After bidding Gyrak farewell, we entered the palace, flanked by guards and led by a noblewoman named Fyrn’sol. She had been assigned as my guide and guardian, though something in her watchful hovering chafed at my spirit. King Kallias himself had escorted me into the foyer, then left me in her care, mentioning he would see me at the evening meal.
Despite all this talk of alliance and duty, a lingering sensation gnawed at me—that here in Radaan, I was little more than a piece on their board. A pawn in their game. For all the titles and courtesy, I felt less like a princess and more like a tool—to be taken out, displayed, or set aside when convenient.
“Fyrn’sol, might I ask when Prince Tallon is expected to return?” I inquired, following her through corridors flooded with light. The high ceilings seemed to banish all shadows, while rich paintings lined the walls, echoing the vibrantcolors woven into the thick carpet beneath our feet. Vines crept into every corner and cranny, lending life to the grandeur.
“The prince is… indisposed.” She brushed a strand of hair from her face and offered an apologetic smile, almost as if his absence troubled her, too. “But he’s expected soon.”
That single word was all they’d told me. Where was he? Indisposed. When would he return? Soon. How could a prince just… vanish? Couldn’t the king summon him? If Ronan or I ever wandered off against Father’s orders, we’d be hauled back in Argos’ claws.
Kallias, with his rigid disposition, didn’t seem like a man to tolerate disobedience, yet he allowed his son to flout tradition. All I knew was courtly customs, the expectations as familiar to me as the pulse in my veins. I enjoyed a measure of freedom, but I’d always known my fate—to be promised to a prince, to become queen, and to master the art of royal conduct.
But if Tallon avoided court and palace life, what would that mean for me? Would he leave me behind, appearing only to sire an heir? Or would he drag me along, expecting me to play the part of an ordinary noblewoman at his side?
“Are you well, Your Highness?”
Fyrn’sol’s concerned tone snapped me from my thoughts, and I offered her a faint smile, shoving my worries aside to untangle later.
“It’s been a long journey,” I said, hoping it would excuse my distant mood.
“I can imagine! They say the dragon pulled the ship to speed you along—is that true?”
“Yes.” I laughed, a sound softer than I intended. “Prince Ronan’s dragon wore the harness.”
“To think how swiftly our ships might sail if we had such beasts!”
My smile stayed in place, though my heart clenched. Gyrak had worn that harness only because of my royal blood. The idea of dragons pulling common merchant vessels struck as near sacrilege.
“Thosebeastsbelong to the Wild Shores and Draconia,” Ronan snapped, words clipped and curt.
I frowned at his sharp tone. He held no regard for his tongue.
“Oh, yes–of course.” Fyrn’sol pressed her lips together, as if there was more she wanted to say, but my brother had crushed her confidence.
The walk to my rooms stretched into uncomfortable silence. I tracked the halls we passed and the sun’s shifting angle through the windows. The faster I could navigate this palace on my own, the better. The sun sank toward the horizon, casting everything in a fierce, golden glow. Radaan was a warm land—beautiful, vibrant, and full of life.
Draconia, too, was warm—but storm-tossed. My island home endured the great whirlstorms for two seasons each year. Those same tempests brought thefirst dragons to our shores, yet it was these relentless tempests that forced us to seek Radaan’s help.
The breeze that drifted through the windows was nothing like the violent gales that tore across our island. Those winds ravaged crops and slowed the construction of our stone houses to a crawl. With this new alliance, however, we would finally gain the food we so desperately needed to sustain our growing population, along with the materials to build homes for our people aiding our expansion.
Fyrn’sol halted and announced, “Princess Nienna of Draconia.”
Before us stood an ornate door, towering and intricately carved. Fresh designs adorned the wood, and a smile tugged at my lips as I fought the impulse to reach out and trace the dragons depicted in mid-flight.
A wave of sadness washed over me. I would likely never set foot on Draconia’s shores again. The only dragons I would see now would be the ones that belong to riders—or Gyrak on my brother’s rare visits.
“You are the Dragon’s Heart.” Ronan’s voice softened—he always seemed to know my thoughts. “You are part of them, and they are part of you.” He gave my shoulder a reassuring pat before stepping back.
Guards stood at attention along the corridor, two at each door—including mine. Radaan still clung to the echoes of war, its people and king adjusting to the fragile peace. The soldiers wore full plate armor, painted in green and gold, their visors flipped up to reveal youthful faces. They bowed deeply, eyes respectful.
I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them had missed the carefree youth Ronan had enjoyed, instead thrust into the brutal war with Vellos. The guard to my right could not have been older than my brother.
The guard to my left stepped forward, his broad shoulders bracing against the massive door, shoving it open.
Any lingering unease about my rooms vanished in an instant.
Golden sunlight bathed me in its rays, casting the space in a blinding glow. My heart unfurled like a leaf basking in the summer heat, eager to absorb the warmth.
“Scythe, the curtains.”
