Danielle Lockhart's Blog

A lot of you have been waiting for this moment. You’ve told me The Dragon King’s Bride was too short. You wanted more—more depth, more tension, more character development, more time to linger in this world. Well—I heard you!

The revision has begun, and let me tell you—this is not just a simple edit. Chapters 1 and 2 are already twice as long, and the changes I’ve made are monumental. This isn’t just about adding words—this is about deepening the story, refining the flow, and making every moment hit harder.

You probably won’t recognize it as the same book anymore. It’s no longer a quick read—it’s something bigger, richer, more immersive.

Just to give you an idea: The original Chapter 1 was 2,345 words—now? It’s 4,125. And trust me, every word counts.

I can’t wait to share more with you. This world is expanding—and it’s going to be unforgettable.

Sign up here to receive the ARC copy once it's ready!

Much love,
Danielle

***

To give you a taste, here’s an unedited, raw excerpt from the revised first chapter. It’s not yet polished—this is the story in its rawest form—but once the full revision is complete, it will be sharper than ever.

Compare it to the original. Feel the difference. And get ready—this world is about to consume you.


<spoiler>

Ava
Chapter One

I don’t want to be here. The thought echoes in my mind over and over again with every rock of the ship as I make my way towards my destination.
Darkness surrounds me. Not a single crack in the walls lets light through. The air is thick, carrying the scent of damp wood, sweat, and the sour tang of vomit, the aftermath of motion sickness from uneasy stomachs and restless bodies. The floor under me feels too close, the heat of too many people pressing in around me, simple serfs like myself from the outskirts of the kingdom, waiting for the moment we can breathe fresh air again. Some sit hunched over, rubbing aching limbs, while others murmur softly, voices hushed but tense.
The lower deck has grown quieter. Not because the women have settled, but because there are fewer of us now.
I don’t know the exact number, I lost track days ago. But I know the space feels emptier, the once-constant murmurs dulled by uncertainty, exhaustion and the unspoken awareness that some of us are missing.
The number of women has thinned throughout the journey. Not enough to be obvious. But I notice, I always notice. Some vanish overnight, others at river stops—without explanation. No questions were asked. No alarms were sounded. We aren’t supposed to acknowledge it, so no one does.
I sit against the wooden railing, gripping the strap of my satchel, adjusting its weight against my shoulder. Only essentials, only what matters and nothing more. I won’t be here long anyway.
The ship rolls gently with the current, pulling us toward the docks with the slow and deliberate pull of inevitability.
Then a bell chimes above, sharp and deliberate. I let out a sigh. That must be the bell they’d told us about at departure. It means we were getting close to port.
The sailors above are shouting, their voices muffled and indistinct, blending with the sound of heavy objects being tossed onto the dock. Then, the ropes groan. Thick, twisting fibers straining—tightening, pulling, the sound sharp and low, like a heavy breath drawn between clenched teeth. They’re securing us, making sure the ship won’t drift away, locking it in place against the wooden frame. The dock hands are at work, though I don’t see them. Just their voices, sharp calls, wordless grunts of effort. Above, something heavy scrapes across the deck, followed by the muffled creak of shifting weight.
The ship hits the dock with a dull, heavy thud, not violent, but enough to make the wooden planks beneath me shudder. I brace against the rough boards, feeling the tremor ripple through the lower deck. It settles slowly, swaying once more, then stiffens like a beast finally roped in. And then stillness.
Movement stirs around me, the young women’s hands are smoothing skirts, whispers rising, shoulders squaring in forced composure. None of us are prepared, but we pretend. The wealthy leave first. Footsteps echo against the deck above ours. Controlled movement. Privileged pace. We listen in silence. First them, then the rest of us. I keep my head down, listening.
I try to picture what’s happening outside. The dock must be busy, men pulling cargo, stepping over one another in the rush to unload and reload before the next voyage. The ship will stand here, caught for a while, but it will leave again. That is its nature. To move. To carry. Never to stay. I wish I could stay with it, and get away from here.
And yet here I am, in the belly of it, waiting in the dark. Unmoving, unheard, unseen. There’s no point in getting up just yet. We are docked. But down here, in the silence, I do not feel like I have arrived.
Arendale—the capital of the Dragon Kingdom—is unlike anything I’ve known. I can tell the others are eager for their first glimpse of the royal city, their hushed whispers betraying an edge of nervousness they pretend isn’t there.
The sound of trumpets in the distance fills the stale air. There must be a procession and we arrived too late to see it. I imagine the Dragon King is waving at his subjects right now, my rivals following close behind him. A glimpse of my so-called potential husband would have been amusing.
I snort at my own thoughts. “Potential” is being a little too optimistic. There’s no way the king would ever be interested in a bride from a lower caste let alone a serf like me, even if there weren’t dozens of other suitors standing between us—all of whom are ready to kill if necessary. This is beyond a waste of my time. Unfortunately, the king’s summons was clear: Any woman of age who has never been bedded or wedded must participate in the selection for Queen consort. That and the lord of our fief sent his guards to round us up to make sure we couldn’t get away.
My dear father, he was right and he was wrong. I hate him for leaving me too early. He knew something like this would happen and I hated him for preparing me for it. His words, his training—they cling to me like armor I can never shed.
As if I don’t have enough trouble keeping my secret as is…
Then, finally, the hatch opens. Light spills into the belly of the ship, pulling the first wave of women forward, leaving the ship, stepping onto the dock in tight groups, safety in numbers. I follow close enough behind. Not for companionship—but for survival.
The river laps against the piers, slow and steady, pulling the scent of freshwater, damp earth and aging wood into the air.
After spending so many days below deck, I blink against the blinding sunlight, exposed to its unforgiving rays. My eyes adjust to the stretch of activity ahead, workers securing shipments, soldiers positioned near carriages meant for transport, I give myself a moment to take it all in.
It feels good to be surrounded by open air despite the stench emanating from the dock itself. I cover my nose with my hand as I pass the dock workers, their unpleasant odors of sweat and ale mixed together like a foul concoction. Even the serfs of the fields didn’t smell like this. I surprise myself by longing for Heath’s sweaty, earthy smell. Oh Heath, if I only accepted your proposal back then. My life could be different right now—secure, safe, tending the fields.
What I wouldn’t give to be back at my fief at this moment…. In a different lifetime when I’d chosen to say yes, I could see myself back at home right now tending the fields. It’s bristleberry season, I could be teaching my children how to pluck the berries without pricking their fingers. Missus Thompson would be in the row right next to me, grilling the other women on who they thought the next queen would be. It would be a simple life, but a life, nonetheless.
At least I wouldn’t be in any danger.
By the time we reach the end of the dock, most of the carriages have left and some are still leaving. Probably the nobility we had on the ship in the upper deck.
The last three carriages however are different. A man leans against the doorframe of the first in line, waiting. I look around and there are none of the wealthy nobility left on the dock, only the few handfuls of lower caste women left. The carriages are simple, not ornate like the ones that left earlier. My spine stiffens, there’s something wrong with what I’m seeing.
The man isn’t dressed like a soldier, but not too shabby like the rest of us. Too clean, too polished. His smile is easy, his posture careful. His presence feels deliberate.
“Ladies,” he calls out, voice warm, inviting. “You don’t have to walk to the castle, not when these carriages were prepared for you, potential queen consorts.” His emphasis on the word “potential” feels slimy.
A murmur ripples through the group, quiet excitement, hesitant hope. This is far from the treatment we received from the guards at the fief, we were herded like cattle. I suppose Arendalians are different, could their niceties tie in to truly believing one of us could be the queen? I scoff silently. I know better.
He gestures toward the open door of the first carriage, expression reassuring, voice smooth. “The roads ahead are crowded. No protection, no certainty. But this carriage will take you straight to the castle. Safe. Private. Away from prying eyes.”
The shift is immediate.
Relief flickers among the women, postures easing at the promise of privilege and comfort.
He continues, seemingly enough to seal their trust. He opens each of the remaining carriage doors. And comes back to his eager audience.
“But only for those who take the opportunity,” he adds. “The noble daughters have left. These? These are for you. A chance to arrive like them. Ahead of the others.”
That does it. The women step forward, one by one into the carriages, eager, trusting. Desperate to believe this is their advantage, believing their lives are about to change for the better.
I slip away to the side, unnoticed by the crafty assassin. Something is wrong. Not his words, not his stance. Not even the way he presents the carriages, like gifts rather than traps.
It’s the tone of his voice. The quiet shift in cadence. The careful rhythm, the too-rehearsed ease. I know deception when I hear it.
Father taught me to listen beyond words—to hear the intent, the way people sell lies like well-polished truths. I regret resenting him for teaching me what I thought was useless and a waste of effort. “You can’t afford to tryst a friendly stranger,” he once told me. Not when your life is a gamble in their hands.
There was never softness in his warnings—only certainty, only the knowledge that survival meant never mistaking kindness for safety. And now, I understand why.

</spoiler>