My thoughts drift to Esme. To the taste of her blood minglingwith mine, to the unpredictable consequences of allowing her essence to intertwine with my draconic nature.
“Explain yourself,” Father's voice cuts through the chamber.
Anees steps forward. “Jeron attacked the crown prince, Your Majesty. He attempted regicide.”
“Nonsense,” Brutus Meraxis hisses. “Our council sessions always involve heated exchanges. Dragons are not known for their temperance, but this—” he gestures at the ash, “—this crosses every boundary.”
“Do not twist reality before your king,” I snarl. “Jeron committed treason, not mere discourtesy.”
Father's ancient gaze settles on me. “What provoked this?”
I face my father, jaw tight. “It appears your council harbors more conquest-minded members than you admitted. House Braynor, for example, would gladly see blood spilled. I merely objected.”
“Godsdamned, son.” My father's scales ripple with frustration beneath his skin as he turns from me. “This isn't how our emergence was meant to unfold.” He addresses the gathered lords, voice heavy with authority. “This has escalated beyond reason. I will investigate thoroughly?—”
“My king,” Leander Rogon interrupts, a hint of scales gleaming in the torchlight. “The time for secrecy has passed. These matters must be aired openly.”
Father inhales deeply, ancient eyes narrowing. “I supported exploring possibilities—developing careful strategies for our return?—”
“Father,” I cut in, heat rising beneath my skin. “You can't seriously consider this folly?”
“These caverns were never our permanent home,” he replies, fingers flexing against his robes. “But violence needn't be our first approach. Other avenues exist.”
“Such as?”
Anees's hand settles on my shoulder, but I feel the tremor in his touch. He fears what I've become. “Dayn, your absence has blinded you. Our kingdom strains against these walls. We all yearn for open skies, but the younglings—they suffer most acutely.”
“We cannot repeat past mistakes.”
“ENOUGH!” Father's roar reverberates through the chamber, silencing all. “This council will reconvene separately. For now, we address the immediate crisis: Jeron Braynor is dead, and his House demands answers.”
“Their support is already lost,” Leander sneers, contempt dripping from every word. “Their vote is forfeit.”
“And yours?” Father challenges.
Leander's tongue flicks across ancient teeth. “That depends, Your Grace, on how you handle this... unfortunate incident. House Braynor has suffered grievously today.”
Of course. They need someone to blame, and I fit the role perfectly. The prince who abandoned his duties to live among humans. The heir who returned with foreign ideas and a human bride. What better villain for their story? I’ve already heard the whispers in the corridors: how I've been tainted by the surface world, how I've forgotten what it means to be Draxion. The council members will never see beyond the prodigal son who dared to think differently. But if the Houses unite against the throne, we'll face something far worse than political discord.
19
ESME
My pulse hammers against my ribs as I take the palace steps three at a time. The guards' eyes follow me with thinly veiled contempt, but I push past them, driven by something I can't name. The first level corridor stretches before me like a challenge. I’ve never entered Dayn’s room before, but Nyssa told me where to find it.
“Nyssa came and told me what happened...” The words die in my throat as I shoulder open Dayn's door.
His room unfolds before me: massive and ornate. Vaulted ceilings disappear into darkness above carved stone walls inlaid with veins of what looks like molten gold. Ancient tapestries depicting dragons in flight hang between tall windows cut into the mountain itself, offering dizzying views of the cavern city below. The air smells of incense and something else—something primal, like lightning before a storm. And of course, a massive bed dominates one wall, draped in silken, crimson sheets…
My mind flashes to our struggle at Heathborne: my blade, his bare strength, our bodies wrestling across similar sheets. The memory burns hot against my skin. How impossible this moment would have seemed then, standing in my enemy's chamber not as his assassin, but as his...what, exactly?
The man of the hour hunches at the window table, grinding something that smells of sulfur and copper into a brass bowl. Ancient runes catch the candlelight along its rim, pulsing with faint life.
“You shouldn't be here,” Dayn mutters, then turns. The right side of his face bears a large patch of angry red welts and blisters. My stomach twists—not with satisfaction as it should, but with something dangerously close to concern.
“Well, tough,” I say, crossing my arms. “I am here.”
“I'm fine.”
