Once finished, I pressed a cloth against the cut and pulled the tunic over it. The jacket followed, buckled tight to keep the bandage in place. I smirked at the memory of Nienna offering to help—gods, she was bold. Especially with her parents near.
In public, she played the part—measured, calm. Around her family, she burned like a forge.
I pulled on the trousers. They hugged my hips too tight, but I fastened them. In the mirror, I studied the fit.
There was power in riding leathers. They wrapped close, fitted for movement and protection. The collar brushed the knot of my throat, and buckles climbed one side of my chest. Small loops lined the waist—likely for knives or rope.
Would a rider need knives? What threat hunted them in the sky?
The black leather threw my silver hair into sharp relief. I shifted closer, frowning at the pale strands. Would she mind that? That I wasn’t young like Tallon or some smooth-jawed noble?
I leaned back, palm brushing the tender wound. This was as ready as I’d get. Now came the real trial—convincing her parents to let me marry their daughter.
Draconia unnerved me. The Spire’s window sat impossibly high—hundreds of paces in the air, maybe thousands. The city sprawled beneath, its rooftops laid out like Radaan’s patchwork fields. Tiny flecks shifted across them, Draconis moving about on their roofs, wringing use from every scrap of space.
My stomach knotted when I got too close to the glass. No human had business being this far above solid ground. I stepped back, gaze drifting to the wild seas. They spread in all directions, boundless. How did anyone live here long enough to settle?
Nienna once said Draconia wasn’t small, but beside Radaan, it felt like a splinter. My homeland stretched on forever. From the top of the Spire, I’d probably see water framing every edge of the island.
A knock broke my study.
“Ready?” Ronan poked his head in. His face was clean, but a bruise bloomed under one eye.
It would be interesting to explain that to his parents.
I drew a deep breath, shoulders tight. Sparring Greaves came easy—no stakes, no blood. But wielding Elohios’ blessing in a true battle? That demanded more than technique.
I grunted and stepped through the doorway beside him. As we walked, I mapped the Spire—each turn, every stair. I doubted they’d strike inside their own palace. Still, I was determined to know my way around.
In case Nienna ever needed me.
The walk wasn’t long before Ronan opened a familiar door. My eyes swept the room, caught on the seating. My jaw ticked when I saw where I’d been placed.
Across from Nereus.
At the far end of the table.
He sat at the head, Nienna nestled to his left between him and his wife. Another setting waited on his right. Ronan didn’t pause, sliding into the chair without glancing my direction. I hesitated a moment as all eyes landed on me.
Nyxaria’s brows arched. Nereus choked.
But Nienna though, the way her gaze roamed over my body, lingering on my thighs—and the blush that heated her cheeks—had me striding for my seat.
Gods, the woman lit me up like a wildfire choking dry brush.
“Ronan, were there no other clothes?” Nyxaria’s tone made it clear Ronan was known for pulling this sort of stunt.
“He’s no rider,” Nereus snapped.
I sat, tucking my legs beneath the thick wooden table. A bowl steamed before me—soup that smelled of the sea, dotted with fish and tangled greens.
“Has Greaves returned with my clothes?” I asked. No one had greeted me, so I offered none in return.
“We ordered him to rest,” Nyxaria said. “Two levels below, on the public floor. He’ll return to your service tomorrow once we… settle affairs.”
I reached for the spoon, but glimpsed Nereus glaring.
I set it back down, leaned into my chair, and met his glower. “Shall we talk now?”
