“We appreciate your attendance, Colonel,” Dayn mutters.
Rogon's laugh scrapes like talons on granite. “Oh, I'm not offering felicitations, my lord.” He claps Dayn's shoulder hard enough to slosh the drink he’s holding over the rim. His eyes, when they land on me, narrow to reptilian slits. “Just marveling that I've lived to see you chain yourself to this... dark magical. And all because you stayed my blade when we had her cornered.”
I roll my eyes at him, but at least he didn’t use “darkblood” like a cuss word.Small progress.
“I just hope it was worth it,” Rogon adds. “At least you've made history tonight… Let's see how you fare in the next round.”
My stomach clenches. “What do you mean ‘next?—?”
My question dies on my lips as two royal guards appear at Dayn’s and my side, bowing stiffly before gesturing toward the exit. The hall erupts in applause and raucous cheers as the guards escort us out, leading us through a winding corridor and up a marble staircase. Gold flecks embedded in the floor catch the light from candles held by silent maidens lining our path. At the end of the hallway stands our destination: massive white double doors adorned with silk ribbons that flutter in the draft.
The guards flanking the entrance bow in unison.
“The fire that never dies,” one intones solemnly.
“The fire that never dies,” Dayn murmurs, then nods to the guards as they close the doors.
When we're finally alone, I whirl around, quickly surveying the chamber. It’s not Dayn’s room, it’s even bigger than that, with floor-to-ceiling open windows. First floor. Soft ground below. I could make that jump easily.
A circular curtain hangs in the center of the room, concealing something.
Dayn nods toward the stone walls. “See those runes?”
I scan the walls. Ancient symbols are etched into every inch of stone, their edges catching the candlelight. Dayn strides toward the central curtain, pulling it apart and revealing… a massive circular bed, elevated on a platform with three shallow steps. White and gold silks drape across it like liquid metal, pillows piled high in invitation.
“We need those wall runes to illuminate,” Dayn mutters, firelight dancing across the sharp angles of his face. “They'll shoot sparks through the windows for all of Draethys to witness.”
I blink at him, mouth falling open. “Sparks? Through the windows? For the entire city to see?” My voice rises with each question, fingers balling into fists. “You're telling me we need to put on some kind of magical light show?”
He sighs so deeply it’s almost condescending, which makes me want to punch him harder.
His professor tone returns. “It’s a draconic custom,” he explains, gesturing to the bed as if it's a piece of evidence in a trial. “A prelude to the consummation. The runes will connect to our life forces. They respond to a promise of the flesh, a bond embedded in the heart.”
My jaw goes slack. “You're telling me we have to… broadcast our wedding night to the entire city via magical fireworks?”
“It’s symbolic,” he grits out, his own discomfort showing in the tight line of his mouth. “Once the runes flare, the kingdom is satisfied. Their attention will return to the wine, and we'll be left alone. If you want to survive, we need to get this over with.”
I narrow my eyes. “What happens if we refuse?”
“The marriage becomes void, and you become a head shorter than you currently are.”
“Brilliant,” I hiss, pacing across the stone floor. “You promised me an escape, Dayn, not a wedding night.”
He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening. “I exhausted every avenue. Consulted the royal archives, ancient texts, even bribed three different legal scholars. There's no way to nullify the ceremony without your immediate execution.”
My mouth goes dry. “And what does it actually entail, this ‘promise of the flesh’?” The words stick in my throat.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he walks to the bed and ascends the three shallow steps, his back ramrod straight. He turns, his hand outstretched, a silent invitation.
My feet feel like lead, but I force them to move, the heavy silk of my gown whispering against the stone. I approach cautiously.
When my hand meets his, the now-too-familiar jolt of his inner fire races up my arm. He draws me onto the platform. We stand in the center of the massive bed, facing each other, the air thick with a tension so heavy I can barely breathe.
“The spell is a promise of one body to another,” he continues to explain academically, though his pupils are slightly dilated, his voice rougher. “Ancient dragons designed it for political marriages where the participants might find each other... physically incompatible.”
“So basically magical Viagra?”
His composure cracks for just a heartbeat, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Dragon nobility rarely married for love. The ritual just ensures the union produces heirs by manufacturing desire where nature failed to provide it.”
