“He’s charming!” I laughed.
She rolled her eyes, but offered a teasing smile. She held out her hand. “Remember who you are—a princess, and perhaps, soon-to-be queen. Act like it.”
She pulled me to my feet and folded me into her arms.
I gripped her dress, breathed in salt and sun. In spite of everything that had happened, she stayed by my side. Unable to change any of it, but she didn’t abandon me.
“Now—off to bed!” She kissed my forehead. “We all need rest after a day like this.”
“Hush! They’re bound to have Argos and Gyrak lurking in the Cireendium,” Freya scolded with a muffled giggle, fingers working through my hair in the dark.
I stifled a laugh and threw my head back, fastening the light cape over my nightdress. Pale-blue silk clung to my chest, lace draped over the bodice and a delicate strip crossed my middle—one of my finest gowns. I squinted into the mirror, nudging the lace into place until it aligned with my navel.
“If you’re caught, your father will toss you into the sea,” she hissed, still grinning, then smoothed my hair down over my shoulders. “Scandalous.”
“Scythe would’ve kicked me out already,” I said, a sharp pull behind my ribs.
Freya paused. Her eyes found mine through the veil of moonlight. “Well. I best make her proud. Shoo!” She pushed me toward the door.
Bare toes skimmed cool stone as I crept forward and pulled the heavy wood open. I peeked into the dim hall.
Draconia slept. In Radaan, the halls glowed, lit bright even at midnight. Here, mage lights hovered in silence, flickering on spent magic, waiting for the Vessels to revive them.
No guards. No footsteps trailing mine.
I slipped into the corridor, clutching the cape tight to my chest. Freya told me they roomed Kallias close—on my floor, not among the nobles below. Perhaps Father offered him that much mercy. A subtle nod of favor.
I kept to the wall, weaving past Ronan’s chambers. To be caught by him would mean weeks of smugness. He wouldn’t snitch, but he’d never let me live it down.
Rugs detailed with tribal designs muffled my steps, and I came to a stop before a plain wooden doorframe. No engraved flourishes. No gilded trim. Solid. Unassuming.
My throat rasped with dryness, but I swallowed it down and turned the handle.
The hinges held silent. I slid through and eased the door shut, letting the latch settle without a sound. Shadows swallowed the receiving room, but a low, white glow flickered from the next chamber.
Greaves hadn’t been returned. He was still grounded on the level below.
Kallias was alone.
My heart kicked. Not from fear—but the rush of secrecy, the draw of seeing him without court stares or whispers behind fans.
I crept toward the doorway.
He lay stretched across the bed, a shaft of moonlight cast over his body like a blessing.
Breath caught in my throat. One arm draped over his face, shielding his eyes. My father’s old leathers hugged him well, silver stitching catching the light in quiet glimmers.
My heart slammed into my ribs.
His trousers sat unfastened. Pale skin peeked above the open seam. His hand disappeared under the waistband.
Blood flushed to my face. I stared at the place where his fingers vanished. One leg stretched long and straight. The other bent outward, knee angled wide. Bare feet sprawled across the linens.
So exposed. Unarmed. Beautiful.
I glanced at the window. The curtains stood open. If a rider passed, their dragon might glimpse me through the glass. But I wouldn’t close it. Not if it meant dimming the sight before me.
The stone chilled my soles as I padded to the bed and paused. His tousled hair, dark and messy. Lips soft and still. The scruff on his jaw had grown longer than he kept it in Radaan—silver dusted the edges. His leather jacket clung to his chest, buckled to his throat, though one clasp hung loose.
