Dayn exhales sharply. “I can’t do that. Not yet anyway. And I don’t even have the buckle, for your information. The king confiscated it.”
“We cannot get married,” I press. “Why are you even here?”
“Something's wrong in Draethys.” His golden eyes darken. “A rot that spread while I was exiled. If I can't contain it soon, this forced engagement will be the least deadly of our problems.”
“And you're only mentioning this now because...?”
“This isn't your battle, Esme. The throne's burdens are mine alone.” He steps closer. “Though perhaps our paths crossing wasn't mere coincidence.”
I turn away with a harsh laugh. “Spare me the destiny talk.”
But even with my back to him, my skin prickles with awareness. Every inch between us seems charged with electricity, my body a compass needle pulled toward his magnetic north. The contradiction makes me want to scream.
“I never asked for any of this either,” he murmurs. “For now, we play our parts. You as my reluctant bride, me as the dutiful prince, while I search for our escape.”
“You sound like a politician. Saying a lot without saying anything at all.”
“The mark of a skilled leader, isn’t it?”
“Or a waffler.”
The door crashes open. Bemmar fills the frame, his massive shoulders heaving with each breath. His eyes lock onto mine with such venom I instinctively shift back.
“YOU!” The word reverberates off the stone walls.
I straighten my spine and meet his glare.
“Yourgrace.” My voice emerges steadier than expected, and I even manage a touch of snark.
“Quite the spectacle you've created, darkblood.” The title drips from his lips like poison.
Beside me, Dayn's face remains impassive, but a muscle pulses along his jawline—the only crack in his perfect composure.
“Not intentionally,” I reply, lifting my chin despite the small tremor threatening my knees.
The king's nostrils flare. “You will report to the Bellatorium at dawn tomorrow.”
Dayn's head snaps up. “Father, after tonight's events?—”
“Your... fiancée...” Bemmar spits the word like a bone caught inhis throat, “has demonstrated abilities that require proper assessment. Colonel Rogon has personally requested to oversee her training.”
My stomach drops. “The same Colonel Rogon who tried to execute me?”
“Consider yourself fortunate,” Bemmar snarls. “If not for my son's interference, I'd still separate your head from your shoulders.”
“I should train her,” Dayn interjects. “I witnessed her powers emerge. I understand them better than?—”
“You have royal obligations,” Bemmar cuts him off with a dismissive wave. “The institute will handle your bride-to-be.”
I clench my jaw, picturing Rogon's twisted smile as he invents new torments that stop just short of execution. The dragons may not be allowed to kill me, but pain? Humiliation? Those are still very much on the table.
I glance at Dayn, searching for some kind of reassurance but finding only more questions. Every promise he's made has shape-shifted like his own body, leaving me scrambling to keep up. While I'm dodging Rogon's wrath tomorrow, these scaled schemers will be three steps ahead, playing their long game.
I need an escape plan that doesn't involve dragon politics or royal weddings.
17
ESME
