.

And so the dragons chose war without her consent.

They ambushed Brathor at dawn, raining fire upon him while he slept alone at their meeting cliff. He awoke inside a storm of flame, roaring in agony as his skin blistered and cracked.

When Seralyth arrived, the smell of burning flesh hit her first. Half his face had melted, his massive body scorched black. His single eye—once vibrant and gentle—was dripping down his cheek like liquified emerald.

He reached for her.

“Why?” he choked.
“They betrayed me,” she whispered. “Not you.”

For the first time in his life, Brathor felt hatred—not for her, but for the world that dared punish their love.

—

Twisted Resurrection

The Cyclops king died in her arms before she could save him.

Her grief was unhinged—feral—draconic. She refused to accept his death. Using forbidden magic stolen from ancient tombs, she attempted resurrection… but dragonfire and Cyclops soul-energy were never meant to fuse.

What rose from her ritual was not the Brathor she loved.

The creature that staggered into the moonlight had bone protruding from half its face, wings of scorched sinew sprouting from its back, and a single eye that bled relentlessly—glowing with fractured magic.

He knew her.
He loved her.
He hungered for everything else.

The new Brathor needed life force to remain stabilized—fresh blood specifically. And so, together, they turned on the Dragon Council.

Dragons were torn from the sky. Their hearts were ripped out and eaten warm. Seralyth kissed Brathor as he fed, tasting ash and iron on his lips.

This was love’s final form: monstrous, blazing, unstoppable.

—

The Final Twist

With every life Brathor consumed, he grew stronger—but the magic twisted further. One night, as Seralyth slept tangled in his massive arms, his hunger shifted.

He realized the truth:
the strongest life force in the world was hers.

He wept as he touched her cheek. His fingers trembled violently, torn between devotion and survival. She stirred, smiling softly, unaware.

He whispered, “Forgive me, my heart.”

His claws pierced her chest before she even opened her eyes.

Fire spilled from her lungs as she screamed his name—so bright it lit the entire horizon. He devoured her heart whole, tears mixing with the blood, the taste of love and death intertwined.

And then he changed again—becoming something far beyond king or monster.

A dragon-cyclops hybrid, fueled by the death of the one he cherished, ruling alone from the ruins of their two kingdoms.

Every night, the mountains echo with a roar that sounds like sorrow.

Every sunrise burns brighter than the last.

For even in death, a dragon queen’s fire never truly goes out.
—-