After all, every Draconis aspired to be a Dragon Rider, and riders wore sturdy coverings over their legsandboots—regardless if magic was melting their insides.
The fine leather squeezed my calves as Edith drew the laces tight. Scythe leaned over, yanking hairpins from my hair, letting golden waves cascade to my hips. The pressure built, suffocating and unbearable—yet I was born for this.
I forced my irritation down, drawing in a steadying breath as the carriage slowed to a halt. My fingers drummed against the seat, waiting for Ronan or one of the guards to open the door. I ached for the cool breeze, craved fresh air. Sweat slicked my palms, while heat flushed my cheeks.
When the door finally opened, a draft swept past me. It carried the faint scent of jasmine and earth, lifting tendrils of my hair and cooling my feverish skin. I forced my legs to move with purpose. No rushing, no stumbling. I would not make a fool of myself in front of my betrothed. I was a princess, and I would carry myself as one.
A Radaanian soldier bedecked in hues of gold and green lowered the carriage steps, the metal groaning with age. He extended a gloved hand, the scent of flowers faint in the air. I placed my clammy palm in his, the cool material a brief reprieve. With care, I lifted the hem of my dress and stepped out.
Gyrak clicked, his concern evident as my boots hit the uneven cobblestones with a solid thud. I smiled at the massive beast as his wings unfurled, casting a shadow across the courtyard. With soft eyes filled with quiet affection, he was more puppy than apex predator—a perfect match to his rider.
Ronan dismounted in one fluid motion, yanking his flight goggles down to his neck. The scent of wind and leather clung to him as he scanned the courtyard, his gaze sharp and calculating before he flashed me a roguish smile. He had faith in me.
With shoulders squared, I drew in another breath, bracing myself, then faced the High Court of Radaan.
The agonizing burn within blazed outward as I stood before the throng of nobles and soldiers. Their bright, extravagant garb clashed in a garish assault on my senses. As I lifted my chin, I recalled Draconia’s meager count of noblemen and knew from the palace’s sheer sprawl before me that this crowd was only a fraction of what they could muster.
The men’s hair, shorn close, contrasted with the women’s, left to flow down their backs like rivers. Tanned skin spoke of a heritage rooted in hard fieldwork. The women’s gowns swept the ground, while the men’s sleeves billowed in absurdly wide folds, an obscene waste of cloth—frivolous in a way that would have drawn scorn back in Draconia.
But this was to be my country now.
My gaze danced over the crowd as women whispered behind painted fans, their eyes drifting over my frame. Men openly appraised me as if I were some trophy waiting to be claimed. I shifted my focus to the palace entrance, expecting to find Tallon walking down to meet me.
Instead, a man stood tall above the crowd, his hard gaze fixed and unwavering. An aura of command clung to him, one that demanded attention. With shoulders squared and hands clasped firmly behind him, he radiated unprecedented pride. Guards perched like sentinels at his side, and despite having no crown on his brow, I needed no introduction. I knew exactly who he was.
King Kallias.
In Radaan, royalty bore a mantle in place of a crown—a reminder of their duty to their kingdom. The gilded adornment weighed heavy on his shoulders, yet he towered as if burdened by nothing more than a featherweight. It draped over layers of green and gold, the colors of his realm.
Pain clawed its way through my chest, spilling down my arms in waves as if the fire within sought freedom. My body jerked, betraying me with a flinch I struggled to restrain.
Weakness had no place here.
“Where is Tallon?” Ronan hissed, offering his arm to me.
My hand quivered as I rested it on the crook of his elbow, allowing him to lead me through the crowd. Blood roared in my veins, each pulse demanding me to release the chaos clawing within. I forced down a gulp, feeling small. Radaan had no Vessels, held no magic—they wouldn’t understand my struggles. Fainting here would mark me as weak, unworthy of marriage to the prince.
“Please tell me he’s here,” I murmured under my breath. My sweeping gaze found no other with a mantle or yoke among the masses. If I remembered correctly, Prince Tallon would be wearing a silver yoke, signifying his station.
Bystanders stared, their scrutiny roving over my clothes, scrutinizing every detail of my appearance.
“He’s not—the flaming son of a–”
“Ronan, I can’t hold it.” My jaw clenched as I wrestled to contain the blaze searing my core. If I didn’t release it soon, it would devour me.
Gyrak let out a low snarl and took a ground-shaking step toward us. My brother shook his head at his dragon and pressed his lips together, guiding me up the stone steps. I gathered my dress, the silk clinging and useless against my fevered skin, and heard the heavy thud of Gyrak’s retreat in response to Ronan’s silent rebuke.
“He can’t be far.” His voice held a note of forced calm—an attempt to bolster me.
Surely there were only a handful of steps, yet each stare pressed in on me, and the raging magic within made each one feel like scaling a tower. Heat flared, scorching me beneath the surface, and my skin flushed crimson.
“Princess Nienna of Draconia.” The voice of authority, the voice of aking, called out in greeting. His words sliced through the murmurs, silencing them with a tone that commanded regard.
I glanced up, meeting the cool, assessing gaze of King Kallias. Strands of silver threaded through his dark hair, swept back from his face, framing his stark features. His skin, bronzed from years under an open sky, contrasted with the slight shadow along his jaw, lending him a roguish air that hinted at something sharp, almost dangerous, beneath his nobility.
I expected the king to be clean-shaven, draped in one of those ridiculous puffed-sleeve shirts.
Instead, he met my gaze with a faint nod, his voice smooth as he spoke my title. “The Dragon’s Heart,” he intoned, dipping his head in a show of respect. “Welcome to Radaan.”
