“My heart belongs to him.” My words barely reached the air. I clutched his fingers, my throat constricting. In that room, I wasn’t only his daughter—I was a symbol. A bargaining piece.
A queen in waiting.
“Then so be it.”
With a sigh, he looped my arm through his. Past Mother and Ronan, we strode forward. The door groaned open, and we stepped into the chamber with our chins held high. Draconis—proud and indomitable.
Kallias rose from his seat, Fallione rising to his right. Greaves hovered near the wall, shadows etching his features. Scribes lined the walls, quills hovering over parchment. Haldor and Zane flanked the entrance, quiet sentinels. There were no formal advisors. Mother, Father always said, was our voice of reason, our wisdom.
Kallias wore his signature green, but the leaf embroidery stitched along his coat was a shade of damp bark. He dipped into a bow, the chains of his mantle brushing the edge of the massive table.
The oak slab commanded the space, broad and scarred, dominating the hard room. The walls bristled with swords and established treaties on display like our kingdom’s trophies.
“Welcome, King Kallias Sunspear of Radaan,” Father intoned. He led me to my seat—the one time I would sit at his left, with Ronan to my right.
“Thank you for hearing my case, Nereus Draconis, Dragon King of Draconia,” he said, laying the title down like an olive branch.
My head swam. No matter what training Mother had drilled into me, Kallias’ calm held a note of confidence born of countless verbal battles of wit and word.
“What do you seek in my halls?” Father asked as we all settled. Quills scraped paper, the sound brittle in the vaulted silence.
Though we had an audience, this was private. Here, we preferred quiet meetings—honesty found easier footing in smaller spaces than in the pomp of the throne room.
“I ask for the hand of Nienna, the Dragon’s Heart, in marriage.”
“To whom?”
A tedious formality, but neither man skipped it.
“Iask for her hand,” Kallias repeated, expression unchanged. Calm and deliberate, one palm rested flat on the table, emerald ring glinting beside a gold signet, while the other disappeared beneath the edge.
Father leaned back, not in dismissal but with the first breath of casual ease, of informality.
“She was given to your son, pledged as a seal between our lands—a promise. That treaty is broken. Now you ask for her hand yourself. I ask, then, that your grain tithe rise by five percent.”
“Done.”
I blinked and held still, though my gaze drifted to Kallias. Five percent more in grain alone was a steep demand. And judging by the way Fallione’s brow tightened, he hadn’t advised it.
But Kallias wasn’t bluffing. To him, this was no game.
His eyes—clear, bright, the color of a summer sky—met mine, and he blinked once, masking that familiar twitch. He would pay whatever the price. He would leave with me, no matter the cost.
I stayed silent while the conversation circled. Father demanded. Kallias agreed. Only when Fallione raised a hand did he push back. Grain, wool, timber, stone—it all blurred. Numbers and percentages poured out like water I couldn’t hold.
Mother joined the fray when Fallione pressed too hard, and both kings settled in, allowing their advisors to sharpen the edges of each clause.
Would it end today? Could it? Would I walk from this table engaged? Would my parents allow a quick wedding, or stretch it into a drawn-out spectacle draped in lace and wine?
“You must guarantee an heir.”
Father’s words cleaved through the din. Kallias’ eye twitched, and pressed his lips together, buying himself time.
An heir?
I glanced toward Mother. Her frown had deepened, and a thin line pinched between her brows. She wasn’t posturing. She meant it.
Kallias inhaled and answered, his tone even and measured. “Can the gods guarantee a seed will take root?” His voice remained steady, but I saw that second blink. He hated the question. “I cannot speak for the gods.”
