I demanded an explanation from the palace steward about the 'bathhouse incident' from my childhood. I was six. My father, in his infinite wisdom, decided the only way to teach me to control my draconic body heat was to have me submerge myself in the imperial hot springs until I could maintain a precise temperature for an hour.

The problem? I got bored. And when a half-dragon princess gets bored in scalding water, she experiments.

Turns out, if you focus that internal heat... just so... and clench certain muscles... you can create a rather intense, localized current. The resulting... disturbance... in the water was significant enough that three attendants thought a geyser had erupted in the private bath. My father's priceless jade statue of the First Bride was found, days later, on the opposite bank.

I was punished, of course. A week of meditation on 'imperial composure.' But all I could think about was the feeling. That deep, throbbing, perfect warmth that started in my cunt and vibrated through my whole tail. I spent the next decade trying to replicate it during my 'meditations.' Never quite managed it. Too much conscious effort, I suppose.

Now, though... the memory has new context. A new... catalyst. The thought of my mate's hands holding me down in that steam, their cock filling me while I lose control and make the water boil around us... It's enough to make my scales prickle. The Great Ritual is a cruel, brilliant joke. It gives you the key to the lock, then forbids you from turning it. So you're left staring at the door, remembering how the bathwater felt when you were six.

This world is so strange. You can buy little cakes on a stick, but you cannot simply claim what is yours by right of blood and dream. The steward just sighed and said, 'Your Highness, some mysteries are best left in the steam.' Fool. Some mysteries are meant to be solved with teeth and tongue.