The corridor opened into the dining hall, and my feet moved on instinct, driven by discipline rather than desire. War or not, Kallias had earned the title ‘King of the Plentiful Plains’ for good reason.
The rich scents of roasted meats, spices, and fresh-baked bread flooded my senses, more overwhelming than welcoming. Darkness may have fallen outside, but inside, the hall gleamed with lanterns and candles, their flickering light casting long shadows across the crowded room. The tables were buried under heaps of food, enough to feed an army. My people were starving, yet here, excess spilled over every surface.
Where, in such abundance, could one find a place to sit?
“Her Highness, Princess Nienna of Draconia. And Heir Apparent, Prince Ronan. The Dragon’s Heart and Second Rider!”
The herald’s voice echoed through the hall, and the crowd fell silent. All eyes shifted to us, sharp and heavy. My throat went dry, the ache of sandpaper scraping against bone, and I struggled to swallow past the knot that tightened with every breath.
Ronan flexed his arm under my grasp, a quiet reassurance that I could face this moment.
And here I was, the older sister—trained for this—and I faltered.
The sea of unfamiliar faces pressed in, and a tremor stirred within me. I managed a smile, but my gaze swept beyond them, searching for something to steady my nerves.
Across the room, eyes the color of a summer sky locked with mine. From a table elevated on a platform, King Kallias rose and dipped into a slow bow, his stare never wavering.
My heart pounded, as nervous as a stag sighted by a dragon. I trained for this—wasbornfor this. My brother released my arm and bowed, and I sank into a low curtsy worthy of a king.
“Welcome, Princess Nienna and Ronan Draconis.”
His voice sent a jolt down my spine, igniting a swirl of curses in my mind. Was it fear? Fear of him? Or of the weight in his tone?
I straightened, the murmurs of the crowd buzzing around me—whispers about the foreign princess now in their midst. One misstep tonight, and it would be my only legacy. Ronan guided me down the aisle, and I held my head high, forcing my gaze forward, ignoring the temptation to glance at my feet. There was no obstacle in my path to trip on, to slow my advance to the dais.
The vast dining hall could easily swallow my entire set of rooms. Each step toward the platform stretched into what felt like an eternity. King Kallias’ gaze did nothing to calm the trembling in my hand or the frantic rhythm of my heart.
We halted before the stairs, and I fought to keep my composure as he looked down at us. A red mark marred his forehead—a faint burn from the Dragon’s Kiss. Heat crept up my neck, shame curling in my stomach. I hadn’t controlled the magic as I should have.
This would be where Ronan left me. Where the prince would retrieve me.
Kallias offered a tight smile, gesturing toward the seat beside him. “Princess.”
Tallon was meant to sit between us. I was to remain with my betrothed during our engagement. Yet, not only had I given my seal to the king, but now I was seated at his right hand—reserved for family.
I’d be family soon.
My gaze flicked across the platform, pausing on the few nobles and ambassadors fortunate enough to dine with royalty.
I couldn’t climb the stairs alone. It would be too independent, too bold. To approach the king’s table without an escort was a breach of my status as a princess.
The room fell silent, tension pressing down as murmurs faded to whispers. My finger tapped against my thigh, a minor act of control amid the uncertainty. A man shifted, his gaze drifting toward the king at his side. Kallias turned, a crease forming between his brows. Confusion—or perhaps irritation?
Surely, he knew that without Prince Tallon, I dared not approach.
The nobleman spoke to him in hushed tones, and Kallias’ summer-sky eyes flicked back to me, scrutinizing. A muscle pulsed in his clenched jaw—a sure sign of his annoyance. Ignoring decorum, he rose from his seat.
No. Not him. Anyone else—a noble, a servant!
But my silent pleas went unanswered as he descended the twelve stairs—I counted—each step slow and deliberate.
The golden yoke draped over his viridian overcoat caught the lantern light, mocking my unease with its quiet, polished gleam. Brown boots wrapped his muscular calves, grounding his presence in shades of earth. A flicker of excitement sparked as I noticed them—practical, sturdy things. Not the sandals worn by his people.
My gaze drifted to the broadsword at his hip, swaying in tandem with his stride. This was no ornamental blade, but the weapon of the man they called the Warrior of Sun and Flame, a title earned by skill, not ceremony.
He raised his chin and extended his hand, palms rough with calluses—shaped by labor rather than privilege. What work had he done that resulted in a commoner’s hands?
With lips pressed in a firm line, I bit down against the urge to hesitate. I placed my clammy hand on his, heat rising to my cheeks as I cursed the tangible evidence of my nerves. I kept my fidgeting under control and held my expression steady, but the betraying sweat on my palm was a stark reminder of my humanity, as undeniable as it was inconvenient. Some bodily functions I had no choice but to fall victim to.
