“That’s just a formality,” Sei protests. “You don’t actually have to guard me until the wedding.”
Marek stops short and grabs both of Sei's shoulders. The pressure of his broad hands heats through Sei’s very bones. But it’s the scowl in Marek’s dark purple eyes that holds Sei in place.
“Claiming traditions arenotjust a formality here,” Marek says, quieter now but deadly serious. “Counterclaim abductions are rare, but they still happen. You’re a high-profile grail. Every power-hungry mage in the country will be watching, wondering if they can get away with stealing you. So don’t make it so fucking easy on them, all right?”
Shock holds Sei still. Marek’s words echo every horrible rumor Sei has ever heard about Draskora. But the guildmasters said Sei would be safe. They even sent Naoko to negotiate the agreement with Sei’s well-being in mind, though Sei barely knows his mother. Sei doesn’t know what Naoko’s priorities might have been.
At least Sei can draw comfort from cynicism. If Draskora is full of power-hungry mages, the most powerful of them already sits upon the scalestone throne.
“Would they dare cross House Dire?” Sei asks.
“They shouldn’t, if they know what’s good for them.” Marek releases Sei’s shoulders with a final pat. Straightening up gives Sei space, but only emphasizes Marek’s greater height. “But magic gets to some people. There are some very powerful idiots out there. Even if they failed, you could get hurt in the attempt.”
The enormity of Sei’s predicament slams into him. He wishes Marek would grab him again, so the novelty of touch could distract him from his own powerlessness. Sei is completely dependent on the strangers toying with his fate.
Why couldn’t he be claimed by an ordinary mage in Fellrin?
Sei recovers his composure. Best not to annoy the royal mage flying him across the country. “I understand, Your Highness. I apologize. I won’t wander alone again.”
Marek waves towards Loska. “Come on, let’s chase some clouds.”
Taking off is just as terrifying the second time, but knowing what to expect helps. Sei doesn’t even scream this time. Momentum throws him back against Marek, who scarcely budges in the harness—unmoved by the launch and Sei’s weight alike.
The flight is quiet, save for Loska’s wingbeats. If Marek and Loska communicate at all, it must be telepathically. Sei doesn’t know exactly how the dragon bond works—nobody does, outside Draskora. Except maybe Silaisans, now. From Sei’s perspective, Marek and Loska move as a seamless unit.
Marek seems content to ignore Sei, leaving him alone to fend off his nerves. Warmth surrounds Sei from Loska’s furnace of a chest and Marek behind him.
Yet most of the heat comes from Sei’s own awareness. He can’t recall the last time he pressed so long against another person. He can’t tell if he despises or craves it.
***
Each break throughout the day, Sei struggles more to walk around. His entire body aches from being bound in the same position for hours on end. It will be worse tomorrow, he’s sure. But Marek is right that walking helps once Sei forces himself to move.
Marek also offers him food, and Sei chokes down a few pieces of travelbread. Exhaustion tugs the edge of his vision. Except every time his eyes close, another wingbeat jars him awake again.
The ordeal lasts into the evening, until Marek says, “That’s Ostomar.”
As Loska angles into a wide circle, the palace and city are visible past the dragon’s blue-scaled shoulder. From this height, the palace looks like a jagged crown above the sprawling city. Black spires and violet banners. A number of smaller satellite castles huddle within the great outer wall. One tower on the outskirts appears scorched, the windows broken on the top two floors.
On any other day, Sei would be amazed by the sight. Now he just wants to roll off the dragon into bed.
Loska circles around the palace to a broad, dark courtyard. The outer edge drops off a cliff above the mist-shrouded valley below.
“Great, a welcome committee,” Marek mutters in Sei’s ear. Sei can’t tell whether he’s being sarcastic or not, or whether he’s talking to Sei or himself. It doesn’t matter, because the rush of Loska’s descent robs Sei of any breath to answer.
Loska touches down near the drop-off, claws scratching into the stone floor. His wings settle along his back, and his tail swishes—but not as dramatic a swish as during their rest stops along the way.
Sei doesn’t have a chance to feel relieved the flight is over. Because as Marek sets to work freeing them from the harness, Sei eyes the welcome committee with dismay. Even from this distance, the small crowd looks far too finely dressed to be the servants Sei had hoped for.
Disheveled and tired, his hair and clothes a mess from the day-long flight, this isn’t how Sei wanted to meet House Dire. He must look like a wreck, and he’s so tired he’s likely to say the wrong thing. The last thing he wants is to make a lasting, offensive first impression on the ruling family.
You’re supposed to be a grail, not a filth-covered rat,a guildmaster once said, when Sei came in wet and tracking mud from wandering the garden in the rain. He was nine years old at the time, but he can still hear the guildmaster’s precise, disgusted intonation.
Handing his helmet to Marek, Sei steels himself for humiliation.
“Don’t move,” Marek orders, fumbling in a saddlebag. He presses a small wooden comb into Sei’s hands. “You’re a mess. Fix your hair while I bring your things down.”
Sei must truly be exhausted because he nearly cries with gratitude. His throat is too tight to actually thank Marek. As he combs his hair, Sei tries to compose himself. There’s no helping his rumpled clothing, but he feels more confident when Marek finally helps him down to the dark flagstone.
