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I stay where I am, watching the skies as the dragons fly and swoop. I don’t know if I want to see Zabriel today. I remember our first meeting, how he froze mid-battle to call mesha’lenand pull me atop his dragon. At our second meeting, he killed every Brethren Guard who tried to take me from him. He was an impulsive soldier when he did those things, but he’s not a soldier anymore. As much as I secretly and very deep down wish he would remain a soldier, I have to accept he’s not, and so I join the line and file inside with everyone else.
Even if I wanted to get close to the front of the hall, I couldn’t. The important families have taken all the best spots. The Great Hall is filled to bursting with spectators. It seems like everyone else at the castle and in Lenhale has flooded inside.
The wingrunners and soldiers stand to attention around the edges of the room. A few minutes later, the dragonriders file into the hall and line up in front of the huge, empty golden throne on the dais.
Only then does Zabriel arrive at the double doors to the Great Hall, gleaming brighter than the sun in golden armor. Everyone turns around to look, and I suck in a breath at the sight of him. His face is proud and determined as he strides forward, the crowd parting for him. He’s the biggest man in the room, and in that gleaming armor, he’s pure flame and power.
He walks the length of the hall to the dais, turns, and surveys us all. He seems to look at every single person as his red gaze roves around the room.
After a moment, he goes down on one knee and braces his forearm against his thigh. An older woman in red flowing robes steps forward with a gleaming golden crown in her hands, and she places it atop Zabriel’s flowing black locks.
Everyone is staring at him with rapt attention, and I notice how the young women from the important families are gazing up at Zabriel with more than interest. An unmarried king requires a queen, and they’re the most likely candidates to catch his eye. The ache gnaws at my chest.
The moment Zabriel takes his seat on his throne, all the dragonriders go down on one knee and say, “Ma’len.”
They’re echoed a moment later by the wingrunners and soldiers doing the same thing. Everyone else, the people who never knew dragons and Flame Kings existed until a few weeks ago, sink to the floor and say in hallowed tones, “Ma’len.”
I recall the conversation we had at the hot pools.Enjoy bending the knee to your new king, but an invader will never see me bow to him.
He never asked you to.
Zabriel doesn’t need to ask. He merely presents himself to us and everyone is inspired to kneel. I sink down with the rest of the crowd, the memory of all the stupid, haughty things I said to him burning in my veins. The High Priest tried to beat my pride out of me, and now I wish he had. Zabriel’s up there, and I’m down here on my knees where I’m supposed to be.
I never saw the old king until he was lying on a funeral pyre, but the stories were that he was lazy, decadent, and could barely hold his crown up, let alone a sword. I’ve felt Zabriel’s palms, and they’re callused from fighting. His arms around me were strong, and he wields that weapon at his hip as fiercely as if it were his own arm, though it must weigh almost as much as I do. Zabriel looks like a real king.
There’s a tightness in my chest and throat, and I have to look away from him. I don’t want to remember him this way. I want to remember Zabriel, a dragonrider, a commander in the army with blood and mud spattering his jaw. Someone important to the people of Maledin, but not everyone in Maledin.
As much as it hurts, I make myself raise my chin and fix my eyes on the Flame King.
Take a good, long look at that man. Do you see him up there in his gilded armor with that crown upon his head? Do see how everyone in this Great Hall is marveling at him? Bowing to him? Falling in love with him? Get this through your thick skull, Isavelle. You may as well be an ant to someone like him. Youarean ant.
And what’s wrong with being an ant? You never minded being an ant before. A little nobody person from a little nobody village in an insignificant part of Maledin. Remember how peaceful your life was before anyone knew you existed? As soon as you find your parents, or someone who has seen your parents, or just anyone from your village, you’re going back there. People who sit on thrones in golden armor won’t even notice you’re gone.
And that’s the way it should be.
I take a final look at Zabriel, and then I turn and leave the Great Hall, pushing through the crowd as they strain for every glimpse they can of their new king.
10
Zabriel
Istep out onto the balcony from my rooms, and a deafening cheer goes up. I thought the Great Hall was filled to bursting, but it feels like everyone in Maledin has crowded into the courtyard below and onto the streets of the capital. The festive atmosphere of the day has disposed everyone to jubilance, but I don’t fool myself that it will be easy from now on. The hard work is only just beginning.
The hardest part is that I have no idea what I’m doing.
I want to be a good and just king, and that ambition is all I have to guide me. That, and the determination not to make the same mistakes my father did. I feel the weight of these responsibilities resting on my shoulders, heavier than my golden armor.
There’s one person in particular I wanted to share this moment with, but she’s been running from me for days. I scan the crowd below, hunting for a head of dark gold hair and a beautiful, heart-shaped face. I couldn’t see her in the Great Hall, and I can’t see her in the crowd.
Godric is standing to attention behind me, and I call over the cheers of the crowd, “Where is Lady Isavelle? Have you seen her?”
He shakes his head. “The last I saw, she was out by the stables seeing to the villagers’ mounts, but that was this morning.”
I stand on the balcony for several more minutes, trying to appear regal and focused, but my thoughts are consumed by my mate. After another ten minutes, I wave to the crowd, head back inside, and stride down the corridors to the rear of the castle.
Out by the stables, Isavelle is bent double, examining a donkey’s fetlock.
“One more. Come on, don’t be stubborn,” she coaxes. The donkey flicks its ears in irritation and stamps its foot, but finally allows her to haul it up and examine it.
