Nyssa grimaces, but finally gives a reluctant nod, then exits the room. I watch her go, a grim satisfaction settling in my chest. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. He will learn I am not atreasure to be displayed. I am a weapon waiting for the right moment to be aimed.
As I stand there, in the middle of the room, I have no idea what I’m walking into, but following rules in enemy territory makes my skin crawl. I didn’t do it at Heathborne, and I’m not about to do it here. Nyssa should probably give me points for restraint. I haven’t tried to kill her today—yet.
She returns precisely one minute later with another dress.
This one is… admittedly beautiful, albeit in a similar style, but in delicate shades of red and orange, like the tongues of a campfire reaching for the heavens.
“Would this please you more, my lady?”
“No. And I’d prefer you call me Esme,” I reply. She’s earned this much.
Nyssa shakes her head. “I wouldn’t dare, my lady.”
“I won’t tell anyone. Privately, you call me Esme. Privately, I call Dayn whatever I like. Fair deal?”
She chuckles softly and helps me, still reluctantly, put my now-black dress on.
“Don’t flaunt the fact you changed it,” she warns. “I won’t be able to save you from any repercussions.”
I drop the towel and slip the dress over my head. The magic feels cool against my skin, humming with a faint, dark energy. It fits perfectly. The filigree bands settle lightly over my shoulders, and the fabric is so smooth and soft, it feels like a delicate breeze eager to kiss every inch of my skin.
“It’s ridiculously light,” I say, taking a few steps toward the window.
The light coming through is the same. There’s no sense of day and night in Draethys. Only of fires burning, of the earth’s bowels glowing across the stone sky. If I had a heart for these people, I’d say it was sad many of them never saw the true sky.
Fortunately, I don’t.
“We prefer lighter fabrics and fewer clothes to make our transition from human to dragon form easier,” Nyssa explains. “The dresscomes off easily for that purpose. The same for the gentlemen’s tunics and robes. Their armors snap off just as quickly.”
“So you strip and reveal your dragon forms,” I say, dry.
“Yes, my lady,” she begins, then stops when I clear my throat and fix her with a look. “Yes, Esme,” she corrects herself with a shy smile.
I take a look at myself in the mirror, pulling my dark hair into a loose, comfortable bun. The dress flows like dark water, outlining my figure and giving me an unfamiliar grace.
“I think I like this,” I mutter mostly to myself.
“You look beautiful in it,” Nyssa says.
“Beauty was never on my checklist.”
“Beauty comes naturally,” Nyssa replies. “In your case, it never belonged on a checklist.”
I turn to face her, surprised by the unexpected kindness. I wonder if she is simply being polite or if she really is this genuine. “Thank you, I guess.”
“Now, let’s get you downstairs. The lords are waiting.”
“The lords?”
“The dragon lords of House Draxion.”
My stomach clenches into a tight, cold knot. I trail Nyssa out of the chamber and into a hallway that opens onto a grand staircase, a sweeping curve of polished obsidian that descends into a vast, cavernous space. The palace is an exercise in intimidation, built to remind any non-dragon of their insignificance. Ceilings soar into shadow, so high they swallow the sound of our footsteps, leaving only a faint, lonely echo. The windows aren't windows at all, but massive, talon-shaped gashes cut into the stone, every sharp edge gilded and gleaming.
Fires burn everywhere, in massive braziers and deep-set hearths, feeding on some viscous oil that makes the air taste of metal and pride. Just breathing here feels like inhaling the very essence of this place, and I’m starting to feel like the smoky, singed scent isseeping into my skin, becoming part of me. It should irritate me to no end, but instead it sharpens the edges of my anger.Let them fill me with their ash; I’ll turn it into something combustible.
Guards line the corridor, their polished gold armor catching the firelight as we pass. They stand unmoving, like gilded statues, but their eyes are alive, tracking my every step the way predators watch movement in the brush. Each gaze is a physical weight, a reminder that I am prey in the heart of the hunters’ den.
The hall opens into a room so vast it feels hollow at its center, the sound of our arrival swallowed by the sheer scale of the space.
