Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When shadow kneels before flame.
The kingdom bleeds.
A child born in fire calls the black. Darkness sworn to light turns its back. The branded heart divides between what oaths demand and what the soul calls true.
Ancient eyes see the children’s choice. Three golden hear the chosen voice.
In halls of stone where dead ones reign, the marked rise through joy and pain.
Trust breaks clean as winter ice. The realm learns the bitter price.
Bonds forged in blood and flame heal the world or bring it shame.
Love betrayed becomes war. Love redeemed breaks every cage.
When all seems lost, the choice comes. Hearts unite, or pay the cost.
Beware the ones who walk through flame.
When they rise, nothing stays the same.

***

I drew the silver brush through my hair one final time that night. Father’s chosen sapphire gown waited across my bed, silk thin enough to let the great hall’s chill bite straight through. He’d mentioned projecting strength, though I felt anything but strong watching candlelight shift across the fabric.

Leather creaked beyond my door as Alastair shifted his weight. He moved with that careful clumsiness I’d known since childhood, when sudden sounds sent me into fits and he learned to gentle his steps. His boots gave him away after all these years.

He cleared his throat once through the oak. Twice. The familiar rhythm of his uncertainty.

A third time, and I smiled.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and Alastair stepped through with reverence. His dress uniform had transformed him from the boy who’d scaled apple trees to bring me the ripest fruit into a man forged by duty and devotion, storm-blue eyes holding shadows I couldn’t name.

“The Senarium grows restless, Your Highness.”

I turned from the mirror. “And what does that have to do with me rushing?”

His mouth softened with familiar gentleness. The protector faded, leaving only Alastair, my oldest friend. “Nothing whatsoever.”

In the quiet between us, rank vanished. I became simply Ayla, and he became the boy who’d boosted me over palace walls when the world felt too small for my restless spirit.

“Walk with me?” I asked.

“Until the end,” he promised.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Dead kings watched us pass, their painted eyes tracking our movement through corridors heavy with history. My slippers stirred no sound while his boots betrayed every step. That clumsy gait I’d treasured since childhood.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“You’re nervous,” he said.

“Father wants to announce something tonight. About Cam.” My throat tightened around my missing brother’s name. “Probably some lie about his absence serving the realm.”

Alastair’s expression hardened. He’d trained with Cam in the practice yards, shared meals and laughter before duty pulled them down different paths. “The truth surfaces eventually.”

“Does it?”

We reached the great hall’s entrance. Beyond those doors waited the Senarium members, their eyes assessing, their whispers carrying the weight of judgment. Alastair’s hand gripped his sword hilt the moment we entered.

I saw them by the wine table then. Three servants, but something was wrong. One’s head tilted at an unnatural angle. Another moved in jerky, erratic motions. Torchlight caught their faces, revealing eyes rimmed red as if they’d wept for hours.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Alastair.”

Alastair struck. His blade sang from its sheath as the first man lunged toward me.

The attacker clawed for my throat. Fingers like bone, skin gray and tight. Alastair’s steel bit deep into his shoulder, and dark fluid spread across his shirt. Wine-colored, not blood. The decanters at the wine table stood untouched.

Two more rushed us. Alastair shoved me behind a pillar and whirled to meet them, steel ringing against steel. The great hall exploded into chaos. Nobles screamed and fled. Guards roared commands that drowned in the madness.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Steel pierced his ribs. Alastair fought on, stood between me and death while crimson spread across the floor. Bile rose in my throat. Those storm-blue eyes found mine once and held my gaze as he fell, blood pooling dark beneath him.

Hands dragged me backward. I kicked, screamed, clawed at the arms that held me. Reached for him even as the distance grew.

He had promised to walk with me until the end. The end came that night.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Present Day

Blood pools beneath the last challenger. Red spreads across stone while my fingers twist my rings.

Alastair’s blood darkened the same way.

The crowd roars as the masked victor steps over his fallen opponent, sliding swords into crossed sheaths at his back. A marshal raises the victor’s hand and declares him winner. My new guard.

Alastair, I think, and my chest tightens. You should be here. Should be stepping forward, bowing with that careful reverence you never quite managed to hide behind duty.

But you’re not. You never will be again.

Guards stride ahead of me, others trailing behind the victor, boots striking marble in rhythm. I glance back at him.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

My braids pull tight against my scalp, the baby’s breath Seraphina wove through them wilting in the heat. Sweat gathers where the braids meet my neck.

He towers over the men around him, and I realize how small I would appear beside him. Blood stains his mouth, dark against tawny skin. When his eyes find mine, I cannot look away.

We round the final corner. My fingers twist at my rings.

The private audience chamber yawns ahead. Father waits beside his throne, mustache stiff with wax, fingers drumming the carved armrest.

Guards spread into position as we enter. “Magnificent display,” Father declares. “Three days of combat. Hundreds of Navarre’s finest warriors. And you emerge victorious.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The victor remains silent.

Father’s smile hardens. “Remove your helm. Let us see the face of our champion.”

Leather ties snap loose under his fingers. He lifts the helm away and shakes dark hair free, strands falling past his brows. Sweat carves clean tracks through dust on his face. I trace one line down to the corner of his mouth. His gaze finds mine, and my fingers still against my skirts.

He violates every rule of propriety I’ve learned. I cannot look away.

Black ink spirals up his throat. His pulse pounds beneath the relic, and I watch it beat. My tongue darts across my lip before I force myself to turn away.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Mahogany creaks under Father’s grip. When his eyes fix on Xaden, I see the king who executed his father.

Father sneers. “Xaden Riorson.”

Guards shift stance, twelve hands finding sword hilts. Shadows answer by surging wide behind him.

Xaden stands unmoved by Father’s crown. The throne commands nothing from him.

“Your Majesty.” His voice holds no deference, offers no recognition of the king before him.

Father advances, guards flowing with him. “You have considerable nerve appearing before me.”

“I won your tournament.” Xaden holds his ground as steel surrounds him.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“The tournament was for loyal subjects,” Father snaps.

Xaden’s head tilts. “Define loyal.” He brushes arena dust from his sleeve. “I served Navarre at Basgiath in the Riders Quadrant. That’s more than most of your loyal subjects manage.”

Father twists his mustache until wax flakes onto his doublet. “Your father was a traitor.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Baby’s breath prickles against my scalp. I lift my hand to the wilted flowers, and Xaden watches my fingers work the delicate stems. His eyes follow my hand as it drops back to my side, drift down the emerald silk, then snap back to Father.

My cheeks burn.

“My father is dead,” Xaden says. “I’m not him.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Father’s eyes narrow on the black ink spiraling up Xaden’s throat. “You bear his name. His mark. His shame.”

“I have the strongest signet in Navarre, and I just put down a hundred and twelve of your finest warriors,” Xaden says. “Your next strongest candidate lies face down bleeding into the dirt.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Bleeding.

Alastair’s blood and red-rimmed eyes flash through my mind. My rings bite into my skin as I twist them harder.

Xaden’s gaze drops to my hands.

“You think I would entrust my daughter to a Riorson?” Father says.

“A Riorson is exactly what your daughter needs.” When Xaden looks up at me, our eyes lock, then he turns to Father. “Besides, if I wanted to betray you, would I risk my life in your tournament? March straight into your fucking castle and put myself at your mercy? If I meant harm, I’d strike from the shadows, not hand you a dozen chances to burn me alive like you burned my father.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The king straightens his shoulders and turns to me for the first time since Xaden removed his helm. “What do you think, Ayla? Will you feel safe with a Riorson as your guard?”

My lips part. Father asks what I think.

Nineteen years I’ve waited for this question. Nineteen years biting my tongue while others decide my life, watching men choose my guards, dictate my movements, silence my voice. And now he asks what I want.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

I study Xaden. Blood crusts his split lip while dirt streaks his hands, his jaw, his throat where the relics wind upward. He slaughtered over a hundred men across three days of fighting, commands a dragon, speaks to shadows, curses kings and walks away unscathed.

Alastair polished his mail each dawn and called me Your Highness with reverence that never wavered. When he smiled, warmth flooded my chest.

Now that warmth feels small.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

My fingers smooth the emerald silk of my skirts. Nineteen years of soft things, clean things, careful words whispered in corners. Nineteen years shielded from anything that might unsettle the perfect order of my days.

This man would unsettle everything.

I realize then how much I want to be unsettled. How much I want him to change me, maybe even dirty me.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be very safe with him.”

Father stares at me, as if he’s never seen me before. His fingers drum once against mahogany before he catches himself.

“Very well.” He turns to Captain Harding at his right shoulder. “The oaths, Captain.”

Captain Harding has three daughters. His youngest just turned seven, and his wife Martha embroidered the small daisies on my riding gloves last winter. Now he must swear in the son of the man who sought to destroy everything he serves.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Understand this first, Riorson,” Father says. “My daughter’s life is now your only concern. Fail her, and no corner of this continent will hide you from my reach.”

“I don’t fail,” Xaden says.

“For your sake, you’d better not,” Father replies.

Captain Harding steps forward. “Kneel.”

Xaden drops to one knee before me. Not Father. Not the crown. Me.

Captain Harding draws his blade, steel ringing against leather. Afternoon light catches the metal and forces me to squint.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“State your name and calling.” Captain Harding’s voice echoes through the chamber.

“Xaden Riorson, son of Fen Riorson, former wingleader of Fourth Wing, chosen rider of Sgaeyl, Blue Daggertail.”

A Blue Daggertail. I think of the Black Morningstar mother and her Golden Feathertail hatchlings, how they hunt me down in the breeding grounds, how fire blazes in their eyes when they find me. How something ignites in my chest when they call, fire spreading through flesh and bone, promising wings I’ve never worn.

“By the ancient laws of Navarre and under witness of the gods, do you swear to guard Princess Ayla’s life with your own? To place her safety above all other considerations?”

“I swear it.”

“Do you pledge to obey her commands, keep her secrets, counsel her in truth, and defend her honor with steel and flame?”

“I pledge it.”

The blade touches his left shoulder. “Will you serve the crown of Navarre faithfully, defend King Tauri’s reign, and forsake any cause that might stand against the throne?”

Xaden’s jaw shifts. His eyes find Father’s face, then mine.

“I will serve Princess Ayla faithfully.”

Father cuts through the silence. “Princess Ayla is an extension of the crown, Riorson. If the throne falls, so does she. Your oath to her is your oath to Navarre.”

Xaden looks at me as he answers. “Understood.”

The blade settles against his right shoulder. “Then by steel and flame, you are bound to her service. Seal your vow with the hand you’ve sworn to protect.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Captain Harding steps aside, and I step forward. My skirts brush my ankles as I approach the kneeling man. A scar cuts through his left eyebrow, white against skin darkened by sun.

I extend my hand. He takes it, palm rough with calluses, still warm from fighting.

He brings my knuckles to his mouth. His split lip opens fresh, blood welling dark. He doesn’t hesitate. The kiss touches my skin, and his blood spreads wet across my knuckles.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“You’re bleeding.”

He drags his thumb across his split lip, eyes locked on mine. Blood stains the pad. “Am I?”

He brings that bloodied thumb to his tongue. Red disappears against pink, and something coils tight in my stomach.

I should look away. Should remember Father, the witnesses, the weight of what just happened between us.

Instead, I watch him clean every trace of blood from his skin.

Xaden doesn’t release my hand or rise from his knees. He kneels there, watching my face.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Tell me your name.”

Father shifts behind me. “You heard—”

“I want to hear him introduce himself properly.”

His thumb moves across my knuckles, spreading blood in circles. “Xaden.”

Just that. Like he’s testing me.

“The rest.”

His mouth curves, dried blood cracking at the corner. “You know the rest.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Riorson.” He speaks the name like it belongs to me now. “Xaden Riorson.”

“Ayla Tauri,” I say.

Gold sparks in his dark eyes. “I know who you are.”

Father coughs. “You may stand.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Xaden rises, his hand still holding mine. I tilt my head back to keep my eyes on his.

Captain Harding sheathes his blade. Steel slides against leather, but neither of us moves to break contact.

His thumb traces my knuckles once more. Then he releases me and steps back.

I flex my fingers. My rings chime against each other, and I stare at the blood marking my skin.

“Your Highness.” He stands perfectly still. “What now?“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Ser Donovan will show you the castle layout and security protocols,” Father says before I can open my mouth. “Tonight we celebrate our tournament victor before the full court. The Senarium expects to meet Navarre’s newest guardian.”

I press Xaden’s blood deeper into my knuckles with my thumb, watching it stain my skin. He catalogues the guards behind Father, sweeps his gaze across the tall windows, returns to the king.

“I’ll need to see everything,” he says. “The last attempt nearly succeeded because someone fucked up.”

Father eyes my bloodied hands. “Clean yourself before tonight. The court will expect certain standards.” He waves toward the door. “You’re dismissed. Ser Donovan. Ser Tomas.”

Afternoon light slants through the tall windows of the eastern corridor. We pass guards at their posts, jasmine scenting the air as we approach the outer doors.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Fresh air fills my lungs when we step outside, and my shoulders drop for the first time since dawn. We walk beneath the colonnade where sunlight and shadow stripe the stones. Then deeper shadow sweeps across the courtyard. I look up to see a blue dragon soaring overhead, wings extended as she crosses over Calldyr’s red rooftops that slope toward the river.

The guard beside us jerks back, his mail ringing.

“Sgaeyl,” Xaden says, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine.

Every guard in the courtyard discovers urgent business elsewhere. The man by the fountain stares at his boots while another traces the carved stonework with desperate attention. She wheels back, golden eyes scanning the courtyard below.

“You’re not scared,” Xaden says.

I track her flight as she banks toward the towers. “No.”

“You should be.”

“Dragons kill for reasons I understand. People don’t.”

Xaden turns to me, then away. We step inside, where the corridors press close after all that open sky. At my door, Ser Donovan points across the hall. “Your quarters, Ser Xaden.”

Ser Tomas takes his place beside my door while Ser Donovan bows. “Your Highness.”

“Princess.” Xaden doesn’t bow.

“You should bow,” Donovan says.

Arms crossed, Xaden shifts his gaze. “Twenty minutes ago your king made me her personal guard. I don’t take orders from you.”

Tomas’s hand moves to his sword. Donovan’s mouth hardens.

“Ser Xaden does outrank you,” I say.

“Just Xaden.” His eyes stay on Donovan.

“Xaden does outrank you.”

Donovan’s face darkens. He opens his mouth, closes it.

“Understood, Your Highness.”

Xaden drops his arms. “I’ll be back before the feast.” He walks down the corridor. Donovan follows.

At the turn, he looks back and smiles before he disappears.

I slip inside my chambers. Tomas remains at his post.

“Grace? Maeve?” I call as I enter.

Grace emerges from the dressing room, sleeves pushed to her elbows. She halts when she sees me. “Oh, gods. Who did that to your hair?”

The wilted flowers scratch against my scalp when I lift my hand to them. “Never let me listen to Seraphina again. These looked ridiculous this morning and feel worse now.”

Grace steps closer and studies the wreckage. “Sit,” she says, pointing to the chair before the polished silver mirror. “Maeve needs to witness this tragedy before we repair it.”

“Maeve!” Grace calls toward the bathing chamber. “Come see what Seraphina did to our princess.”

I sink into the chair. “I should have known better than to let her near me with flowers.”

Maeve appears around the corner, wiping her hands on linen. “And you trusted her because…?”

“She promised the baby’s breath would make me look ethereal.” I watch Grace’s reflection behind me. “I should have known I’d end up looking like I wrestled with a hedge.”

“Ethereal.” Maeve steps behind my chair and lifts a dying stem between two fingers. “Because wilted flowers inspire men to fight tournaments.”

Grace joins her, and together they pull at my braids. Petals drift to the floor as the plaits come undone.

“You remind me of my new guard,” I tell Maeve. “Same cutting words.”

Grace yanks another stem free. “And who slaughtered enough men to win that honor?”

“Xaden Riorson.”

Both women halt. Maeve’s hands still in my hair.

“The Great Betrayer’s son?” Maeve whispers.

“The very one.”

“The king actually allowed this?” Maeve says. “A Riorson? Guarding his own daughter?”

Grace snatches the hairbrush from the dressing table and brandishes it like a weapon. “If he so much as looks at you wrong, I’ll beat him senseless with this.”

“I don’t think a hairbrush will subdue Xaden Riorson.”

“And how would you know that?” Grace asks.

The absurdity hits me and I laugh. Grace joins in, and then Maeve’s low chuckle surprises us both. I’ve never heard that sound from her before.

“I’d hate to be Xaden Riorson when Grace comes for him,” I say.

Grace draws the brush through my hair, each stroke tugging gently at my scalp. “Don’t encourage her,” Maeve says, still smiling as she moves toward the bathing chamber. “I’ll prepare your bath.”

“Your hair’s getting darker,” Grace says, drawing the brush through sandy brown strands that reach my lower back. “Almost as dark as Halden’s now. Darker than Cam’s, and—” She pauses. “Darker than Alic’s was.”

Neither of us says anything. From the bathing chamber, Maeve calls, “Bath’s ready.”

Grace places the brush on the dressing table, and they guide me to my feet, unlacing my gown until silk pools around my ankles. Steam rises from the water as I step in. When Grace reaches for the washing cloth, I take it from her hands.

“You know I hate that. Give me a few minutes?”

They withdraw on quiet feet, the door clicking shut behind them. I rest one arm along the marble edge, the stone cold against my skin, and let my other hand trail through water hot enough to redden my fingers.

Candlelight flickers against the walls while the marble chills my forearm and the water burns everything else. I sink deeper, letting the heat work into my shoulders and raise my hand to the light.

Dark stains mark my knuckles where his blood dried. Xaden’s blood. From when he kissed my hand after swearing his oath. When his lip split again and he didn’t stop, didn’t pull away, just pressed the wound to my skin.

The stains have turned rust-brown across my knuckles. He could have wiped his mouth first, could have waited for the bleeding to stop, but he met my eyes while he did it.

Like he wanted me to remember.

I plunge my hand into the water. Pink swirls through the bath as the blood dissolves, leaving my knuckles clean. But his mouth’s touch lingers, where his blood bloomed warm against my hand.

Jasmine soap glides across my skin, imported oils replacing the scent of blood and tournament dust. Grace and Maeve return before I call them, arms full of silk and jewels.

Withered baby’s breath crunches under my bare feet as I cross to the dressing chair. Grace towels my hair and sections the damp strands while Maeve spreads jewelry across the table. She begins with simple braids, weaving ribbons through as the pattern grows complex. My scalp burns as Grace tugs each section into place.

“Much better than Seraphina’s disaster,” Maeve says. “She should take notes.”

I look at Maeve in the mirror and arch an eyebrow. Her mouth quirks as Grace pulls me behind the carved partition, where cream silk and gold embroidery gleam in the candlelight.

A knock pounds through the chamber.

“Come in,” I call from behind the partition.

The door swings open and Xaden enters, shutting it behind him. He crosses to the wall beside the doorframe and settles against it, arms folded, as if he owns the room.

His attention locks on mine, then slides to my bare shoulders before following the line of my collarbones. When his eyes return to mine, my pulse hammers at the base of my throat.

Grace and Maeve freeze behind me, their hands stilling on my laces until Grace recovers her voice.

“You stay right where you are,” she warns, “or I’ll—”

“Grace,” I murmur.

Xaden pushes off the wall and his swords ring against stone.

“I hope the tour wasn’t too boring,” I say.

“Fucking enlightening. I counted a dozen ways someone could gut you before breakfast.” The corner of his mouth curves. “Your castle’s security is shit.”

“Good thing you’re here then. Perhaps an outsider’s perspective was needed.” When his gaze releases mine, I notice his attire. Black leather molds to his chest and shoulders, wool stretched across muscles where I expected armor. My throat constricts and I force a swallow. “Are you planning to defy protocol and authority every chance you get?”

“Only when it gets the reaction I want.” He watches my pulse race at the base of my throat. “And judging by how fast your heart’s beating, my plan’s working perfectly.”

Grace yanks my laces tighter than necessary.

“It could be from holding my breath around your arrogance,” I counter.

“Then you’d have passed out by now. I’ve been standing here for five minutes.”

“I like this one. He doesn’t back down,” Maeve murmurs as she clips the dragon earring around my ear.

I nudge Maeve with my elbow. “The gods aren’t that merciful. They’d rather watch me suffer through this,” I tell Xaden.

“Keep telling yourself that, Princess. Sounds to me like the gods know exactly what you need.”

I emerge from behind the partition.

Xaden straightens against the wall. His mouth freezes mid-smile as he absorbs the cream silk, the gold embroidery that traces the lines of my body, the way the fabric bares my shoulders.

Heat floods my cheeks as I run my hands down the silk. His gaze tracks the movement. For once, Xaden Riorson has nothing to say.

“Will this do for the feast?” I ask.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. It’ll do.”

“I’ll sneak you both something from the feast,” I tell Grace and Maeve as I cross toward Xaden, who pushes off the wall.

“Spiced lamb,” Grace demands immediately.

“And the roasted grapes,” Maeve adds. “If they’re serving them.”

“I’ll see what I can manage,” I say.

Xaden stays quiet as we enter the corridor. After several paces, he studies me sideways.

“So you’ve been smuggling food out of royal feasts. How long has that been going on? They knew what to ask for.”

“Are you planning to arrest me for theft? Drag me before my father in chains?” I turn my head to him. “Because it’s all mine anyway.”

“You’re right. Besides, putting you in chains would just make you helpless. Where’s the fun in that?”

“Is that how you talk to all the princesses you guard?”

“You’re my first. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Why are you here, S—” I stop myself. “Xaden. You belong at an outpost near Poromiel, not playing nursemaid to a princess.”

“Your father doesn’t trust me. Can’t say I blame him. Maybe he’s smarter than he appears.” He wheels toward me. “But killing Poromish soldiers and fliers at some outpost? Anyone can do that. Protecting his daughter requires something else.”

“And you? Xaden Riorson? Are you loyal to the king? To Navarre?”

“I serve what needs protecting.” He halts and stares me down. I turn to face him. “Your father executed mine when I was sixteen. The crown branded me a traitor’s son. So no, Princess, I don’t serve kings or crowns. But I came here. I swore an oath. And I don’t break my word.”

“But your oath was to me.”

“I’m well aware of what I said.”

He stood up to Father. I never could. I should hate him. I should—

Footsteps pound down the corridor. Two guards appear around the corner and bow as they pass.

Xaden straightens. “We should get you to that feast before your father puts my head on a spike for making his precious princess late.”

I nod and we walk toward the great hall, music pouring through the corridors around us, voices rising and falling with each step we take.

My steps falter.

Xaden’s hand captures mine, trapping my fingers. “Breathe, Princess. Hard to do my job if you’re dead.”

I hadn’t realized I was twisting my rings. Air rushes into my lungs. “Sorry. The last feast I attended…” The words stick. “Assassins came for me. My guard died protecting me. He was my friend. My best friend.”

“Good thing you despise me then. Won’t hurt as much if something happens. Though I don’t plan on dying tonight.”

Despise him? I want to be the blood on his tongue.

“That’s a pity. My father would have loved that.”

“I’d say I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’d be lying.” He pulls his hand away as we approach the great hall doors. Music thunders from within.

“Ready, Princess?”

I’m never ready. I nod anyway.

Chapter Text

We step into the great hall where voices and laughter bounce between columns hung with blue and gold.

A woman by the doors spots us first. Silence rolls through the hall. Heads snap toward us, and my skin prickles under a hundred sudden stares. The Duchess of Morraine’s wine glass halts at her mouth while Duke Luceras shoots upright in his chair. General Melgren’s stare burns through me from the high table.

Xaden moves beside me, close enough that his arm grazes my shoulder as we cross the hall. “Breathe.”

The Senarium and guests rise as one. Silk rustles, jewelry chimes, but underneath run whispers—“Riorson,” “traitor’s son,” “marked.” A lord pulls his daughter behind him. Others step back, as if the ink on his neck might spread.

“Where?” Xaden murmurs.

“The dais.” Father looms beside his chair, mustache waxed to sharp points, ready to display his newest acquisition to the court.

We walk toward the dais while the crowd parts around us. Father watches from beside his throne as Xaden’s attention fixes on him.

“Does your father always stand?” Xaden’s voice brushes my ear. Heat floods where his breath touches my neck.

I study Father’s rigid posture. “He believes a king who sits while others stand loses respect. Though standing still never won a war.” The words escape before I can stop them.

“And does it bother you?” I nod toward the staring faces. “Their whispers, their fear?”

“Should it?” He doesn’t flinch. “They’re right to be afraid.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I lean closer. “You belong here as much as any of them. More than most, if they hadn’t—”

“Careful, Princess,” he cuts me off. “That edges toward sympathy.”

“Don’t mistake kindness for weakness, Xaden.” I hold his stare. “One wrong move against me or my father, and not even your dragon will save you.”

His stride never falters, but his shoulders pull back as he studies the pulse at my throat. When our eyes meet, his attention shifts to my mouth before snapping back to mine.

“I don’t make wrong moves. Though you might discover I’m harder to kill than most.”

We halt at the dais. Father looms three steps above us while hundreds of eyes bore into my back.

“After you, Princess.”

I step onto the first stone. Behind me, Xaden goes still, and his stare burns between my shoulder blades as I climb.

On the second step, I glance back.

He waits below, arms crossed, torchlight catching the black ink that spirals up his throat. When his eyes find mine, my heart hammers against my ribs.

I face Father before he can see the heat climbing my throat.

Father lifts his hand, and the hall falls silent. “Join us, Ser Xaden,” he calls.

Xaden mounts the steps. Father grips both his shoulders when he arrives, and Xaden stares down at those hands. His mouth hardens. Then his face goes blank.

“Dukes and duchesses of Navarre,” Father declares. “Tonight we celebrate the first tournament in our kingdom’s history to determine a royal guard. For three days, our finest warriors battled for the honor of protecting Princess Ayla.”

Father’s speech blurs into noise. Something about strength, about dedication, about the crown’s commitment to my safety. I nod when he stops, but my attention wanders to the far corner of the hall.

There.

Near the servants’ entrance where Alastair and I used to sneak bread for the kitchen dogs. The stones show no trace of what happened, but I watched him die there. Watched his blood pool between the cracks before they scrubbed it away.

Father drones about Basgiath’s finest while Alastair’s final breath plays behind my eyes. My chest tightens.

A soft cough pulls me from the memory. Xaden waits motionless beside Father, arms folded over his chest, but his eyes shift sideways to find mine. He clears his throat again, the sound barely threading through Father’s speech.

I blink and shake my head. Father’s voice filters back.

“—finest warrior and rider to graduate from Basgiath War College in recent memory. A man who has demonstrated his loyalty through service and sacrifice.”

Xaden’s mouth tightens at the word loyalty. Even in ceremony, even before the highest nobles in the realm, he refuses to drop his arms, refuses to bow his head, refuses to feign submission. His defiance bleeds through his stillness.

“It is my honor to present Ser Xaden Riorson as Princess Ayla’s sworn protector and guardian, second in command to the royal knights.” Father pauses. “May he serve the crown with greater honor than his father managed.”

My stomach clenches at the cruelty.

A vein bulges in Xaden’s neck. He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck once, the sound sharp in the silence.

Polite applause echoes through the hall, but reluctance weighs every clap. The Duchess of Elsum strikes her palms together exactly three times. The Duke of Calldyr’s hands barely touch.

I watch the half-hearted show and taste bile.

Xaden ignores the recognition. His stare tracks the crowd before returning to me.

Father steps back from Xaden and addresses the crowd. “Let the feast commence!”

Servants flood in with platters, steam rising from the food, and my mouth waters. Father moves closer to Xaden and lowers his voice.

“Don’t grow accustomed to sitting at royal tables, Riorson. After tonight, you’ll stand in the corner and watch us eat. Where lapdogs belong.”

Heat flares in my chest at the insult.

“Father—”

He pins me with his stare. “Has he already taught you disrespect?”

My throat closes. I snap my mouth shut.

Xaden’s hands ball into fists at his sides. “I’ve endured worse places,” he says. “And walked away from them.”

Father’s mouth compresses. He wheels away without speaking.

My chair grates against stone. Servants spread platters before us. Spiced lamb that would make Grace weep. Roasted grapes that would earn Maeve’s smile. The aromas surround me, but my stomach revolts.

Xaden takes the chair beside me, his frame dwarfing the space. His heavy, muscled thighs press against mine beneath the table, and I have to concentrate on sitting still.

I cut into the lamb Grace requested. The meat parts under my knife, juices spreading across my plate. I raise the fork halfway to my mouth and freeze.

Grace and Maeve survive on kitchen scraps while I waste food that would sustain them for days. Alastair should be standing behind my chair, close enough to smell the spiced meat he’d never taste. Instead, the space stays empty. Guilt twists my stomach. I drop my fork.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “For what he said.”

“Don’t.” He keeps his eyes forward. “You don’t answer for him.”

I reach for my wine as he stretches for the salt. Our arms cross, his forearm brushing mine.

Heat blooms where we connect. I should move away. Instead, I let his arm rest against mine while conversations flow around us.

When I lift my eyes, he watches me.

“Can’t reach?”

“I can manage.” I pull back and sip from my glass. The wine vanishes faster than I intended.

“Eat something if you’re going to drink like that,” Xaden says.

“I’m fine.”

“Drinking won’t bring him back.”

My hand freezes on the cup. Which him? My chest constricts, but I don’t ask.

“You don’t know me.”

“No,” he says. “I don’t.”

His words turn quiet on the last sentence. I glance at him, but he’s turned away.

“Hard to guard a princess who can’t stand,” he says. “Makes my job a hell of a lot harder.”

I start to reply, but Seraphina appears at my elbow, pitcher already angled toward my empty glass. Wine fills to the rim before I can protest.

“The baby’s breath was inspired today,” she gushes, admiring her work. “You looked ethereal.”

My jaw clenches at her timing and the reminder of those wilted flowers.

“Maeve adored it. She wants you to do hers next.”

The pitcher halts. A wine drop clings to the rim, then splashes onto the table.

“Maeve wants flowers?”

“She said you have gentle hands.”

Seraphina stares. “Our Maeve said that?”

“Her exact words.”

Seraphina’s face brightens. She clutches the pitcher closer and hurries away, probably to find Maeve immediately.

I survey the table, then cut a small piece of the spiced lamb and tuck it into my napkin. A few roasted grapes nestle beside it. I grip the bundle, heat spreading through my fingers.

Xaden’s attention shifts to my hands, then away. He says nothing, absorbing the hall around us. Guards by the doors, windows overlooking the courtyard, the servants’ entrance where darkness gathers.

I tuck the bundle into my sleeve and reach for my glass, but Xaden snatches my wrist. He brings the wine to his mouth and drains it.

My pulse jumps under his fingers.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on duty?”

“It’s my feast. Your father’s been so welcoming, wouldn’t want to seem ungrateful.”

“That was my wine.”

“You’ve had enough.” He sets the glass down. “Besides, I could do this job drunk and still outfight those fucking idiots.” He nods toward the nearest guard.

“I don’t need you deciding how I handle my grief.”

Servants sweep the empty platters away, but Xaden’s stare stays fixed on mine.

“Your grief isn’t my problem. Your safety is. I can’t protect someone who’s stumbling drunk.”

Heat flares in my chest at his bluntness.

“I’m not stumbling drunk.”

“Not yet.”

Wine churns in my stomach. I face where Alastair should stand. He’d disapprove of me choosing wine over food, drowning instead of facing tonight sober.

My hands ball in my lap. “You don’t know anything about what I’ve lost.”

“I know enough about loss.” His words come quiet and hard. “And I know drinking doesn’t fix it.”

Father’s voice booms from the head of the table. “Ayla. Enough sitting. The court expects to see you.”

I shove my chair back and rise, the room tilting slightly.

“Move through the hall,” he continues. “These are your subjects. Remember that.”

Xaden stands beside me. I almost ask him to walk with me, then catch myself.

“Shall we?” I ask.

He watches my face. “After you, Princess.”

We enter the crowd while Xaden scans the guards positioned along the walls.

“Your guards wield new swords,” he says.

I glance at the nearest guard’s weapon. The hilt gleams without wear marks. “Father’s been upgrading the weapons. New steel. He claims it’s more reliable. But after what happened to me, he tripled production.”

“How many guards carry the new weapons?”

“Eventually they’ll all have them. The forges burn day and night now but still lag behind.”

“Who decides the order?”

“Captain Harding, I think. Priority flows to palace guards first, then the outer posts.” I turn toward him. “Why?”

Something flickers across his face before he answers. “Good to know who to ask if mine breaks.”

“Your Highness.”

The Duchess of Elsum materializes beside us, wine glass balanced in her fingers. She curtsies, then examines Xaden.

“Quite a tournament. You fought just like your father debated.”

Xaden goes rigid. “Is that so?”

“Yes. You’re relentless. Never yielding, even when outnumbered.” She raises her wine to her mouth. “Fen was the same in council meetings. Once he believed something, nothing could budge him.”

“It killed him.”

“It did. But sometimes truth matters more than survival.”

Relief floods through me. Finally, someone who doesn’t view him as a weapon aimed at the throne.

The Duchess of Elsum spots someone across the room and drifts away as Duke Lindell strides over and claps Xaden’s shoulder.

“This is the last place I expected to find you.”

Xaden adjusts his sleeve before crossing his arms. “Your Grace.”

“I heard about Liam.” Lindell’s words turn quiet. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.”

Lindell’s grip strengthens on his shoulder. “Are you eating?”

An earl and countess sweep past with deep bows. I acknowledge them with a slight nod.

“Enough.”

“Sleeping?”

Xaden turns his head away, his mouth compressed. “When I can.”

“You know where to find me,” Lindell murmurs.

Xaden jerks his chin once.

Now I understand the wine. He’s carrying someone too.

Duke Lindell faces me. “Your Highness, forgive me. I should have greeted you first.”

“Your Grace.” I incline my head toward him. “Some bonds transcend protocol.”

He melts back into the crowd.

“I was wrong earlier,” I say when we’re alone. “About what I said. About you not knowing loss.”

Xaden steps closer. “You didn’t know about Liam.”

“No, but I should have seen it.” I meet his stare. “I’ve studied you since you arrived. The way you catalog every threat, how you position yourself to shield me. You don’t learn that without losing someone who mattered.”

He stares down at me. “And what gives you the idea that I care about what you think?”

“It probably doesn’t matter to you what I believe. You’re here to protect me. That’s it.” I move closer, close enough to see the gold flecks in his eyes. “But I don’t want you to see me as another Tauri who views you as nothing more than a marked traitor. You’ve lost someone recently. Someone who mattered. And I dismissed that because I was buried in my own grief.”

My throat tightens at the admission.

Xaden moves until my shoulder presses against his chest and my feet find space between his boots. I crane my neck back to meet his stare.

“I know you don’t want my sympathy, but I needed you to know that I was wrong about you.”

He bends down, his words meant only for me. “If you really knew me, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not the hero in your story, Princess.” His mouth hovers near my ear. “Everyone else has the right idea about me.”

My pulse hammers at his confession and his nearness.

Someone calls my name across the hall.

“We should move,” he murmurs.

“Yes.”

Neither of us steps back.

Then a woman in general’s insignia strides toward us.

“Ser Xaden,” she calls.

Xaden faces her. “General Sorrengail.”

“I need to discuss Basgiath with you.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Your Highness.” She acknowledges me with a brief nod. “This will only take a moment.”

They cross to the windows where Xaden settles against the stone. A guard walks past, and Xaden’s attention flicks to the man’s weapon before finding me across the room, then back to the general.

The Duchess of Morraine materializes beside me. “Such a lovely evening.”

“Yes.”

The general speaks quietly, and something in her words transforms Xaden’s face. He shifts closer to her while the Duchess watches every movement.

“Fen Riorson challenged every Senarium meeting.”

My gaze stays locked on the windows where Xaden waits.

“Always the last to yield, the first to probe.”

“A king who surrounds himself with men who never disagree governs a kingdom of lies,” I say. “Perhaps Duke Fen grasped that counsel means nothing if it only mirrors the crown’s desires.”

The food bundle digs into my wrist as I fold my hands. Xaden’s head shifts slightly, not toward General Sorrengail, but toward us.

“Sons carry much from their fathers,” the Duchess notes. “And not just in appearance.”

I study the dais where Father looms. His emerald eyes lock on mine across the hall, the same eyes that meet me in my mirror each morning. Everything I vow never to become.

“Perhaps that haunts them both,” I whisper.

“Tell me,” the Duchess continues, “when he watches you, what do you think he sees?”

I twist my signet ring toward my knuckle, then back. Again, and again, and again.

“Someone who requires his protection.”

“No. He sees the daughter of the man who executed his father. His enemy wrapped in silk and crowned with Navarrian gold.”

I shove the ring down hard enough to bruise my finger.

“He chose this position.”

“Mmm.” The sound rumbles low in her throat. “And what do you see when you watch him?”

Heat climbs my neck as I study him across the room. Even as General Sorrengail speaks, he keeps his spine straight, his chin raised. No crown or command will ever bring him to his knees. Submission stays a choice he simply won’t make.

“I see someone who terrifies my father,” I whisper.

“You should view him as a blade at your throat.”

My gaze jerks to hers.

“A bloodline that chose destruction over loyalty to your father’s crown.”

“Then I choose to view him wrongly. I’d rather focus on who he chooses to be than dwell on bloodstains. If that makes me naive, Your Grace, so be it.”

The Duchess snorts.

“Though I’d hardly accept advice about loyalty from someone who just spent our conversation questioning my father’s wisdom. Tell me, when you plant seeds of doubt about the crown’s choices, what exactly do you call that?”

Her fingers fly to her throat.

“That is entirely different. I merely voiced concern about—”

“About my father’s judgment. His wisdom. His choices.” I cut her off. “The very same questioning you condemned Duke Fen for.”

She claws at the heavy gold around her neck.

“Your Highness, voicing concern is hardly the same as rebellion—”

“No, but it’s still questioning authority. Which you just declared so dangerous in the Riorson bloodline.”

Heat radiates from behind me first, then Xaden’s voice booms over us.

“Is there a problem here? Or do you just enjoy saying ‘Riorson’? Most people find Xaden rolls off the tongue easier.”

I crane my neck to find his face.

He bends closer. My spine curves back to catch his stare.

“Picking fights with duchesses now?”

My throat strains at the angle. “She started it.”

“Doesn’t matter who started it. All that matters is who ended it. And you cornered her with your questions.”

“Questions aren’t accusations.”

“No. But the right questions can destroy empires.” His words turn quiet, meant only for me. “Look at you. All that restraint, but there’s something fierce underneath, isn’t there? I recognize fire when it’s barely leashed, Princess.”

Heat floods my cheeks, but I keep my eyes locked on his. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

His mouth curves. “Apparently.”

The Duchess coughs, and I remember we have an audience.

“Your Highness. I believe I’ve overstayed my welcome. The evening grows late.”

Xaden glances toward her, but his chest stays pressed against my shoulder. “For the first time this evening, you’re right. This conversation is over.”

“Indeed.” She manages a stiff curtsy. “I should retire to my chambers. Tomorrow promises to be quite busy.”

“I’m sure it does,” I say.

“Good evening, Your Highness. Ser Xaden.”

She wheels away and stalks toward the doors.

Xaden watches her departure. “She’ll cause problems.”

“I think the Duchess of Morraine will be the least of your worries,” I say, still craning my neck to meet his stare.

His focus shifts back to me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let’s see…” I count on my fingers. “You’ve been my guard for what, a few hours? And already I’m defending myself against accusations of poor judgment, defending your honor, and cornering a duchess about where her loyalties lie. Shall I continue?”

He grins. “Please, continue. I’m fascinated by this list of my crimes against your peaceful evening. But don’t forget about the part where you enjoyed every fucking second of it.”

Heat flares in my cheeks because he’s right. I pivot away and roll my shoulders to ease the crick in my neck. Guests move past but keep their distance.

“Maybe I did like calling her out on her contradictions.”

“There it is.” His stare locks on mine. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Using that brain of yours instead of just smiling sweetly.”

“Is that what you think I do? Just smile sweetly?”

“Most of the time, yes. But that last bit drew blood.”

“And you liked that?”

“Princess,” he says, “I fucking loved watching you destroy her with her own words.”

“I did too,” I admit. “For once I said exactly what I thought instead of what was expected.”

“Most people spend their whole lives pretending to be harmless. It’s safer that way.”

“And you think I’m pretending?”

“You’re stubborn and apparently unafraid to demolish a duchess when she crosses you.” His mouth tilts. “That’s a fucking dangerous combination, Princess.”

My pulse quickens at the approval in his voice.

“That almost sounded like a compliment. Keep that up and people might start thinking you’re nice.”

“Nice.” His mouth contorts. “That’s not the word most people use to describe me. And it’s sure as hell not what I am.”

I shrug. “Whatever you say, Ser Xaden.”

“Ask around about how kind I am, Your Highness. See what people tell you.”

“I prefer to form my own opinions.”

A chill runs down my spine at his warning, but I wheel toward the doors without waiting for whatever barbed response he might deliver. Conversations stop around me, nobles step aside, and space clears before me.

“I think I’ve had enough festivities for one night.”

I glance back, meeting his stare. “This is the part where you follow me, Ser Xaden.”

He matches my pace as we exit the hall.

“You didn’t like that,” I say.

“Like what?”

“Being told to follow me.”

His mouth hardens. “No.”

We enter the courtyard where night air hits my face and raises goosebumps along my arms.

“I don’t like issuing orders either.”

“You’re a Tauri. It’s in your blood.”

“Alastair never made me feel like I was…” I stop, hunting for the right words. “Like I was his superior. He just handled what needed handling.”

“And you want me to just fucking handle what needs handling.”

He moves closer, and warmth radiates from his chest, melting the chill from my skin.

“I want you to survive.” I inhale deeply. “Which means sometimes I’ll have to speak truths neither of us wants to hear.”

“What, feeling bad about it now?”

We enter the castle where warmth wraps around us again.

“Yes. Does that bother you?”

“Nothing gets to me, Princess. Especially not a guilty conscience.”

At my door, I pivot. He looms closer than I anticipated, close enough that I have to tilt my head back.

“I’ll do what I have to.” I hold his stare. “If you want to survive long enough to drive my father completely mad, you’ll need to understand that.”

His mouth tilts. “There it is.”

My pulse jumps at his proximity and the heat in his eyes.

“What?”

“The steel you showed the Duchess.”

My throat constricts. “I’m serious, Xaden.”

“So am I.” He braces his forearm against the door beside my head, close enough that his sleeve grazes my cheek. “You think I don’t know what’s at fucking stake here?”

My pulse hammers against my ribs. “I think you’re used to commanding. And I think that’s going to get you killed if you can’t bend.”

“To taking orders from you.”

“To taking orders from me.”

His attention shifts to my mouth, then back. “And you think you can give them?”

“I think I’ll learn.”

“Lucky me.” He straightens slightly. “And Princess? Don’t ever fucking compare me to another man again.”

Words die in my throat.

His fingers grip the latch, and metal grates as the door swings wide behind me.

“Goodnight, Princess.”

“Goodnight, Xaden.”

I enter my chambers, and the door shuts on his watchful stare. His shadow moves beneath the door as he takes position.

“Grace? Maeve?” I call.

Grace and Maeve emerge from the sitting room. Grace’s face creases with worry, Maeve’s brightens with expectation.

I reach into my sleeve and draw out the linen bundle. Maeve’s mouth opens as I unfold the spiced lamb and grapes.

“Still warm,” Grace breathes, cradling the food against her chest.

I collapse into the chair at my dressing table and twist the rings from my fingers. The signet ring sticks, then slides free with a scrape of gold against skin.

Grace tugs at my laces while Maeve steps behind me to pluck the pins from my hair. Each pin’s removal sends relief through my scalp.

“Maeve,” I say, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “I hope you like flowers.”

Her fingers freeze in my hair. “What do you mean?”

I smile. “You’ll see.”

I shed my gown, and silk pools around my ankles. Grace gathers the fabric as I roll my shoulders in my chemise, working out the tension.

Tomorrow, I discover if I can be the princess who commands the man who just made me forget I was one.

Chapter Text

Sunlight warms my back as I crack open my door. Xaden leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed, already dressed and alert despite the early hour. “I need your help with something,” I say, and step back to let him enter.

“Good morning to you too, Princess.” He steps into my chambers, and heat climbs my throat as his gaze drops to my riding outfit, traces the loose bodice I couldn’t manage alone, then drags back to my face.

“Riding clothes. Before dawn.” He studies me. “Should I be concerned, or just impressed you own something that isn’t silk?”

I turn toward my dressing table, where the polished silver reflects morning light. “I need help with the lacing.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” I catch his reflection as he steps behind me, and our eyes meet in the glass. “The bodice needs to be tighter if I’m going to ride properly.”

His hands settle at my waist. “Where are we going?”

“The meadows past the eastern gate.” My breath stutters as he tugs the first lace. “Before my tutor arrives.”

His hands move up my back, and each tug pulls the bodice tighter until I can barely expand my ribs. In the mirror, I see him studying the laces. “Riding should come naturally to King Tauri’s daughter.” His voice comes low near my ear. “So tell me why you’re shaking.”

“I’m not shaking.” But I am, and he knows it. I turn from the mirror and gather my hair, fingers fumbling with the strands as I braid them back.

“You’re surprisingly good at bodices. Where does a Wingleader learn to lace stays so precisely?”

“Practice.” He watches me braid. “I’m good with my hands.”

I lift an eyebrow at him.

“Swords, Princess. I’ve been holding swords since you were born.”

“Mhm. Swords.”

He steps back, and I reach for the dragon earring, the black metal heavy between my fingers. I clip it to my ear and force myself to meet his eyes.

“I was thinking… what if we didn’t take the horses this morning? What if we tried something faster?”

“No.” He puts the width of the room between us. “Dragon riding is fucking dangerous even for trained riders. If something happens to you, your father puts my head on a spike. And there’s no chance in hell Sgaeyl would let you anywhere near her back.”

My riding boots lie beside the bed, and I grab them as I drop onto the mattress edge. “Dragon flight is safer,” I say, shoving my foot into the leather. “Faster route, less time exposed, impossible to track from the ground.” The laces knot under my fingers. “We’d be back before anyone notices I’m gone.” I pull the final lace tight and look up. “Besides, you don’t get to decide for Sgaeyl. Ask her and let her choose. Or let me ask her.”

He crosses his arms. “You can spew all the words you want at me. The answer is still no.”

“But—”

“No. Absolutely not.” His gaze snaps to something beyond me, and I realize he’s no longer listening. “That’s not the fucking point.”

Words fly at empty air, then his hand drags down his face, until whatever fight he’s having ends and he looks at me again.

“Ten minutes. We leave in ten minutes.”

“Perfect. That’s enough time to get past the castle walls.” The urge to ask what changed his mind burns in my throat, but some victories demand silence. Especially against Xaden Riorson.

Xaden shakes his head. “Two days. I’ve been your guard for two fucking days, and you’re already trying to sneak out of the palace and get us both killed.”

“And you thought this job would be boring. You’re welcome. Now, as your second official command from me—” I point to the door. “Turn around.”

“We don’t have time for games.”

“Trust me.”

“Not a fucking chance.”

“Good. The feeling is mutual.” I slip past him toward the carved filigree dividing my sleeping alcove from the chamber. Behind the stonework, my fingers press into the small depression. “Now turn around or I leave without you.”

“Demanding little thing, aren’t you? And to think cadets called me a hard-ass. They should meet you.” A pause, then he faces the door.

My signet ring slips from my finger, and I fit it into the stone depression. The wall shudders, then swings open on hidden hinges. Musty air escapes from the passage, thick with years of disuse.

The ring slips back onto my finger, and I turn toward him. “You can look now.”

Xaden faces me, then his gaze snaps to the passage. His eyes narrow as he study the opening.

“Where does it lead?”

“To freedom.” I duck through the opening, stone cool against my palm.

“How fucking dramatic,” he mutters.

He follows me inside, and blue lights wake ahead of us as we move deeper into the corridor. The passage narrows, and my elbow brushes his sleeve as I move forward.

“Can’t you let me have one dramatic moment? It leads outside the castle walls.”

“King Tauri the Wise, my ass. What father lets his daughter sleep next to a secret passage?”

“One who doesn’t know it exists. And before you ask, yes, there are protections. I’m not an idiot.”

“Good to know one of you has a brain. Though there’s still time for you to prove me wrong.”

He stops, and I turn to find him studying the corridor walls, fingers tracing the ancient stonework.

“As much as I love discussing how stupid you think my father is, we have dragons to see. And we can’t do that standing still staring at stone.”

“Dragon. We’re riding Sgaeyl.” Shadows bend unnaturally as he pushes off from the wall and moves past me, taking the lead down the corridor.

The walls here bear thick moss, damp and soft beneath my touch. “I said see, not ride.”

Without warning, he stops, and I catch myself against his back. He turns. My palms press against his chest, and I tilt my head back to find his face. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means there’s more than one dragon outside these walls.” I take a step back, my heel hits loose gravel, and I stumble. Xaden grabs my arm, steadies me, then lets go.

“What dragons.”

My ass brushes his side as I squeeze past him. “You’ll see.” But his hand clamps around my wrist before I can continue up the passage.

“No. I don’t play guessing games. What dragons, where, and why the fuck didn’t you mention them before?”

I stare at his fingers wrapped around my wrist because I don’t know what else to do. The light catches pale scars across his knuckles.

“I’m waiting, Princess.”

Gold flecks spark in his eyes when I look up. “That’s your problem. You’re waiting when we should already be at Sgaeyl.” I pull my wrist free. “Come on.”

The passage climbs steadily. My legs burn as we walk, and I pull cool air deep into my lungs.

“I want answers. Real ones.”

“You’ll get them.”

Rock pinches inward until I drop to my knees. Debris razes my palms through the final stretch. Sunlight touches my skin as I push into open air, vines parting around me.

Sgaeyl wheels overhead, smaller than I expected from down here.

I brush soil from my leathers and wait. Below, Xaden swears at the rocks. I bite my lip and study the horizon until my face behaves.

Xaden emerges behind me, spits dirt, and scowls. “Just so we’re clear: you die, I follow. Your father will make sure of it.”

“Then keep me alive.”

“Revolutionary strategy. And here I was planning to watch you die and see how that conversation with your father goes.” He looks up at Sgaeyl, and she banks toward us without him saying a word.

Sgaeyl lands, shaking the ground and slamming me against the stone outcropping. I steady myself as sulfuric breath washes over me.

“Get on before I come to my senses.”

I climb Sgaeyl’s front leg, grasping her scales. Halfway up, my hold fails. Shadow wraps around my waist, guiding me as I haul myself onto her back. The shadow traces my collarbone, then pulls away.

I shift between her shoulder blades and secure my grip on her warm scales. Sweat slicks my palms and seeps through the leather at my thighs. “Are you coming?”

“Unfortunately.” He swings up behind me.

Sgaeyl launches, and I grip her scales harder as she powers upward. The force presses me back against Xaden, and his arm tightens across my ribs. Sgaeyl climbs steep enough that I crane my neck to see anything but sky.

When she levels out, I can breathe again. Xaden’s leather jacket digs into my shoulder blades, and every shift of his weight jolts through me as Sgaeyl banks left toward the mountains.

I understand now why people become riders. Silence envelops us, cut only by the steady beat of Sgaeyl’s wings. Below, the world contracts to something I could hold in my palms. This high, with nothing but Sgaeyl’s power between us and the void, trust turns absolute.

I close my eyes and let myself lean back against Xaden’s chest for one breath, two.

“Where exactly are we going?”

My eyes open as I point toward the distant ridge. “The valley beyond those peaks.”

Sgaeyl adjusts course without Xaden telling her to, following my direction. Only when we clear the ridge and the black stone formations come into view does his body go rigid behind me.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Where we’re going.”

Sgaeyl’s massive head turns, one golden eye studying us over her shoulder before she focuses forward again.

“I’ve commanded hundreds of fucking cadets, fought battles where I nearly died, and somehow you’re still the most impossible person I’ve ever dealt with. Now tell me what’s down there, or we’re turning around.”

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve said to me.” I glance back at him. “We’re going to see the dragons.”

Wind whips my braid against his chest as he crowds closer, his breath warming my ear. “What dragons? There are no dragons in this valley. I know every dragon ground in Navarre.”

“Maybe you don’t know everything.”

Sgaeyl drops toward the valley floor. I point to a stone ledge away from the black caves. “There.”

The landing drives me forward against Sgaeyl’s neck as her wings fold, stirring the air. The stone beneath us burns hot, and sulfur stings my throat. Dark caves pock the mountainside ahead.

Heat radiates against my face, and I close my eyes, letting it soak through my skin. When I lean forward to slide down Sgaeyl’s shoulder, Xaden’s hands anchor my hips.

“Not yet. You’re going to explain first.”

I twist to face him, his grip burning through the leather at my waist.

“We’re here. You had to trust me enough to get us this far.” I meet his stare. “Just trust me a little longer.”

“Trust you?” His thumbs press against my hipbones. “I trust Sgaeyl, not you.”

Shadow swallows us as I open my mouth to argue. Sgaeyl thrums beneath me, deep and welcoming, and something black descends from above. Xaden’s hands bite into my skin.

A black dragon lands above the den entrance, twice Sgaeyl’s size, her scales absorbing light rather than reflecting it. Stone dust showers my shoulders, and Xaden’s pulse hammers against my back.

Red eyes pin mine from above.

Sgaeyl’s head swivels toward Xaden, and his breathing halts against my shoulders. His grip on my hips loosens until his hands slip away.

“Go,” he murmurs. “Slowly.”

I slide down Sgaeyl’s shoulder, her scales warm and ridged beneath my hands. Heat sears through my boot leather when I strike ground, but I stride toward the black dragon anyway. She studies me without moving, no wing shift, no warning bellow, nothing dragons do when humans advance uninvited.

“What the fuck are you?”

“A woman. A princess. A daughter. A sister.” I don’t break stride toward the black dragon. “The bane of your existence, apparently.”

Leather groans behind me as Xaden drops from Sgaeyl’s shoulder, and his boots slam down with a sound twice as heavy as mine made.

“We came, we saw the fucking dragons.” His footsteps crunch closer behind me. “Now get back on Sgaeyl before something decides to eat us.”

I approach the cave mouth and stop, heat and the thick stench of charred earth rolling from the darkness to burn my throat.

Movement explodes from the shadows as three small forms burst into sunlight, golden fluff bright against their bodies. They chirp and tumble toward me with feathertails spread wide, legs carrying them in unsteady lurches while their wings beat frantically to keep them upright.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he says behind me. “Get back. That mother will incinerate you for breathing near her young.”

“When you asked what I am, I didn’t say out of my fucking mind, did I?” The first hatchling arrives at my boots and scrambles up my leg, purring with recognition, while the massive black dragon drops from her perch with a crash that shakes the ground. She settles behind me, positioning herself between her young and Xaden, but her head swings down to nudge my shoulder gently before her red eyes lock on him with unmistakable warning. The other two hatchlings rush toward me with chirps, oblivious to the threat she sees in him.

I kneel slowly, and the other two hatchlings scramble toward my hands, their claws gripping my fingers. The black dragon’s gaze shifts from Xaden to me, her head tilting as she watches. Sgaeyl approaches Xaden with heavy steps, and both dragons begin rumbling deep in their throats while he stays motionless.

I reach into my jacket and unwrap the meat I brought from the kitchen. The hatchlings surge forward, and when I offer pieces, their teeth sink through my gloves into my fingers. Blood wells warm where they bite, though my sleeves deflect most attempts. One tears through the leather at my wrist, teeth piercing flesh.

“How many times?” Xaden asks, his voice tight. “How many times have you come here?”

I look up at him from where I kneel, hatchlings crawling over my bloodied hands while their mother’s massive head settles beside my shoulder, her breathing deep and even. Sgaeyl has moved close enough that her wing casts shadow over Xaden’s back, and in the stillness that follows, the only sounds are the soft cooing of the young dragons and the occasional rumble that passes between the two adults, a conversation in a language older than words.

“Dozens,” I say, and one of the hatchlings coos against my throat. “The first time I came, I had slipped past my guards during a ride and found this place. She had her maw open, ready to burn me alive, but then these three hatched and ran straight to me instead.”

The mother dragon’s breath stirs my hair as she settles closer, and when I look up at Xaden, he’s staring at me with his lips slightly parted, as though he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“You should be fucking dead,” he says. “Dragons kill anything that gets close to their eggs.”

I shrug, lifting one of the hatchlings to eye level where it chirps softly at me. “And yet here I am.”

Xaden pinches the bridge of his nose and drops his head, face contorting, and when he jerks his gaze skyward, his jaw works.

“We’ve been gone too fucking long,” he says. “Time to go.”

I pull the last pieces of meat from my jacket. The hatchlings take them without drawing blood this time, and when I rise and wave to their mother, she dips her massive head once before settling back to watch her young. Xaden walks beside me as we cross the heated earth toward Sgaeyl.

When we reach her shoulder, I place my hand on his forearm before he can boost me up.

“Thank you,” I say, and mean it for more than just the ride.

He stares at me, then turns away. Shadows wind around my waist and slam me onto Sgaeyl’s back.

“Okay,” I mutter. “I guess I deserved that.”

He swings up behind me without a word, and when Sgaeyl launches skyward, his arm pulls me back against his chest and locks around me.

Sgaeyl’s wings beat steady beneath us, and when she banks left, his hand spreads wider across my ribs. When she dips through a current, his thumb brushes the underside of my breast through the leather. When I glance up, he’s already staring down at me, and neither of us looks away.

We land where we began this morning, and after we crawl back through the passage, I turn Xaden away before pressing my ring to the stone. Maeve and Grace wait beside my dressing table, and when Xaden follows me through the hidden door, their faces shift from relief to shock.

Grace stares at my torn gloves. “What happened to your hands?”

The torn gloves come off easily, blood dripping from neat puncture wounds across my fingertips. “The usual,” I tell them, examining the wounds. “The little ones were more ravenous today.”

Maeve wrinkles her nose as she approaches. “You stink like dragon.”

Small white flowers peek through Maeve’s usually severe bun, delicate petals catching the light from my window. I open my mouth to comment, but Maeve points one finger at me with a look that could freeze fire.

“You better not say a single word,” she warns.

Grace steps toward Xaden. “Out. We need to get her cleaned up.”

She slips behind me and unlaces my bodice while Xaden nods and leaves. “You wore the earring out,” she scolds, reaching up to touch the black metal dragon at my ear. “What if you’d lost it?”

“It’s the last piece I have of her,” I say, my hand moving to cover Grace’s. “I want a piece of her everywhere I go.”

“I’ll be outside,” Xaden says from the doorway.

Grace and Maeve move around me, but my eyes stay fixed on the door. They strip away leather, guide me through washing, lace me into fresh clothes, and when they step back, I cross the room and pull it open.

Xaden leans against the opposite wall, arms crossed.

I smooth my skirts and wait while he looks at me. His attention settles on the earring, then drops to my hands, then back to my face.

“Princess.”

We stride down the corridor toward the courtyard, and I tug at the silk where it leaves my arms bare. “I’m late for my tutoring session,” I tell him.

Tapestries blur past as we walk, and I glance sideways at his profile. “Do you want to talk about this morning?”

His mouth pulls down at the corners. “No.”

We enter the courtyard, and shadows gather around Xaden like they belong to him. The way he moves through darkness, comfortable where others would step toward light, makes me pause before I speak.

“Do you ever plan to actually talk to me about things that matter, or are you going to shut me out every time I ask?”

A muscle jumps in his jaw as we approach the main palace entrance. “I plan on doing my job. Everything else is irrelevant.”

My throat tightens, and I look away from him as we step through the doorway. Stubborn ass. Hide behind duty so you never have to risk feeling anything.

Fresh bread invades my nostrils, making my mouth water, and I turn toward the kitchens instead of the south wing where my tutor waits.

“You’re going the wrong way,” Xaden says. “Your tutor’s in the south wing.”

“Then we better hurry.” I pick up my pace toward the kitchens and leave him behind.

I race down the corridor past bowing guards when a wet crack reaches my ears. My stomach lurches, and I quicken my pace.

I round the corner and stop. On the floor lies a servant, curled and bloodied, arms shielding her face. A guard looms above her, leather strap raised to strike again.

My breath hitches, blood roaring in my ears as my vision narrows to the strap in his hand.

The choice makes itself. I step between them as the switch slashes down, wood biting across my bare arms, and the guard’s face goes slack with horror.

Blood drips from my arms.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I can’t stop listening. Just when the world shrinks to nothing but that sound, a trembling hand tugs my dress and pulls me back. I look down at the servant clinging to my skirts, then shadows surge past me, whipping my hair across my face as they slam the guard into the wall.

Xaden steps forward and presses his forearm against the guard’s throat. “You touched her.”

“No! No, I didn’t. I didn’t mean to, Your Highness. I’m sorry—” Words tumble from the guard’s mouth as shadows pin him against the wall. “She stole bread, Your Highness, kitchen rations. I was only doing my job, following orders—”

The servant confesses through her sobs. “I did take the bread.”

My dress pools around me as I drop beside her. I recognize the white scar across her nose and the wedding band loose on her finger. Camila, whose husband died three months ago.

Blood still drips from one hand as I extend the other toward Camila, and her fingers close around mine with desperate strength. The guard’s voice turns frantic.

“You see, Your Highness? She admits it! She stole from the crown. I was protecting palace property. I had to stop her!”

I turn to the guard, and shadows bind his wrists tighter against the wall. He jerks against the restraints, mouth snapping shut.

“The princess didn’t give you permission to speak,” Xaden says.

I turn back to Camila. “Your son,” I say. “Is he still sick?”

“Yes. Worse than before. Since Artur died, I can’t afford the medicine or enough food.” Wetness spreads across my knuckles where her tears land. “So I stole it.”

I wrench my hand free from Camila’s grip and reach for my ear. The clasp resists, then releases, and the dragon earring falls warm into my palm.

“Here.” I press it into Camila’s hand.

She gapes at the black metal. “I can’t take this.”

“You can. It’ll be enough.”

“But this is worth more than I could earn in a lifetime.”

“And now it’s yours.” I close her fingers around it. “For your boy.”

Even Xaden’s shadows go still.

“Your Highness, you can’t—” the guard starts.

I don’t look at him. “Go,” I tell Camila, helping her to her feet. “You’ll never have to steal food again.”

“Thank you,” she breathes, clutching the earring. “Thank you, Your Highness.” Tears flood her face as she stumbles backward. “I’ll pray for you every day. Thank you.” She retreats down the corridor, the earring pressed tight against her chest.

I clutch my wounded arm, blood welling between my fingers as I turn toward the guard.

Boots march down the corridor, followed by a servant’s voice breaking with panic: “Your Majesty, this way—there was screaming from the kitchens.”

Father rounds the corner with six guards flanking him. When he sees me, his face drains white. His gaze shifts from my bloodied hands to the guard pinned against the wall to Xaden’s coiled shadows.

“What happened here?”

“A guard was beating a servant for stealing bread,” I begin, pressing harder against my wound. “We have it under—”

“Under control?” Father snaps. “You’re bleeding! How is my daughter bleeding under your watch, Riorson?”

“She threw herself—” Xaden starts.

“It’s not his fault,” I cut in. “I stepped between—”

“Your Majesty,” the guard pleads from the wall, “I was following protocol. You said any theft of rations—”

“I don’t give a damn what I said about rations!” Father shouts. “My daughter is bleeding!”

“Because she jumped in front of a switch meant for a servant,” Xaden says.

“Then you should have stopped her!”

“I was twenty feet away when she made the choice.”

“Your Majesty, please,” the guard gasps, “the servant confessed. She stole bread. Your own orders state—”

“Enough!” Father raises his hand, and his guards strike their spear butts down in unison. The shouting stops.

Father advances on Xaden. “A guard struck the crown princess while she stood under your protection.”

I rush toward Father, blood dripping from my arm. “Father, wait—” But he steps back before I reach him.

“Don’t. You’ve done enough.”

I turn to Xaden, desperate. “Tell him it wasn’t your fault.” I reach for his arm, but he pulls away from my touch.

“Two days,” Father says. “Two days, and already my daughter bleeds because of Riorson incompetence.”

“Incompetence?” Xaden asks. “Your daughter chose to throw herself between a weapon and a servant. What exactly should I have done? Chained her to a fucking wall?”

“Perhaps I should,” Father says. “Perhaps chaining you up is exactly what’s needed.” He turns to the guard pinned against the wall. “But first, we address treason.”

The guard’s eyes widen. “Your Majesty, please—”

“You struck the crown princess. By the laws of Navarre, assault upon royal blood is treason punishable by death.” Father straightens. “Ser Xaden, as my daughter’s sworn protector, you will carry out this sentence immediately.”

“No!” I step forward. “Xaden, you serve me. I demand mercy for this man.”

“Your Majesty, I have children,” the guard pleads, tears streaming down his face. “I was following protocol—”

“Father, please,” I say, blood dripping steadily from my fingers. “Dismiss him. Strip his rank. Don’t kill him for this.”

Xaden hasn’t moved. His eyes stay fixed on the guard.

“You have your orders, Riorson,” Father says. “Execute the traitor, or face charges of insubordination yourself.”

Chapter Text

Xaden reaches over his shoulder and draws one of his swords. The guard’s eyes widen as he approaches.

“Xaden.” My voice breaks. “Please.”

“Close your eyes,” he tells me, positioning the blade’s tip under the guard’s chin.

My breath won’t come. The smell of piss hits me and I can’t swallow, can’t think past the man’s urine running down his legs and his broken sobs because he knows he’s about to die.

“I have children,” he pleads. “They need me—”

I lunge toward him, but hands clamp around my arms and yank me back.

“So did my father.” Xaden drives the sword upward through the man’s throat and into his skull.

Blood pours from the guard’s mouth, and his body jerks once before going slack. The blade emerges through the top of his head, pinning him against the wall.

My stomach lurches, and I double over. Everything I ate this morning comes up onto the stones between my feet.

When I wipe my mouth and straighten, Xaden pulls his sword free. The guard’s body crumples to the floor.

“Well?” Father asks.

“It’s done,” Xaden says, cleaning his blade on the dead man’s shirt.

He slides the sword back into its sheath and finally looks at me. There’s nothing in his eyes I recognize.

Father snaps his fingers. “Clear this mess.”

Guards haul the body away, blood streaking the floor behind them. When they disappear around the corner, Father’s eyes pin mine.

“You and I will speak later.”

I nod, my throat closing tight.

He leaves, and servants rush in with buckets to wash away what remains. Water strikes the floor as they scrub.

Xaden stands beside me, silent since he sheathed his sword.

“I told you to close your eyes.”

“You didn’t have to kill him.”

His fingers clamp around my arm. “Look at me.”

I watch servants scrub the floor with their rags.

“Look at me.” He forces my chin up until our eyes meet.

“You wanted to save her. Fine. She’s saved.” Warmth abandons his voice entirely. “But actions have consequences, and today the consequence was a dead father.”

“There had to be another way—”

“There wasn’t. Your father doesn’t negotiate with people who spill royal blood.” His grip tightens. “I could follow orders, or we could both die. Simple fucking math.”

“So that makes it right?”

“Right?” His laugh holds no humor. “Nothing about this was right. But it’s done.”

I swallow hard. “I just wanted to protect her.”

“And now she’s free, and he’s dead. That’s the price, Princess.”

Camila’s wedding ring flashes through my mind. Somewhere tonight, another wife will stare at an empty chair. Another woman will count coins that won’t stretch. Another mother will watch her children grow hungry. And when desperation drives her to steal, what then?

The servants’ scrubbing snaps me back to the present. Water sloshes against the floor where blood used to be.

“I have to—” My voice cracks. “My tutor. I need to get to my tutor.”

The words tumble out too fast. “I can’t miss another session. Father will be angry if I’m late again. He said if I miss one more—”

“Breathe.”

I try. My chest won’t expand. Air sticks in my throat.

“I need to get to the south wing.” My hands shake against my skirts. I press them down, but they won’t stop.

“Breathe,” Xaden says again.

Air fills my lungs, and the world comes back into focus.

His palm presses against my lower back, and heat sears through silk.

“Walk.”

I turn toward the servants scrubbing, but his hand guides me forward. My feet obey, carrying me toward the main hall.

We find our rhythm together, his longer stride adjusting to mine while his attention presses against my profile. But when I glance over, he stares ahead. My fingers twist my rings, twisting and twisting again as we pass tapestries and bowing guards.

“It doesn’t get easier,” he says.

I wait for him to continue.

“The killing does. Not the rest.”

His hand falls away, and the warmth dies.

“But killing a man who beats defenseless women?” His voice holds nothing. “That’s never hard.”

I stare at his profile. “Easy for you. I threw up.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“You’re not like him.”

My face burns. “My father’s not heartless.”

“Isn’t he?” His gaze shifts toward me. “When did you last leave these walls?”

“I don’t see what—”

“When?”

I glance around the corridor, press my lips together, then lick them. “I ride the grounds. I visit—”

“The grounds. The gardens.” His mouth tilts. “Ever been to the villages? The outposts?”

“That’s not safe—”

“For you. Right.” He stops. “So what happens there? In all those places too dangerous for princesses?”

I stay silent.

“Your father’s justice reaches far. All the way to the borders where his forces fight.”

My stomach tightens. “They do fight. Against Poromiel—”

“Do they?” His eyes lock on mine. “What exactly do you think they’re fighting?”

“Invasion. From Poromiel.”

“Invasion.” He nods. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He strides forward, and I rush to match his pace.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means your father’s doing exactly what he thinks is best for Navarre.”

Something hollow opens in my chest, though I don’t understand why.

I stop and spin to face him, stepping directly into his path.

He pulls up short. His chest nearly touches mine.

“What do you mean?” I stare up at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

His hands settle on my arms. “Careful, Princess.”

“No.” I don’t step back. “You can’t say something like that and expect me to just—”

“Just what? Accept it?” His grip tightens. “Funny. You didn’t give me that courtesy this morning.”

“This morning?”

“The dragons. The secret passage. The lies you’ve been telling your guards.” His voice drops. “How many times have you snuck out, Ayla?”

Heat floods my face. “That’s different.”

“Is it? You want honesty from me, but you keep your own secrets.” His thumbs press against my arms. “Why should I give you what you won’t give me?”

Words form and die on my lips.

“I was protecting my freedom,” I say.

“And I’m protecting your life and mine.” His hands fall away. “Some truths are too dangerous for princesses.”

He steps around me and keeps walking.

We reach the study together. Xaden’s hand closes on the handle while he turns his body sideways, eyes never leaving mine. My shoulder brushes his chest as I step through the narrow space. His breath catches, and his free hand lifts before he stops himself.

I move into the room, and he follows, taking position beside the windows. His gaze finds me across the room and holds.

Master Devlin arranges silver on the practice table. “Your entrance, Your Highness.”

Familiar hands guide me toward the corner, defining the invisible threshold. My shoulders hold their proper line for exactly three steps before my right side sags. Behind me, sword hilts clink softly, and my spine snaps straight at the sound.

“Again.”

My shoulders maintain their line longer this time, muscles blazing with strain. I reach the practice table, and my hands shake against the polished silver.

“The curtsy for a Duke.”

Midway through the curtsy, my balance fails and my palm strikes the table edge, sending teacups rattling in their saucers.

I right the teacups with trembling fingers. My face burns, and I can’t look up.

“The formal greeting, please.”

“Your Grace honors—” The words stick in my throat.

“Look up this instant,” Master Devlin snaps. “Your behavior this afternoon is most peculiar, Your Highness. Where is the grace we have practiced for years?”

My chin jerks up at his rebuke, and my hand flies to my ear, fingers touching only skin where the dragon earring should rest. Master Devlin’s disapproving stare burns into me, but the missing weight at my ear crushes more than his judgment.

I seek Xaden across the room. His chin dips once, barely there, and the knot in my chest loosens. Master Devlin expects explanations I cannot give, answers that will not satisfy his confusion, excuses I will not make. I face him and give him what he demands. “Your Grace honors our house with your presence.”

“Adequate,” Master Devlin announces, his frown deepening. “Your delivery lacks warmth, Your Highness, but at least you finished the phrase.” He points toward the silver service. “Demonstrate proper tea service etiquette.”

I grasp the teapot, my fingers wrapping around its warm handle. The weight pulls at my wrist, heavier than I remember, but I guide it toward the first cup. Tea pours smooth and amber until my hand trembles and the stream wavers. Brown liquid bleeds across white linen. Master Devlin’s breath hisses between his teeth, and I slam the pot down before it crashes to the floor.

“Enough.” Master Devlin reaches for a clean cloth from the sideboard. “You are clearly unwell, Your Highness. Rest may serve you better than lessons.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right, I should rest.” I move toward the door. “Good day, Master Devlin.”

I step into the corridor, and cooler air greets me. Xaden follows, pulling the door closed.

“Don’t tell my father.” I grip his arm. “Please, Xaden. Don’t tell him about the lesson.”

He looks down at my hand, then back to my face. “Why would I?”

“Because you’re supposed to report—”

“On threats. Not tea spills.”

I release his arm and exhale deeply.

“You think he doesn’t already know you’re a mess today?” His mouth tilts. “Trust me, Princess. Your curtsy isn’t what’s keeping him awake at night.”

My hand drifts to my arm where the switch struck me this morning. The dried blood pulls at my skin when I press against it.

“You need to get that cleaned.”

I look up to find Xaden watching my hand. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” His eyes narrow. “You should have gone to the healers, not your tutor.”

“I had a lesson—”

“And now you have an open wound that’s been sitting for hours.” He straightens. “Priorities, Princess.”

“Priorities.” I repeat his word, but not in agreement. “My priorities are supposed to be maintaining the crown’s image. Being where I’m expected, when I’m expected. A missed lesson because I needed medical care? That would disappoint him more than bleeding through my sleeves.”

I press against the wound again. “You saw him this morning. He wasn’t angry because I got hurt. He was angry because I disrupted his authority.”

“So you went to your lesson bleeding instead of getting treated.”

“Because that’s what he expects.” I meet Xaden’s eyes. “A princess who maintains her schedule no matter what.”

Xaden looks away briefly, then back.

“I have a kit in my chambers.” He changes direction down the corridor. “We’ll clean it there.”

He glances at my arm. “Before it gets worse.”

I gather my skirts and rush to catch up with him. “Xaden, really, it’s not necessary. The wound isn’t that deep.”

He maintains his pace. “You’re bleeding through your sleeve.”

“It’s just a scratch—”

“Princess.” He stops so suddenly I slam into his back. “I’ve seen infected wounds. You haven’t. This isn’t a debate.”

He resumes walking, and I clutch my skirts higher to match his speed.

“I don’t want to be trouble.”

“Too late for that.”

We walk back to our corridor. Xaden draws out a key at his door, and the lock turns with a soft click.

He pushes it open and glances back at me.

“How scandalous of you,” I say, stepping into his chambers. “Inviting a princess to your room. I thought knights were supposed to protect a lady’s reputation, not compromise it.”

The door clicks shut. He lingers there, one hand still on the latch.

“An honorable man would protect your reputation.” His eyes hold mine across the small space. “I’m not an honorable man.”

The wound throbs against my sleeve with enough intensity that I wonder if it’s reopened. He stands motionless by the door, yet every corner of the chamber closes in.

“And perhaps I’m not as honorable a princess as everyone believes. I walked in knowing exactly what it meant.”

“Then we’re both exactly where we shouldn’t be.” He studies me. “Three hundred men tried to kill me over three days. That was simple. You’re the part I wasn’t prepared for.”

He steps toward me until I crane my neck to meet his eyes.

“Let me see it.”

He takes my forearm, and calluses catch against my skin as he turns my arm in his grip. His thumb finds the silk edge and pushes it upward, bunching the fabric beneath his touch until the wound appears.

Dried blood crusts where the switch split flesh.

When I glance up, he’s already watching my face.

He advances, and I retreat without breaking his stare until my knees strike the mattress edge.
“Sit.”

I drop onto the coverlet. He looms above me, and from this angle my eyes align with his belt, the leather molded to his hips, the fabric pulled taut across his thighs. I drag my gaze upward to find his.

Dark hair falls across his brow, casting shadows over his eyes until only gold flecks catch the light. He holds my stare, then tears his gaze away and turns toward the trunk at the foot of his bed.

Air rushes from my lungs as I twist my fingers in the blue coverlet, gold threads rough beneath my grip. Metal clanks from the trunk as he searches, and I take the chance to examine his chambers. Everything reflects the man: spotless, ordered, every possession in its designated place.

Except the desk. Letters sprawl across its surface, some folded, others torn open, ink bleeding across scattered parchment.

“You’re much better at organizing weapons than letters.”

He turns from the trunk, medical kit in hand. “I’m good with my hands when it comes to things that don’t require delicacy.” His eyes drop to my wounded arm. “Letters do.”

He sinks to his knees before me, one knee driving against the inside of mine until my legs part. My thighs bracket his shoulders as he wedges into position.

A strong hand captures my wounded arm and drags it toward him.

“You seem to make a habit of kneeling before me.”

My sleeve rides higher as he pushes it upward, exposing the angry split where dried blood crusts around swollen flesh.

“And you seem to enjoy putting me here. Too bad for you I’m only here for your wound.”

I bite my lower lip and hold the sleeve in place for him.

“You assume I wanted anything else.”

He dampens a cloth from his kit and touches it to the wound. The cool water stings where the switch broke skin, and I flinch.

“It’s not an assumption when you know your effect on women.” His touch gentles as he lifts dried blood from the torn skin.

“You seem quite capable of delicacy when you want to be.”

The cloth clears the last traces of dried blood from my skin, and when his eyes rise to meet mine, thick lashes frame his stare. “You’re not delicate. You’re a fucking headache.”

I smile. “I try my best.”

He brings the linen to his mouth and bites down. Fabric tears between his teeth, and I watch his canines work, remembering how that same mouth took his bloodied thumb between his lips.

I want to know how those teeth would feel against my skin. Linen pulls snug against my skin, and I concentrate on that sensation instead.

A final knot secures under his fingers, then he shifts between my legs, his shoulder brushing my knee as he draws back.

“Thank you.”

“You wouldn’t need to thank me if you stopped throwing yourself in front of switches.”

The mattress sinks as he plants his hands beside my hips and rises. I lean back as he towers over me, but he stops close enough that our breath mingles.

“Would you believe me if I said that was my first time?” I focus on his mouth as I speak, then lift my eyes to his.

“And it won’t be your last. But Princess? Next time let me be the one who bleeds. Your father kills me if you get hurt.”

Cold air rushes in as he withdraws, and his pinkie brushes mine when his weight lifts from the mattress.

“I won’t let you take a switch meant for me,” I say, standing from the bed. “That defeats the entire purpose.”

His mouth tightens. “The purpose is keeping you safe.”

“The purpose is using my position to protect people.” I smooth my skirts. “We should probably leave before someone realizes where we are.”

His hand moves toward the door, though his gaze holds mine. “And what exactly is the third in line for the crown going to do to protect people that doesn’t result in them bleeding on palace floors?”

“Second,” I correct automatically. “Second in line.”

Something flickers behind his eyes before he looks away.

I approach him and stop at the desk. The scattered letters draw my attention, and my hand reaches for the nearest parchment.

“I could help you organize these,” I say, fingers grazing the broken seal.

His fingers seize my wrist and drag my hand back.

“No.”

I stare up at him, and the man who just bandaged my arm with gentle care has vanished completely.

“They’re just letters, Xaden.”

My hand strains against his grip, but his fingers clamp tighter.

“They’re private correspondence.”

Air stills between us, and even the distant sounds of palace life fade until only our breathing remains.

“Okay.” I attempt to step back, but his fingers anchor me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”

Frantic pounding interrupts my words.

“Your Highness, please tell me you’re in there!” Grace’s voice breaks through the door. “The king has sent for you. He’s furious you’re missing. Please, Your Highness, if you’re there, you have to come now!”

Xaden releases me and gathers the letters in one swift motion. I catch a glimpse of one letter signed “-rengail” and another in completely different handwriting that reads “moonless nights bring shadow’s flight” before the desk drawer slides open, swallows the correspondence, then clicks shut under his key.

Chapter Text

I cross to the door and pull it open. Grace stands in the corridor, her chest heaving and sweat beading across her forehead despite the cool corridor air. Maeve keeps watch down the hallway.

“Thank the gods,” Grace breathes, reaching for my arm. “Your Highness, you have to go. Now.”

“What happened?”

“The king sent Captain Harding to your chambers. When you weren’t there…” She swallows hard. “Every guard in the castle will be flogged if you’re not found within the hour.”

My stomach lurches. I step into the corridor, and Xaden moves beside me, his hand settling at the small of my back.

“I have to go,” I tell him. “Now.”

His hand slides from my back to my stomach, and heat sears through the silk as he pulls me against his chest. My breath catches.

“Xaden, I need to—”

“Where is he?” He cuts across my words, eyes fixed on Grace.

“Throne room,” Grace chokes out. “Captain Harding said the flogging starts if you don’t appear within the hour.”

Guards will bleed because I was not where Father expected me. Men with wives, with children, with nothing to do with my choices.

Shadows claim us and the world dies. Cold drives into my bones as my feet reach for nothing, find nothing, fall through nothing at all. Xaden’s chest remains solid against my back while everything I have ever trusted to exist simply ends.

“Trust me,” he breathes against my ear.

“Not a chance.”

Light burns through my closed eyelids. When I open them, the throne room doors stand three feet away, their carved oak exactly as it should be. My legs shake, and Xaden’s grip tightens around my waist.

We crossed half the castle between one breath and the next. The impossible made ordinary.

Two guards beside the doors stumble backward. One reaches for his sword. The other stares.

“Your Highness?” The first guard stops mid-sentence. “How did you—”

I step away from Xaden’s grip and smooth my skirts. “My father is expecting me.”

Both men study Xaden, then me. Their hands hover over their weapons.

The guards exchange glances but neither moves toward the doors.

“You heard her,” Xaden says.

The first guard straightens and reaches for the handle. “Of course, Your Highness.”

My legs won’t stop shaking. The guard swings the door open anyway. Father paces before the throne while guards press themselves against the walls, and Captain Harding stands with a flogging strap in his hands. When Father sees me, he stops mid-stride.

“Where were you?”

I meet his stare without flinching. “At the stables, as you instructed. Reviewing the new security measures with Ser Xaden.”

Father’s jaw works. “The stables.”

“You said the assassination attempt proved we needed to secure every entrance, including the ones servants use.” I keep my voice steady. “The stables have three separate ways into the castle.”

Father turns to Captain Harding. “Did you search the stables?”

Captain Harding’s face reddens. “No, Your Majesty.” He looks at the other guards, who shake their heads.

Father’s eyes narrow. “I gave no such instructions.”

“You’re saying I’m lying?” I keep my voice level. “In front of your men?”

Father’s mustache twitches. “I’m saying I don’t recall—”

“Then perhaps the problem isn’t that your guards failed to find me. Perhaps the problem is that you’re issuing orders you can’t remember giving.”

Captain Harding looks at the floor. The other guards find places to stare that aren’t Father’s face.

“If you don’t believe me,” I add, “ask the stablehand. He’ll confirm I was there.”

Father turns to Xaden. “Since you conducted this thorough security review, what exactly did you find that requires changing?”

“The hay storage blocks sightlines to the rear entrance. Move it six feet east, and you can see anyone approaching from the servants’ quarters. The door itself needs a crossbar.”

“And the other entrances?”

“The feed delivery gate has no guard post. The water access connects to the tunnel system under the kitchens.”

Father’s mustache stops twitching.

“Captain Harding,” he says without looking away from Xaden. “Address those issues immediately.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You’re dismissed.” Father’s knuckles whiten against the throne’s armrest.

I curtsy. “Thank you for clarifying your expectations, Father.”

Xaden bows beside me. When he straightens, his mouth curves at one corner. “Your Majesty.”

A guard clears his throat.

We turn toward the doors and leave side-by-side.

We walk past portraits of dead kings, their painted eyes following our movement down the corridor.

Xaden leans close to my ear. “The stablehands will lie for you?”

I keep walking, but nod once. “They’re more loyal to me than to him. The head stablehand left a gate unlatched last spring. Father’s prize stallion broke free and shattered his leg in the courtyard. I told Father I’d been careless with the latch.”

“Good to know.” Xaden’s head turns toward me. “After that?”

“Father had the horse put down and confined me to my chambers for a week. The stablehand kept his head.”

“Didn’t know you could play politics like that, Princess.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. What about you? I didn’t expect you to know so much about stable security.”

“I don’t miss details that could be useful.”

Three weeks pass before I realize the rat-catcher comes every other day now instead of once a week. I notice because I’ve started paying attention to things I used to ignore.

“The rat problem must be getting worse,” I mention to Xaden one morning as Thomas disappears around the corner toward the kitchens.

“Rats breed fast,” Xaden says without looking. “Especially in summer heat.”

But something makes me count. Thomas appears three times that day. Once near the kitchens, once by the servants’ stairs, once in the corridor outside my chambers. When I mention it to Xaden, he shrugs.

“Thorough worker.”

What I really notice is how quiet the palace has become since Cam disappeared. The servants move through their duties without the laughter that rose from the kitchens when he charmed the cook into giving him extra sugared plums. Halden claims me as his favorite sibling, the one he taught to ride and always defends to Father, but Cam was my favorite brother. Before Alic died at Basgiath, Cam listened when court protocols felt suffocating and made faces behind Father’s back during tedious council meetings. He understood that being the only crown princess of Navarre meant watching everyone else decide your life.

After we lost Alic, something broke in Cam, and he became distant and restless. Now Cam is gone as well, and without him, the palace feels like a beautiful tomb where we all play at being alive.

***

Since the stables, Father keeps Xaden with me constantly. I sit in the practice yards with embroidery, but I watch him instead of my stitches. When he drives another guard into the dirt, I hear the man’s breath leave him and Xaden’s own breathing comes hard. Mine stops entirely. The needle slips, and when I taste the blood, I remember that first day when he brought his thumb to his mouth after it bled.

He pins the guard beneath him, thighs clamping the man’s ribs. Sweat drips from Xaden’s dark hair onto the guard’s face. When his opponent bucks beneath him, Xaden drives his forearm against the man’s throat and his muscles cord through the wet fabric clinging to his back. Dirt streaks both their arms and throats, and I hear their breathing turn ragged as they strain for dominance. My embroidery tumbles from my lap.

The guard taps surrender. Xaden rises, and I realize I have never seen anything like him before. So utterly filthy and spent and beautiful. When he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, blood and grime streak across it. He drags that same hand down his throat, following the black lines of his relic, then scans for another opponent. His eyes find mine across the yard. My thumb presses against my mouth from when I tasted my own blood. We stare at each other, both with blood on our hands.

I look away and lean down to retrieve my embroidery. A guard by the weapons rack stares at me while speaking to another man beside him. His eyes move across the gold beaded straps of my dress, follow where they cross my ribs and leave strips of bare skin between the amber patterns, then to my arms where the scar shows white. I pull the silk higher across my chest and take up my needle. The guard gestures toward me as he talks, and his companion laughs. I focus on my stitches, but the thread snarls in my fingers, and when I lift my head in irritation, the training sounds have stopped.

Xaden stands near the armory with both guards, speaking to them. The one who was staring at me elbows his companion and gestures with his free hand, still smiling. He seems to think Xaden will find whatever he said amusing. Xaden steps closer. The guard’s smile widens, and he raises his hand higher as if to clap Xaden on the shoulder. Xaden seizes his wrist and drives his forearm into the man’s chest, slamming him against the armory wall.

I surge to my feet and stride toward them. The other guard staggers backward and raises both hands. Xaden leans into the man pinned against the wall and hisses close to his face. I cannot hear the words, but the guard’s face drains of color. He jerks his head back and forth. Xaden bears down harder, and the man’s feet barely touch the ground.

“Xaden, stop.” I close the distance and grab his arm. “Guards cannot strike each other. It’s against the code.” The pinned man darts his gaze from me to Xaden and back again. Xaden does not move. “Let him go.”

Xaden cuts his eyes to me, then drives the guard harder against the armory wall before letting him fall. The man drops to his feet, and Xaden immediately seizes his collar. “Next time you’ll lose both your tongue and your eyes.” Shadows writhe around his feet, then retreat toward him.

The man stumbles backward when Xaden releases him. “Training’s done for the day.” His hand settles on my back, guiding me away from the armory. As we walk, he moves behind me, positioning himself between me and the guards who remain by the weapons rack.

I look back at him as we pass under an oak tree. Shade darkens the blood at the corner of his mouth, and when sunlight finds us again, dirt streaks his throat and sweat slicks his skin. I think I taste salt. “What was that about?”

He looks down at me without breaking stride. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

I nod as if I believe him. He expects me to accept his dismissal, and I do, because this has become our dance.

His tongue catches the blood at the corner of his mouth. He tastes tea the same way. Weeks ago he started taking the tea and leaving me the coffee, though ladies should prefer tea and he likes coffee.

I lift my gaze to his eyes, the same eyes that now see Grace and Maeve as more than obstacles. Time has taught him to nod when servants pass, to remember their names, to ask about their families.

A tree eclipses the sunlight overhead, and when we emerge again, he sweeps damp hair from his brow. Light catches the scar there, and I see it with new understanding. Yesterday he told me he earned it saving his best friend Garrick during Threshing. The first time he offered something of himself.

“Keep looking at me like that and people will talk.”

“I’m staring because you’re covered in dirt.” I look forward again.

“That’s what happens when you spar in dirt, Princess.”

We reach the main palace, and Xaden moves beside me, matching my pace instead of staying behind.

“You could join me for tea tomorrow,” I say as we walk. “The ladies repeat the same conversations every week about their embroidery and their gardens, but at least you wouldn’t have to stand outside the tea room staring at corridor walls.”

He cracks his neck. “Sgaeyl’s restless.”

“What does that have to do with tea?” I ask, frowning.

“She has a mate,” he says. “She’s been away from him too long. She needs to return to Basgiath.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “What happens when they’re away?”

“The separation damages them when it goes on too long. A bond between mates runs deeper than anything humans understand. It’s primal, necessary.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. “Your father’s already approved my absence.”

“How long will you be gone?” I ask.

“A week.” He stops when I do. “Nearly a day there, few days at Basgiath, then a day back.”

“Who will guard me while you’re gone?”

“Ser Donovan will take the lead, with Ser Egil and Ser Kamden rotating through shifts. I’ve already spoken to them about the rotations.” He shifts his weight. “Captain Harding approved the arrangements this morning.”

“You’ve arranged everything,” I say, nodding with each word he speaks. “Without asking what I wanted.”

“What was there to ask? Your safety isn’t negotiable.”

“It’s not about negotiating my safety,” I say. “It’s about you deciding my life and telling other people about it before you tell me.”

I am the girl who survived the fire that killed my mother, who faced assassins and lived, who walked among black dragons and was chosen by three hatchlings. And yet my father chooses my tutors, chooses my schedule, chooses my silks, and now Xaden chooses my guards. There is no one who believes I can choose anything for myself.

“It’s my job to arrange your protection before I leave.”

I lift my skirts and stride away from him. “Go to Basgiath then!” I call back without turning. “Go all the way to Cygnisen! Though even that distance wouldn’t be enough to undo what you’ve done!”

Shadows swirl in front of me, and suddenly Xaden stands there. I step back in surprise, and his hands catch my arms to steady me.

“You think Basgiath will be far enough?” His grip tightens on my arms. “There’s nowhere I could go that you wouldn’t follow, Princess. Not even the fucking edge of existence would be far enough to escape what you’ve done.”

“What I’ve done?” I pull against his grip. “What? Make your job impossible? I know I’m not the easiest princess to keep alive, but at least I listened to you. At least I tried, Xaden. When you said you didn’t like being ordered around, I stopped doing it. I gave you every choice I could. And you repay me by taking away the only choice you could have given me.”

His fingers fall from my arms, but shadows coil up my spine so I don’t stumble, cool tendrils sliding across the bare skin of my shoulders and raising goosebumps in their wake.

“That’s not—” He stops, his jaw working as he meets my stare head-on. “I’m sorry if you thought I’d leave without ensuring your safety first. And I’m sorry if you expected me to ask your permission about who keeps you alive while I’m gone. I know those men. I know their capabilities. I know what they’re thinking and what their intentions are. You don’t.”

I turn from him and walk deeper into the palace, toward my chambers. “I’m not naive, Xaden.” Dead kings lean forward from their frames, their painted scrutiny heavier than usual. “I know exactly what men think when they look at me. I’ve been reading their intentions since I was old enough to understand what the hungry looks meant.” I quicken my pace down the corridor. “And I’ve been protecting servants from exactly the kind of men you’re talking about since I was fourteen.”

No matter how quickly I stride, shadows surge ahead of me, and Xaden materializes from the darkness, cutting off my path. “You think you know what they’re thinking.” His voice drops. “You see the surface, Princess. The obvious looks, the crude comments. But you don’t know what comes after. What they think when they believe no one’s watching.” His eyes narrow. “I do.”

I step around him. “I’ve seen guards corner kitchen maids in empty corridors. I’ve watched lords follow servants into dark alcoves.” I keep walking. “I see what you see, Xaden. I just don’t stand by and watch it happen.”

Shadows swirl in front of me for the third time, and he blocks my path again. “Exactly my fucking point.” His voice turns flat. “Every time you step between a guard and his victim, you make yourself one. You’ll get yourself killed. Or worse.” His eyes lock on mine. “That won’t happen while I’m gone. The men I chose will keep you safe and won’t let you anywhere near those situations.”

I sidestep him one final time and reach my door. My hand grips the latch. “So you’re going to cage me.” I turn to face him. “Just like everyone else does.” I push the door open and step inside. “Go to Basgiath, Xaden. Enjoy your week of freedom while your men make sure I don’t have any.”

Iron hinges creak as I push the door shut, but his palm slams against the wood, stopping it. The impact travels through flesh and bone to settle at my core. He leans into the doorway, looking down at me through half-lidded eyes.

“I told you never to compare me to another man again.” His breath—warm and touched with mint—stirs my hair. “That includes everyone else.”

“You’re right. You’re not like everyone else.” My eyes lock on his. “You’re worse. They cage me because they think I’m fragile. You’re doing it because you know I’m not.” I worry my lip. “Have a safe trip, Xaden.”

The door shuts between us. He doesn’t stop it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

My forehead presses into cold, rough wood and I track the shadow shifting beneath the gap. He’s still there.

I push away from the entry.

All I wanted was a choice. Any choice. To help people, to walk where I please, to decide who protects me.

I slide my rings off and set them aside.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Chapter Text

I crack my door open. For one breath, I expect to see Xaden leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, shadows gathered at his feet.

Ser Donovan stands there instead. Spine straight, hands clasped behind his back, every inch the model guard. He bows when he sees me.

“Your Highness. I await your pleasure.”

Xaden used to knock once and enter without invitation. But Xaden’s gone, and Donovan waits for permission.

I enter the corridor, and Donovan falls into step beside me, maintaining exactly three feet of distance. Your Highness echoes in my ears. Where Xaden called me Princess with that particular edge of mockery, Donovan offers formal distance. Your Highness creates a gulf that Princess somehow never did.

“Where would you like to go this morning, Your Highness?” Donovan asks as we pass beneath a portrait of my grandfather. His voice carries none of Xaden’s casual assumption that I’ll do whatever I please regardless of his opinion.

My fingers twist the ring at my knuckle while I hunt for words. Xaden commanded through action, not questions. He followed when I moved, anticipated when I paused, positioned himself where I needed him.

Servants hurry past with breakfast trays. Kitchen clatter rises from the lower floors. Thomas usually shuffles through these corridors by now, trap clanking, checking walls for fresh damage. Today brings only silence from his usual route.

“The solar,” I say. “For breakfast.”

“Excellent choice, Your Highness. I’ll escort you there directly.”

The word grates. Xaden accompanied me. Donovan escorts me.

Porcelain sits at precise intervals across the mahogany table. The delicate chain between my wrist and ring finger snags as I drag out my chair and drop into the seat. I shove the sugar bowl three inches left, plant my elbow where it doesn’t belong, and rest my chin in my palm to stare out the window. Donovan claims his post by the door.

A canary perches outside the window. Its beak strikes the glass once, twice. Wings flutter against glass that won’t give.

“Fly away,” I whisper, tapping the glass back. “There’s nothing for you here.”

The bird tilts its head, considers, then launches toward the open garden.

Seraphina pours tea into my cup. “Thank you,” I manage, my breath disturbing the steam that rises. She nods and retreats to offer Donovan coffee from the knights’ tray. He accepts with a grateful murmur and gulps what knights earn while I grip the porcelain handle and taste bitter leaves steeped in protocol.

I attend formal meals. I endure diplomatic lessons. I tolerate court sessions. The second day repeats this pattern. Even Thomas appears only once when he completed three rounds before. By the third day, I’ve had enough.

By mid-afternoon the third day, I’ve had enough.

Ser Egil escorts me today. We pass corridor windows where the canary glides along beside us through the glass, vanishes behind stone, then reappears in the next pane. “Ser Egil.” I turn to face him. “I haven’t touched a bow in weeks. Father’s birthday hunt approaches, and I refuse to embarrass myself. Let us head to the practice yard.”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Your Highness, that wasn’t part of the schedule Ser Donovan provided. Perhaps we should send word first, obtain proper authorization before—”

“Of course.” I examine my fingernails, then stride toward the practice yard. “While you handle that, I’ll be in the yard. Hopefully you won’t have to report I injured myself in your absence.” I don’t wait for his response.

“Your Highness—” His protest dies. He curses under his breath, then quickens his pace. “If you’re determined to do this, at least allow me to check the yard first.”

I stop at the courtyard entrance and wave him ahead. He hurries past, examining corners and testing the weapon racks. Xaden would have planted himself where threats might emerge. Egil checks everything twice. Perhaps that’s why Xaden selected him, a guard who yields when I push. Or perhaps I’m simply making excuses for his choice of my guards without asking me first.

“Clear, Your Highness.” Egil takes position by the entrance. I select a bow, test the string, and nock an arrow. My first shot flies wide, striking dirt. I glance back where Xaden would have stood, but find nothing. The second arrow veers left into the wooden frame. I curse under my breath, feel wind brush my face, and breathe deep. This time I lean into the breeze. And—

Dead center.

I nock another arrow and search the yard for moving targets. A guard crosses the far end, the same one who made Grace uncomfortable yesterday with his stares. I draw, track his movement, and aim at an imaginary point ahead of his path.

A yellow blur darts across my peripheral vision. I turn and catch the canary’s wings as it disappears over the wall. My open eye follows its path, and I lower my bow. Blue stretches endless and barren. No dragons scythe the clouds, no wings disturb the sun. The decision forms.

I turn and draw in one motion, firing the arrow where the guard walks. The arrow whirls past his shoulder, missing his ear by a breath before striking the wooden fence beyond. He freezes, face pale, then bolts for the guard quarters. I set down my bow and turn to Egil. “I’m done. Take me to my chambers.”

Egil follows me through the corridors. At my chamber door, he bows. “Inform Ser Kamden that I’m not feeling well and will be sleeping early tonight. I’m not to be disturbed.”

“Of course, Your Highness. I’ll inform him when we change shifts.”

Grace and Maeve bend over a chess board, Maeve’s black knight positioned to capture Grace’s exposed queen. Grace frowns, then looks up.

“How were your language lessons?”

I cross to my wardrobe and wave Maeve closer. “I need you to fetch a horse,” I whisper. “Bring it to the passage entrance.”

Grace’s eyes widen. “Ayla, you can’t leave alone—”

“Please lower your voice.” I kick off my cream slippers and pull on riding boots, lacing them tight. Ivory silk spills over worn leather, a pearl snagging on the boot eyelet and skittering across stone. I catch my reflection and turn from the mirror. I’ll ride until nightfall, then return before dawn.

“I’m losing my mind with the same routine every day.” Grace and Maeve exchange worried glances.

“I’ll be there,” Maeve says.

“Be careful.”

Grace catches Maeve’s arm before she reaches the door.

“Be careful with this.”

Maeve nods and slips out. The door clicks shut. Grace turns to me, her blue eyes as wild as storm-torn seas.

“Ayla, if something happens to you—”

“Nothing will happen.”

“But what if something does?”

“Then you know nothing about this. Leave right after I’m gone and tell the guard I’m terribly sick. Say it might be catching.”

“And when they ask me tomorrow where you are?” Grace asks. “When your father demands answers?”

A strand of blonde hair falls across Grace’s face. I cup her cheek and brush it back. “You know I’d never let anything happen to you. Or Maeve.”

Grace falls silent. I cross to the filigree partition and twist my signet ring into the hidden groove. The wall swings inward. “I’ll be back before dawn.”

Dust clogs my throat as I push through the passage. Each step brings the walls closer and closer, pressing in until I crouch, then crawl on hands and knees. Pearls snag on rough stone, breaking free and scattering into debris. I emerge and inhale until I cough up the last of the dust. Maeve waits with my black Friesian.

“Hey, Malek.” The horse lips at my palm as I stroke his neck, feeling power beneath warm hide.

“I still think it’s morbid you named your horse after the God of Death.” Maeve checks the saddle straps, then grins. “And I love it.”

I gather my silk skirts and swing onto Malek’s back, the ivory fabric bunching awkwardly around my thighs. “I know you do.” I wheel him down the shaded path. “Be careful heading back. I’ll be back before dawn.”

Malek gallops beneath me, as eager to escape as I am. I give him his head and leave Maeve behind. My bare thighs chafe against the saddle as we move through the trees, but when I lean into the ride, hair streaming behind me, I belong here. Malek and I clear fallen logs and stone walls with shared trust, riding hard through the evening until stars fleck the darkening sky.

Chapter Text

The sun sets behind the peaks when I reach the mountains. My thighs are red and raw where the saddle chafed them bloody. I slide from Malek’s back, legs shaking, and tie his reins to an oak down the slope. Dragon heat could kill him.

I start the steep climb on trembling legs. Each step drags silk against raw skin and I hiss through gritted teeth.

Heat pours from the rocks ahead. I brace for the warmth to sear my exposed skin and worsen my galled thighs. Dragon heat soothes my wounds instead, and the sting fades.

My muscles scream, but I push higher, ignoring their protest. When I crest the ridge, I draw scalding air through my nose and exhale smoke from my lips.

My pulse hammers with something I haven’t felt in days. Then my pulse hammers for an entirely different reason. Three Golden Feathertails tumble across obsidian rock. They rival Malek’s size, one even larger. A month ago, these dragons climbed my arms and shoulders. Now they’d crush me.

The largest stops mid-tumble, nostrils flaring. Its siblings mirror the stance. All three sniff the air, feathertails swishing as they chirp, then fall silent.

Two bolt toward me. The largest strides behind, scales rippling. They circle me, talons scraping stone as one drops beside my feet and the other nudges my shoulder. The wary one paces relentlessly, its feathertail sweeping my legs with each pass.

“Wow, you guys have gotten big.”

All three heads swivel toward each other, chirping again. Their golden eyes dart between me and each other.

The wary one stops pacing and nudges my side, searching for meat. I run my hand between its eyes and down its snout. “Sorry, I was in a hurry. Didn’t plan this out.” My voice catches. “I just had to get away.”

They exchange glances, chirping among themselves.

The cave stirs.

Black scales slide from shadow. So black I lose where she ends and darkness begins. Only crimson eyes burn through the night.

Their mother rises to rival the mountain itself, neck stretching toward stars dwarfed by those eyes, and when she breathes, heat rolls over me in waves that should scorch but somehow feels like coming home.

I step closer, close enough to feel the heat pouring from her massive form. “Thank you.” My voice sounds lost against her presence, but I need to say this. “For accepting me even after your fire should have killed me.”

The memory flashes brief and strange. Flames that engulfed me but left no burns.

Her great head lowers toward me, knowing eyes holding something I can’t name.

“For trusting me with them.” I look at the three Feathertails, who watch this exchange with tilted heads. “For letting me stay here, just for tonight, before I have to go back.”

The mother dragon huffs, a sound like distant thunder. Her chest swells, scales rippling as she puffs herself larger. As if to say she’d make the same choice again. As if my presence here honors her rather than burdens her.

One of the young ones chirps. The wary one drops beside my leg.

Obsidian scales rain over me as the mother settles, the ground trembling under her weight. Her neck curves in a long, graceful arc, and when her massive head comes to rest against rock, my breathing slows to match hers. This is how it felt when Xaden was near.

I collapse onto stone that scorches my silk but soothes my skin. The three Feathertails press around me, golden scales forming barriers on every side. Sweat transforms my dress into a second skin that won’t let go.

Each breath drowns my lungs in sulfur and smoke. She inhales, exhales, and the mountain trembles beneath me. Inhales. Exhales, rock shudders. Inhales, exhales and I drift.

Exhaustion I’ve fought all evening wins. In the cradle of dragons, I surrender to sleep.

Peace. This is what peace feels like.

Dragons breathe slow and steady around me, lulling me back toward sleep. I let myself sink deeper into warmth and safety.

Light burns through my eyelids.

Light.

Light?

No. Oh, no—

My eyes snap open. Apricot sun, apricot sky. I’ve been gone all night.

I have to go back.

Tails everywhere. I step over one. Another shifts under my foot.

The wary one lifts its head, watching me pick my way through them. It blinks once.

“I have to go.”

The others stir awake at my words and blink too. The smallest one rises, blocking my path down the slope.

I duck under its neck and run.

They follow. Of course they follow. Rocks slide under my boots as I scramble down.

“No, you can’t come!” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll be back!”

If father doesn’t chain me to my chambers.

Their voices rise in response, calling after me.

Every note tugs me backward.

I reach Malek and grab his reins. Shadow falls across us both.

The mother dragon leans forward from the ridge, watching me flee from the only place I’ve ever belonged.

I falter.

In her eyes I see myself reflected small and torn, caught between two worlds.

Then she pulls back into darkness, and I’m alone with three young dragons and a horse that needs to carry me back to my cage.

I haul myself onto Malek’s back. Pain shoots through my raw thighs.

“Go.”

He bolts down the slope. Every stride sends fire through my legs where yesterday’s ride left me bloody. I bite my tongue.

The sun climbs. Higher. Higher.

Grace will be wringing her hands by now, staring at the empty passage entrance. Maeve’s face will go white when she arrives to help me dress and finds only Grace wearing a path in my Deverelli carpet. I promised them I’d be back before dawn. I promised.

Rocks blur past. Trees. The world tilts as Malek takes the steep descent too fast.

How long? An hour since dawn? Two?

Blood soaks into my dress. Every bounce drives the wet silk deeper. Threads work into raw skin and the fabric grows heavier with each stride.

I lean forward. “Faster.”

The castle walls rise ahead, still distant but real now. Malek’s sides heave beneath me, foam gathering around his mouth. His breathing turns ragged, but his stride never falters.

I run my hand along his neck. “I know. I’m sorry.”

His ears flick back toward my voice, then forward again toward home. Where dragons exist only in nightmares.

I scan for Henrik at the feed bins. Nothing. No one mucking stalls or filling water troughs. No barn cats either.

Zinhal favors me today.

I slide from Malek’s back and my legs give. Pain shoots through my thighs as I grip his flank. His skin burns feverish under my palm. What have I done to him.

“Easy. I’ll get you oats and water.” I lead him toward his stall.

Malek snorts, ears pricked toward the castle. He sidesteps, nostrils flaring, pulling against the reins.

I reach for the stall latch.

Footsteps.

A man emerges from shadow between the grain barrels, kitchen browns draped across his frame. I think I know that face, though he always turns away when I pass through the great hall. A serving man, maybe. The sort who ducks his head and clutches his ladle.

Now his spine straightens, and his hands hang loose and ready.

“Your Highness.” His gaze follows me step by step as I lead Malek toward the stall, tracks the sway of torn silk, the tremor in my grip on leather reins.

My hands shake harder.

I fumble with the latch and shove Malek into his stall. The door slams shut, metal against wood. Malek snorts behind the slats.

The man doesn’t flinch. A smile curves his mouth, head tilting slightly.

“Torn silk suits you, Princess. Though I wonder what tore it.” Malek stamps once, then again. “Strange to ride alone before dawn. Without your shadow.”

The stamping turns frantic. Then stops entirely.

I turn, expecting to find Malek collapsed from exhaustion. He stands motionless, ears pinned forward, staring at the man in brown.

“You forget yourself.” The words emerge thinner than I intend. “Mind your manners.”

“Manners are for those who plan to serve tomorrow.” His smile widens. “After today, I’ll have no need for either.”

My skin crawls with an itch I cannot scratch. This feels familiar. Familiar and wrong as the night Alastair’s blood drenched the floor instead of mine.

The world narrows to the wet pull of his lips against gums.

Remember who you are, Ayla.

I scan the stable walls. Pitchforks lean against wooden beams. A shovel rests beside grain sacks. Too far. All of it too far.

And through the doorway, thick black smoke billows past the castle walls.

“Fire!”

“Of course there’s a fire.”

His smile vanishes.

“We needed the guards elsewhere.”

I sprint toward the farthest entrance, silk tearing against raw thighs, daylight growing larger with each desperate step.

Footsteps pound behind me. Closer. Closer.

I snatch a pitchfork from the wall and whirl around.

He’s too close. The tines pierce his shoulder.

I look down. Steel drives into my abdomen.

Everything tilts.

Blood sputters from my mouth onto his cheek. His eyes burn the same red.

Chapter Text

Steel burns.

Dragon fire never felt like this.

Strange what fills my head now.

Is this what Alastair felt when the blade drove through his ribs? Did his mind drift somewhere else while steel taught him to burn? Blood fills my mouth, and I spit it in the man’s face.

He jerks his head back, blood smeared across his crooked nose and lips, and smiles wider.

The blade tears free from my flesh as I stumble backward. My hands press against the wound. Blood runs hot and sticky between my fingers.

I take a step.

Another.

Run, Ayla. Keep going. One foot in front of the other.

My vision narrows. The doorway wavers ahead.

Three more steps.

Four.

My legs shake but hold. The doorway grows larger. Almost there. I might actually—

Pain tears through my back.

I fall forward, knees striking packed earth. Heat floods between my shoulder blades.

The world tilts, turns gray at the edges.

I lift my head.

Xaden charges toward me.

Steel flashes in his hand. Not his swords. Something smaller.

My eyes won’t focus.

Maybe I’m seeing things.

Maybe I’m dying and my mind conjures what I need most.

I’ll see you soon, Alastair.

My cheek hits dirt.

Then—

Nothing.

Chapter Text

Weight. Crushing my—

Stop.

Please.

Wet everywhere.

Why wet?

“—blood—”

That voice.

Xaden.

Hands.

Hurts.

Moving but not moving.

Mint.

Cold. So cold.

“—losing her—”

Gone.

***

My eyes snap open. Familiar molding, familiar tapestries.

My chamber.

This can’t be death.

Death meant Alastair. His crooked smile, his gentle hands helping me down from my horse one last time.

Instead, Xaden prowls beside my bed.

When did that change?

His eyes meet mine. I look down. Stubble shadows his jaw, longer than I’ve ever seen it.

Am I dead? Is this what comes after?

Fire lances through my abdomen as I breathe. Bandages pull tight across my wounds. My stomach gnaws at itself while my throat burns for water.

Dead people don’t burn like this.

Do they?

“She’s awake!” He calls toward the corridor. “Ayla’s awake!”

Distant footsteps rush beyond my door.

Ayla. He said my name—he’s never called me that before, never without my title between us.

I must be dead.

He moves closer. I study him without his usual mask, without a sardonic twist to his mouth, without the careful wall between us. His shadows don’t coil at his shoulders like they do when he’s on guard. He looks at me like I’m just Ayla, not the princess whose crown cost him everything.

“You look like an angel.”

His eyes widen. One hand reaches toward my cheek, then shifts to brush a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear.

“An angel.” His mouth curves. “Princess, if I’m an angel, then death has a twisted sense of humor.”

I press my palms against the mattress and push myself up. My stomach muscles clench and the wound threatens to tear. Pain whites out my vision. I fall back against the pillows.

“Easy.” His hands hover over me. “Don’t—”

“How long?” My voice cracks. “How long have I—”

“Four days, but—”

The door crashes open. Father pushes through servants bearing platters and pitchers, the healer trailing behind. Voices flood the room, footsteps, crystal clinking.

Water sloshes near my head. I try to swallow, but my throat burns dry.

Father sinks into the chair beside my bed. Deep lines bracket his mouth that weren’t there before.

“Four days.” His voice cracks. “Four days of wondering if I’d lost you.”

I’ve only seen Father like this three times.

When Alic died. When Cam disappeared.

And now.

His hands shake as he adjusts my pillows.

A servant presses water to my lips. I grip the glass and drain half the cup.

“Slowly,” the healer murmurs.

Father watches every swallow.

I wipe water from my chin.

Xaden stands rigid by the window.

“You weren’t supposed to be back until today.”

“Sgaeyl finished earlier than expected.”

Father barely reacts, still watching my face. No strike, no blame for Xaden.

I drain the rest in three gulps. My stomach clenches around the water. A servant holds out bread and I break off a piece, conscious of how they all lean forward slightly as I lift it to my mouth.

The bread sticks in my throat.

I force it down.

“Alastair died at the banquet.” I reach for more water and catch Xaden turning fully toward the window. “In front of everyone.”

Father nods slowly.

“This one waited until I was alone.” I take another careful sip. “Like they learned.”

“Two isolated incidents,” Father says. “Security gaps we’ve since addressed.”

“By the same people?”

“Servants wanting gold. Maybe Poromish agents looking to destabilize the crown. We’re conducting a thorough investigation.”

Xaden snorts.

Father’s gaze cuts to him. “You may have saved my daughter’s life, Riorson, but don’t forget yourself.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Your Majesty.”

I frown. “If Poromiel wanted to hurt you, they’d target you. Or Halden, since he’s heir.”

“Halden is away on royal duties. Perhaps you were simply the available target.”

“The available target.” I repeat his words. “Both times.”

Father’s fingers drum against his knee. “What are you suggesting?”

“I don’t know.” I break off another piece of bread. “Just seems like a lot of coincidences.”

Xaden shifts by the window. Father’s drumming quickens.

“Sometimes coincidences happen,” Father says.

But he doesn’t meet my eyes.

I look at Xaden by the window.

“You laughed when Father mentioned investigating.”

“Two attempts on her life. Your investigation is shit.”

Father’s face hardens. “You forget yourself.”

“I can’t protect her when your people miss every threat.” Xaden turns to Father. “Or maybe they’re looking for the wrong enemy entirely.”

“We’re doing everything possible.”

“She nearly died because your people failed. Twice. And whoever did this knew exactly when I wouldn’t be here to stop it.” Xaden sounds utterly bored. “Your people are incompetent.”

Father stands. The room goes quiet. Knights step closer, hands moving toward sword hilts.

“Get out,” Father orders.

“No,” I murmur.

Both men turn toward me, but I keep my eyes on Xaden.

Xaden’s dark eyes hold mine.

My throat burns, but not from thirst. Keep him here, in this room, where I can see the shadows coiling at his shoulders and know someone stands between me and whatever hunts in the dark.

“He stays,” I command.

Father opens his mouth, words forming. “Ayla, you will not—”

The door swings open.

Maeve steps through.

My Maeve, but not.

Bandages circle her right eye and throat. Bruises mottle her cheek in purple and yellow. Her left arm cradles against broken ribs as she limps into the room.

The water cup tumbles from my hand, crystal shattering against stone.

“My lady.” Her voice grates raw through damaged vocal cords. “I came as soon as they told me you were awake.”

My chest collapses. I push against the mattress but my arms buckle, wounds tearing as I strain toward her.

The healer’s hands clamp down on my shoulders, forcing me back against the pillows. “Your Highness, you’ll reopen the wound.”

“Maeve. What did they do to you?”

My fierce Maeve, who never backs down from anyone, stands broken in the doorway.

Maeve touches the bandages at her throat. “Nothing that won’t heal, Your Highness.” A glance toward Xaden. “We were… Grace and I, we were with you when…” She stops, swallows carefully. “When he broke in. The man. We fought while you… you got away through the corridor. You hit your head. You must not remember.”

I want to vomit.

I did this. I destroyed her by sneaking out like a selfish child. She protected me her entire life and I repaid her by getting her throat torn open.

My skin crawls. The lies I told, the rules I broke, the choices I made thinking only of myself while she waited in my room for some monster to find her instead.

I am disgusting.

Wait—

She said Grace and I.

I look around the room. Father, servants, the healer, Xaden.

Knights at the door.

No Grace.

“Maeve. Where’s Grace?”

Maeve shifts her weight, winces. “Your Highness, I…” She stops.

“Is she with the healers? Is she hurt worse than you?” My voice climbs. “Maeve, where is Grace?”

Maeve’s face crumples.

“Where is she?”

Silence.

For the second time since I woke, Father stares at his hands instead of me.

Xaden holds my gaze as he steps closer.

Maeve draws a ragged breath.

“Maeve?”

She closes her good eye. When she opens it, tears track down her bruised cheek.

“Grace is dead, Ayla.”

My stomach lurches. I lean forward and vomit across Father’s boots, bile and chunks of bread hitting stone.

No. No. Please, no.

Grace, her cheeks in my palms, brushing her hair behind her ear.

You know I’d never let anything happen to you, I had promised.

I promised.

Bile burns my throat again. My hands shake against the sheets. First Alastair and now Grace.

She trusted me.

You know I’d never let anything happen to you.

I lied. I lied and left and she died waiting for me to come home.

The healer reaches for me but I retch again, my stomach heaving against emptiness.

Grace is dead because I chose myself.

Grace is dead because I wasn’t there.

Grace is dead.

I can’t breathe.

My chest caves under the weight of what I’ve done.

“Grace.” I try to say her name but no air comes. “Grace, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Grace. I promised you. I looked you in the eyes and promised.”

Father puts his hand on my shoulder. “Ayla. We’ll find someone new. A good girl from a noble family. Someone you can train properly.”

I look at him.

He shifts back.

“Train properly?” My voice comes out hollow. “You think Grace was… you think I can just replace her?”

“Well, she was your lady in waiting. We’ll find another—”

“She was my friend!” The words explode from me. “She was my friend and I killed her!”

I double over, dry heaving.

“She trusted me,” I whisper.

“Ayla, you need to calm—”

“CALM?” The scream tears my throat. Then something snaps shut inside me. I straighten and meet Father’s eyes. “Get out of my room.”

A servant shifts by the door.

“Ayla—”

“GET OUT!” The second scream brings tears, snot, everything ugly. “GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!”

Xaden steps forward. “You heard her.”

Father stands there for an endless moment, then turns and walks out. The servants hurry after him. The guards follow. Even the healer backs away.

Maeve stays.

I collapse against the pillows, sobbing into my hands.

Something roars through the stones, through my ribs, until my whole body hums with it.

The mother knows Grace is gone.

When it fades, the crushing weight lifts slightly.

My grief has found an echo.

The bed dips as Maeve sits beside me, her arm sliding around my shoulders. I lean into her. She shifts against the pillows and her chin rests on my head.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp. “Maeve, I’m so sorry they hurt you because of me.”

“Grace knew you loved her.”

Grace knew I loved her.

She died anyway.

Something cool circles my ankle.

I press my face into Maeve’s shoulder and cling to the guilt.

Maeve’s fingers comb through my hair.

The shadow stays.

Chapter Text

Xaden arranges seven daggers across my dressing table. Each grip bears different Tyrrish knotwork interwoven with runes I cannot identify. I draw the nearest blade from its sheath.

It weighs heavy in my grip, the surface bearing the finish Father commissions for his guards, and in that steel his eyes stare back. I drop the weapon.

“Take them or don’t,” Xaden says. “Your call. You’re not half as helpless as you think.”

I look at Xaden beside the table, shadows at his shoulders, then at Maeve in the corner chair with her embroidery.

A black patch hides her missing eye, and a raised pale scar stretches from her left ear to her right collarbone.

She bends over needlework Grace once handled with ease, her stitches smoother than those first weeks after the funeral, though her voice remains coarse.

I trace that pale scar across Maeve’s throat. Everything in me rebels against these blades.

Princesses don’t kill, we don’t stain our hands with blood. But I already have, haven’t I? Not with steel, but with choices that felt right, that felt deserved.

The world demands blood payment for goodness. Show mercy, watch the innocent die. Choose the freedom you deserve, count the cost in graves.

My hands never bloodied while others paid the price for my conscience.

The blade calls me back. I lift it without effort.

My own eyes stare back.

Now I see.

Good and evil aren’t enemies. They’re lovers, twisted together so tight that every act of mercy carries murder in its wake.

I could choose differently. Let guilt become the guillotine that severs my will to act. Numb myself until choices feel like mathematics, not slaughter. Stop reaching for anything that matters. Let others dirty their hands while I stay clean and cowardly.

But I won’t sacrifice my humanity for a clear conscience.

Let mercy and murder share my hands. Let kindness and cruelty war in my chest. I choose to remain just not because it’s pure, but because it’s mine.

The world can keep its priests and monsters. I am both, and I choose both.

Xaden shifts closer, pupils dilating as his gaze lifts from the blade to my face, tracks to my lips, then returns to my eyes.

“Now you’re dangerous,” he says.

He reaches for the dagger at the far end of the table, eyes locked on mine, chest pressing into my shoulder.

My eyes drift down to where we touch. When they rise, he’s pulling back with the dagger in hand.

“I’ve always been dangerous,” I say.

The weapon spins once in his fingers before he catches the sheath, using the pommel to lift my chin.

My throat bares to him, and I swallow hard. His eyes follow the movement down my exposed neck.

“I know.” He releases my chin and steps back. “Training begins now.”

I turn back to the mirror, forcing my grip to steady on my blade. In the reflection, Maeve’s needle freezes mid-stitch, mouth fighting a smile.

I know.

My thumb tests the blade’s point. A single drop of blood pearls.

“Where do we begin?”

He steps behind me, dark hair spilling forward as he bends to examine my grip.

“With fixing that shit grip before you cut yourself.” His eyes lock on my thumb pressed against the blade’s spine. “You’re holding it like a fucking dinner knife. This is for killing people, not slicing meat.”

His hand closes over mine, fingers prying my thumb from the steel. “Wrap it around the handle.” He guides my thumb into position. “Proper hold gives you control.”

His voice drops. “There.”

Warm breath stirs the hair at my neck, sending shivers down my spine. “Your fingers wrap around it like you were born for it.”

Without releasing my hold, his other palm wheels me around until I face the chamber. “This close, you shove it upward.” His hand drives my weapon through the strike. “Right through the ribs to the heart.”

The blade should matter. The angle, the force, the exact spot where steel finds flesh. But his thumb shifts against my knuckle, and my thoughts scatter.

His fingers press deeper into my hip, finding the hollow where bone curves, and I forget the lesson entirely. Warmth from his exhale touches my nape, and I hold my breath to catch the next one.

His chest rises behind me, expansion pressing against my back, the rhythm traveling down my spine. The weapon grows heavy in my grip, not from steel but from the weight of wanting to lean back into him, to let his body bracket mine completely. My pulse thuds where his wrist touches mine, racing against his skin.

The grip over my hand tightens, fingers pressing mine harder against the leather hilt. “You’re shaking.” Each syllable presses his lips closer against my ear.

I clamp down on the urge to shudder. “Hard not to when you insist on breathing down my neck.”

“Good thing I’m the only bastard in Navarre who looks this fucking good with a blade, or you’d be dead before you even knew what cut you.” He withdraws, and cold air rushes where his chest had warmed my spine. I lean backward. “Now show me what you learned.”

I raise the blade and drive it upward, pulling with my back muscles the way I’d draw a bowstring. The blade’s weight overwhelms my backward pull, twisting in my strangled grip until the strike dies before it begins.

Xaden’s breath hisses behind me. “What the fuck was that supposed to be? You’re fighting every instinct that might actually keep you alive.” His palm traces my shoulder, then drags inch by inch down my arm, fingertips ghosting over bare skin before capturing my grip.

I glance back over my shoulder, catching the hollow of his throat. “Last time, Princess. Stop trying to shoot people with a dagger.”

I stare ahead, focusing past the trembling blade. My stance wavers, weight pitched too far forward. I step my left foot back to create a proper base, sinking lower into the position, and my ass brushes against his hips. My breath catches. Xaden’s low groan vibrates against my back.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t.” His voice sounds strained. “Just do the fucking strike.” His fingers clench my knuckles, trembling.

I rotate my hips into the strike, grinding against him as his grip crushes my knuckles. He hisses. My pulse hammers against my throat, but the blade cuts upward, straighter than before.

We both breathe in quick, shallow bursts. I glance back. “Was that better?”

Dark eyes pin mine, then drop to my mouth. His knuckles graze up my spine to my braid, fingers twirling the end. My lips part under his gaze.

“Xaden?”

He yanks his arm away from mine and steps back.

“Better.” He crosses his arms. “Do it again. Watch yourself in the mirror this time.” He jerks his chin toward my dressing table.

My face burns. I’d misread everything. I raise the blade again, catching my reflection as I try the strike.

The weapon moves smoother this time. I repeat the motion, and it improves. By the fourth attempt, my stance solidifies.

In the glass, our eyes meet. I tear my gaze back to the weapon and drive it upward.

I repeat the strike five more times. Each movement cuts cleaner than before. When I lower the blade, he moves to my door.

“Time to learn how to throw them.” He leans against the frame. “Close quarters won’t always be an option. Sometimes you need distance to kill.”

“I don’t have a target in here.” I gesture around my chamber.

“You do.” His eyes lock on mine from the doorway. “Me.”

My gaze darts to Maeve in her corner chair. She lifts her eyebrows without looking up from her needlework.

I look back at him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He laughs once. “Right. Like you could hurt me. You’ll be lucky to hit the door behind me.”

My lips press into a thin line. I flip the dagger, pinching the blade between thumb and fingers. I extend my arm toward him, wrist locked straight.

The steel leaves my hand clean, spinning end over end across the room.

Xaden’s hand snaps up, catching the weapon inches from his face. The point would have driven through his left eye.

He stares at the blade, then at me. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

“Archery.” I lower my arm. “I may not know how to stab someone, but I know how to aim.”

He pushes off the door and crosses to me, holding out the handle.

“Point taken.” His eyes hold mine as I take the weapon from him. “We’re done for now.”

I sheath the blade and set it back with the others on my dressing table.

“We begin hand-to-hand combat tonight.”

I look up. “My father will never allow that.”

“That’s why we’re doing it at night,” Xaden says.

“We could still be seen,” I point out. “Guards patrol the corridors. Servants work late.”

He crosses his arms again. “I control shadows.” His mouth curves. “They won’t see us.”

Chapter Text

Riorson.

Ink bleeds where my pen falters. The stain spreads across parchment while Master Devlin recites dead Tyrrish names.

I press my blotter to the ruined paper. As ink seeps through the linen, I find Xaden at the window, watching the courtyard.

Thomas limps past the doorway, rat trap knocking against his thigh.

The violin strings slice my fingers at noon, the fingering wrong, the pressure worse.

Thomas crosses through the music room, nods and exits toward the solar.

I bring my thumb to my lips and taste blood.

Shadows stretch long across my floor. The day is dying. I light candles, return to my dragon breeding text. I read the first paragraph twice. A third time. The words swim like ink in water.

In the corridor, Thomas’s trap springs open. Iron teeth click shut.

“I need to check something.” Xaden pushes from the window.

I nod.

He enters the hallway. “Thomas. That trap. Let me see it.”

Their footsteps retreat down the corridor.

Xaden’s door thuds shut across the hall.

I turn pages, blood staining the corners.

Xaden returns with leather straps.

“What are those?”

“Straps to secure your daggers.” He approaches the dressing table where the seven blades wait.

“Where did you get leather straps?”

His mouth curves. “You don’t question where I got seven Tyrrish daggers, but you draw the line at leather straps?”

“Those were gifts. And you were a Wingleader at Basgiath. Why would I question a Wingleader carrying daggers?”

He tests a blade in the lamplight.

“Thomas handles errands.” He returns the blade and picks up a strap, tests its buckle.

“Since when do you and Thomas discuss errands?”

“Change. Fighting clothes.”

The pages slam together. I move to my wardrobe and pull out a leather bodice and leggings. Not proper training gear. I set them on the chair.

I reach for the buttons of my crystal-beaded gown, undo the first two, then can’t reach the rest.

“I can’t undo the rest.”

Xaden sets down the leather strap. “Where is Maeve?”

“Resting.” I turn my back to him.

He steps behind me and gathers my hair over my shoulder, fingers grazing my nape.

His head tilts. He studies the hollow of my throat before he finds the first button.

The fastenings release beneath his touch, one by one.

The last button releases, and champagne silk falls open. I clutch the bodice to my chest.

“Thank you.”

He does not step away.

His knuckles ghost over the first vertebra at the base of my neck, then the second, then the third. Goosebumps follow each touch.

At the fourth, my breathing fractures.

The fifth pulls an arch from my spine.

At the curve of my lower back, he stops.

“Ayla.”

I won’t turn. Not now. Not trembling like this.

Not while each point his fingers claimed still burns.

Five touches and every part of me feels him everywhere.

“Ayla.” Softer now.

I turn in the space he’s left, a gap so narrow I count his lashes when I tilt my head to meet his eyes.

His chest rises and falls differently. Each exhale warms my lips. My pulse pounds.

His hands rise toward my face, then stop, fingers curling into fists at his sides.

The muscle in his jaw jumps.

His walls rebuild piece by piece. His breathing slows from twenty-two breaths to sixteen. His shoulders square two inches wider. His expression empties into nothing.

Four seconds and he’s gone.

He grabs the leather clothes from the chair, presses them into my arms, then retreats to the window.

“Get dressed.”

The screen divides us. I dress in the garments, but my hands shake too hard to thread the laces. Twice I fail. I press my forehead to stone until my heartbeats slow. The third time works.

The leather fits like second skin.

He turns from the window when I step out and drags his eyes down my body.

“Well?” I say.

“It’ll work.” He takes the leather straps from the dressing table. “Arms up.”

He brings the holster. I mean to watch the buckles, the leather. Instead I breathe him in, and my ribs tighten.

My arms rise. His hands tremble once before steadying.

I look away before I count his lashes again.

He wraps the strap around my waist. His mouth is three inches from mine. I know without looking. I’ve memorized every part of him.

He cinches the strap tight around my waist. I gasp.

My arms drop, and he reaches for the next holster.

Xaden kneels before me.

“What are you—”

“They go around your thigh.” His gaze lifts to mine. His breath stirs my collar.

He bends closer, his hands working the strap high on my leg.

He presses his thumb into my thigh where the strap sits. The pressure rewrites every nerve between my thigh and spine. No one has ever touched me there.

“Move.”

I step forward. My leg trembles. The holster slips. His thumb presses deeper to steady the leather, and I bite my lip.

“Again.”

This time my legs obey. The holster holds.

“Other leg,” he says, taking the second strap.

I know what comes next. My thighs press together. His fingertips brush where my legs meet, and I need his shadows to rewrite me until nothing pristine remains.

“Open your legs.”

“Xaden.” His name breaks on my tongue.

“I need to reach around.” He hides behind professional words, but his hands linger past propriety.

My legs part another inch.

When he secures the second strap, his fingers work three inches higher. We both know this stopped being about weapons when he knelt. We both pretend anyway.

“Stand up.” My voice holds steady. A miracle.

He rises slowly, eyes never leaving mine. Then he turns, creating breathable space.

I twist my hips. The leather holds.

Without warning, he slides the first blade into the holster at my waist. Then another. And another. All seven daggers, until I’m armed like a warrior instead of decorated like a princess.

“Time to see what you’re made of.”

“More than you think.”

“Pretty words. Let’s see if you bleed pretty too.” He pulls me against his chest. “Don’t let go.”

Shadows consume us from the ground up. The world tears apart and reconstructs itself in darkness. When light returns, we’re standing in the training grounds, alone under cold stars.

My knees buckle. His arm lingers at my waist. Two seconds. Three. Then he steps back.

“First lesson: shadow transport fucks with your equilibrium.” He reaches back and pulls a sword free. “Your enemies won’t wait for you to recover.”

The blade swings at my neck.

I drop hard. My tailbone hits dirt and I scramble backward with my heels.

“What the fuck, Xaden?” I clap a soiled hand over my mouth. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Cursing for me already? The princess has a dirty mouth after all.” He stalks forward as I retreat, sword loose in his grip. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Now get up.”

I rise without breaking eye contact and reach back to dust off my ass.

“Your enemies won’t wait for you to look pretty.”

The blade comes at me mid-swipe. I stumble left. My right hand leaves my backside to slap at his sword arm like he’s an overeager suitor at court.

He looks down at his hand, then back at me. “Really?”

“Stop trying to kill me!”

“I told you—if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” He taps his sword against the dagger at my thigh. “I gave these to you for a reason. Use them.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Learn.” His sword point lifts toward my throat again. “Now.”

My fingers close around the dagger’s hilt. The Tyrrish steel catches in its sheath twice before I yank it free.

“Better. Now move your feet before I knock you on your ass again.”

I try to copy a guard’s stance. My feet cross immediately.

He steps behind me. His sword slides under my jaw, cold steel forcing my head back to his shoulder.

“First mistake—your feet.” His boot forces my feet apart. “Second mistake—” His free hand adjusts my hip. “Your stance.” Each correction presses him closer.

“Third mistake?” My voice comes out breathless.

His heartbeat pounds against my spine. “Letting me this close.” His words warm my throat before he steps back. “Now bend your knees before someone guts you.”

My knees bend an inch.

“I said bend, not curtsy.” He kicks the back of my knee and I drop into position. “Lock it in.”

“I can’t—”

“You can. Or you can bleed out on your bedroom floor. Choose.”

“Fuck you, Xaden!”

“Careful. That mouth’s going to get you in trouble.” He tracks the tremble in my legs. “Or out of it, depending.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Watching you finally drop the princess act? Absolutely.” He drags his sword point through dirt. “I’m not letting you die just because you’re too pretty to sweat.”

“I’m not going to die.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He tilts his head. “Keep that energy when someone’s actually trying to kill you.”

“You mean besides you?” My legs tremble harder.

“If I wanted to hurt you, Princess, it wouldn’t be with a sword.”

“Then how—”

He sweeps my ankle. I slam into dirt. The dagger’s gone. His sword point finds my throat before I can breathe.

“Like that.” He withdraws. “Lesson three: talking is dying.” His boot flicks the dagger back to my hand. “Again.”

I grip the dagger and force myself upright. Every muscle trembles.

“I can’t—”

“You said that already.” He raises his sword. “Prove yourself wrong.”

He strikes. My arm shoots up. The collision rattles my bones and throws me back two steps.

“See? You can.”

“Again.” He doesn’t give me time to recover.

He strikes faster each time. I block the first and stumble. The second drives me back. The third drops me to one knee. The fourth puts me in the dirt.

“Get up.”

“I can’t.” This time I mean it.

“Then you’re dead.” He drops to one knee in front of me. “Is that what you want? To die because your legs hurt?”

I spit copper and dirt. Alastair coughed like this at the end. Red foam on his lips. My palm covers the spot on my abdomen where the sword went through. The scar tissue pulls wrong when I breathe. Grace knew how to fix things that pulled wrong, that hurt wrong.

Tears cut through the grime.

“Maybe.”

His knee hits dirt beside me.

“No.” He yanks my wrist. “You don’t give up.”

“Everyone else—”

“Is dead.” He hauls me upright. “You’re not. You won’t be.”

My legs buckle. His arm bands around my ribs.

“I’ve got you.”

The words don’t match the lesson. Stand alone. Fight alone. Die alone.

“Stand.”

“I said I can’t—”

“You will.” His mouth finds my ear. “I won’t let you fall.”

My shaking doubles. He pulls me tighter.

“Breathe.”

I can’t breathe. Air won’t come with all these ghosts in my lungs.

“Ayla. Breathe.”

He uses my name like a command. The tremors quiet, then fade.

“Better?”

I nod into his chest.

“Good. Now we continue.”

But he doesn’t let go.

“Everyone dies, Ayla. That’s the fucked up thing about life. The question is when.” His voice drops. “I’m making sure your when is later.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I gave my word.” He steps back. “And because you’re stronger than you think.”

I consider his words for two seconds. Then I pivot and ram my elbow into his jaw.

His head snaps back. When he straightens, his tongue swipes blood from his lip, but he’s smirking.

“Lesson three,” I say. “Talking is dying.”

I bend to retrieve my dagger.

“But thank you. For what you said.”

“And?”

“And that felt incredible after eating dirt all night.”

“There it is.” He spits blood into the dirt. “The dragon under all that silk and courtesy.”

“What dragon?”

“The one sleeping in your blood.” He rolls his jaw. “You’re a dragon playing at being a princess. For now.”

“And what are you?”

“A dragon rider.” His eyes dare me to look away.

My thighs clench. “That’s not—”

“Stop talking and attack me.”

“With this?” The dagger trembles when I raise it. He watches the shake.

“Unless you’ve learned to breathe fire in the last ten seconds.”

I slash at his ribs. He deflects with his forearm. The impact jars my shoulder. Before I can recover, he’s inside my guard, chest to chest.

“Telegraphed.” His breath disturbs my hair. “Again.”

This time I feint left, strike right. He blocks it by a hair.

“Better.” His throat gleams with sweat. “Faster.”

We trade strikes. His breathing changes. Mine goes ragged. The space between us shrinks with each exchange until we’re fighting so close heat radiates from his skin. My grip loosens on the sweat-slick hilt.

He knocks the blade from my hand.

“Dead.” His chest rises and falls hard. “Pick it up.”

I squat for the blade and my thighs ignite. He puts his boot on the blade.

“Without taking your eyes off me.”

I hold his gaze, fingers searching for metal. His eyes track a bead of sweat rolling down my throat to my chest.

My fingers lock around the hilt. He crouches in front of me and sets his sword across his thighs. His boot grinds the blade deeper. We’re eye to eye, lungs burning.

“Take it from me.”

I grunt, yanking at the trapped blade. While he watches my left hand, my right draws steel from my thigh and slashes at his face.

He jerks back but the blade still catches his cheek.

“Fuck.” Blood drips onto his sword.

His hand shoots to my wrist and twists hard. Bone grinds against bone. I cry out and lose my grip. The dagger falls.

He flings his sword aside and drives forward. My back slams into packed earth. His hand locks around my throat and his weight crushes the air from my lungs.

“That’s what I wanted to see.”

I drive my knee up between his legs. He shifts his hips to block it but the movement loosens his grip. I grab a fistful of dirt and throw it at his face.

“Fuck.” He jerks back, releasing my throat to wipe his eyes.

I roll hard to the right but his hand catches my ankle. He yanks me back through the dirt, flips me onto my stomach, and drives his knee between my shoulder blades.

Dirt coats my tongue. My ribs can’t expand. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. His blood drips hot onto my neck, mixing with sweat.

“Xaden—” The word comes out as a wheeze.

He rises off my back. Before I can move, he flips me over. His thighs pin my hips. One hand locks both my wrists above my head.

Blood from his cheek drips onto my chest.

“Can you move?”

I yank against his hold. Nothing gives. “No.”

“Good.” His free hand presses against my throat. “Because we’re not done.”

“Then finish it.”

He drags his thumb down from my throat, fingers trailing between my breasts. My skin burns in the wake of his touch. His eyes follow the path.

“I should have kept my hands off you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.” He leans down until his mouth hovers above mine. I can taste his blood in the air between us. “I didn’t.”

He shifts his weight, pressing me deeper into the earth.

“I’m your knight.” His hand stops just above my waist. My stomach clenches. “Sworn to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection from you.”

“Yes, you do.” His grip on my wrists tightens until my pulse beats against his palm. “Because right now I want to fuck you in the dirt.”

I whimper.

He groans in response. “Fuck, Ayla. Don’t do that.” His head drops to my shoulder. His breath burns against my neck for three seconds before he pulls back.

“Get up.” He releases me and stands in one motion. “Training’s over.”

I don’t move until his footsteps die. My wrists throb. Dirt clings to my cheek.

No.

Not like this.

My arms shake as I push upright. Two daggers in the dirt. His sword forgotten nearby. I grab the closest blade first, then cross for the other. My legs shake with each step.

“This is bullshit.”

He stops walking but doesn’t turn.

“You don’t get to do that.” I slam the dagger into the sheath at my thigh. “Touch me like that, say those things, then just walk away.”

He turns slowly. Blood has dried on his cheek.

“Whatever that was, it’s done. Over.”

“That’s it?”

“You’re the crown princess of fucking Navarre.” He touches the dried blood on his jaw. “I’m your knight. That’s all we are.”

“You wanted to fuck me in the dirt thirty seconds ago.”

“Wanting something doesn’t mean I’ll take it.” He walks back for his sword and sheaths it. “I’ll want a lot of things I can’t have. Starting with you.”

“So you just—”

“I do my job. Keep you breathing. That’s it.” He meets my eyes. “Whatever you think happened here doesn’t exist outside this moment.”

“Think?” I touch my ear. “You mean what I heard with my own ears?” I gesture to my eyes. “Saw with my own eyes? Felt with—” I stop myself. “Gods, Xaden, you’re so—”

The word dies in my throat.

“Fine.” I turn toward the palace walls. “This never happened. Tomorrow you’re just my knight.”

“I’ve always been just your knight.”

The lie in those words follows me back to my room.

He takes his position outside my door without a word. Knight and princess again.

I fill the marble tub myself. Steam clouds the air as I strip away leather and dirt and blood. His blood cakes under my nails. Mine coats my tongue. The daggers clatter against stone.

The water scalds. I sink into it anyway.

No amount of scrubbing erases his hands counting my vertebrae. The weight of him above me. The words that burned between us.

I submerge, holding myself under until my lungs scream.

I surface gasping. My body still remembers his hands.

Chapter Text

Seven days. The bruises across my ribs fade from purple to yellow.

Fourteen days. Calluses harden where the dagger hilts rest against my palms.

Twenty-one days. I stop counting.

My reflexes sharpen slowly. When a lesser lord reaches for my hand at dinner, my fingers twitch toward a blade that isn’t there. I catch myself and curtsy instead.

Xaden’s eyes track the movement. His mouth tightens at the corner.

He brings coffee every morning. Sets it on my desk while Master Devlin lectures about trade routes. The servants still prepare tea. I leave it untouched.

We train after midnight. No words about want. No hands that linger. Just steel against steel until my arms shake and his jaw clenches tight.

Tonight, another lesson. Another night we don’t mention what happened in the dirt.

Tomorrow will be the same.

My blade catches his and holds for three seconds before he disarms me. I’m improving.

The November air bites through my sweat-soaked nightgown. I crouch for my dagger. My thighs burn, but it’s bearable now. Weeks ago they betrayed me completely.

“Your footwork’s still shit.” Xaden sheathes his sword. “But at least you won’t die immediately anymore.”

“Such high praise.”

“You want praise?” He closes the distance between us. White fog forms between our mouths and mingles in the cold. “Fine. That last parry would’ve saved your life against anyone who isn’t me.”

“And against you?”

“Against me, you’re still dead.” His gaze travels down where my nightgown clings. “Just not as quickly.”

He pulls off his jacket and throws it at my face. “It’s fucking ridiculous that you insist on training in that.”

I catch it one-handed. “I’m a princess. If someone attacks me, I won’t be wearing leathers.”

“So you’ve mentioned. Repeatedly.”

“Does the nightgown distract you, Xaden?”

“Your existence distracts me, Princess. The nightgown just makes it worse.”

I learned not to trust his words that night in the dirt. He can say I distract him. He can look at me like I’m something he wants to devour. But when the sun rises, he’ll rebuild those walls and pretend these confessions never left his mouth.

His jacket hangs heavy on my shoulders. I follow him toward the palace. The space between us widens with every step.

My muscles still ache from training six hours ago when Maeve starts on my hair. She doesn’t mention the dirt under my fingernails or the bruise darkening my collarbone.

The coffee Xaden brought has gone cold. I drink it anyway. He watches the courtyard from my window while Maeve pins curls into submission.

Three knocks crack against my door.

“Enter,” I call.

A page enters and bows low. “Your Highness, the King requests your presence at the council meeting.”

I keep my face neutral. “When?”

“In thirty minutes, Your Highness. The small chamber.”

“Tell my father I’ll attend.”

The page bows again and retreats. The door clicks shut.

“I’ve never been invited to council.” I meet Xaden’s eyes in the mirror.

His hand moves to his sword hilt. “Why now?”

“No idea.” I set down my cup. “But something’s shifted.”

Maeve twists the last curl into place. “Done. Now the gown.”

The slate-blue tulle surprises me with its weight. Maeve holds it while I step into the skirt. The bodice cinches tight around my ribs and hides bruises beneath crystal-beaded shoulders. Cape sleeves cascade to the floor and cover my arms completely.

Xaden stays at the window, but I catch him watching in the glass reflection.

“How do I look?” I ask.

He turns. His eyes track from the sweetheart neckline to where the train pools across my floor.

“Like a princess.”

“I am a princess.”

“Today you look like one.”

Wood bites into my palm as we descend.

The palace sheds its beauty as we descend. Bare wood replaces gilded frames. Exposed stone replaces silk wallpaper. By the time we reach the administrative level, nothing decorative remains.

My train drags heavier with each step. The fabric catches on every imperfection.

“Almost there,” Xaden says.

I know where the fucking council chamber is. But I need my voice for what’s coming.

The carved oak door stands at the corridor’s end. Voices bleed through.

“—eastern taxation—”

“—quarterly transfers—”

They started without me.

I grip the handle but don’t turn it.

“They’re discussing money,” Xaden says.

“They’re always discussing money.” I straighten my shoulders. “That’s what councils do.”

“Then why did they summon you?”

I don’t know. That’s the problem.

I push through the door.

Pipe smoke burns my throat. Wine fumes mix with cigar ash and the sweet rot of men who feast while others starve. Father presides at the mahogany table’s head. General Melgren hulks at his right. The other advisors cluster around power like crows at a carcass, each pecking closer, desperate for whatever scrap might fall.

Father’s trusted advisor disgusts me most. Gold rings strangle his fingers until flesh bulges purple between the bands. He clutches his wine goblet and red drops spot the eastern trade routes mapped beneath his elbow.

Another advisor taps ash directly onto Navarre’s western border.

“Ayla.” Father stays seated while every other man rises. “Sit. Listen. Learn.”

I take the only empty chair. Twenty feet from Father. Exactly where he wants me.

The advisors drop back into their seats.

Xaden positions himself at my right shoulder.

“Riorson.” Father’s mouth curves. “Provincial tax discussions must bore you terribly. No duchies to manage anymore.”

The advisors chuckle into their wine.

Xaden says nothing. His hand rests on his sword hilt.

Father returns to his maps. “Now, about the eastern quarterly transfers…”

The advisors debate routes and percentages while smoke curls toward the ceiling and wine disappears into eager mouths. I watch the red droplets spread across the eastern territories on the map.

“—palace fire cost us three years of surplus—”

“—eastern borders report daily raids now—”

Melgren leans forward. “My riders report increased attacks along the eastern trade routes. We’ll need additional squadrons for the November transfer.”

“Forgive the interruption.” I keep my voice level. “But what exactly is the point of my presence here?”

Father’s advisors glance between themselves.

Father sets down his wine. “You’re old enough now to understand these matters. When you marry a duke, you’ll sit on his provincial council. When he travels to court or rides to war, you’ll govern in his stead. You need to understand what you’re managing.”

My stomach clenches.

“Additionally,” Father says, “when Halden takes the crown, your marriage will strengthen his claim. The duke you wed will bring armies, wealth, allegiance. You need to understand what you’re signing your name to.”

“My body, you mean.”

Xaden grips his sword hilt until his knuckles whiten.

“Your duty,” Father corrects. “To crown and kingdom.”

The advisors murmur agreement into their wine.

I twist my mother’s crystal ring beneath the table until it cuts into my finger.

Their voices blend into meaningless noise. I count eight wine stains on the table. One looks like Tyrrendor.

“—through the northern pass would avoid—”

“—but the southern route saves three days—”

My eyes follow a crack in the ceiling. It branches like lightning above Melgren’s head.

“—quarterly gold transfers require—”

“Ayla.”

The crack reaches the window. Sunlight streams through smoke.

“Ayla.” Father’s voice hardens. “Are you listening?”

I blink and meet his gaze. “No. Men started talking, so I stopped listening.”

The advisors freeze mid-drink.

Father’s jaw tightens. “This concerns your future.”

“My future husband’s money, you mean.”

Melgren straightens and pulls at his uniform. Father’s trusted advisor dabs sweat from his forehead with silk.

“Don’t be childish,” Father says.

“Childish? I’m old enough to be sold to the highest bidder, apparently.”

“You’re spoiled. You understand nothing of what it takes to run a kingdom.”

“I understand more than you think. I know you send half the grain we promise the border towns. I know the eastern garrisons threaten desertion every month until you send just enough gold to keep them loyal but not enough to make them comfortable.”

The advisors exchange glances.

“Where did you—”

Shit. The kitchen maids who mentioned their starving cousins. The stable boys who whispered about their fathers dying at undermanned garrisons. When I’d searched the archives last winter, the private ledgers confirmed every desperate word. All of it recorded in Father’s own hand. If Father traces this back to them, they’ll disappear like Thomas’s predecessor.

“People talk.” I shrug. “I listen. Unlike the men in this room.”

Father’s trusted advisor laughs. “Listen to her. As if a princess understands governance.”

“I understand you drink wine worth a family’s yearly grain.” I gesture to the bottles on the table. “Your rings could feed the eastern provinces for a month.”

“Careful, girl,” Melgren warns.

“Careful?” I stand. The chair screeches across stone. “You sit here gorging on five courses while garrison soldiers eat molded bread. You plan wars from silk cushions and send boys to die in battles you’d never fight. I’ve seen eunuchs with bigger balls than any of you.”

Wine sprays from the skinny advisor’s lips.

Father rises from his seat. Everyone scrambles to stand.

He crosses the room in four strides. Xaden shifts forward but Father’s hand cracks across my face before either of us can react. My head snaps sideways. Copper floods my mouth.

Shadows explode from the corners and lash toward Father’s throat. Xaden’s jaw clenches as he forces them back, wrestling them into submission beneath the table.

“You’ve lived in the same luxury you condemn.” Father’s breath warms my stinging cheek. “Fed, clothed, educated, protected. You speak of their struggles as if you’ve ever known hunger.”

I raise my hand to stop Xaden from moving closer.

Nineteen years and Father never struck me. Until today. Until I named their cowardice aloud. The sting travels from my cheek to my closing throat while tears build and burn behind my eyes.

I can’t look at Xaden. If I meet his eyes, if I see anything resembling pity there, the tears will come. And I refuse to cry in this room full of cowards.

The dragon sleeping in your blood. He was right. Time to wake her up.

“The difference,” I spit blood onto the floor, “is that I know it’s wrong. True privilege is only speaking when something affects you. I’ll keep speaking for those who can’t enter this room.”

Father grabs my chin and forces my face up. “You think yourself noble?”

“I think myself aware.” Blood drips from my lip. “Which is more than any of you can claim.”

Father shoves my chin away. “Get out.”

“Father—”

“This will be your first and only council meeting. You’ve proven you’re not ready for governance.”

I drag my sleeve across my mouth, staining the silk with blood. “You mean I’ve proven I’m not compliant.”

“Riorson.” Father doesn’t look at him. “Remove her.”

Xaden grips my elbow.

“You’re not dismissing me because I’m ignorant.” I turn for the door. “You’re dismissing me because you’re afraid I’ll learn too much.”

“Riorson.” Father ignores me. “You may have saved my daughter once, but if your shadows move against me again, I’ll execute you for treason.”

Xaden’s fingers dig into my arm. “Understood, Your Majesty.”

The door slams behind us.

We walk ten steps in silence before the tears spill over. I keep walking. They keep falling.

“Stop,” Xaden says.

“No.”

“Ayla.”

“If I stop, I’ll fall apart.” My voice cracks on the last word.

He grabs my wrist and pulls me into an alcove. I press my back against the wall and turn my face away.

“Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

“You faced down eight advisors and called them eunuchs. You can look at me.”

Cool darkness brushes my burning cheek. His shadows ghost across the swelling, leaching heat from my father’s handprint. They trace my jaw, slide down my throat, thread through my hair at the nape of my neck.

“Am I spoiled?”

“Privileged? Yes.” The shadows press deeper against my skin. “So was I. Duke’s son, remember? But spoiled?” He pauses. “You took a switch for a servant on my second fucking day here. Spoiled people don’t bleed for their staff.”

The words hit harder than Father’s hand. Xaden sees me. Not the princess, not the bloodline, but the choices I make when no one’s watching.

“Until you weren’t privileged anymore. Because of my father.”

The shadows still against my throat.

He was sixteen when my father executed his. Old enough to understand exactly what was being taken. Old enough to remember every detail of the life he lost. And here he stands, protecting the daughter of the man who destroyed him.

“Marie’s daughter had fever last month. You stole medicine. You know which stable boys send wages home to the borderlands.” His voice drops. “That’s not spoiled. That’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“You give a shit. In this palace, that’s revolutionary.”

I finally lift my eyes to his.

His hand rises toward my face. I flinch hard, shoulder hitting stone.

He pulls back at once.

“No.” I catch his wrist. “It’s fine.”

His fingers find my chin with impossible care, tilting my face toward the window’s light.

His thumb ghosts near a cut I didn’t know existed. “His ring caught you here.” He wipes the blood with such care it breaks something in my chest.

“He marked you.”

“It’ll fade.”

“It shouldn’t exist.”

His thumb traces the cut again. The shadows retreat from my skin, coiling back around his arms.

“We need to get you cleaned up.”

“I need those ledgers.” The words split my cut open and blood runs hot down my jaw. “Three doors down.”

Xaden tracks the blood’s path.

I drag my cape sleeve across my mouth. The slate-blue fabric darkens to purple.

Three breaths and the lock surrenders. I work the first pin until it catches, barely touch the second, then fight the stubborn third until it scrapes into place.

I pull him inside and lock the door behind us.

Dust drifts through the window’s light. Ledgers pack every wall with spines labeled by date and province. I cross to the eastern wall, third shelf.

“These three are what we need.” I press the volumes into his hands. “Garrison expenses, grain distributions, and tax collections.”

He opens the garrison ledger. While he reads, his fingers search the shelf above, extracting volumes about trade routes and quarterly transfers. He examines specific pages in each one before sliding them back into place.

“The eastern garrison received full payment according to this.” He taps the relevant column.

“Half arrived. The stable boy’s father serves there and writes home about sharing boots in winter.”

I rise onto my toes to read the garrison ledger in his hands. My balance wavers and my hip bumps against his thigh. His free hand catches my elbow while he lowers the book. The entry shows eight hundred marks paid last winter. The ink sits heavy on the page, too dark for year-old records.

“Give me the tax collections.” I pull the second ledger from his grip. The binding cracks when I find the matching winter date: eastern provinces submitted four hundred marks for garrison support.

I hold both books open. Four hundred collected but eight hundred recorded as sent. The pages tremble in my grip.

He reads over my shoulder, his chest pressing warm against my spine with each inhale, each exhale marking time we don’t have.

“Do you see what they’ve done?” I turn to look at him.

His eyes are on me, not the ledgers. “I see it.”

“Hold these.” I angle both ledgers between us.

He reaches to steady them. His palm settles over mine where I grip both spines, his fingers longer than mine, steadier than mine.

I tear three pages from the garrison ledger with my free hand. The paper resists before giving way with a sound that fills the narrow space. His fingers press harder against mine. A shiver runs through me, starting where our hands touch and spreading up my arm. Two more pages from the tax collections. I fold them small and push them inside my bodice where the paper presses sharp against my ribs.

“Missing pages take longer to notice than missing books.”

A key grinds in the lock, searching for the right angle. The wrong key withdraws and another takes its place.

The lock clicks open.

“Guards.” Xaden shoves the garrison ledger back onto its shelf while I grab the grain distributions and tear out the summary pages. The binding splits. He reaches over me to replace the tax collections. I stretch to push the grain distributions into place but can’t reach. His hand covers mine on the spine and we slide it home together.

The door swings inward.

His arm locks around my waist and yanks me back against him. “Try not to vomit this time.”

“I’ve never vomited.”

“You turn green every time we transport.” His mouth finds my ear. “Hold your breath when the shadows reach your ribs. It helps.”

The shadows move up our bodies with maddening patience. Guards enter the archives. The cold spreads from our ankles to our knees to our thighs while voices call out shelf locations.

“Xaden, hurry.”

His arm constricts. The shadows pause at my hips. The guards move closer, only two shelves away now. The cold climbs my ribs and my lungs seize.

“Breathe,” he commands against my throat. His lips graze the skin there.

I turn my head to look at him and discover his mouth at the corner of my jaw. We both stop breathing. His eyes lock on my mouth.

“Don’t,” he says, but he’s the one leaning closer.

A guard rounds our shelf.

The shadows devour us.

Sound dies. The guard’s shout severed mid-syllable. Color drains from brown leather spines. Gray bleeds to black bleeds to void.

I come apart. Bones flee muscle. Blood spills through vessels that aren’t. The pages shred through ribs dissolving into memory.

Only Xaden’s arm stops me scattering into the black that swallows where we were.

We exist again.

My lungs tear at air. Bones slam back into muscle. Skin stitches itself closed around me.

My chambers bloom into focus. Marble under my feet. Sun through windows.

Blood drips onto marble from the cut Father’s ring left on my lip.

Maeve freezes at my vanity. Her good eye tracks Xaden’s arm as he releases my waist. The black leather patch covering her left eye makes her expression harder to read than usual.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I know.” I touch my split lip and my fingers come away red. “Does it get easier? The shadows?”

Xaden steps back. “You want the truth or comfort?”

“Truth.”

“It’s shit every time. You just get better at not showing it.”

Maeve moves to the pitcher. “Shall I fetch the healer?”

“For a split lip?” I press my sleeve against the cut. “No.”

Her eye shifts to Xaden then back to me. She pours water into the basin. “What happened?”

“Council meeting went poorly.”

“That’s one way to describe it,” Xaden says.

Maeve sets down the pitcher and crosses to me. Her fingers hover near the swelling on my cheek.

“Only one person in Navarre could strike you without losing their head.”

“He’s never done it before.” I keep my voice steady but my hands shake.

“I know.” She drowns cloth in the basin and wrings it out. “Eight years I’ve served this family. Never seen him raise a hand to you or your brothers.”

“I called his advisors eunuchs.”

Xaden’s mouth twitches up before his hand covers it.

Maeve presses the cloth to my cheek. “Worth it?”

“Yes.”

The stolen pages crinkle as I extract them from my bodice.

“What are those?” Maeve’s eye tracks them.

“Proof.”

I walk through the filigree partitions that divide my chambers. Father’s required texts on governance crowd Mother’s poetry collections on the shelves. My hidden novels lurk behind both. I cross to the back wall and slide my hand between wooden shelves.

My fingers trace stone until they catch the indent. My family heirloom heats as I press it home.

The wall pivots on hidden hinges.

“You didn’t even try to hide that from me.” Xaden leans against the partition gap.

“Too tired to pretend.”

I step into the passage. The rock in the corner hasn’t moved in years. I lift it, shove the pages underneath, and drop it back.

The wall starts closing on its mechanism.

I slip back through.

Xaden moves away from the partition. “You should burn those pages once you’ve used them.”

“I know.”

“Evidence hidden is still evidence that exists.”

“You know a suspicious amount about hiding evidence.”

“You have no idea, Princess.”

I sit at the table near my balcony and touch the mark Father left.

The council will gossip about my defiance. They won’t mention the King striking his daughter. Just like Xaden won’t mention almost kissing me against the archive shelves while guards hunted us.

We’re excellent at selective memory in this palace.

“Ayla.” Maeve steps closer.

“The dress.” I stand. “I need it off. Now.”

Maeve’s fingers work the buttons down my spine. The slate-blue silk pools at my feet, rust-brown blood stains the bodice. She unlaces my corset in silence.

Master Devlin’s geography lesson passes without me. Then Lady Blythe’s etiquette hour. No one comes to collect me.

Father doesn’t dare.

Xaden posts himself at my door. I hear him refuse three different pages who arrive with summons. His voice carries through oak: “The princess is indisposed.”

Indisposed—court’s polite fiction for a princess sporting her father’s handprint.

Afternoon bleeds into evening. Maeve brings bread and cheese I don’t eat. Wine I drink.

Stars appear. So does he, opening my door without permission.

Chapter Text

He closes the door and leans back against it.

I stay at the balcony table where candles trap our reflections in the glass. “You don’t have to check on me.”

“I’m not.” He crosses to where I sit. “Let me see.”

“You saw earlier.”

“That was eight hours ago.” His fingers find my chin and tilt my face toward the candlelight. His thumb stops a breath from skin. “It’s spreading.”

“Bruises do that.”

The thumb ghosts near the swelling. “When did you last eat?”

“Maeve brought food.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I should answer but I’m thinking about his mouth at my jaw in the archives. Father’s fist. Which mark will last longer.

“When did you last eat?”

I pull away from his touch. “Why do you care?”

“Because you’re useless to me dead.”

“I’m useless to everyone unless they need my womb or my title.”

“Get up.”

“I’m fine here.”

“No, you’re not.” He brings his face level with mine. “You’re sitting here punishing yourself for having the audacity to speak truth to power. For making the King show what he really is beneath the crown. I’m not watching you waste away because daddy finally, predictably proved he’s the bastard I’ve always known him to be.”

“You don’t get to make that choice.”

“I already did.” He straightens. “Now get up, or I carry you.”

“I’m perfectly content where I am.”

“Wrong answer.” He hooks my waist and flips me over his shoulder in one motion.

Blood rushes to my head. My fists pound against his back. “Put me down!”

“When we get to the kitchen.”

“I’ll scream.”

“Go ahead.” He strides toward the door. “Wake the whole palace. Explain why your guard’s carrying you through the halls at midnight.”

My fists still against his back.

The hallway carpet blurs past upside down. His shoulder digs into my stomach with each step.

“You’re going the wrong way.”

“I’m taking the servant stairs.”

“Those lead through the lower chambers.”

“Where no one patrols at midnight.” He cuts the corner hard. “Unless you’d prefer the main halls?”

I grip his tunic to steady myself. The stairs descend steep beneath us. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I think about a lot of things.”

“Such as?”

“How you’re a perpetual royal pain in my ass.”

“Put me down then.”

“No.” His arm locks tighter across my thighs.

“Xaden—”

“Still no.” We hit the bottom landing.

“I’m ordering you.”

“I’m ignoring you.” He shoulders through a door into the lower halls.

The kitchen stretches empty and dark except for embers pulsing their last light in the massive hearth.

He drops me onto the long counter. Cold marble shocks through my nightgown. His hands linger at my waist until I’m steady.

“Don’t move.”

“Where would I go?”

“Knowing you? Somewhere annoyingly difficult.” He stirs the banked coals back to life.

Orange light flares as the fire catches. His shadow looms across the stone wall while he moves through the kitchen.

He reaches into a bowl on the counter and tosses me a pomegranate. I catch it one-handed, the skin cold against my palm.

“Eat something while I cook.”

“I need a knife—”

He takes it back, scores the skin in a circle around the middle, and twists. The fruit breaks open, revealing seeds like garnets in firelight. He works his thumbs through one half, loosening seeds into his palm.

“Here.” He offers them to me.

I take a few. The tartness bursts on my tongue.

He doesn’t move his hand away. “More.”

I take another handful. He takes one seed from my palm. His eyes hold mine as he eats it.

“You just stole my food.”

“I’m testing it for poison.”

“My hero.”

He sets the other half beside me and turns to find real food.

He pulls a cast iron pan from beneath the counter and sets it on the grate over the flames.

“Where did you learn to cook?”

“Disappointed I’m not useless?” He pulls eggs from cold storage and unwraps bacon from oiled cloth.

“Surprised you’re not ordering kitchen staff to do it.”

“At midnight?” He cracks eggs one-handed into a bowl. “They’d poison us both.”

I eat another pomegranate seed and watch him work. Salt from the shelf above the hearth. Pepper from the jar beside it. The whisk from the third drawer. Each movement certain.

“You know where everything lives.”

“I pay attention.” Butter hits the hot pan and hisses.

“To kitchen layouts?”

“To everything.” Three quick beats of the whisk. “You twist your mother’s ring when you’re nervous. Hold your breath when you concentrate. Take one spoon of sugar in your coffee, no cream.”

I stop mid-chew. “That’s—”

“Necessary.” He pours eggs into the pan. “Hard to protect someone when they’re unpredictable.”

“You just made my coffee preferences sound quite predictable.”

“Your coffee preferences are. You’re not.” He adjusts the flame. “Except for one tell.”

“Which is?”

“Your nose crinkles when you actually smile versus the political one you’ve perfected.” He flips the eggs. “Usually precedes terrible decisions.”

I touch my nose.

He slides the eggs onto a plate. Over easy, edges crisped exactly right.

The first bite is perfect. Clearly this is vital for my protection. Assassin appears, Xaden throws perfectly crisped eggs at them. Victory through breakfast. He turns back to the stove and lays bacon in the pan. The smell cuts through wine fog and my stomach clenches with real hunger.

“Where did you learn to cook?”

“Duke Lindell’s estate.” He adjusts the flame. “After my father’s execution.”

I remember the feast his first night as my knight. Duke Lindell’s hand heavy on Xaden’s shoulder while he apologized for Liam being gone. The way Xaden stood there like he was somewhere else entirely.

“He taught you to cook?”

“He taught me to survive. Cooking was part of it.” The bacon pops.

I take another bite of egg. Then another. The yolk runs and I catch it with my thumb.

“Duke Lindell apologized to you. At the feast. About Liam.”

I eat more egg and wait.

“We were fostered together for two years before Basgiath.” He pulls the bacon from the pan. “I was better with a sword but Liam could make bread from memory. Made the kitchen staff love him.”

“What was he like?”

“Patient. Loyal. Better than me at most things that mattered.” He sets the bacon beside me. “Dead at twenty.”

I eat a piece of bacon. It shatters between my teeth.

“I’m sorry. Alastair—”

“Was he yours?”

The bacon breaks between my fingers. “He was my—my knight. My friend—”

“That’s not what I asked.” He steps closer. “Was. He. Yours.”

I wipe grease on my nightgown. “No.”

“But you cared about him.”

My hands still on the fabric. “Yes—but. But this is about Liam, not—”

“This stopped being about Liam the moment you said another man’s name to me. Someone who knew you. Someone you mourned. Someone who isn’t me.”

“I was trying to—”

“Say my name.”

I blink at the command. “What?”

“You heard me.”

I swallow. “Xaden.”

“Again.”

My fingers tighten on the counter edge. “Xaden.”

“That’s the only name you say tonight. No one else’s.” He moves closer.

“This isn’t fair. Whatever you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “You have yolk on your face.”

His thumb catches it at the corner of my lips. He brings it to his own mouth and tastes it, watching me.

“That’s not nothing.”

“I’m your knight.” He steps back. “I’m supposed to maintain professional distance.”

“You just ate egg yolk off my mouth.”

“You had food on your face.”

“And a month ago you had me pinned in the dirt telling me you wanted to fuck me.”

“A mistake.”

“Which part? The wanting or the telling?”

“Both.” His jaw tightens. “Neither. Fuck, Ayla.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You want an answer? Fine. I think about that night in the dirt every time I look at you. I think about your body under mine and the sound you made when I said it. I think about it when I’m standing guard. When I’m watching you at dinner. When you twist your hair up and I can see that bruise I left on your throat.” He grips the counter on either side of me. “Professional distance is a fucking joke. But it’s the only thing keeping us both alive.”

“My father wouldn’t—”

“Your father would gut me himself if he knew half of what I want to do to you.” The fire pops behind him. “And that’s without knowing the rest of it.”

The fire catches grease and surges from the hearth.

“Shit.” He yanks me off the counter. “Move.”

Fire races up the hanging herbs. The braid of rosemary and thyme becomes a torch overhead.

The pitcher’s right there. I reach for it.

Xaden’s fingers clamp over mine. “Not water—”

Fire engulfs our joined hands.

I know this song. Fire singing to blood it birthed twice but cannot burn. First in Mother’s womb. Then in dragon’s breath. The fire knows its own child.

He jerks us back. The waiting dark cocoons the fire whole.

“Fuck.” Air hisses between his teeth. He cradles his hand to his chest. I smell bacon and realize it’s not.

“I’m sorry.” The words rush out. “This is my fault—if I hadn’t reached for the water—”

“You’re apologizing instead of screaming.”

I step toward him, my right hand tucked behind my back. “Let me see how bad—”

“Stop.” He catches my wrist. “You didn’t even fucking flinch.”

“Your hand needs—”

“Show me your other hand.”

“I need to help—”

“Show me your hand, Ayla.”

I bring my hand forward.

The coals cast dying light across my unmarked palm. His is ruined.

He grabs my wrist, turns my hand in the remaining light. “I’ve been burned by dragonfire. I know how flesh reacts to flame. This isn’t it.”

“Maybe the angle—”

“Fire doesn’t care about angles.” His thumb traces my unblemished skin. “And it doesn’t discriminate. Burns whatever the fuck it touches. Except you.”

“We need to get your hand treated—”

“What are you?” he asks.

“You asked me that before. When you first took me to the dragons.”

“And you lied.”

“I didn’t lie. I answered what you asked.”

“You left out the part where fire doesn’t fucking burn you.”

“Would you have believed me?”

He shifts his burnt hand against his chest. “The dragon. The mother. She didn’t attack you when I brought you there.”

“No.”

“But you said she almost killed you once.”

“Before you arrived,” I say. “I told you—I found her clutch. Three eggs hidden in her den. I was foolish enough to touch them.”

“And she caught you.”

“Yes. What I didn’t tell you is that she didn’t almost kill me. She tried to kill me. Breathed fire directly on me.”

“That’s impossible—”

“When the flames cleared, I was standing there. Untouched. And the eggs had hatched.”

The skin on his palm bubbles up. Clear fluid weeps through the blisters. Shadows crawl down his arm to wrap the wound.

“I was born in fire, Xaden. My mother’s chamber burned during my birth. Everyone died except the infant born in flame.”

“Fire burns everything it touches. Everything.”

I flex my perfect fingers. “Fire touches me. It knows me. But it doesn’t burn me.”

“Three times.” He states.

“Three times that I know of.”

The shadows tighten around his hand, stanching the weeping burns.

I reach for his wrapped hand.

His unburnt fingers catch my wrist and hold it still. “Don’t.”

“Who else knows?” Shadows tighten around the burns.

“About what?”

“About you being fucking flame-proof. Who knows?”

“No one. I’ve never—”

“Bullshit. Someone always knows. That’s how people die.”

Shadows slide the copper lid back into place.

“The dragon knows. The mother. But she can’t exactly gossip.”

“What about your birth?”

“Father forbade anyone from speaking of it. Nothing was recorded.”

“Forbidding something guarantees everyone whispers about it.”

Shadows sweep the flour from the flagstones.

“Grace mentioned rumors starting again in the city. Earlier this year.”

“When exactly?”

“June? Maybe late May?”

He reaches for the door and his burnt fingers curl useless against the handle. He switches to his left hand. “Fascinating. A month before someone tried to kill you.”

“What does a childhood fire have to do with assassination attempts?”

“Everything, when you’re apparently fireproof.”

Shadows slide the pan to its hook. His burnt hand stays against his chest.

“You think someone’s hunting me because of what I am?”

“I think someone knows exactly what you are. And they’re either recruiting or eliminating.”

“But I don’t even know what I am.”

“Which makes you a problem without a solution.” He pushes the door open. “Move.”

I step into the servant hallway and the darkness is immediate. His boot kicks the door shut and the last thread of kitchen light vanishes.

“I can’t see anything.”

“You don’t need to.” A shadow slides along my spine and settles at my waist, steering me left into complete darkness.

“Where are we going?”

“My room has medical supplies.”

“The healers would do better—”

“The healers would want to know why the princess and her knight were alone in the kitchens past midnight.”

His breathing stays measured, but he holds each breath a second too long.

The shadows steer me past the buttery, through the wine stores, to the narrow stairs. We climb the same steps I counted on the way down, back to my wing and his room across from mine.

Wall sconces blaze every six feet in the royal corridor but the shadows hold my waist. His left hand turns the key and tendrils draw me inside. Darkness claims everything except where moonlight silvers the floor.

His left hand rises. Blue lights bloom across the ceiling, pale as winter sky.

“How are you doing that?”

“Lesser magic. From Sgaeyl.” He moves to his trunk.

I look to his desk in the new light. The wood stands bare.

Gauze and salve emerge from the trunk. He sits on the bed and the mattress dips beneath his weight. His elbow pins the bandage while he attempts to wrap.

“Let me.”

“No. I’ve wrapped worse.”

“That’s not the point. I know you can do it on your own.” I step between his knees. “But I have two hands. You have one. Stop being stubborn.”

His gaze lifts from my hips to my face.

“You’ve never dressed a wound in your life.”

“How hard can it be?”

The bandage drops. He extends his burnt palm. “Try not to make it worse, Princess.”

I sink to my knees between his. The salve cools my fingertips as I trace it over each blister. His breath catches. He doesn’t pull away. I wrap the gauze in diagonal passes, the way palace healers always do.

“Strange how things reverse.” I keep my eyes on my work. “A month ago you knelt between my legs tending my wounds.”

“Ayla.” His hand twitches in my grip.

“Now here I am.”

His free hand tilts my chin up. “You feel guilty.”

“Should I not?”

“Guilt’s pointless.” His thumb finds the bruise on my jaw. “Doesn’t fix shit.”

“Sounds personal.”

“Everything about you is personal.” His thumb presses harder.

I wince.

“Because of what happens when we’re alone—”

“Finish the bandage, Ayla.”

“I can’t wrap this if you don’t let go.”

But he doesn’t. His gaze moves across my face. Temple to eyes to lips to the bruise his thumb still presses. The blue light above makes him something else entirely. His jaw works against words he won’t say.

He releases me.

The metal clips fumble in my fingers. One drops. I reach for it and my cheek brushes his knee. He goes completely still.

I clip the bandage closed and look up. We’re too close. I smell the salve and burnt flesh beneath it.

“Move your legs. I need to stand.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because the crown princess of Navarre is on her knees for me. Why the fuck would I move?”

“I’m sure you’ve had plenty of women—”

His unburnt hand catches my wrist as I try to rise. “Not princesses.” His grip tightens. “And definitely not you.”

I push against his thigh and rise. He keeps hold of my wrist as I stand between his knees.

“And now you’re looking up at me.”

“Fuck.” His eyes drag up my body. “This is a problem.”

“Why?”

“Because apparently I have a thing for princesses who take charge.”

“I don’t—”

“You told your father to fuck off. In front of everyone.” His thumb finds my pulse. “Do you know how fucking hot that was?”

“You liked that?”

“I liked watching you refuse to kneel.” His knees lock against my legs. “And now you’re standing over me and I’m shit at denying myself what I want.”

“Which is?”

“You. Down here. Showing me what else you can take control of.”

I smile and wonder if my nose is crinkling.

His blood still marks my palm where I scrubbed it away. Some stains sink deeper than skin.

Dragons breathe fire on me and I stand untouched. He presses his thumb to my pulse and I burn.

I take my wrist back. His fingers chase to my palm, then release.

I drag my nightgown up my thighs. One knee finds the bed beside his hip. Then the other. I sink onto his lap.

“Ayla.” The groan tears from his throat.

His hands grip my hips. I feel his cock harden against me through fabric. His fingers dig deeper.

“You need to get up.”

“No.”

He rocks up against me once, like he can’t help it.

My breath catches. I press down in response, just enough.

“Fuck, Ayla.”

I take his hands from my hips and guide them higher. Silk bunches under his palms as they reach my waist.

“Touch me. Take what you want.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking.” I press his hands harder against the gathered fabric. “Stop denying us both.”

His left hand begins its journey up my spine. Each finger finds a new inch of silk to gather as it climbs. He reaches the nape of my neck and twists my hair around his fist, pulling until my throat is exposed.

His bandaged palm flattens against my lower back and drags me forward until I’m sealed against him.

He buries his face in the curve of my neck. His nose drags up my throat as he breathes me in. Each exhale burns hot against my skin. My pulse hammers where his mouth hovers. Heat pools low in my stomach and I can’t stop the small sound that escapes.

His fingers slacken in my hair.

I follow his stare over my shoulder.

The bare desk stares back at us.

“Xaden—”

“Get up.” His hands drop from my body. “Now.”

“No.” I stay exactly where I am. “Not until you tell me why.”

“Ayla—”

“You were just—” I press down against him. He’s still hard. “You don’t get to shut down because of an empty desk.”

His jaw clenches. “Get. Off.”

“No.”

He grabs my thighs and lifts me off him. Sets me on my feet. My legs shake. My nightgown is still bunched at my waist and I yank it down.

“You’re a coward.”

“Yes.” He adjusts himself without shame, eyes on the desk.

“Leave, Ayla.”

“I wish I’d never accepted you as my guard.”

“Careful, Princess.”

“Fuck you.” My voice breaks. “Fuck you for touching me like that and then—”

“Then what?”

“Looking at furniture!” I shove his chest. “Who does that? Who gets someone that worked up and then stares at a fucking desk?”

“Someone who realized what this was.”

“What?”

His hand lifts toward me, then drops.

“A princess getting off on slumming with the help. Did I make you wet enough? Was it everything you imagined?”

“Stop.”

“That’s what you wanted, right? To see what it was like with someone beneath you?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I hate you so much.”

His hand flexes at his side.

“You should.” He steps back. “Makes this easier.”

“Makes what easier?”

“Everything. Now get out.”

My palm cracks across his face. The sound echoes in the blue-lit room.

He stays turned, unflinching. Blood wells where his teeth cut the inside of his cheek.

I back toward the door, unable to take my eyes off him.

His breath still burns my neck. The ghost of his hand grips my hair. I’m still wet from wanting him.

My hand finds the handle behind me.

“Ayla—”

I’m gone before he can finish.

I slam my door and lean against it. My hand rises in front of my face. I watch it shake. Violent tremors from wrist to fingertips. The palm burns red where it connected with his jaw.

I touch my own jaw where Father struck me yesterday.

The mirror catches me. Father’s eyes stare back.

“Oh gods.”

My hand covers my mouth. I turn away but the image burns behind my eyelids. The bruises on my hips pulse where Xaden gripped me. Between my legs, wetness and ache.

I slide down the wall. The tears come hot and sudden.

Chapter Text

Maeve arrives with breakfast I won’t eat. She sees the bruises on my hips where the nightgown gaps, but she says nothing and sets the tray down.

“The black dress,” I tell her.

She retrieves it from my wardrobe without question.

She works the laces while I stand before the mirror. Through the door, leather creaks as Xaden shifts at his post. He’s been there all night and I’ve been awake, listening to every movement.

The dress weighs more than silk should. Black lace covers my throat and wrists and travels down my spine, hiding every mark he left.

“Tighter,” I tell her when she reaches my waist.

She pulls until breathing requires effort. The eggs on the tray grow cold while she fastens each small button up my back.

Maeve steps away to check her work, then pauses. “That bruise on his face wasn’t there when I left last night.”

I meet her eyes in the mirror.

“Should I send for a healer, Your Highness?”

“No.” I look away. “He wouldn’t want that.”

Maeve doesn’t leave. “I’m here, Ayla. When you’re ready.”

I reach for her face. My fingertips trace the eye patch’s edge.

“I know.”

She takes my hand and presses it flat against the leather. “Always.”

The door resists my hand.

Xaden guards air, his gaze nailed to the far wall. My palm blooms purple and green across his jaw. His fingers strangle his sword pommel.

“Your Highness.” He stares at nothing. “You’re expected for morning lessons.”

“Thank you, Ser Xaden.”

Something dies in his face at the title.

We walk to the study. Three steps between us become an ocean.

The study door clicks shut. Xaden chooses the wall opposite the window, spine flat against stone instead of light. My tutor cracks three books open across the table.

“We’ll review historical battles today. Begin with the Great War.”

“Six centuries ago. General Daramor’s forces against the First Six. Led to Navarre’s unification.”

“Good. The Battle of Gianfar?”

“First cross-bolt against dragons. Final cooperation between dragons and gryphons before they divorced their territories.”

She nods. “The Second Krovlan Uprising?”

“Two hundred years past. The Midnight Massacre gutted it. After that, the Riders’ commander devoured all military control.”

“Exceptional focus today.” Pages rasp as she turns them. “The Tyrrish Rebellion.”

My nails bite into my palms. Xaden becomes part of the wall.

“The Battle of Aretia.”

“July first, 628 AU.” Each word drops precise. “Fen Riorson’s forces bled out at Aretia. The rebellion leaders were executed.”

“And the aftermath?”

“The children witnessed the executions. Codagh branded them with rebellion relics. Loyal families fostered them throughout the kingdom.”

“What do we call July first?”

“Reunification Day.” The lie burns my tongue. “To honor those who saved Navarre.”

“Perfect recitation, Your Highness.”

My eyes track from the black marks at his throat up to my handprint on his jaw. His bandaged fingers flex once.

“Thank you.” I close the book. “Shall we continue?”

My tutor dismisses us after three hours of battles and dates. Xaden escorts me back to my rooms, maintaining our three-step distance.

“Your afternoon guard will arrive in ten minutes,” he says to the air beside my head. “I have scheduled training.”

“Of course.”

He waits outside my door until Ser Matthias arrives. They exchange two words. Xaden leaves. I should stay in my rooms but I tell Matthias I need air and he follows me to the stone bench that overlooks the training grounds. Winter wind gnaws through my dress.

Below, Xaden enters the square. Other guards are already warming up but they clear space when they see him. Four volunteer to spar.

The first guard’s knee buckles backward when Xaden’s boot connects. The sound cracks across the courtyard. The second rushes in and Xaden’s pommel caves his cheekbone. Blood sheets down his neck. The third attempts retreat but Xaden catches his wrist and torques until the shoulder pops free. The guard drops, arm hanging wrong.

“Reset,” Xaden says.

Above, Sgaeyl banks low. Her shadow swallows the courtyard as she watches her rider dismantle men.

Fresh guards step forward. Xaden splits one’s eyebrow to skull. Blood blinds him. Another takes a knee to the liver and pisses himself falling. The practice blade finds soft spots between ribs, behind knees, under jaws.

The watching guards press against walls, silent.

Sgaeyl circles lower. Her satisfaction vibrates the air.

When the ninth guard crawls away dragging dead weight that used to be his leg, I stand. Ser Matthias escorts me inside. My fingers have gone numb.

The great hall swelters. I take my place at Father’s right. His swollen fingers grip his goblet while I chew on the side of my mouth that doesn’t hurt.

Xaden takes his position behind my chair. Talk circles the table about rider patrols, supply lines, the early winter. Father saws through his meat while I count each scrape of his knife.

The treasurer reads a message passed from a servant. He crosses to Father’s chair and bends to his ear. Father’s knife stills against his plate.

“All of it?” Father asks.

“Every coin, Your Majesty. Six guards dead.”

“The decoys?”

“Untouched. They knew which wagons carried gold.”

Father drains his goblet. The treasurer returns to his seat. Most of the table hasn’t noticed the exchange.

Behind me, Xaden’s neck cracks.

Talk continues around us. Lords debate supply routes. Ladies discuss the early winter. Forks scrape plates.

“Will the palace staff still receive their wages?”

Father doesn’t turn his head. “Yes.”

“Full wages?”

“Yes.”

We both return to our food.

Father rises. “We’re finished here.”

I stand and curtsy because I must. “Your Majesty.”

“Your Highness.”

Xaden keeps his three steps as we leave.

Back in my room, I grip the door handle. His shadow spills under the door toward my bare feet. Strange how the light falls. Neither of us moves. I let go and go to bed.

Winter arrives overnight. Ice webs across my window when dawn breaks.

His scarred fingers hold coffee when I open my door. One sugar, no cream. I set it on the table and walk past. Hours later, it’s still there, cold.

Morning lessons drag. He stands at his post.

After lunch, I escape to the library. The book is too high. His scarred fingers close on it first. When he hands it over, our fingers touch. I pull away.

I read the same page six times.

By afternoon, I need air. From the balcony, I watch guards spar below. He stands closer than usual. Two steps, not three. I move left. He moves left. I stop.

“Stay there.”

He stays. But he watches my face instead of the grounds.

The sun drops behind the mountains.

We’re walking back to my rooms. “Let me see your hand.”

“No.”

“Ayla—”

“It’s fine.”

He flexes his scarred palm. The skin pulls tight where fire ate through flesh. I watch but don’t ask.

“Your Highness,” I say when he tries again.

His teeth click shut. We don’t speak again.

We reach my door as darkness falls.

Steam rises from the marble tub. Maeve pours water scented with imported oils from the Isles over my hair.

“Let me,” she says when I reach for the bottle.

I never let her wash my hair. Tonight I sink back and close my eyes. Her fingers untangle the knots.

“You’re not sleeping,” she says.

“No.”

“Not eating either.”

“I know.”

She works oil through the ends. “After the attack, I stopped eating for three weeks.”

I open my eyes.

“What made you start?”

“Hunger.” She rinses my hair. “And you at my bedside. And realizing my family still needed my wages even with one eye.”

The water burns against my skin.

“I see him when I look in the mirror,” I say. “Father.”

“Because you slapped your knight?”

“Yes.”

“One slap doesn’t make you him.”

“It’s how it starts.”

Maeve squeezes water from my hair. “No. It starts when you stop caring that you did it.”

Caring didn’t stop my hand. I struck Xaden to make him feel small. Father struck me for the same reason. Violence is what we do when we need someone else to hurt more than we do.

I stand from the tub. Water runs down my legs onto the marble. Maeve wraps me in cotton and works a comb through my wet hair.

“Too many knots,” she mutters.

“Leave it.”

“No.” She sections the hair. “Some things need tending whether you want it or not.”

We work in silence. She braids the wet strands back from my face and pins them tight.

“Eat something tonight.”

“I will.”

We both know I’m lying.

I pull on my robe and move toward the bathing chamber entrance.

A knock sounds on my main door.

I tighten my robe. He used to just enter.

My hand stops an inch from the handle. The air between my palm and the metal prickles like static before a storm. I pull the door open and crane my neck to find his face.

The man fills the entire doorframe, broader than Xaden by half. A scar runs from temple to chin down the left side of his face. Black marks disappear into his collar where rebellion relics begin.

I slam the door shut and bolt it. My heart hammers the way it did in the stables that day.

“Your Highness.” His voice carries laughter through the wood. “Garrick Tavis. Not here to kill you.”

“Prove it.”

I back toward my bed. The dagger should be under my pillow but I moved it to the nightstand. My fingers find the hilt.

“Xaden sent me. Said you’d probably do exactly this.”

Maeve appears in the bathing chamber entrance. Water drips from her hair and she grips a porcelain vase like a weapon. She jerks her chin at the door.

I shake my head. She narrows her good eye and points at the bolt.

“Who are you?”

“Garrick Tavis. Xaden’s second. He’s at Basgiath. Sgaeyl and Tairn needed to be near each other. Your father approved the leave yesterday. We flew in this afternoon.”

A female voice cuts in: “We’re freezing out here.”

Two of them. Maeve raises the vase higher.

I pull the bolt and open the door with my dagger extended. Maeve steps beside me with the vase overhead.

“Fuck.” The massive man backs up, hands rising. “Easy with the pottery.”

I swing the dagger toward the woman. “And you?”

“Imogen Cardulo.” She bites each syllable.

She’s built like a fighter. Arms corded with muscle, stance wide and balanced. Her green eyes stay on my blade.

“What are you supposed to be?”

“Your new lady-in-waiting.” Her mouth twists on the words.

I actually laugh. “You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I joke?”

Black marks spiral around her wrist when she crosses her arms. Another rebellion relic.

I sweep the dagger between them. “You expect me to believe my father approved two more marked ones in his palace?”

Garrick shifts his weight. He’s paler than Xaden, broader in the shoulders, with hazel eyes that hold amusement. “Your father didn’t have much choice. Xaden reminded him how well palace guards protected you last time he was gone. Apparently incompetence is worse than rebellion relics.”

“He didn’t tell me he was leaving.”

“Sounds right.” Imogen shoulders past Garrick into my room. “Where’s my bed?”

I step aside to let Garrick enter but keep the dagger ready. “Your bed is wherever you live when you’re not invading princesses’ rooms.”

“Invading?” Imogen turns on me. “I left a perfectly good position at Basgiath to babysit you.”

“To protect,” Maeve cuts in, vase still raised. “The word is protect. And you’ll address her as Your Highness.”

“I’ll address her how Xaden told me to.”

Maeve’s knuckles whiten on the porcelain. “Which was?”

“However the fuck I want.”

Their voices escalate. I turn to Garrick. “Where were you before this?”

“Stationed at Samara. Imogen was at Basgiath.” He watches the two women square off. “Might want to intervene.”

“How did Xaden even reach you?”

“Dragons talk. Letters for the details.” He pulls folded parchment from his pocket. “He also wanted me to tell you he warded your door before he left.”

“Warded?”

“Only lets in marked ones, you, and someone named Maeve.” He glances at the woman now backing Imogen toward the wall. “Guessing that’s her.”

Behind us, something crashes. The vase lies in pieces. Both women stand with fists raised.

“Maeve, leave us.”

“Your Highness—”

“Now.”

She lowers her hands and goes. The bathing chamber door shuts.

Imogen drops her fists. She walks to Garrick’s chair and stops three feet from me, frowning.

“You look exactly like—”

Garrick kicks her shin.

“—your father.” She shifts her weight. “The nose especially.”

I touch my nose. “My mother’s.”

The shattered vase mocks me from the floor. Xaden never followed a single rule from the moment he walked into my life.

“Is breaking rules a requirement at Basgiath, or just a bonus?”

“Both,” Imogen says.

Garrick shrugs. “Dragons don’t follow protocol. Why should we?”

The candle flame gutters. Wax drips onto the table.

“The servants’ quarters are across the courtyard. Third floor. Maeve will show you when she stops sulking.”

“Fine.” Imogen leans against the doorframe.

“Where are you sleeping?” I ask Garrick.

“Xaden’s room while he’s gone.”

“And after?”

“Getting my own.” He shifts his weight. “This is permanent, Princess. We’re your new shadows.”

“How permanent?”

“Until Xaden decides otherwise.”

“How long will he be gone?”

“Few days. Week at most.” Garrick pulls the folded parchment from his pocket again. “Depends how long the dragons need.”

He sets the letter on the table between us. I don’t touch it.

The morning flashes back. His hand offering coffee, me walking past. His voice at my door, my silence. Two days of turned backs and avoided eyes.

From the doorway, Imogen scoffs. “She really doesn’t get it.”

“Imogen,” Garrick warns.

“What? She should understand what she’s dealing with. Xaden doesn’t explain himself. Not to anyone. Definitely not to princesses.” She pushes off the doorframe. “I’ll find those servants’ quarters now.”

The door slams.

Maeve emerges from the bathing chamber. “I should make sure she doesn’t terrorize the staff.”

“No trouble between you two.”

“I make no promises.” But she goes.

I stare at the letter. These two knew him before. Before the palace, before the oath, before he knelt and marked me with his blood. They know the version of him that exists without me.

“She’s angry about the assignment.”

“She was section leader at Basgiath. Now she’s playing lady’s maid.” Garrick shrugs. “She’ll adjust.”

“Section leader to lady’s maid is a significant demotion.”

“Not how Xaden sees it.”

“She still came.”

“He could tell her to scrub floors and she’d do it.” Garrick’s voice is matter of fact. “We all would.”

“Why?”

He looks at me like I’m simple. “Because he’s Xaden.”

He nods at the letter. “You going to read that?”

“No.”

“It might be important.”

“Then he should have said it to my face.” I push the letter across the table. “Keep it.”

Garrick doesn’t touch it. “That’s between you two.”

Wind rattles the window frame.

He takes the chair like it’s his. Sprawls in it the way Xaden never does.

“Are you training me tonight?”

Garrick goes completely still. “Am I what?”

“Training. Xaden trains me every night.”

“He trains you.” His voice rises. “At night.”

“After dinner. Daggers mostly. Sometimes grappling.”

“Grappling.” He stands. The chair rocks back. “No. Absolutely not.”

“If you’re worried about hurting—”

“I’m worried about dying.” He backs toward the door. “Xaden would remove my spine through my throat if I touched you.”

“It’s just training.”

“Nothing involving you is ‘just’ anything to him.”

“He told me I was trying to slum it with the help. I doubt he cares who trains me.”

Garrick stares at me. Then his eyes drop to my robe.

“Fuck.” He shoots to his feet. “You’re in a robe.”

“So?”

“So I like my organs where they are.” He’s already at the door. “Training’s cancelled. Forever. Find someone suicidal.”

“Garrick—”

The door slams.

I set the dagger on the table. Shattered porcelain still covers the floor near my feet.

I pick up the letter. Leather and smoke cling to the parchment. My throat tightens.

He wrote my name in sharp, slashing strokes.

The history book from yesterday’s lesson is still open to the Battle of Aretia. Dried ink stains the margins where my pen leaked during the tutor’s recitation. I close it with the letter inside.

I kneel to gather the broken vase. The largest piece slices my palm. Blood drips onto my robe, spreading through the white cotton.

The candle gutters and dies.

Chapter Text

Blood travels the channels between my fingers, warm at the palm but cold by my fingertips, and drips from each in its own time. The porcelain cut deeper than I thought.

I open my door. Garrick straightens from the wall.

“What happened?”

“The vase.” I hold up my palm. The blood looks black in the dim hallway. “Xaden keeps medical supplies in his room.”

“I’ll get them.”

“The whole kit. This needs proper cleaning.”

He hesitates.

“Or I can walk to the healers’ wing dripping blood through the palace.”

We cross the hall. He presses his palm flat against Xaden’s door and it opens.

“No lock?”

“Doesn’t need one.”

“It’s warded.”

“Yes.”

“Who can enter?”

“Those he trusts.” Garrick’s tone ends the conversation.

The room is dark until Garrick raises his hand. Blue light sparks between his fingers and lifts into a sphere that hovers near the ceiling.

“I’ll never get used to how beautiful those are.”

The light changes everything to blue shadow. Xaden’s desk holds one book. The drawers have locks. His bed has been made with military precision. The room smells like him.

“Where does he keep medical supplies?”

“Corner trunk.”

I remember the heat of him when I knelt between his knees to wrap that burn. How still he held while I worked, his thighs solid against my ribs.

Garrick opens the trunk while I take the chair. The leather creaks with cold. Everything in Xaden’s room is cold. Garrick kneels. My blood drops onto his boot before either of us speaks.

“Sorry.” I lift my hand from his boot.

“It’s fine.” He uncorks a bottle. The fumes make my eyes water. “Don’t move.”

He pours. I make a sound I don’t mean to make and count books on Xaden’s shelf until the burning stops. Twelve books. All about war.

He starts wrapping. The bandage is rough against raw flesh. “You grabbed broken porcelain with your bare hand.”

“And here I thought all those tutors made me smart.”

“Just checking you knew how stupid that was.”

“That’s not how you address a princess.”

“You’re right.” He pulls the bandage tight. “Your Highness was stupid.”

A laugh escapes. The muscles in my cheeks pull wrong, like I’ve forgotten how.

Garrick’s mouth twitches. He glances up, then returns to wrapping.

“You were at Samara.”

“Yes.” Blood has seeped through to stain his fingers.

“I had to memorize all the outposts. The maps make it look miserable.”

“The maps are accurate.” He wipes his hands on a cloth. “Frozen hell with a nice view.”

“And now you’re here. Watching me bleed on furniture.”

“Living the dream.” He closes the trunk.

I flex my fingers, testing the bandage. Fresh blood spreads through the white cloth. “He really ordered you both here?”

“He did.”

“And you just… came.”

“We came.” He stands. “That’s what we do.”

I recognize that tone. I used it when I chose him in the arena.

“Ready?” He’s at the door.

The mage light follows us into the hallway, then winks out. My eyes adjust slowly to the darkness. Garrick’s shape becomes a darker shadow against the wall.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Just don’t grab any more glass tonight.”

I close my door. Through the wood, I hear him shift his weight, settling in for the night watch.

My hand throbs me awake. Gray light leaks through the curtains.

The bandage stuck to my pillow. I peel it free. Blood has dried black where the wound wept through.

Someone knocks, then enters without waiting.

Imogen carries a tray. Garrick fills the doorway.

“Your breakfast, Your Highness.” The title sounds like profanity in her mouth.

“I didn’t request breakfast.”

“Didn’t ask if you did.” Imogen sets the tray down hard enough to rattle the porcelain.

“Is this how you served at Basgiath?”

“At Basgiath, people could feed themselves.”

“Xaden’s specific orders,” Garrick says from the doorway. “You eat every meal.”

“Xaden doesn’t control what I eat.”

“He does now.” Garrick crosses his arms.

Imogen picks up a piece of bacon from my tray and eats it. “This is terrible.”

I hold up my bandaged hand.

“No.”

“I can’t grip properly.”

She stares at me, then at the fork, then back at me.

“You have another hand.”

“I need help.”

She picks up the fork and holds it toward my mouth. Her expression could curdle milk.

Maeve walks in and stops in the doorway. Her mouth twitches as she watches Imogen feed me another bite, then she moves to the wardrobe and starts pulling out clothes. She’s humming.

“Maeve can take over.” Imogen holds out the fork.

“She doesn’t need feeding.” Maeve examines a dress. “Ambidextrous since childhood. Her tutors insisted.”

Imogen sets the fork on the tray. “You made me spoon-feed you.”

“You were very gentle about it.”

“I won’t be gentle tonight.”

“Imogen’s handling your training,” Garrick says from the doorway. “After dark.”

“Looking forward to it.” I push the tray away.

“You didn’t finish.”

“I ate enough.”

“Xaden’s orders.” He counts on his fingers. “Every meal, every bite. You attend lessons. You don’t die.”

“Comprehensive.”

“He mentioned the dying part twice.”

I reach for the bacon and take another bite. The corner of my mouth lifts.

“Everyone out,” Maeve announces. “Time to make her presentable.”

“Not you.” Maeve points at Imogen. “You’re learning this.”

Garrick shuts the door behind him.

Maeve takes champagne silk from the wardrobe. The fabric weighs nothing until she lifts it higher and the embroidery pulls it down. Silver threads map out branches across gauze so thin her fingers show through. More of the dress is missing than there.

“I don’t dress people.” Imogen hasn’t moved from the breakfast tray.

“You do now.” Maeve lays it flat across the bed. The sleeves reach past the edges. “Seven hooks. She can’t reach past three with that hand.”

I stand and pull my nightgown up. My palm opens against the fabric. Blood spots the linen.

Imogen takes over, lifts the nightgown clear. Her hands go still at what’s underneath. The bruise climbing my ribs. The scar thick as rope from hip to abdomen. The hole in my lower back, puckered and shiny.

She folds the nightgown twice. Sets it down. Maeve holds up the champagne silk and I raise my arms.

Maeve feeds the champagne silk over my head. Imogen catches the back edges before they settle and starts with the bottom hook. Her fingernails tick against each metal closure before she fastens them, working up my spine.

At the sixth hook she pauses. Her fingers hover near where purple-black spreads across my ribs. She fastens the hook without touching skin, her knuckles reversed. The waist ribbon she threads twice through its loops and knots backwards into a quick-release.

“Turn.”

I turn and she yanks the left sleeve level with the right.

“This dress is stupid.”

“All court dress is stupid.”

“You can’t run in this. Can’t fight. Can’t even reach your own back.”

“That’s the point. Helpless women don’t scare anyone.”

She yanks the right sleeve down again. It didn’t need adjusting.

“Hair now,” Maeve says.

I sit at the vanity. Imogen picks up the brush and turns it over in her hand.

“I could tell my father you’re not suited for this.”

Imogen points the brush at her own head. Half her skull is shaved to the skin. The other half hangs pink to her jaw. “You think?”

“So let me reassign you to guard duty.”

“No.” She sections my hair between her fingers. “Xaden was specific about positions.”

“Why?”

“Assassins expect guards. They don’t expect the lady-in-waiting to gut them.” She pulls the brush through a tangle, then points it at Maeve. “Besides, his orders covered both of you.”

Maeve sorts hairpins into size. Her fingers pause over the bronze ones before continuing.

Imogen rakes my hair into three sections. Maeve feeds bronze pins across the vanity.

My thumb digs into the bandage until the cut splits.

“Stop.” Imogen clamps my wrist.

Blood soaks the linen, spreading outward like something spilled. She pins my hand flat to the vanity while Maeve inherits the braid, keeping the pattern alive while Imogen deals with my bleeding.

“Let go and I’ll let go,” Imogen says.

I uncurl my thumb.

She frees my wrist and steals the braid back from Maeve in one motion. They work shoulder to shoulder now, Maeve’s sleeve catching on Imogen’s arm each time she reaches for pins, neither of them adjusting to make more room.

Imogen drives the last pin through the braid and steps back.

“Done. Garrick.”

The door opens. He catches my wrist and peels yesterday’s bandage away. The linen tears free from dried blood. Fresh red wells underneath. He binds new cloth in diagonal strips, each pass eating half the width of the one before.

“Stop picking at it.”

“I wasn’t picking.”

“Your thumb’s bloody.”

I look down. He’s right.

Old Lucerish knots my tongue. The pronunciation tutor’s fan snaps against her palm at each failed vowel. Between lessons, Thomas drags his sack past us, the canvas bottom dark with something wet. Garrick nods at him. Thomas nods back and keeps walking.

At least Garrick sees them.

The history tutor mutters through grain rebellions while frost crawls up the windowpanes. My hand stiffens under the bandage. Dinner congeals untouched on its tray while Imogen works oil into her blade, each stroke eating another minute. When the moon finds the right angle through my window, she stands.

“Now.”

I open my wardrobe. Three black leather uniforms hang between my nightgowns. The leather still creaks when I touch it. Basgiath’s crest catches the lamplight from each shoulder.

“Where did these come from?”

“Central stores.” Imogen tests the middle one against my frame. “Xaden said you train in nightgowns.”

“Only to annoy him.”

“Did it work?”

“He forgot his own name twice.”

“And the extra cuts and bruises?”

“Worth it.”

She shoves the uniform at me. “Not in winter. Not with me. Get dressed.”

“You stole from Basgiath?”

“They won’t remember.” She turns her back. “Hurry up.”

Maeve looks between me and Imogen. Her fingers open each hook in sequence. The champagne silk drops from my shoulders, hesitates at my hips, then puddles around my ankles. She retrieves it, gives it one sharp shake, and abandons it on the chair. She leaves. The door clicks behind her.

The leather pants stick against my skin going up. The waist digs in when I fasten it, but the hem breaks at the right place. The top swims around my shoulders. My hands disappear entirely in the sleeves. When I lift my arms, the shoulder seams migrate halfway down to my elbows.

“Turn,” Imogen says.

I turn. She grabs a fistful of leather at my spine.

“Useless. You’ll snag on everything.” She releases it. “Strip. Next size.”

I peel off the oversized top and pull on the smaller one. The leather grips my shoulders properly. The sleeves stop at my wrists instead of drowning them.

I turn to the mirror.

Black leather from throat to ankle. I look like Xaden, like Garrick, like Imogen. Like the riders who circle the palace before heading east to patrol Tyrrendor’s border.

Maybe in another life I could have been this. Could have walked through Basgiath’s gates at twenty and stood in the same courtyard where Alic stood four years ago. Could have chosen the Riders Quadrant like he did.

Instead I watch Father’s war from palace windows while he sits safe in his throne room.

Alic died in October of his first year. The dragons never even knew his name. Maybe that meant something. Maybe Tauris were meant to rule from throne rooms, not die reaching for wings we were never meant to have.

“Done admiring yourself?” Imogen stands at the door. “We’re late.”

“How can we be late to our own training?”

“My patience has a schedule.” She turns into the hallway. “Move.”

We step into the corridor. Garrick leans into the wall where I left him, one boot flat against stone. His eyes pause on the leather, then lift to my face.

“How do we get to the training grounds without Xaden’s shadows?”

“Me.” Garrick extends his hand, palm up. “Unless you’d rather walk.”

Imogen snorts. “See you in ten.”

I grab his offered hand. Distance eats itself. My stomach stays in the corridor while my feet slam into snow. The walls dissolve into sky pierced with stars. Wind rakes across my face and my next breath freezes my lungs. Garrick already leans against the weapons rack, brushing ice from his shoulders.

Bile climbs my throat. “Is there any way to travel that doesn’t ruin me?”

“Walking.” He tests the weight of a practice sword. “Or dragons, but that’s worse.”

“Sgaeyl wasn’t that bad.”

The sword stills. “You rode Sgaeyl?”

“Twice.”

“Xaden put you on his dragon.” His voice drops. “And Sgaeyl allowed it.”

“I think it was her idea. At least that’s how it sounded when he was arguing with nothing.”

“He was definitely arguing with her.” He pulls a second blade free. “She never makes anything easy for him.”

“Yeah, but it sounded like she wanted to take me. She kept interrupting him.”

Garrick’s fingers tighten on the sword hilt. “Sgaeyl wanted to carry you?”

“Why are you pulling two swords? You said you weren’t training me.”

“I’m not.” He holds one sword, then the other, looking between them and me. He returns one to the rack and tosses me the other. “Imogen is. I’m just here to watch.”

I catch it. The weight doesn’t drag my wrist down like the ceremonial swords at court. When I lift it, my arm doesn’t shake.

“Where is she?”

“Walking. Like normal people.” He crosses his arms. “She’ll be here.”

I walk to the straw dummy. The sword wants to point at the ground. I plant my feet the way Xaden did. Everything feels wrong.

“I’ve only learned hand-to-hand.” The grip shifts in my palm. “And daggers.”

“Your feet.” Garrick stays by the weapons rack. “Wider.”

I spread them. He steps closer, stops six feet away.

“Knees bent. Elbow up.” He shows me with his empty hands.

“You could just move my arm.”

“Xaden said don’t fucking touch her unless absolutely necessary.” He points at my elbow. “This isn’t necessary. Higher.”

He left. Pushed me away, said I wanted to see what it was like with the help. Now he’s giving orders about my body from Basgiath. My molars grind together.

“Higher.” Garrick points again.

I raise my elbow.

Footsteps crunch through snow. Imogen arrives.

“Started without me?”

“Just watching her fail.” Garrick returns to the rack. “She’s yours.”

“First time with a sword?” Imogen walks behind me.

“Yes. Xaden taught me daggers and hand-to-hand.”

Her boot hooks my ankle. My feet leave the ground. Snow slams into my spine and steals my breath. She pulls the sword from my hand and throws it one-handed. The blade sticks in the fence post deep enough that the guard touches wood.

“Then we use what you know.”

She steps into the ring. Drops her weight. Raises her hands. Her shadow falls black across the snow.

“Up.”

My knees sink deeper into snow as I push upright. Ice drops from my braid. I walk three steps to the ring’s edge and cross over.

Imogen’s fist arrives at my ribs before I settle my weight. I twist away and her knuckles scrape along my spine. She plants her foot and whips back around, driving her knee toward my stomach. I hammer both palms down on her thigh and skip backward.

She follows me across the ring. Her hook catches my shoulder and yanks me sideways. I let the momentum carry me, drop low, and bury my elbow into the meat of her thigh. Air punches out of her.

She prowls left. I mirror her, weight back the way Xaden beat into me. She dives for my legs. I hop the sweep and stab my heel at her planted knee while she’s committed. She rolls her leg away and my heel thumps muscle instead of joint.

We break apart and orbit each other in the moonlight.

“Shit.” Garrick breathes it.

Imogen charges. I drop and roll right. Her momentum carries her past me. I sweep her ankle from behind exactly where she caught mine. She hits the ground hard, snow flying everywhere.

Imogen pushes up from the snow. Ice clings to her eyebrows. She spits out dirt and blood where she bit her tongue.

“How long has he been training you?” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Almost two months. Every night.” I keep my guard up. “He doesn’t pull punches.”

“Neither do I.” She rolls her shoulders. “I was going easy. Thought you were decorative.”

“Most people do.”

“My mistake.” She settles back into her stance. Her weight drops lower this time. Her hands come up tighter. “Won’t make it again.”

She moves. Not like before. Before was testing. This is hunting. Her fist blurs toward my face. I duck. Her knee meets my ribs on the way down. My lungs empty. Her elbow drops. I twist but it still catches my shoulder and sends me sideways.

I roll from her boot. Snow packs into my mouth and nose. Her heel stamps where my skull was. I push upright but she’s already there, her shoulder driving into my stomach. My spine meets ground. She lands on me, all her weight on my chest.

Her forearm locks across my throat. “That’s what real speed looks like.”

Two months ago, my body would have quit. Would have sobbed for air under her weight. But Xaden’s beaten the quit out of me.

I fold my knees to my chest and drive both feet into her stomach. Her eyes go wide. I shove hard. She flies backward off me. As she goes, I hook her neck with my arm and roll with her momentum. We tumble through snow. I end up on her back with my elbow locked under her chin.

She bucks hard. I wrap my legs around her waist and lock my ankles.

“Flexible little shit,” she gasps against my arm.

She gets her feet under her with me still on her back and stands. I’m smaller but not that much smaller. She shouldn’t be able to—

She runs backward, fast. The fence post rushes at my spine. I let go and try to twist away but the wood slams between my shoulder blades. My skull cracks against the post and everything goes white. I slide down into the snow.

Imogen turns around with blood running from her nose where my elbow caught her. “Done?”

I try to stand but the ground tilts. I grab the fence to keep from falling.

“She’s done,” Garrick says.

An hour later, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve hit the ground. My ribs throb with each breath. My lip is split. Snow has soaked through the leather in every place I’ve landed. Imogen looks like she could go another hour.

“Again.” She beckons me forward.

I can’t lift my arms above my shoulders anymore. She sweeps my legs and I hit the ground flat on my back.

“Enough.” She offers her hand and I take it. She hauls me upright. “You surprised me.”

“By lasting this long?”

“By not crying.” She wipes blood from her nose. “You’re better than the first years I trained last year. Better than—”

Garrick clears his throat.

“—than most,” she finishes. “Same time tomorrow.”

Three days pass in the same pattern. Morning bandages that need less wrapping each time. Lessons where I conjugate Krovlish wrong on purpose to make the tutor’s eye twitch. Thomas appears once with his sack, twice without it. Garrick nods at him both times. Midnight training where Imogen beats me into the ground until I know every stone in the yard. She stops pulling her punches after that first night. My body collects new bruises on top of old ones, purple over yellow over green.

The fourth morning, Maeve shakes me awake before sunrise. “Prince Halden returns from Basgiath today.” She pulls a midnight blue court dress from the wardrobe. “Full formal breakfast in an hour. The whole court’s been summoned.”

Imogen sits up from the chair where she’s been sleeping. “The crown prince is back?”

“Within the hour.” Maeve lays out the dress. “Which means we have thirty minutes to make her presentable. The bath’s already drawn.”

The bath water burns against my bruises. Maeve pours vanilla oil from a Poromish bottle with this week’s import seal still intact. The scent sticks in my throat. Steam clouds the mirror.

Halden is home. My brother still calls me “little crown” though I’ve bled every month for years now. He brings me candied figs from every journey because I liked them once when I was seven. He loves me more than anyone else in this palace, more than Father who remembers I exist when he needs my womb. But Halden walks into rooms the same way Father does, chin first, expecting submission. My brother wins every battle Father sends him to fight. When I try to tell him anything real, he touches my head like I’m still sixteen and crying over Alic’s death.

“Stop picking the scab,” Maeve says.

I look down. Blood curls through the water.

Maeve and Imogen dry me with towels that scratch my tender skin. The midnight blue dress weighs more than the champagne gauze. Beading covers the bodice, thousands of crystals catching light with every breath. The sleeves fit tight to my wrists. The skirt falls straight to the floor, heavy enough that walking takes effort.

Imogen works the hooks up my back while Maeve pins my hair into something severe. They cover the bruises with powder until my skin looks like it belongs to someone else, someone who hasn’t been thrown into snow every night.

“Done.” Maeve steps back to examine their work. “Remember to eat slowly. Small bites. The bruise on your ribs will show if you reach too far.”

Garrick waits in the corridor. He’s changed into formal guard attire, the black uniform with gold trim that marks him as personal protection. The fabric strains across his shoulders where leather armor usually sits.

“Where’s Imogen?”

“Staying with Maeve.” He offers his arm. Court protocol demands it. “Ready?”

I take his arm. The muscle underneath feels like stone. We walk toward the great hall where I can already hear voices, laughter, the sounds of my brother holding court before the sun fully rises.

We turn the corner toward the great hall. The voices grow louder.

“My brother will test you,” I say. “He likes making people uncomfortable.”

“Most crown princes do.”

“You’ve met others?”

“Figure of speech.” He keeps his eyes forward. “How does he test people?”

“Questions designed to make you stumble. Comments about your father. That rebellion mark on your neck.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

“From who?”

“Everyone.” The word lands heavy between us. “Your brother won’t be special.”

The casual dismissal of Halden makes me want to laugh. No one dismisses Halden.

“He’s not used to being ignored.”

“Then this should be educational.”

We reach the great hall doors. He pauses before the guards open them. “Anything else I should know?”

“He just got back from Basgiath.”

His jaw tightens for half a second before relaxing.

“Interesting,” he says, and nods to the guards.

The doors open.

The great hall hits us with heat and a hundred voices at once. Chairs scrape stone as the court rises. I keep my hand on Garrick’s arm and walk through the parted crowd toward the high table. Father’s chair stands empty. Halden leans against it in his dark-blue infantry uniform, not a wrinkle despite days on the road. His sandy-brown hair needs cutting. The smirk that lives on his mouth deepens when he sees me. His green eyes track my approach like nothing else in the room exists.

“Little crown.” He pushes off Father’s chair and comes at me. His hands frame my face, thumbs pressing my cheeks. “You look terrible.”

“You smell like horse.”

“Missed you too.” He pulls me against his chest hard enough that my ribs protest. My face mashes into his sternum. His arms lock around me like he’s trying to press me into his bones. When he finally lets go, his thumb finds the edge of my jaw where powder hides a bruise. “What happened here?”

“I fell.”

“You fell.” His eyes narrow. “And your lip?”

“Same fall.”

“Clumsy.” But his thumb keeps tracing the bruise line, trying to find the edges under the powder. His eyes lift over my shoulder to where Garrick stands. “Who’s this?”

“My guard.”

The smirk drops off Halden’s mouth entirely.

“Your guard.” Halden’s green eyes fix on the rebellion relic running from Garrick’s shoulder down his arm. “Father gave you one of them?”

“He’s temporary. My actual guard is at Basgiath on business.”

“Temporary.” Halden looks at Garrick like he’s something stuck to his boot. “And where’s your actual guard?”

“I just told you. Basgiath.”

“For how long?”

“Four days.”

“Who is he?” Halden’s voice sharpens. “Which family? Which province?”

“He won the tournament. That’s all that matters.”

“That’s not an answer.” His thumb presses harder against my jaw. “Who did Father choose?”

“Xaden Riorson.”

Halden’s hand falls away from my face entirely. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Xaden Riorson. The rebellion leader’s son.” He looks between me and Garrick. “And this one’s his friend. Father put two marked ones in charge of your life?”

“They’re the best fighters in Navarre.”

“They’re traitors’ spawn.” His voice carries across the hall. Several nobles stop eating to stare. “Their parents tried to destroy everything our family built.”

“Our family built nothing.” I watch his face change as I say it. “The Tauri name existed before Father took the throne. We inherit. We don’t create.”

“Father keeps the peace.” Halden’s shoulders square. “He won the rebellion against Tyrrendor. He holds the borders. He prevents another war.”

I think of the grain rotting in storage while people starve. The gold his council hoards while soldiers die with rusted weapons. My teeth click together to keep the words inside.

“You’re pale.” Halden touches my elbow. “When did you last eat?”

“Yesterday.”

“Yesterday?” His eyes narrow at Garrick. “Is starving her part of your protection?”

“I’m just hungry, Halden. Can we sit?”

He guides me to the high table with his hand on my lower back. Garrick follows three steps behind. The nobles return to their conversations as we sit, though I catch them watching from the corners of their eyes. Halden pulls a small cloth bundle from his pocket and sets it between us.

“Candied figs from Morraine.” He unwraps them one by one. The sugar crystals stick to his fingers. “The vendor remembered you. Said these are made the same way as when you were seven.”

The same vendor. The same story. The same figs I haven’t wanted since I was seven, crying over a mother I never met. I take one anyway and let the sugar dissolve on my tongue while he watches me eat it.

“Perfect?” he asks.

“Perfect,” I say, because that’s my line.

“How are the tours going?” I ask, pushing the bundle back toward him. “The provinces must be thrilled to see their crown prince.”

“Tedious.” He selects a fig for himself. “Every minor lord wants reassurance that the crown remembers them. Every province swears they’re more loyal than the last.” He bites into the fig and chews slowly. “Though Basgiath was different. Interesting dynamics in the Riders Quadrant this year.”

My fingers tighten on my cup. “Oh?”

“Do you remember the letters I wrote my first year? About that girl?”

“You wrote about many girls. Including your professor.”

His mouth quirks. “Fair. But this one was different. Silver-haired. Violet.” He watches my face. “General Sorrengail’s daughter.”

I shake my head. “I don’t remember.”

“Well, she was supposed to be a scribe. That’s all she talked about back then. Books and history and translations.” He takes another fig. “Imagine my surprise seeing her in the Riders Quadrant. Bonded two dragons. Two. Never been done before.”

“Two dragons?” I set my cup down. “That’s impossible.”

“That’s what everyone said.” Halden examines another fig before eating it. “Until she did it. Quite the achievement for a girl meant for the Scribe Quadrant.”

“She must be exceptional.”

“Oh, she is.” His perfect mouth twists. “Exceptional enough to reject a crown prince. In public. Told me she wasn’t interested.”

The water pauses at my lips. “She rejected you?”

“A scribe’s daughter turning down the future king of Navarre.” He drains his wine. “And then I see her with your guard. At Basgiath. Together.”

I turn to Garrick. “Does Xaden have quarters at Basgiath?”

Garrick’s expression doesn’t change. “He’s not at Basgiath.”

“When he goes there. For business.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You trained there for years.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Only those stationed there get quarters.”

“Then where does he stay?”

“I don’t know.”

Halden sets down his empty cup. “Does it matter where he stays? The point is Violet Sorrengail chose a marked one over me. Let that sink in, little crown.”

The fig sticks in my throat. Two dragons chose her. She walks into danger and masters it. She tells princes no because she doesn’t need them. She sees Xaden at Basgiath where he has no quarters, where he goes at night, where he is when he’s not here guarding me because I can’t guard myself.

I know the names of forks. She knows the names of dragons.

I need three people to keep me alive. She rejected the crown prince.

My stomach contracts. The fig pushes back up my throat, bringing wine and bile with it.

“I need air.”

I stand too fast and the chair tips backward. Halden reaches for me but I’m already moving. The nobles’ faces blur as I pass. My mouth fills with acid. Garrick’s boots strike stone behind me. The door seems impossibly far. My throat burns worse with each step. I make it three steps into the corridor before I vomit against the wall. Sugar and wine and fig splatter the stone. My knees hit the floor. I retch again. Nothing left but acid.

Garrick’s hand hovers near my shoulder without touching. “Your Highness.”

I spit bile onto stone and wish I was anyone else.

Chapter Text

Garrick shoves his handkerchief at me. The rough linen drags yellow from my mouth when I wipe, but the taste stays.

“Company.”

I plant both hands on the wall and push until my legs hold my weight alone.

“Daughter.”

Father occupies the corridor where it bends toward the great hall. The crown tilts forward on his narrow head like it might slide off. Three guards shadow him. He stares at the vomit on his wall, then at me.

“Stand properly.”

My body obeys in pieces. First the shoulders, then the spine, then the chin to its proper angle. I trap both hands behind my back where the shaking won’t show. Acid climbs my throat again.

“Yes, Father.”

“My annual birthday hunt has been rescheduled for tomorrow to accommodate Halden’s visit.” Father’s teeth click together between sentences. “You will ride beside your brother. You will smile. You will not vomit on anything else I own.”

I nod.

His gaze slides to Garrick. “The Travis boy.”

“Tavis,” I say.

“Whatever your name is.” Father’s eyes track the rebellion relic visible above Garrick’s collar. “My men should have explained—one mistake and you’ll join your father. Though I doubt anyone will bother watching your execution.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Garrick’s jaw hardens with each word.

Father turns his back on us both. “Have someone clean this.” He strides toward the great hall, then stops three steps away. “The court expects you this morning, Ayla. Try not to disgrace me twice in one morning.”

I drag air into my lungs and hold it until the corridor stops spinning. Father vanishes into the great hall. The doors close.

“Tell me you’re adopted.” Garrick’s words carry no humor.

“Not all Tauris are monsters.” I press my palms flat against my thighs. “Cam was the kindest—is. Is the kindest.” The words catch. “He’s the best of us.”

“Maybe I’ll run into him someday.” Garrick shrugs.

“Cam vanished this summer.” I press my palms harder against my thighs. “Right before they held the tournament for my new guard. Father lies about where he is.”

Garrick stares at me for three breaths, then looks away. “Your father’s waiting.”

The great hall swallows us in heat and voices. Every noble rises at once. I navigate between their bows to reach the high table, where Halden waits with his candied figs already unwrapped. He pushes one into my mouth before I can refuse. The sugar makes me gag but I chew anyway. He watches every swallow.

Father stands. The nobles quiet. “Tomorrow we hunt the white fang direwolf.” He lets that sink in. “This beast appears once in a generation, drawn by royal blood. It comes for my son’s return.”

The hall erupts. Fists beat tables. Wine sloshes from raised cups. Halden feeds me another fig while my stomach clenches around the first one.

Breakfast crawls through three courses. Halden snaps his fingers at the serving girl for more wine. “Sera,” I remind him. She’s poured for us since I was ten. When Master Elwick arrives with his Krovlish texts, Halden cuts him off mid-bow. “The princess has duties today.” Elwick retreats, books clutched to his chest.

Thomas drags his sack past our table. Something wet darkens the canvas bottom. Halden’s nose wrinkles. “Get that thing away from here.”

“He’s working,” I say.

“It reeks.”

Later, Seraphina brings afternoon tarts. Halden takes two without acknowledging her. She served at his eighteenth birthday. His twentieth. Every feast between. Her name never crosses his lips.

The castle quiets.

Maeve braids my hair. Imogen cleans her blade. They leave together after dark.

Garrick stands guard outside my door. I wait an hour, then pour water across my sheets. The fabric soaks through to the mattress. I open the door.

“I knocked over the pitcher. Everything’s wet.”

“Sleep on the couch.”

“The whole mattress is soaked. It’ll mold.” I keep my voice tired but reasonable. “There are spare mattresses in the lower storage. The servants move them for deep cleaning.”

“Ring for someone.”

“It’s past midnight. Please. You know where the storage rooms are.”

He looks at the soaked bed. Water drips onto the floor.

“That’ll take twenty minutes to haul up here.”

“I’ll start stripping the wet bedding while you’re gone.”

He stares at me. I stare back.

“Fine. Lock your door.”

I nod. He heads for the stairs. When I can’t hear his boots anymore, I step into the hall. Xaden’s door is three steps away. I press my palm flat against it and feel the ward’s recognition like static lifting the fine hairs on my wrist. The lock clicks. I’m inside.

Cold air meets me, thicker than in the corridor. The bed stays made with military corners. No dent marks the pillow where Garrick would have slept. I close the door and cross to the desk.

Twenty minutes.

His desk is bare. Not even an ink stain marks the wood.

The drawer lock stares at me. I work the hairpin free from my braid and crouch in front of it. My hand hovers at the keyhole. My hand freezes. He trusted me enough to key the wards to let me in. Now I’m about to break into the one thing he locked against me.

But I need to know who he is when I’m not watching. I need answers more than I need his trust.

The pin slips into the lock. I turn it until metal catches metal. The drawer slides open without a sound.

Correspondence about guard rotations lies on top, requisition forms beneath, and a whetstone worn smooth from use tucked in the corner. I lift each paper and search the drawer’s corners for anything hidden. Every page stamped with official seals. No trace of the man who sleeps in this room.

The second lock resists until my wrist cramps. It gives with a grinding click.

Chaos inside. Dried ink bottles rolling against loose quills. Sealing wax but no seal. Three coins that catch the light wrong. Poromish silver in a Navarrian drawer. At the back, leather-bound pages.

The book cracks when it opens. Lists in Xaden’s hand. Names and stations across Navarre. Garrick at Samara. Imogen at Basgiath. Each with a dragon breed noted beside their name. A registry of dragon riders scattered to various posts.

I drop it with the other papers and crouch at the third drawer. Nine minutes left.

The third drawer’s lock hangs loose.

Oil-stained rags fill most of the drawer. I push them aside. A broken belt buckle. Two leather gloves that don’t match. My fingers find metal at the back. A medal, its surface black with age. The Riorson crest shows through the tarnish when I tilt it toward the window where bone-pale light ghosts through the dark.

I replace everything exactly as I found it. My throat tightens. Xaden trusted me enough to key his wards for me, and I’m ransacking his desk for secrets that don’t exist. My stomach turns the way it did when Father found me at his wall.

Two minutes. I need to leave.

I’m at the door when it hits me.

I hide letters in books. Xaden might too.

Forty seconds.

The registry sits where I dropped it. I snatch it up and shake. Something shifts between pages. I shake harder. A letter drops onto the desk.

Purple ink on lavender paper. A woman’s script curves across the fold.

Violet Sorrengail.

Footsteps on the stairs. Still distant but climbing fast.

Twenty seconds.

I take three deep breaths. My fingers won’t work properly. The paper tears at the corner when I unfold it. Dated three days after the tournament.

Xaden—

I won’t pretend to understand why you left. But I know you wouldn’t have gone without reason.

Tairn is restless. Sgaeyl must be too. You know what happens to one of us if the other dies. The dragons made that choice for us.

Bodhi shadows me everywhere. The others won’t say why. But I know.

I’ll keep things stable here—whatever needs handling at Basgiath, I’ll handle it.

The blade you gave me stays under my pillow.

You made it clear we’re not discussing what happened between us. Fine. But you can’t avoid me forever. Not with her, not with distance, not with silence.

Tairn and Sgaeyl are mated. Eventually they won’t tolerate the separation.

—Your Violence

Bile floods my mouth. I swallow it back and taste acid and morning figs. My knees buckle. I catch myself on his desk. The letter crumples in my fist.

Eight seconds. Garrick’s boots on my landing.

The blade under her pillow. What happened between them. Your Violence.

Mated dragons can’t stay apart. Every absence. Every trip to Basgiath. Her.

My stomach heaves. I’m going to vomit on his floor.

The door opens before I can run.

Garrick fills the doorway. His eyes lock on the book.

He moves faster than Xaden ever has. The book rips from my hands as his body drives mine back. My spine hits the desk edge. He brackets me there, hips pressed to mine to keep me still. The letter floats between us. He snatches it midair with one hand while the other pins both my wrists behind me.

He reads over my shoulder while I’m trapped against him, his breath hot against my temple.

“Just Violet.” His chest rises and falls against mine. “This is what you wanted to find?”

“I had to know.”

“Know what?” His body still pins mine. “That he has a past? That someone wants him?”

“That he goes to her.” The words tear out. “Every time he leaves. The dragons—”

“Their dragons are mated. So?” He releases my wrists but doesn’t step back. “That doesn’t mean he wants her.”

“The letter says—”

“The letter says what Violet wants. Not what he wants.” He pulls back enough to look at my face. “You’re jealous of words on paper.”

“She signs it ‘Your Violence.’”

He crumples the letter. “And you’re his princess. Which do you think matters more to him?”

“I’m not his princess. I’m his burden.”

“You’re—” He stops. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. “Fuck. You really don’t know.”

“Know what?”

“Nothing. Fix the desk.”

“Tell me—”

“No.” He doesn’t move back. “You want to know about Violet? They have history. Before you. Happy?”

My stomach heaves again.

“That’s what I thought.” He reaches past me to grab the book, his chest crushing against mine. “Now put everything back.”

“I can’t—you’re—”

“I’m what?” His face is too close. I can see brown flecks in his hazel eyes.

“Too close.”

“Yeah, well.” His gaze drops again. “Now I get why he trains you until you bleed. Safer than the alternative.”

“What alternative?”

“You really need me to spell it out?”

“I don’t—”

“Yeah, you do.” His hands grip the desk edge on either side of me. “Clean this up. We don’t have time.”

“I can’t reach with you—”

“Sure you can.” But he leans back slightly. “There. Better?”

I fold the letter. Purple ink stains my fingertips.

“Did he love her?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m asking you.”

“And I’m telling you to ask him.” He pushes off the desk completely. “If you want to know about Xaden’s feelings, grow a spine and ask Xaden.”

I slam the drawer shut.

“Your mattress.” He checks the hallway. “Come on. Before someone sees us.”

Water streams from the mattress as we lift. Garrick takes the heavier end. Against the wall, it continues draining. The replacement goes on easier. Purple ink marks everywhere I’ve touched. Garrick notices every single one.

“Garrick.”

He stops at my door.

“Thank you. And I’m sorry for—”

“For what? Getting me killed?” He still doesn’t turn. “Too late. Touched you, pinned you to furniture. I’m already dead. Xaden just doesn’t know it yet.”

The door closes. His weight settles against the wall outside.

The linen chest sticks. I use my knee to hold it open while I dig out sheets. They’re the good ones. Maeve will notice. I take them anyway.

First sheet. Second sheet. The corners don’t match but I don’t fix them. The winter blanket is at the bottom of the chest, wrapped in paper to keep moths out. It takes both hands to lift. When I spread it over the bed, dust rises. I sneeze twice.

My hands are still purple.

In my bathing chamber, I run water hot enough to hurt. It doesn’t, but it should. Steam clouds the mirror. I scrub with the strongest soap I can find. The ink lifts from my skin but not from the creases, not from under my nails. I scrub until I bleed. When I finally stop, traces of purple still mark every line in my palms.

The bed is too soft when I finally get in it.

I turn over again. The sheets tangle around my legs. My spine throbs from where Garrick drove me back against Xaden’s desk. All to read that letter. The one where Violet tells Xaden about the blade under her pillow. Where she signs herself Your Violence. I shouldn’t have looked. Now I know why Xaden goes to Basgiath. Now I know the dragons mate them together. I press the pillow over my face and bite down on fabric.

I don’t just sleep. I drown.

When I surface, a woman stands before me, heavy with child. She tilts her head back. Something dark crawls into her mouth. She doesn’t fight it. Her veins turn black. The baby kicks. Its foot presses against her belly from inside. The footprint it leaves is charred.

The woman becomes smoke. A white direwolf paces where she stood. It has my eyes. Shadows wrap around its legs like chains. It fights them. The more it struggles, the more shadows come. They swallow everything but its eyes—my eyes.

My vision tears in half. I stare at myself now, standing in snow. Blood runs from my palm. Four drops. The first black, then three gold. They spread into wings and lift from the ground, circling me while I watch myself from somewhere else.

The wings braid into metal. My blood becomes a crown. It lands on Father’s head and splits him down the middle. No—splits itself. Two halves fall. Halden catches his. I catch mine. Sharp edges slice our palms open. We bleed as we put them on. Neither half makes a whole.

The broken crowns melt into glass.

Shards everywhere. Each piece reflects something different. A crown. A throne. Blood. Dragons. Death. Me. Not me. All me. I try to look away but every surface holds my face. Every future. Every ending. In the largest shard, I see myself clearly: standing alone above bodies I can’t count.

The bodies pull me under.

I surface in my bed, gasping. Snow has buried the world outside my window.

Three horns sound. The royal hunt begins.

Chapter Text

Imogen pulls my hair into sections. The braids start at my temples and work back. She pins each one with something metal. Moons first, then stars. My skull becomes a constellation.

“Don’t move.”

I watch snow fall outside the window. It started during the night. The courtyard has gone white.

Maeve brings the hunting leathers. Black with gold thread worked through the seams. They smell like tanner’s oil and dead animal. She helps me into them and starts the laces.

“How tight?”

“Until you can’t.”

She pulls. My ribs compress. The leather holds everything in place like armor.

Imogen threads feathers through the braids. White ones. Then gold rings that click against the pins when I turn my head. The weight makes my neck ache.

“Done.”

I check the mirror. They’ve transformed me into someone who belongs at a royal hunt.

Garrick knocks. “Your father’s waiting.”

“Hope you’re prepared for hours in a carriage with my family.” I strap one of Xaden’s daggers to my thigh. The leather sheath sits perfectly against the hunting leathers.

“I’ve survived worse.”

“Have you?” I let my coat fall over the weapon, hiding it.

“I’ll let you know after.”

The hunting party fills the courtyard. Pavilions in house colors snap in the wind. The Morraine tent stands beside Father’s. Their banners tangle together.

The Duchess’s son positions himself where I can’t avoid him. Two cups of mulled wine steam in his hands.

“The Duchess of Morraine’s son,” I say to Garrick. “Of course.”

“Want me to spill his wine?”

“Not yet.”

“Zihnal must favor him.” Garrick watches the son straighten his collar for the third time. “If Xaden were here instead of me, this hunt would turn into a funeral before we reached the forest.”

“Xaden has more self-control than that.”

“Not when it comes to you.”

“Are we talking about the same Xaden? The one who can’t get far enough away from me?”

Garrick’s mouth twitches. “Yeah. That one.”

The Duchess’s son navigates the ice while balancing both cups. With his golden-brown skin and short dark hair, he looks like every other duchess’s son I’ve met, except for the wine stain spreading across his cuff.

“Princess Ayla.” He offers one cup. “I thought you might need warmth before we ride.”

“It’s Your Highness.”

“Of course. Your Highness.” He keeps holding out the cup. “I thought you might need warmth.”

“I don’t feel cold.”

“Then perhaps for the taste?” He keeps the cup extended. “My mother chose it from Morraine’s private reserve.”

“How generous. Has she stopped questioning my father’s intelligence yet?”

His arm lowers slightly. “I—what?”

“Your mother. Last time we spoke, she had concerns about the king’s judgment.”

“I’m sure she meant no—”

“She meant exactly what she said.” I look past him to Father’s pavilion. “As did I.”

He places my cup on the table and drains half of his. His hand returns to his collar for the fourth time.

“Perhaps we could start again,” he says. “I’m Aldric.”

“I know who you are.”

Father appears before Aldric can respond. Snow catches in his gray beard and melts immediately. “Lord Aldric was just telling me about the white stag he took last season.”

“Luck, Your Majesty,” Aldric says.

“Skill.” Father brushes snow from his shoulder. “The kind that runs in noble blood.”

“Pity it wasn’t the white fang direwolf. The stories say only true kings see them.”

The muscle in his cheek jumps.

“You’ll ride in Lord Aldric’s carriage to the forest.”

“I have a guard.”

“Who will follow on horseback.” He turns to Aldric. “Show my daughter Morraine’s hospitality.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Father walks back to his pavilion. Aldric offers his arm, wine still clutched in his other hand.

“Shall we?”

I don’t take it. “Where’s this carriage?”

“This way, Your Highness.”

Garrick follows three steps behind us. The snow has thickened. Servants scatter salt between the pavilions. The Morraine carriage sits at the courtyard’s edge. Red and black paint covers every surface, the red identical to the rubies in Aldric’s pommel. Four horses stamp their feet and blow steam through their nostrils.

The driver opens the door. Black velvet seats run along both walls, red trim marking every edge. The whole carriage reeks of perfume and leather polish.

“After you, Your Highness,” Aldric says.

I climb in. The seats swallow me when I sit. Aldric follows and sits across from me. The carriage rocks as the driver climbs up.

“Where’s my guard?” I ask.

“Following on horseback, as your father commanded.”

“I command him to ride with us.”

“That’s not what the king—”

“Do you see my father here?” I lean forward. “I’m your princess. That outranks a duchess’s heir.”

Aldric’s mouth opens, then closes. He taps the roof. “Make room for the princess’s guard.”

The door opens. Garrick climbs in and takes the seat beside me. Snow falls from his shoulders onto the velvet.

“Cozy,” he says.

Aldric turns to the window. Three horn blasts signal departure. The carriage jerks forward, and the palace disappears behind walls of pine.

Aldric sips his wine. Steam fogs the window where his breath hits the glass.

An hour to my father’s hunting grounds. Pines crowd the road, branches sagging with snow. Ancient oaks twist between them, their bark black and wet. The road narrows until carriages have to pass single file.

I touch the dagger through my coat.

“Have you hunted the white fang direwolf before?” Aldric asks.

“No one has. That’s why we’re hunting it.”

“My mother warned me about your tongue,” Aldric says. “She failed to mention it was one of your better qualities.”

“Your mother called my guard a blade to my throat.”

Garrick’s leather creaks as he shifts forward.

“She told me.” Aldric takes another sip of wine. “Said you disagreed rather vigorously.”

“I did.”

“She was furious for days.”

“Good.”

He looks at me, then at Garrick, then back at his wine. “Right.”

The carriage hits a hole. Garrick’s shoulder jerks forward with the momentum. His elbow catches Aldric’s cup. Wine floods across Aldric’s lap.

“Shit.” Garrick straightens. “Road’s rough.”

Aldric stares at the wine soaking through his pants. “It’s fine.”

“How long to your father’s grounds?” he asks, dabbing at the wine with his cloak.

“An hour.”

“Have you hunted there before?”

“Every year since I could ride.”

“But not the direwolf.”

“Like I said, no one has.”

He wrings his cloak dry. The forest darkens outside the windows. Pine branches drag across the carriage roof with a sound like fingernails.

The carriage stops. No snow covers the ground here, though we just rode through drifts.

Father built a city of silk in this clearing. Over a hundred pavilions spread across bare mud and grass that stays green in winter. The air burns warm against my face. Servants haul roasted deer between the tents, and smoke from their fires drifts without wind. Someone arranged weapons beside each pavilion for display. My bow catches light on Father’s rack.

I step down. Mud sucks at my boots.

Halden abandons Father’s tent with wine in hand. He studies Aldric’s soaked trousers and grins.

“Baby sister. Making friends?”

“Lord Aldric and I are practically family. His mother adores me.”

Halden laughs. “She called you feral.”

“Exactly. Adoration.”

We walk planks laid across the mud to the central pavilion. Inside, they’ve assembled the throne room. Father’s chair stands on its platform. Tables run the tent’s length, set for forty. The tapestries hang in their usual order. Five braziers burn, and everyone sweats in the trapped heat.

“We have archery masters at Morraine,” Aldric announces. “From Luceras. They could refine your technique.”

“My technique doesn’t need refining.”

“Of course not. I meant—they could learn from you.”

Garrick steps on the back of Aldric’s boot. Aldric stumbles.

“My fault.” Garrick pulls Aldric upright. “Crowded in here with all these nobles.”

“Quite alright.” Aldric tests his heel.

I cross to where the ladies have arranged their territory with cushions and carpets and three separate tea services. They stop talking when I approach. The Duchess of Morraine sets down her cup.

“You were saying about Morraine’s masters?” I keep walking past them toward the tent’s far wall.

“For your use when you visit.” Aldric follows. “Or if you decide to reside there.”

I turn to face him. The ladies pretend to pour tea.

“If I decide to reside there.”

“Yes. If you decide.”

“We’re done here.”

Garrick shadows me through the crowd. The nobles bunch in worried clusters, voices low but urgent.

“Three provinces can’t pay their levies. The roads are dead.”

“Dead like the tax collectors they keep finding.”

“The king promises protection that never comes.”

A lord slams his cup on a table. “If the king can’t secure tax routes, why should we send tribute?”

Conversations die as I climb the platform steps. Father rips meat from bone with his teeth.

“Ayla, finally.” He doesn’t look up. “Sit. Halden, bring Lord Aldric. We’ll eat together.”

I slam both palms on the table. Father’s wine cup tips and red spreads across white cloth.

His plate slides into his lap.

“You brought him here to take me.”

Meat falls onto Father’s hunting leathers. He brushes it off and looks at me for the first time.

“I brought many lords here.”

“One of them is measuring me for his household.”

“Lord Aldric expressed interest. I’m allowing him to present his case.” Father reaches for more meat. “Nothing more.”

“Present his case? Like I’m livestock at market?”

“Like you’re a princess who needs a husband.” He bites into the new piece. “We scout after breakfast. This discussion can wait.”

“It can’t—”

“It will.” He chews slowly. “Sit. Smile. Eat.”

Halden touches my shoulder. “Ayla.”

I turn. Aldric stands behind him, his face gone pale. The entire tent watches us. Heat from the braziers presses against my skin. The canvas walls shrink inward. Sweat runs down my spine beneath the leather. I can’t breathe in here.

I back away from the table and run.

The tent erupts behind me. Father shouts for guards while nobles scramble and porcelain crashes. I reach the weapons rack and pull my bow free. The quiver catches on the display. I yank it loose.

Malek waits with the other horses, pawing at the mud. I untie his lead and vault onto his bare back. Garrick appears at my side.

“Where are you going?”

“Away from here.”

Malek surges forward before anyone else can reach us.

Malek’s stride breaks as I twist to look back. Garrick mounts a chestnut mare that fights his unfamiliar weight. Father stands at the pavilion’s entrance and lifts his hand to halt the guards reaching for their horses. He lets me go.

I turn forward and give Malek his head. We plunge into the forest.

Malek runs the line between dragon summer and true winter. Birds sing on my right while ice crystals form on the left. I flatten against his neck as he ducks under a branch that has leaves on one side and icicles on the other.

My legs shake from gripping. When Malek leaps a ditch, I slide toward his shoulder and grab his mane to stay mounted.

Garrick’s mare gains ground. Her hooves strike closer with each stride.

Garrick’s mare slams into Malek’s flank. I nearly fall as Garrick’s arm hooks around Malek’s neck. He drags both horses to a sliding stop in the mud between winter and summer.

“You run from this, you run forever.” He gasps for air. “Face it now or face it at dinner.”

Malek stamps and tosses his head. Steam rises from his chest.

“Get off me.” I shove at Garrick’s arm.

He releases Malek but blocks us from moving forward. “You can’t live in the forest.”

“Watch me.”

“For how long? An hour? A day? Then what?”

I slide from Malek’s back. My knees hit mud. I kneel there, hands sinking into the warm earth on one side and cold on the other.

“I don’t know.” My voice cracks. “I don’t know anything except I can’t go back there and smile while they auction me.”

“You’re right.” Garrick drops from his mare and sits in the mud across from me. “They’re auctioning you.”

I stare at him.

“But you’re not cattle. You’re a princess with a dragon-bonded guard who’d burn down Morraine if you asked.” He meets my eyes. “That’s more than most girls get.”

“Xaden’s not here.”

“He will be.”

“Not soon enough.”

“He’s already on his way. Left Basgiath at dawn after someone told him about his room.”

I throw a fistful of slush that hits him square in the chest. “Wonderful. Father it is then.”

Garrick doesn’t move to wipe it off.

“The crown forced us into the Riders Quadrant the day we turned twenty. Become riders or die trying.”

“Garrick—”

“So I understand wanting to run.” He stands and flicks slush from his leathers. “But I can’t let you.”

“Then give me an hour. One hour before I have to go back and smile.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods.

The sun tracks across the sky while we explore the impossible border. Neither of us mentions returning.

He shows me how to find north when compass needles fail between magical fields. I show him which flowers bloom year-round in dragon heat. We trade knowledge carefully.

“Here.” Garrick stacks wood where temperatures meet. “Fire burns brightest at the edge.”

The flame catches. We sit on opposite sides, warm and cold at once.

“You’re not the princess I expected to guard.”

“You’re exactly the guard I expected.” I watch him through smoke. “Where’s your dragon?”

“Palace. Dragons and hunting don’t mix.” He shifts a log. “Chradh would mock me for walking anyway. Brown Scorpiontails are assholes.”

I laugh. The sound surprises us both.

We sit until only embers remain. Neither of us adds wood.

“Does Chradh listen to you?”

“When he wants to.”

“So never.”

“Mostly never.”

The embers blacken and die while I watch.

Garrick stands without using his hands. The horses crowd together, both staring at the same point between the trees. Their ribs expand and contract but no steam shows in the air.

The sun shines from the west. Our shadows point north.

“We should go,” Garrick says.

Wood cracks somewhere behind us. We turn. The forest looks exactly as it did.

My fingers close on Garrick’s sleeve. “There’s a place. Past the border where the mother dragon lives. Her den.”

“What mother dragon?”

“The one with the golden feathertails. I need to go there.”

“You’re not making sense.”

The horses back away from the trees. Their ears flatten.

Garrick looks where they’re looking. His hand finds his sword hilt.

Something white moves between the pines and steps into view. Its shoulders reach my chest. When its paw presses into mud, it leaves no print.

“Fuck.” Garrick draws his sword.

I should nock an arrow. My hands don’t move.

The direwolf stalks toward us through dead leaves. Its eyes hold no light. Garrick raises his blade but the wolf’s eyes pin mine. It stops at my feet and presses its snout to the ground.

My father’s words echo: “The white fang direwolf appears once in a generation, drawn by royal blood. It comes for my son’s return.”

The wolf rises and heads for the den. It stops once and looks back at me, then lifts its head to the darkening sky and howls. Birds explode from every tree. It turns and continues into the pines.

“Did that just happen?” Garrick still holds his sword.

“The den is that way.” I point to the cliffs visible through the pines. Steam rises from the black rock face where snow melts before it can land. “Where the direwolf went.”

“I see it.”

“Take me there. Like you do for the training yard.”

He lowers his blade slowly. “You’ll go alone if I don’t.”

“Yes.”

He sheathes his sword and offers his hand.

“Wait here,” I tell Malek. “I’ll be back soon.”

His ears flatten but he stays.

I prop my bow and quiver against a log and take Garrick’s right hand. The forest disappears. My body turns inside out, bones first, then muscle, then skin. The world reassembles backward: cliff first, then sky, then ground beneath my feet. My knees lock to keep from buckling.

“You’re getting better at that,” Garrick says.

I swallow bile instead of spewing it.

Two guards crouch behind boulders fifty feet from the den, royal armor reflecting the last light. Steam rises from the black rocks between us and them. Something dead rots nearby.

“Your father knew you’d come,” Garrick says.

The guards track something inside the den. Their hands grip their sword hilts but they don’t draw.

“Go back to camp,” I call to them.

The nearest guard shifts his weight. Sweat soaks through his armor at the neck. “Can’t, Your Highness. Orders.”

“How many of you did my father send?”

“Ten.” He swallows. “Five are dead by the entrance. The others ran.”

“The dragon—”

“Wasn’t the dragon.” His partner speaks for the first time. “Dragons burn. These men just… emptied.”

I look past them to the den. White coats everything—the entrance, the rocks, the ground. I step closer. The white isn’t snow. It’s stone and earth and flesh all turned the color of ash. Five guards sprawl near the entrance. Their faces match the drained rocks beneath them.

My pulse hammers in my throat. The living guards edge closer with swords drawn.

Garrick’s hand closes on my arm. “We’re leaving. Now.”

The Feathertails burst from the den. They’ve grown since I last saw them—each one now stands taller than a horse. Golden down has darkened to bronze. Their wings beat frantically as they stumble out beneath the rising moon, shrieking. Blood streaks their feathers.

I wrench free of Garrick and run toward them. He lunges after me but I’m faster. The drained ground breaks apart under my boots. The Feathertails swing their heads toward me and their shrieks shift to chirps.

The Feathertails crowd against me. Blood from their wounds soaks warm through my leathers. The smallest drags its left wing. Deep gashes cross its chest, and when I touch them, it chirps but doesn’t pull away.

Garrick reaches for me. The middle Feathertail snaps at his hand, teeth missing by inches. One of Father’s guards approaches and all three dragons hiss, wings spreading despite their injuries.

“Stay back,” I tell them both.

“Your Highness, we need to—”

Two figures step from the den’s darkness.

Purple robes drag across the drained ground. The first figure emerges with red veins spreading from its eyes down its face. Its staff has three joints where there should be none. When it moves closer, rotting sweetness coats the back of my throat and my stomach clenches. Behind it comes another in red fighting leathers. I recognize him from the castle kitchens. His skin has turned gray at the fingertips and around his mouth.

“Princess.” The robed one’s voice scrapes out of its throat. “We’ve been trying to kill you for months. Now we get you and the dragons both.”

“Xaden was right.” Garrick raises both hands.

Wind slams into the robed figures hard enough to tear my hair back. The one in red leathers flies into the rocks with a crack I hear over everything. But the purple-robed one digs its staff into the ground and holds.

The robed figure lifts one hand and twists it slowly.

Above us, stone groans. Cracks spider across the cliff face, then the mountain comes apart. Boulders the size of horses break free and plummet. The Feathertails surge over me, their wings spreading to shield me as rocks crash down.

“Garrick!” I shout but dust fills my lungs. The ground shakes hard enough to drop me to my knees beneath the dragons’ bodies.

When the dust clears, a wall of stone blocks half the clearing. Garrick has vanished behind it with the one in red leathers. Only Father’s guard remains with me, facing the purple-robed thing.

“Better.” It steps forward. “Less interference.”

Father’s guard moves between us and the robed thing. His sword shakes in his grip but he plants his feet.

“Stay behind me, Your Highness.”

The Feathertails snap at the approaching figure, blood still dripping from their wounds. The smallest one tries to breathe fire but only smoke emerges.

“What do you want with me?” I ask.

The robed figure doesn’t answer. It flicks its wrist and the guard flies backward into the rocks. His body makes a sound like dropped meat. He doesn’t get up.

Cold fingers close around my throat without squeezing. The rotting sweetness floods my mouth. Then pain erupts behind my eyes as if needles push through from inside my skull. My knees hit the drained ground. The pain spreads down my spine and branches through my ribs. I open my mouth to scream but no sound emerges. My body locks rigid while every nerve fires at once.

The largest Feathertail lunges and sinks its teeth into the robed figure’s arm. Purple fabric tears. Black blood spills. The figure doesn’t even look down as it flings the dragon into the rockslide. The Feathertail hits stone and goes still.

Through the agony pouring into me, something else rips through my chest from inside. It spreads like fire roots growing through my veins, branching into every limb. A woman’s voice fills my skull, deep enough to shake my bones.

Rise, daughter of my blood. We have vengeance to take.

Wind slams the cliff face. The ashen man’s grip loosens on my throat as he fights to stay upright. Above us, two red eyes pierce the darkness, each one the size of my head.
The mother dragon plummets from above. Her wings beat once and loose rocks fly past my face. The man staggers backward as the remaining guard breaks from his hiding place and runs toward us with his sword raised.

“No!” The word tears from my damaged throat.

The dragon lands between all three of us. Stone shatters beneath her weight. She opens her maw and bathes the earth in fire.

The fire hits.

I breathe it in. It fills my lungs like air should. My leathers burn away in strips. The hunting dress becomes smoke. My boots dissolve to nothing. I stand naked in the flames, breathing them in, breathing them out. Through the white heat I watch the guard thrash, then fall, then melt into the ground. The ashen man stands untouched across from me, watching. I reach out and run my hand through the fire. It bends around my fingers and moves with them. The flames obey my touch.

The flames die. I stand naked on the drained ground. The man stares at me, at my bare skin, at what should be a corpse. Behind him on the rockslide, Garrick pulls himself up from the stones. Blood runs from a gash in his forehead.

“Holy shit.” Garrick’s voice carries across the clearing.

The robed thing lunges. Fingers lock around my throat. The grip crushes. Pain drills through my skull again, but weaker this time, fading with each pulse.

The mother dragon’s tail whips forward. Spikes pierce purple fabric and sink deep between ribs. She rips him backward. His nails tear skin from my throat as she drags him three feet across the drained ground. Black blood spreads through white ash.

Strike now while he bleeds.

The mother dragon’s voice pounds through my skull.

Wind hammers down. Sgaeyl crashes into the clearing. Xaden drops from her back before she settles. A Brown Scorpiontail lands behind them.

The thing in purple robes pushes to his knees. He throws his palm forward. My lungs seize. I gasp but nothing comes. The grass around him withers. A bird drops from the sky, dead before it hits ground.

The world splits into pieces and my knees hit ash. I rake through powder until my palm closes on metal. Xaden’s dagger burns red in the ashes, its blade still pulsing with trapped dragonfire. Heat races up my arm and my fingers remember how to grip.

Now, little queen.

The command burns through my chest. The creature hunches in his own black blood, clutching the holes her spikes left. Xaden’s lessons flood back about balance and release. My arm obeys what he taught me. The blade spins once and pierces his throat.

He grabs for it but his fingers slip on his own blood coating the hilt. He slams face-first into ash. The ground beneath him drains white and races outward until his body folds into itself and scatters.

Shadows explode from Xaden’s body as he sprints toward me. They wrap my bare skin, coaxing goosebumps across my ribs, my hips, my thighs until darkness shields me from throat to ankles. More shadows shoot across the clearing and seal Garrick’s eyes shut where he climbs down from the rockfall.

The black dragon’s wing sweeps down and shields me from the world. Membrane and bone arch into a cathedral of darkness around us. Her breath scorches the air until sweat beads across my collarbone despite Xaden’s shadows. I kneel in the ash, neck craned back to meet one massive red eye that burns my shadow-wrapped form into its depths.

The three Feathertails limp beneath her wing to press against me. I touch the gashes across the smallest one’s chest and he whimpers. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, pressing my palm against the wound to slow the bleeding. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.” The middle one’s wing hangs wrong and she keens when I probe the joint. The largest shoves his head into my stomach, and I wrap my arms around his neck while his blood soaks through Xaden’s shadows.

I am Cridhe, descended from the Dubhmadinn line. The words pound through my chest and shake my teeth. You who breathe my fire and live. You who my children choose. I know what you are meant to become, Ayla Tauri.

My mouth opens. Nothing emerges. A dragon invades my skull. Not through my ears but between my ribs, behind my eyes, in the marrow of my bones. My hands tremble against the Feathertail’s wound. Dragons bond riders at Basgiath. Not princesses kneeling naked in ash.

You have never been just a princess.

“You can read my thoughts.”

No, little queen. You’re screaming them. There’s a difference. Now stop gaping. Your mate approaches and he looks ready to kill anything that moves.

“Mate?” I choke on the word. “He’s not my—”

My brother’s mate grows tired of his thoughts when she visits. They’re always of you. Dragons talk, little queen.

“Perfect. Even dragons gossip like courtiers.”

We do it better. We don’t pretend otherwise.

“Wait. Brother’s mate? What do you mean—”

Xaden drops to his knees in front of me. His hands grip my face and tilt it toward the moonlight. His fingers thread into my hair, searching for blood, for breaks, for damage. His thumbs press along the bones of my jaw, testing each inch. “How bad?” He pulls my hair aside to expose the tears in my throat. “Ayla. How bad?”

“I’m—” My voice cracks. Xaden shrugs out of his flight jacket and drapes it over my shoulders, his hands lingering to pull it closed across my chest. The leather burns warm from his body. His shadows rise to press against my throat, stemming the blood that won’t stop running.

I find his eyes through the darkness beneath Cridhe’s wing. When that thing’s fingers crushed my windpipe, when everything went black at the edges, all I wanted was to see him again. To tell him things I’ve never said. Tears spill hot down my cheeks. “Better now.”

The fear in his onyx eyes transforms into something raw that stops my lungs. His hand cups my cheek, thumb wiping blood and tears together. Then he drags me against his chest. His mouth finds my throat, lips pressing against the wounds, breath hot against my pulse. His arms cage me against him and his whole body shakes with the inhale he takes against my skin.

“Xaden,” I whisper against his shoulder.

“You threw my fucking dagger.” His voice comes out rough against my throat. “From your knees. Half-dead. You threw it perfectly.” His grip hardens around me. “You’re mine to protect. No one else’s. Mine.” The word rumbles through his chest into mine. “That means you don’t die. Not for them. Not for anyone.”

Not your mate. Cridhe’s laughter rattles my ribs. The boy who holds you like you’re his last breath. The one whose shadows dress you while you bleed. Not your mate. Humans truly are the stupidest creatures we protect.

I press my cheek against Xaden’s head and thread my fingers through his hair. The strands catch rough between my knuckles. His whole body stills at the touch.

“They said they’ve been hunting me.” The words shake out of me. “For months. They said—”

“I know.” His mouth moves against my throat.

Wind slams into us. My lungs empty. I gasp but nothing comes. My mouth opens wider, desperate for air that won’t enter. My fingers slip from Xaden’s hair. The world goes white, then gray, then black at the edges.

“I’m sorry,” Xaden whispers as my body goes slack.

Then nothing.

Sunlight burns through my eyelids. My head pounds with each heartbeat. I try to sit up but the room tilts and my stomach heaves. A hand presses against my shoulder, pushing me back into pillows that smell like lavender.

“Don’t.” Xaden’s voice comes from beside me. The mattress shifts under his weight. “You’ve been unconscious for twelve hours.”

I turn my head toward him. Pain shoots through my skull. He lies on top of the covers, still wearing yesterday’s flight leathers. Blood stains the collar. Mine or his, I can’t tell.

“What happened?” My throat burns when I speak. I reach up and find bandages wrapped around my neck. “I remember the hunt. Running from Aldric. The direwolf appeared and then—” The memory fractures. “Then Cridhe. She spoke to me. Called me little queen.”

Xaden’s jaw tightens. “You chased after the direwolf with Garrick. Got separated in the forest near the dragon den.” His fingers brush the bandage at my throat. “The wolf attacked you. Tore your throat. Cridhe heard you screaming and came. She bonded you to save your life.”

Chapter Text

My neck throbs with each heartbeat. Pain radiates from my throat up into my skull, then back down my spine. Sunlight from the window drives needles through my brain.

“That’s impossible.” I shove upright and the bed tilts beneath me. “Dragons bond at Basgiath. After the parapet. After they choose to be there.” Heat floods through my skull from the inside out, not pain but presence. Someone presses their face against the inside of my skull and laughs. “Oh fuck. She’s in my head.”

Language, little queen.

“She just scolded me for cursing.” My voice cracks high. “I’m not a rider. I didn’t cross the parapet or survive the gauntlet or kill anyone for the privilege. I’m the princess who reads books and speaks seven languages and now I have a dragon in my skull.”

“You’re both now.” Xaden straightens.

“My father will kill me.” My fingers dig into the mattress. “Actually kill me.”

“Your father will do nothing.” He holds my gaze. “Dragons don’t answer to human kings. If he tries to hurt you, Cridhe will incinerate him and not even notice the ash. You’re hers now. That supersedes every human law, including his.”

The boy speaks truth. Cridhe’s voice pounds between my ribs. You are mine. I chose you. Any who try to take you from me will burn, king or not.

“She just threatened to burn my father.” I swallow blood.

“That’s not a threat.” Xaden leans back against my headboard. “It’s a promise. Welcome to being a rider.”

“I need to see my father.” I stand too fast and blood drains from my head. The bedpost keeps me upright. “Before he tries to unbond us or something equally stupid.”

Unbond us. Cridhe’s laughter rattles my teeth. Humans. You think you have any say in what binds.

“You can’t break a dragon bond.” Xaden pushes to his feet as I step toward the wardrobe. “Only the dragon can sever it. Or through death.”

“Comforting.” I take another step.

He reaches for my arm. I slap his hand away.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Ayla—”

My knees fold. He catches me before I hit stone, one arm around my waist, the other under my elbow. Vanilla clings to his jacket.

“I told you not to touch me.” I shove at his chest. Nothing happens.

He lifts me, carries me to the bed, and sits without releasing me, my head against his shoulder, my legs across his lap.

“Someone could walk in.” I glance at the door. “See you holding me like this.”

“Let them.” He shifts me closer. “I don’t give a fuck right now.”

“Xaden—”

“You read the letter.” His thumb traces the edge of the bandage at my throat. “All of it.”

“Every word.”

“Then you know she thinks she’s in love with me.” His thumb finds my cheek and scrapes away dried blood. “She’s not. She’s in love with what she thinks I am.”

“You were with her.”

“I fucked her. When I needed to not think.” His hand travels from my face to my hair, then catches my braid and slides down to the end, his eyes following the movement. “When she was dying on the frontlines, bleeding out in my arms, the only reason I fought to save her was self-preservation. She’s bonded to Tairn, Sgaeyl’s mate. Her death means mine. So I told her whatever was between us had to end. She didn’t take it well. Hence the fucking letter.”

He grips my chin and tips my face up. I see every dark lash when our eyes meet.

“But you.” He runs his thumb over my lip. “When you bled out after the assassin, when your heart stopped under my hands—” He bends toward me. “I knew I’d follow you into death. By choice. Because the alternative is existing in a world where you don’t.”

Our foreheads meet. “That’s the fucking difference, Ayla.”

“I don’t understand.” I pull back enough to see his face. “You pushed me away. Called me a privileged princess who wanted to fuck the help. Made me feel pathetic for wanting you. Now you’re saying you’d die without me?”

“Yes.” No apology in his voice.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the problem.” The muscle in his jaw jumps. “I want to. Every fucking day, I want to pin you against a wall and find out what sounds you make. But I can’t.”

My breath catches. “Why?”

“Because you’re the crown princess of Navarre and I’m Fen Riorson’s son. The bastard with a rebellion relic everyone wants dead.” His fingers dig into my ribs through the nightgown. “Because the second I touch you the way I want to, your father puts my head on a spike.”

“I don’t care what my father—”

“Neither do I.” He cuts me off. “It’s you I care about. You know what kills me? You look at me like my father’s rebellion doesn’t matter. Like this relic is just ink. Like I’m not the weapon your father uses to keep his enemies in line.” His hand fists in my hair at the base of my skull. “I wasn’t prepared for you. For the way you see past all of it and still want me.”

“Then stop fighting it.”

“I can’t.” He can barely say it. “Every time I’m near you, I want to fuck you until you can’t remember your own name. But worse—I think about keeping you. Waking up next to you. Having something that’s actually mine.” His voice drops. “The kind of wanting that gets people fucking killed.”

“So what?” I touch his face. “At least I’d have you.”

“I can’t have you.” But he doesn’t pull away.

We sit there and I count his breaths against my ribs. His hand stays frozen in my hair while he stares at my mouth.

His other hand moves from beneath my knees and finds my thigh through the nightgown. The fabric is tissue-thin and his palm burns through it as he slides higher. His fingers spread wide across my skin as the nightgown rises with his hand. Then he stops. He goes rigid beneath me.

“There’s nothing under this.” His fingers flex against my bare thigh.

“Maeve knows I hate anything restrictive when I sleep.”

He breathes out hard through his nose. His hand tightens on my thigh and he lifts me, turns me, pulls me against him until I’m straddling his lap. The nightgown bunches around my waist. His palms slide up my bare thighs and grip hard, thumbs pressing into the soft skin where my legs meet my hips.

The position change makes me inhale sharply. He watches my face when it happens.

“That sound.” His hands travel higher, fingers spanning my waist now. “That fucking sound keeps me up at night, makes me hard when I’m trying to sleep.”

“Just from breathing?”

“From you breathing. From you existing. From you arguing with me in front of nobles who’d slit my throat if they could.” He stands and takes me with him.

My back hits the wall and cold stone bites through the silk. He pins me there, his cock pressed hard between my thighs, his hands gripping just below my ass to keep me up.

“Fuck.” The word vibrates against my mouth. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Then stop.”

“No.”

He shifts and I feel him thick against me through his leathers, sliding over where I’m already wet. “Not stopping now.”

I fist his shirt in both hands and pull. His head drops. Our mouths are so close I taste his breath.

The door handle rattles hard.

“Ayla?” Halden’s voice comes through the door. “Open up. Father sent me and I’m not leaving without you.”

Xaden’s mouth stops just shy of mine. We go motionless, his hands gripping me tight enough to bruise, my legs locked around him, sharing air but not closing that last bit of space.

Xaden drops his forehead to the wall beside my head. His breath hits my ear.

“The room’s warded. No one can hear anything from inside.” His mouth moves to my neck, just above the bandage.

His lips press against my pulse. My head falls back against the stone.

“You want to do this with my brother right outside the door?”

“Yes.” His teeth graze my skin. “I want to do this with the entire fucking court outside the door.”

The handle rattles harder.

“Ayla, I’m not joking.” Halden’s voice rises. “Open this door or I’ll have the guards break it down.”

Xaden lifts his head just enough to speak. “The wards prevent that too. They’d break their shoulders before they broke through.”

“You thought of everything.”

“Not everything.” His mouth returns to my throat. “Didn’t think about how you’d taste. How you’d feel. How fucking hard it would be to stop once I started.”

“Xaden.” I barely get his name out.

He groans against my throat. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Say my name when I’m this close to fucking you against this wall.” His hands slide higher on my thighs, fingers digging into bare skin. “When I can feel how wet—”

The door handle rattles violently.

“I’m getting the master key!” Halden shouts. “Father wants you in the throne room now!”

“He can’t get through the ward.” Xaden’s cock presses harder against me and I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

“My father summoned me.”

“Your father can wait.” His shadows coil around my thighs, holding me steady as his hand fists in my hair, pulling my head back to expose more throat.

“He’ll send more guards.”

“Let him.” His teeth sink into my shoulder. I make a sound I can’t control.

“You will care when he executes you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are completely black and his mouth is swollen. “You think I give a fuck what happens to me?”

“I care.”

We lock eyes. Then he puts me down but doesn’t step back. His palms hit the wall beside my head, trapping me.

“This isn’t over.”

“I know.”

I pull the door open three inches. Silk clings between my thighs.

“Sister.” A muscle jumps in Halden’s jaw. “You look like death.”

“Charming.”

“Father wants you in the throne room. Now.” The words snap between his teeth. “Your guard summoned General Melgren.”

My stomach clenches. “Did he.”

“Without permission. Without explanation.”

The floorboard creaks behind my left shoulder. Xaden’s heat presses against my back without touching. The corridor light dims.

“Your Highness.”

“You summoned the Commanding General behind my father’s back.” Halden grips his sword hilt hard enough to whiten his knuckles. “Explain yourself.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“It doesn’t concern you.”

A vein pulses in Halden’s temple. “Everything in this kingdom concerns me.”

“This doesn’t.”

“I’m the crown prince—”

“Yes. And she’s the crown princess.” Xaden cuts him off. “My oath is to her. Not you.”

Halden’s eyes find my bare shoulder through the gap. The silk slips down. I pull it up but the fabric slides back, too heavy to stay.

“You’re not dressed.”

“I was sleeping.”

“With him present?”

“Where else would my guard be after I nearly died?”

“You ran off during the hunt. You nearly died because of your own—”

Xaden slams his hand above mine on the door. His arm cages me in as he leans forward. The wood creaks under his grip.

“Choose your next words carefully, Your Highness.” Xaden’s voice drops low enough that the nearest guard shifts his weight.

Halden’s hand tightens on his sword hilt until his knuckles crack.

“This is indecent.” Halden’s throat bobs when he swallows.

“A direwolf ripped my throat open twelve hours ago.” The bandage pulls when I speak. “Forgive me for not considering your sensibilities.”

“I’ll have you court-martialed for this.” Halden releases his sword hilt. “Removed as her guard. Father will assign someone appropriate.”

“Your father won’t be assigning anyone anything once he knows what happened in his forest.” Xaden’s hand stays on the door above mine.

“What are you talking about?”

“Fifteen minutes. Then you’ll understand why the rules you’re citing no longer apply.”

Xaden pulls me back and slams the door in Halden’s face. The ward snaps back into place.

Your brother is nearly as charming as his twin. Cridhe’s voice grates through my thoughts.

My hand stills on the door. “You knew Alic?”

Xaden’s whole body goes rigid beside me.

I had the misfortune of bonding the wrong Tauri sibling first. He lasted all of thirty seconds before losing his challenge at Threshing.

My stomach clenches. “You bonded my brother?”

Briefly. A waste of my time. Too weak to survive what came next. Cold disdain floods the bond. I should have known to wait for the sister. Males never fulfill what needs fulfilling.

“He died because you bonded him?”

He died because he was the wrong choice. Weak mind, weaker body. Could barely hold my presence before the fighting started.

Xaden grabs my arms and turns me to face him. “What is she telling you?”

“Why are you grabbing me?” I pull against his hold but his fingers dig deeper.

“Tell me exactly what she said.”

“She said she bonded Alic at Threshing. That he was too weak to hold her presence before the fighting started. That he lost his challenge after thirty seconds.”

His grip tightens. “What else?”

“Nothing else.” I watch his face. “But the official report said a dragon killed him. Father always said a dragon killed him. But if Cridhe bonded him and then he died in fighting—”

“Threshing is violent.”

“Someone killed him for her. Another rider wanted Cridhe and killed my brother for her.”

Xaden drops my arms and moves to my wardrobe. He yanks out riding leathers.

“That’s what happened, isn’t it? Someone murdered my brother for a dragon?”

“Get dressed.” He tosses the leathers on the bed. “Your father’s waiting.”

“Leathers?” I pick them up. “Father will expect me in court dress.”

“Your father’s about to learn you’re dragon-bonded. Better he hears it from us than discovers it when Cridhe lands in his courtyard.”

“We could keep it secret.”

“A dragon bond isn’t something you hide. It’s something you survive. Without training, you’ll be dead within a week.”

“From what?”

“From falling off at two thousand feet. From not knowing how to shield when she speaks. From bleeding out because you can’t control the bond.” He crosses his arms. “Dragons don’t wait for riders to be ready. She’ll take you up when she wants.”

The shadow one speaks truth. Cridhe’s presence presses against my skull. I grow tired of waiting already. You will fly with me soon, ready or not.

I grip the leathers tighter. “She just agreed with you.”

“Dragons like their riders alive. Makes flying easier.” He pushes off the wardrobe. “Get dressed. Your father’s about to learn his daughter belongs to a dragon now. Not him.”

“Turn around.”

“Why?” He leans back against the wardrobe and crosses his arms.

“I need to change.”

“So change.”

“Not with you watching.”

“Ten minutes ago you were grinding against me in nothing but silk.” His eyes track down the nightgown. “Now you’re modest?”

Heat crawls up my neck. “That was different.”

“Because you wanted it then and now you’re thinking too much?”

“Because now I’m not—” I stop.

“Not what? Wet? Willing to let me fuck you against a wall? Second-guessing what just happened?”

“Xaden.”

“Fine.” He turns and faces the wardrobe. “You have two minutes before your brother comes back with guards.”

I pull the nightgown over my head and drop it. Cold air raises goosebumps across my skin. I reach for the leathers and catch sight of my ribs in the mirror. Black ink covers my left side. The mark starts beneath my breast and travels down to my thigh, wrapping twice around my leg.

“Don’t turn around.”

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s something on my skin. Black marks everywhere.”

My relic. Cridhe’s voice rolls through me like thunder. You bear my mark now, as all bonded riders do.

“A relic?” My voice comes out thin.

“That’s where Cridhe will channel her magic through you.” Xaden stays facing the wall. “Your signet will manifest through it.”

“Signet?”

“Your unique power. Every rider develops one based on what they need most. The stronger the dragon and rider, the stronger the signet.” He pauses. “Cridhe’s ancient. Your power will be significant.”

Ancient? Heat floods the bond. Tell the shadow boy I could snap Sgaeyl’s neck before he blinks.

“She’s threatening to kill Sgaeyl for you calling her ancient.”

Xaden’s shoulders shake once. “Tell her I meant experienced.”

Too late. The insult stands.

“Perhaps we don’t kill my guard’s dragon?”

The shadow boy matters to you. Cridhe sounds amused. How tedious. You’d risk everything for someone who will die in a blink of my lifetime.

“Yes.”

Predictable, but if you insist. Cridhe withdraws from my thoughts.

I turn to face him and step into the leather pants. The hide drags against my bare legs as I pull them up. They catch on my hips. I grip harder and force them the rest of the way.

“Only Basgiath graduates could enter the tournament for my guard position.”

“Those were the rules.” Xaden stays facing the wall.

“When did you graduate?”

“This year.”

“So this is your first year of active service.”

“Yes.”

My fingers pause on the laces. “Then you were a first year when Alic died at Threshing.”

Xaden’s shoulders tighten.

“You were there when he died.” I pull the vest over my head. The buckles rattle down both sides. “All first years attend Threshing.”

“Every first year who made it that far was there.”

Alic found Cridhe first. My brother who Father spent years molding into his perfect heir. He claimed her and couldn’t hold her. Someone at Threshing killed him for it. Now she’s mine.

“Did you see him die?”

“No.”

“Cridhe, will you tell me how he died?”

Xaden glances over his shoulder at me.

No.

“Why not?”

The past is done. The dead stay dead. What matters is you’re alive and mine.

I leave the laces at my waist untied. The leather vest hangs open, and I reach for the buckles running down both sides. Six on each side. My fingers close the bottom two and stop.

“I need help.”

Xaden turns and his eyes drop to the open vest, the loose laces, my steady hands. Then at my face.

He crosses to me. His fingers catch the third buckle and pull the leather taut across my ribs. The metal prong slides through the hole with a soft click.

He moves to the fourth buckle and his thumb presses into my side as he grips the strap. His breathing changes.

The fifth buckle takes longer because his hands have slowed. His knuckles press hard into the leather as he works the metal through.

The sixth buckle barely makes a sound when he closes it. His hands drop to the laces at my waist. I watch his fingers grip the leather cords. He looks up from the laces to my eyes.

“You didn’t need help.”

“I didn’t need help.”

He pulls one lace, then the other. The leather tightens across my hips as he threads them through, around, and back again. His fingers brush bare skin where my shirt rides up.

“There.” His hands stay on the laces after he ties them.

“We’re late.”

“Your father can fucking wait.”

“You just spent all that time buttoning me into this.”

“And I’ll take my time getting it off you.” His thumb hooks under the bottom buckle. “Watch you squirm with each piece.”

Shadows curl around the door frame. His eyes track their movement.

“Or I would if your brother wasn’t standing outside with half the guard.” He drops his hand. “Ready?”

“How long has he been there?”

“Long enough.” He pulls the door open.

Halden blocks the hallway. Eight guards crowd behind him, their armor clanking as they shift. A vein pulses at his temple.

“Fifteen minutes passed ten minutes ago.”

“We’re coming.” I step past Xaden into the hallway.

“You’re in riding leathers.” Halden looks from me to Xaden. “Where did you get Basgiath uniforms?”

“Does it matter?” Xaden moves behind me.

“You stole official rider gear for her?”

“I acquired what she needed.”

“That’s theft of military property.”

“Add it to the list of charges.” Xaden’s hand finds my lower back. “Walk.”

The corridor walls press close enough that the guards have to walk two by two. Cold morning light falls through the narrow windows and I walk through patches of warmth, then cold, then warmth again.

“How’s Violet doing at Basgiath?” Halden keeps pace beside me. His fingers drum against his sword hilt. “Still pining after you?”

“Wouldn’t know.” Xaden stares straight ahead.

“She made her preferences clear when I was there. Chose you over me.” Halden grips the pommel. “Quite publicly. In front of the entire quadrant.”

“She chose not to fuck a prince. Can’t blame her.”

“She chose to fuck you instead.”

“Your bruised ego sees what it wants.”

My stomach clenches. The letter burns through my thoughts. Purple ink on lavender paper. —Your Violence. Then Garrick pressing me back against the desk, his chest against mine while he read the letter over my shoulder, his breath hot against my temple—

Xaden stops walking.

Everyone stops behind him. The guards’ armor clatters to stillness.

“What?” Halden turns back.

Xaden stares at the wall. His shadows writhe around his hands. The tendons in his neck stand out.

“Xaden?” I touch his arm.

He jerks away from my hand and starts walking again. His pace doubles, shadows spreading across the floor in every direction.

“What was that about?” Halden demands.

“Keep walking.” Xaden bites out each word.

No one speaks for the rest of the walk. The only sounds are boots against stone and Halden clearing his throat every few steps.

We cross the courtyard. My breath clouds in the cold. Servants abandon their brooms to get out of our way, leaving wet trails through the snow. One woman backs into a pillar when she sees the guards. Her brush falls and she leaves it there.

The throne room doors hang wide. Father occupies his throne with the crown sliding forward on his narrow head. General Melgren stands at his right, hands locked behind his back. His pale eyes lock on mine as we enter.

Guards stand shoulder to shoulder along both walls. I count twenty before I stop counting.

“You’re late.” Father’s voice carries through the vaulted ceiling.

“Apologies, Your Majesty.” Halden bows. “The princess required time to dress.”

Father’s gaze drops to my leathers. A muscle jumps in his cheek. “What are you wearing?”

“What I need to wear.” I stop at the base of the throne steps.

Melgren steps forward. “Your Highness.”

“General.”

His eyes move from me to Xaden. “You summoned me.”

“I did.” Xaden moves to stand beside me.

“Without royal permission.” Father leans forward on his throne. “Explain yourself.”

“As you’re all aware, Princess Ayla was attacked during the hunt yesterday.” Xaden’s shoulders stay rigid. “After she left camp.”

“We’ve been through this.” Father’s knuckles whiten where he grips the throne. “The direwolf—”

“Would have killed her if Cridhe hadn’t intervened.”

“Cridhe?” Father’s voice goes cold.

“The black dragon from the den.” I step forward and my boots ring against marble. “She bonded me to save my life.”

Father rises from his throne. The crown slides forward and he pushes it back with one sharp motion. Melgren’s fingers find his sword belt and rest there.

“Dragons don’t bond outside Basgiath.” Melgren separates each word. “It violates every protocol we’ve established—”

“She did it anyway.” The relic burns beneath my leathers. “I have her mark.”

“No.” Father descends the first step. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Dragons require Threshing. Den approval. Years of training—”

“Cridhe doesn’t care about your rules.”

Father crosses the remaining distance in three strides. His hand rises and I see the thick gold rings on every finger. Xaden lunges but Father’s palm cracks across my face. The rings tear skin.

Blood runs down my jaw from where the rings cut.

Get the shadow one to shield you NOW.

The words drive through my skull and I grab Xaden’s arm. “Shield. She’s coming.”

The ceiling groans above us. Dust sifts down first, coating my tongue. Pebbles follow, bouncing off shoulders and heads. A crack runs through the stone above.

“DOWN!” Xaden tackles me as the roof caves inward.

Black scales punch through three stories of stone and timber. The vaulted ceiling that has stood for centuries collapses as Cridhe forces her massive body through. Xaden’s shadows explode outward and the world goes black. Stone crashes against his shield and each impact rattles my teeth. My palms tear against marble as we slide backward from the force.

The destruction stops. Dust fills my lungs with each breath.

Xaden’s shadows pull back and reveal the ruin in pieces. My hands first, bleeding against white marble. Then his weight across my back. Then boots scattered across the floor, some still attached to legs that move, others that don’t. The shadows continue their retreat and show me rubble where walls once stood. A guard’s arm reaches from beneath a marble column. The throne sits untouched in its circle of destruction.

I push up onto my elbows and cough. Grit coats my throat. My eyes stream and blinking only grinds sand against them. Through tears and dust, Cridhe’s form solidifies. She has destroyed the throne room to fit herself inside it. Her body fills the space from wall to broken wall. Her head alone reaches from floor to the ragged sky above.

She lowers that massive head to my father. Her jaws part and I see teeth longer than my entire body. The sound she makes vibrates through marble and up through my bones. Every remaining window explodes outward. The floor splits beneath my palms.

Father falls to his knees. His crown rattles across the cracked marble and stops at my feet.

Tell the king-child he dies if he touches you again. Cridhe’s voice fills my mind. Tell him you belong to me now. His reign over you is finished.

I push to my feet. “She says you die if you touch me again. I belong to her now. Your reign over me is finished.”

Father’s mouth opens but no words come.

A massive shadow blocks the sun through the hole above. Black scales descend through the destruction as a Swordtail drops in, larger than Cridhe, its bulk crushing what remains of the ceiling’s edge. Stone avalanches down and guards who survived the first collapse disappear under the new wave of rubble.

The Swordtail’s jaws snap toward Cridhe’s neck.

Cridhe twists and her Morningstar tail whips upward. The spiked club catches the Swordtail’s shoulder and rips through scales. Black blood spatters across marble. The larger dragon crashes sideways into the wall where the throne once stood and the entire structure shudders as more ceiling collapses.

Xaden pulls me backward as a beam crashes where I stood. His arm locks around my waist and shadows rise around us again, thinner this time but enough to deflect falling debris.

The Swordtail struggles to rise in the confined space but its size works against it here. Wings catch on broken beams and its tail thrashes, taking out another section of wall.

Wind blasts through the hole as Sgaeyl dives in. She lands hard on the eastern wall and stone cracks beneath her weight. Her blue Daggertail whips out for balance. A Brown Scorpiontail follows and drops through, smaller, faster, landing on rubble with its barbed tail arcing overhead. Above them both, an Orange Daggertail hovers at the edge of destruction, wings beating hard to hold position without entering.

“XADEN!” Garrick’s voice booms unnaturally loud through the chaos.

The Swordtail heaves itself upright, crushing more rubble beneath its weight. Melgren stands from where he’d fallen, dust coating his uniform. He brushes it off with steady hands while Father and Halden scramble to their feet behind him. Father’s legs shake. Halden grips a broken column to stay upright.

“This unsanctioned bonding is terminated immediately!” Melgren’s voice booms through the destruction.

The dragons’ heads turn toward each other. A low rumble passes between them, deep enough to vibrate through the floor. Sgaeyl’s tail lashes once. The Brown Scorpiontail shifts its weight and more stone crumbles beneath it.

“I am the Commanding General of all dragon forces.” Melgren steps forward. “You will obey or face—”

His Swordtail’s massive head swings toward me. Golden eyes lock onto mine. Melgren stops mid-threat.

The rumbling between the dragons deepens until dust shakes from what remains of the ceiling. Cridhe hasn’t moved but something changes in the air around her.

“It seems Cridhe met with the Empyrean while the princess recovered.” Melgren speaks through gritted teeth. “The bond has been approved.”

“Then she stays here.” Father plants his feet wider. “At the palace.”

“Agreed.” Xaden steps forward. “We’ll train her here. Garrick, Imogen, and I know what she needs.”

“She needs proper instruction.” Father points at Melgren. “The best riders. The best professors. Not three pieces of rebel trash who should be dead—”

“I won’t upheave an entire college for one cadet.” Melgren crosses his arms. “Even a princess. The rider quadrant has hundreds of students—”

“My daughter is more important than your students!”

“Not to the war effort.” Melgren doesn’t move. “We’re fighting on two fronts. I can’t pull instructors from Basgiath.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Father demands.

“Let us handle it.” Garrick kicks aside a chunk of marble to get closer. “We’re already assigned here. We know the curriculum.”

Get on my back.

Cridhe’s words push everything else from my mind. The arguing voices become mumbles, then whispers, then nothing.

I tire of listening to insects argue about what belongs to me. Get on my back.

“I don’t know how to—”

You climb. I will handle the rest. Show them you are mine. Show them you are a rider. When we return, they will have decided or I will burn them all and we will decide ourselves.

Sound rushes back. Father points at Garrick while Melgren’s mouth moves in response. My foot strikes something metal. The crown spins across the marble and stops against my boot.

I pick it up. My reflection warps in the gold surface. Blood on my jaw, dust in my hair, not the princess who walked in here.

I toss the crown at Father’s feet and walk toward Cridhe.

Xaden steps beside me. “Don’t lock your knees when she takes off. You’ll snap your legs.”

“Any other advice?”

“Grip with your thighs, not just your hands. And when she dives, don’t fight it. Lean into it or you’ll fall off.”

“Will she catch me?”

“Dragons don’t catch their riders. You fall, you die.”

I will do what I want. Cridhe lowers her head. And I will not let you fall. At least not today in front of these babbling fools.

“She says she won’t let me fall.”

“First time for everything.” Xaden stops at her foreleg. “Use the joint to climb. Step here, then here. Her scales will hold.”

The shadow one tests my patience.

Cold wind pours through the destruction above and whips my braid across my face. Xaden’s hair falls into his eyes. He pushes it back with one hand and something in the gesture makes my chest tighten.

His hand cups my face and his thumb drags across the dried blood where Father’s rings cut, the blood flaking away under his touch.

“You won’t fall.” He claims.

“How do you know?”

“Because I won’t let you.” His hand drops. “Go.”

I grab Cridhe’s scales and haul myself up. The joints work exactly where Xaden said they would. I’m reaching for her shoulder when boots scramble through rubble below.

Halden stumbles into view with his perfect hair sticking up at angles. Dust coats half his face and his ceremonial jacket hangs torn at the shoulder.

“This is insane.” His voice cracks. “You’re the princess. You can’t just—get down. Now.”

“No.”

“Father, tell her—”

“Father tried that.” I pull myself higher. “Now look at his throne room. Look at what my dragon did to his crown.”

I pull myself higher and each scale cuts into my palms but holds firm. Wind tears at my leathers the further I climb.

“—absolutely forbidden—” Father’s voice carries from below.

My boot slips on blood from my palms. I grip harder and my arms shake from holding my weight. I reach for another scale, then another, climbing her leg like a mountain.

“—can’t allow—” Melgren’s words break apart in the wind.

I grab the next handhold and search for the next foothold. My biceps burn but I keep climbing. The ground drops away beneath me but I don’t look down.

“—die up there—” Halden shouts something else but wind swallows it.

Her shoulder joint forces me to stretch further than my arms want to reach. I grab the ridge above and hang for a moment while my boots search for purchase. My fingers start to slip from the blood. I swing my leg up and hook it over the ridge, then roll onto her back.

The scales here form a natural hollow between her shoulders. A ridge of bone and scale rises in front of me. I drop into the hollow and my thighs find their grip on either side.

If you do everything in life as slowly as you climb, we’ll both die of old age before our next flight. Cridhe’s amusement ripples through the bond.

“According to Xaden, you’re already ancient. So almost there.”

Her body tenses beneath me. I am not opposed to eating my own rider if she proves too irritating. Now we fly.

Wings spread wide enough to block what remains of the sun. Muscles bunch beneath me.

Cridhe crouches and the movement presses me forward against the pommel. Then she leaps.

My spine compresses as we shoot upward through the destroyed ceiling. Stone and sky blur past. My teeth click together hard enough to hurt. Wind tears water from my eyes and I can’t pull air into my lungs. Each wingbeat jolts through my bones with enough force to rattle them loose.

My knees start to lock but I force them loose and the brutal jarring softens to rhythm. We’re climbing straight up and my body slides backward in the seat. I lean forward until my chest nearly touches her scales and the sliding stops.

Cridhe banks left.

The world turns vertical with ground where sky should be and sky where ground belongs. My stomach flips but my thighs grip hard and I lean into the turn, trusting Xaden’s words. The horizon swings back to level.

We flatten out and I see everything.

Calldyr spreads below us with its red clay roofs packed so tight they form one vast terracotta creature sleeping against the cliff. The palace sits broken on its spine. The river that divides the city catches sunlight and throws it back in ribbons that widen and slow as they reach the sea. The Emerald Sea earns its name completely. Jade shallows where I’ve walked become true emerald further out, then green so dark it’s nearly black where ships refuse to venture.

The wind stops fighting me and starts carrying me. We’re not battling the air anymore but moving through it like we belong.

I’m flying. Actually flying. On a dragon who chose me.

Better. Cridhe’s satisfaction thrums through my bones. You might survive this after all.

Chapter Text

Salt rises from the Emerald Sea as Cridhe descends through mist. Each drop of spray that hits my face tastes of brine and depth. My thighs burn from gripping her sides but the pain means I’m still on her back, still flying, still impossible. We spiral around the broken palace and each pass shows me a different angle of destruction, a different view of the world I’ve never seen from above.

Sgaeyl appears beside us between one heartbeat and the next. Her navy scales darken where the mist touches them.

Xaden rides Sgaeyl with his hands free, his body moving with each shift of her wings. I’m crushing Cridhe’s pommel hard enough to split skin while he doesn’t even hold on. He looks at me, then down at the sea, then back at me.

The shadow rider wants to play. Shall we show them what we can do?

She dives before I can answer. We arrow down and I press flat against her neck. The Emerald Sea fills my vision, waves visible, whitecaps clear. My throat closes around a scream that won’t come.

Sgaeyl drops beside us, her smaller wings working harder to match our descent. Xaden leans forward against her neck, his body parallel to her spine. Water streams from his hair.

Cridhe levels out so low her tail cuts through the water and drenches us all. Sgaeyl pulls up a heartbeat later, her wingspan casting shadows across the waves.

We climb away from the sea and winter air hits my soaked body. Where my thighs grip Cridhe, her heat burns through my leathers. My back and arms freeze in the wind. My braid goes rigid. Sea spray runs down Cridhe’s heated scales in constant streams.

The cliff rises ahead, black volcanic rock surrounded by white. Snow blankets everything except the perfect circle around the den where dragon heat keeps the stone bare.

Movement flickers at the den’s entrance. Gold against black.

Cridhe banks toward the opening. Water rushes across her scales with the turn. My frozen leathers hold their shape instead of bending with her movement. They skid across the streaming water. My numb fingers slip on the wet pommel, then slip again.

My right leg slides off her shifting ribs. I squeeze with my left but frozen leather won’t grip wet scales. The pommel pulls through my dead fingers.

I fall.

Wind tears at me as I plummet. Sky and cliff exchange places over and over. My frozen leathers add weight that pulls me faster. My stomach stays somewhere above while the rest of me falls.

Cridhe folds her wings and arrows after me. Her massive body cuts through air faster than I fall. Her claws close around my torso and ribs crack under the pressure. She pulls up hard and my vision grays at the edges.

Navy scales flash past us. Sgaeyl veers away at the last second, her wing tip brushing Cridhe’s. Xaden’s shadows explode outward from him, stretching toward me through empty air.

Pathetic. Cridhe’s voice trembles. If you die, that leaves your idiotic older brother, and I refuse to bond him.

Cridhe carries me past the den entrance, my body hanging from her claws. The cliff face passes close enough to touch. Blood seeps from where her talons pierce leather. Each wingbeat jolts my cracked ribs.

You’re breathing fine. Your ribs are bruised, not cracked. Stop being dramatic.

The three Golden Feathertails launch from their perch at the den. My breath catches. They’ve grown massive since hatching, each one taller than a horse now, though their wings haven’t caught up to their bodies. They spiral around us, crying in pitches that hurt to hear. Their wings beat frantically but they can barely stay airborne for more than a few seconds. They drop, catch themselves on the cliff, and launch again.

The largest manages to glide close enough to brush my leg with its wing before it falls back to the ledge. Another clings to Cridhe’s haunch, its golden talons finding purchase in her scales. My vision blurs for a moment and the world tilts. I blink hard to clear it.

First they hatched for you. Pride fills Cridhe’s voice for the first time. Now they attempt flight for you. They should not fly for another month, yet they try.

The third one, the middle-sized, throws itself from the cliff edge. Its wings spread wide but can’t support its weight. It drops fast. Cridhe’s tail whips beneath it and cushions the fall, lifting it back to the ledge.

Fools. But warmth fills the word. They will hurt themselves trying to follow what is theirs.

“Theirs?”

You belong to them as much as you belong to me. They marked you when they chose you.

Cridhe wheels away from the cliff with me still dangling from her talons. She climbs past Sgaeyl, past the clouds, until the air thins. Her body arcs through space and she tosses me upward. I land hard on her back, ribs screaming, fingers scrambling for the pommel.

Sgaeyl matches our height. Xaden’s shadows explode outward from him, reaching toward me, toward Cridhe, searching for something that makes sense. They find nothing and retreat into his skin so fast it looks painful.

Blood soaks through my leathers where her claws pierced skin. He’s not looking at the wounds. He’s looking at me like the world just shifted off its axis.

Tell the shadow boy to stop gaping. It’s unbecoming. Cridhe banks toward the palace.

The palace rises beneath us. The throne room gapes open, its ceiling gone, its pillars snapped like bones. Father stands amid the wreckage. Melgren beside him. Both track our descent.

Other dragons let their riders fall. I am not other dragons. Remember that, little queen.

We land among broken marble.

Blood drips from my side onto Cridhe’s scales. Xaden tracks each drop with his eyes.

That was the day everything shifted.

The servants came first, dragging broken marble across floors never touched by war. Their hands bled from hauling stone. Menders followed before noon, hands already glowing with signets that knit stone as easily as skin. They fixed the palace before they fixed me, sealing walls while I bled through my leathers. Father moved between them distributing gold and extracting promises of silence from every mouth that had screamed when Cridhe landed. They restored the throne room in three days. Word reached the borders in two.

The palace transformed around us. Architects reinforced every floor to hold dragon weight, widened every battlement for dragon perches, cut reinforced glass into the throne room ceiling so Cridhe could peer down at court proceedings. They moved my chambers to the north wing where the palace opened onto snow-covered fields.

I woke to find my books already shelved, my bed facing glass doors that stretched from floor to ceiling. The doors opened onto a balcony that could have held a small garrison. Stone benches lined the edges, carved deep enough that Cridhe’s wind wouldn’t topple them. Beyond the balcony, the field stretched white and endless, archery targets and dagger posts already placed at varying distances.

The three Feathertails claimed the space immediately, their golden bodies larger than warhorses now, sprawled across sun-warmed stone. Cridhe landed there each dawn, lowering her massive head to the balcony to wake me with sulfur-scented breath. The Feathertails wandered the palace at will, sending servants scattering when they hunted mice in the kitchens, their talons scoring grooves in floors centuries old.

Seven days after Cridhe claimed me, Xaden waited for Garrick in the dawn training session. He stepped into the ring while Garrick was warming up, no announcement, no challenge, just the systematic destruction of his second-in-command. Every block Garrick attempted failed. Every counter met air. Xaden worked with the patience of someone who had planned each strike for days. By the time Garrick hit the ground, his face had swollen beyond recognition. Imogen cleaned the blood from the sand without comment. When I asked Xaden why, he said Garrick had touched what wasn’t his to touch.

The coughing started two weeks after Cridhe claimed me. It began as small sounds, cleared throats during council meetings, handkerchiefs pressed to Father’s mouth between words. When Lilith Sorrengail sent her riders with training schedules, he lacked the breath to argue. When she demanded combat instructors for me, he nodded through crimson-stained teeth. Burton Varrish arrived within the month to oversee my education. Felix Gerault followed to prepare for a signet that hadn’t manifested. Father watched them transform his daughter into a weapon and could only cough his objections into silk that turned red with each protest.

My education split into two halves. Days belonged to Varrish and Gerault, who drilled me in rider protocols and signet theory while mine stayed dormant. Mornings and evenings belonged to Imogen and Xaden. She taught me to fight with fists and feet, to use my size as an advantage rather than weakness. He taught me swords first, then mental fortification, spending hours showing me how to wall off sections of my mind from Cridhe’s constant presence.

The court watched their sheltered princess learn to draw blood. What they didn’t see were the night flights. Every evening after dinner, Xaden and I mounted our dragons for what we called aerial maneuver training. We spoke no words during those hours. We never touched. Sgaeyl and Cridhe wove through stars while moonlight turned their scales to liquid metal, and somewhere between the ground and sky, Xaden and I learned to exist in the same silence without drowning in it.

I fell from Cridhe’s back more nights than I stayed on.

Halden extended his stay by three weeks. He stood behind Father’s throne each morning, his hand on our father’s shoulder while Father coughed into silk. During morning court, he asked our physician publicly whether dragon riders could safely bear children. The man stammered through statistics while the throne room went silent. I stood beside Father’s throne with dried blood still flaking from my neck where Xaden’s blade had caught me at dawn. Every noble turned to study me.

Aldric, heir of Morraine, arrived the next morning to observe my training. He brought practice swords, offering to demonstrate proper form. Xaden thanked him by putting him in the dirt six times in two minutes, each fall harder than the last. Aldric kept coming anyway, bringing other noble sons with him. They filled the courtyard each dawn, watching their dragon princess learn violence.

Halden left the day I finally drew blood from Xaden, my sword finding the gap in his guard. Reports of missing tax collections had doubled that week, entire shipments of gold vanishing between provinces and the capital. My brother kissed my forehead in front of the entire court, his mouth beside my ear when he whispered that Father would need him soon. The treasury bled while Father coughed blood. 

Someone was bleeding Navarre dry. Tax gold disappeared between collection and capital. Entire wagons vanished on guarded roads. The Duke of Luceras arrived at court with bruises instead of tribute. Bandits beat his collectors and took everything. The Duchess of Elsum’s provincial banks reported different numbers each morning, always less, never more.

The palace started rationing by midwinter. Servants divided single loaves among twenty mouths while Father’s councilmen dined on roasted lamb. Guards abandoned their posts when wages stopped.

I gave my ruby necklace to a kitchen maid with three children. Xaden grabbed my wrist after the exchange, too late to stop it. He dragged me to my chambers and explained why advertising wealth during starvation invited throats being cut. I gave away my sapphire ring the next morning. By spring, when I handed my last pearl earring to a stable boy, Xaden just watched from the doorway.

Father signed edicts demanding provincial compliance while coughing blood onto papers no one would obey. The provinces kept their gold and sent excuses. Servants begged coins at morning court while councilmen wore new robes.

The morning after the Duke of Luceras arrived bruised and empty-handed, I walked onto my balcony and climbed onto Cridhe. Xaden found me settling between her shoulder blades. He told me protecting tax gold wasn’t my concern. I told him I’d decide what concerned me while servants starved. He stared at me for a long moment, then called for Garrick and Imogen. We flew the Calldyr route that morning. The gold arrived untouched.

We patrolled every week after that. The routes stayed safe. Then Garrick arrived at training with his ribs wrapped, unable to fly. That week’s convoy vanished. Imogen caught a fever that lasted four days. The eastern gold disappeared. When all four of us flew together, every coin reached the capital. When we didn’t, the roads bled gold. Xaden mapped our patrol routes himself. He chose which paths we covered, which days we flew. The ones he selected never saw attacks.

Father never officially sanctioned our patrols. Xaden never officially agreed to them. But every route we flew stayed safe, and every week we missed bled gold.

Days marched into weeks and weeks into months. The cold deepened, hardened to ice, and at last gave way to thaw.

We never finished what started the morning I woke with Cridhe in my head. We found other ways to exist around each other. His hand on my elbow when I stumbled from exhaustion. His fingers on my wrist to correct my sword angle when teaching me a new form. Touches that lingered a heartbeat longer than instruction required.

But something deeper took root between us as winter died. His walls melted with the snow. The morning I saw the scars covering his back, a lattice of raised marks from shoulders to waist, I asked him what they were. He told me about the Tyrrish tradition of bearing dagger marks for others’ crimes. One hundred and seven cuts, one for each rebel’s child after the execution. I’d read about the tradition in my books, knew the honor and agony it represented. Seeing it carved into his skin made bile rise in my throat.

Spring brought other truths. When I confessed I saw my father’s eyes in every mirror, that I feared becoming him, Xaden stopped sparring mid-strike. He said my eyes reminded him of Aretia before it burned. The green rooftops caught morning light the same way. The fields rolled to the horizon in the exact shade. He said looking at me felt like looking home.

Garrick started bringing me books from town without being asked. Imogen began braiding my hair before training, her fingers gentle despite their strength. They ate dinner at my table. They cursed when I beat them at cards. For the first time in nineteen years, I had people who called my name without a title attached.

By the time green returned to the palace grounds, everything between us had shifted into something neither of us would name.

The middle Feathertail stretches across my balcony, her golden bulk still warm from hunting mice in the kitchens. Below us, her siblings dive at Cridhe’s tail until she bats them into the grass with enough force to leave furrows. I lean against scales that smell like sunshine when something pulses through my chest that isn’t mine.

A heartbeat climbing stairs. I know it’s Xaden before he appears, his blood running hot and fast through veins I shouldn’t feel.

He drops peasant clothes on the stone bench. “Spring festival tonight in Lower Calldyr. You’re going. Try to keep up.”

“Father doesn’t allow—”

“Your father can rot.” Shadows thicken at his feet and swell wider with each pulse.“Put those on. We leave at sunset.”

“Why?”

“Because if I have to watch Aldric lean across one more dinner table to smell your hair, I’m going to remove his head from his shoulders.” He kicks the clothes closer. “And that would upset political relations.”

I touch the rough wool. “So you’re hiding me in lower Calldyr?”

“I’m taking you somewhere no one gives a shit about your bloodline.” His shadows twitch with his blood and stretch farther across the stone. “Where you can drink without someone calculating if you’re fertile enough to justify a marriage proposal.”

The Feathertail yawns, showing teeth already longer than my fingers. Her heart beats slow and steady, nothing like the war Xaden’s pulse wages in his chest.

“What if someone recognizes me?”

“Then I handle it.”

If they do, I’ll eat them. Cridhe’s voice cuts through my mind. I haven’t tasted human in decades. They’re stringy but the bones snap nicely.

“Cridhe says she’ll eat anyone who recognizes me.”

“Tell her to save room for Aldric.”

The shadow boy finally says something intelligent.

I strip off silk and pull on wool that makes my skin itch. The clothes smell like lye soap and someone else’s sweat. The borrowed boots pinch my feet. I braid my hair the way servants do, low and tight against my neck. 

When Xaden knocks at sunset, I open the door looking like nobody. He looks the same. We’re two common people about to disappear into a crowd. My pulse matches his for the first time all day.

Chapter Text

Shadows spit us into an alley. The world tilts. My knees fold but I catch myself. My first breath coats my tongue with curing leather and piss. I palm wet brick and breathe through my nose until my stomach unclenches.

“Breathe through your nose,” Xaden murmurs, his fingers catching my chin. “Slow.”

“I hate you.”

“Not yet.” He traces circles on my spine until the nausea dissolves.

“You’ve been trapped in that palace for twenty years. Tonight you’re nobody.” His thumb grazes my jaw before he drops his hand.

“Is that why we’re here?” My chin stays lifted.

“That, and if I watched you fake another smile for them, I’d slit someone’s throat.”

“You already want most of them dead.” I push off the brick.

“Wanting doesn’t keep me up at night. Stopping myself does.”

“And here I thought you were up all night thinking about the sounds I make.”

“I survive on those sounds. They’re all I fucking have.”

My tongue darts across my lower lip. I press my mouth closed and turn away.

“Should we go?”

Drums thunder from the square ahead and the crowd roars past our alley, singing about spring fucking winter into the ground. A woman staggers by with her breasts spilling from her dress while two men stumble after her. Children dart between legs and pluck purses before their owners realize they’re missing.

“Keep your head down,” Xaden says. “You still walk like a princess.”

“I am a princess.”

“Not tonight.”

“Then tonight I’m just a woman holding your hand at a festival.”

I thread my fingers through his and lead him toward the square. His skin scorches mine through rough calluses. My thumb follows the scar where skin pulls tight and smooth, strange as melted wax. Fire left him different here.

The ground shudders beneath our feet as we near the dancers. Stone vibrates up through my stolen boots into the bones of my shins.

Halfway down the alley, I twist to see him.

The borrowed shirt gapes at his throat. Sweat trails from his collarbone into rough wool. I follow it down, then up again. His hair falls across his forehead.

He watches the corner of my mouth. His lips part and his throat works. The pulse beneath his jaw beats once, twice, stops, then races.

I pull him into the crowd.

Bodies wedge between us. Our fingers strain and peel apart knuckle by knuckle. I clutch for him but catch a stranger’s coat, the wool scratching wrong against my palm. The stranger drives me backward. I tumble through more bodies.

The crowd compresses. My ribs can’t expand. My lungs burn for air. I crane my neck for black hair, that scar through his eyebrow. A woman with powdered cheeks shoves past. A red-bearded man blocks my view. Black hair appears, but wrong height, wrong shoulders. Heat floods my throat.

Strong fingers lock around my wrist from behind. I spin, fist rising.

The burn scar stops me. 

Xaden.

He yanks me against him. My spine hits his chest hard enough to force air from my lungs. His arm bands across my ribs. His thumb presses the hollow below my breast where my pulse hammers. His breath heats the shell of my ear.

“Fiery already? The night’s just starting.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.” The words scrape past my dry throat.

He keeps his arm locked around me as the crowd sweeps us into the square.

Three bonfires tower above us. Pine knots crack in the flames and throw sparks upward. The heat reddens every face, makes eyes water, draws sweat from skin. Paper lanterns hang between buildings, painted with spring obscenities. Cocks entering cunts. Flowers spreading wide. The shadows shift faces with each flicker.

A man spits fire from his mouth. His hat sits empty on the ground. People throw coins that miss and scatter. Children run past flinging powder. Purple stains my sleeve. Gold catches in Xaden’s hair and crowns him.

Every heartbeat in the square presses against my consciousness. The drunk ones drag. The lovers race. The dancers pound with the drums. I press my palm to my chest but my own pulse disappears among theirs.

“You’re shaking.” His lips brush my temple.

“It’s loud.”

His shadows pool behind my ears, raising goosebumps along their path. Sound softens. The pressure behind my eyes releases.

“Thank you.”

“Come on.” He steers us through thickening smoke. “First rule of common festivals—eat fast or starve.”

Lamb fat hisses on coals. A man burns sugar to glass. Someone tears bread that bleeds steam, then drowns it in honey gone black from heat. Grease coats my tongue.

Steel thuds into wood ahead.

Three knives quiver in painted rings. A scarred woman works them free. Each blade resists her grip. She tests edges against her thumb pad, then offers them handle-first. Her customer throws it loose. One knife catches wood at the edge. She pockets his coins while he spits a curse and tobacco juice.

“I’ll play.”

“Three coppers first.”

Xaden drops coins in her palm. The knife weighs perfect in my hand. I plant my feet, find the target’s center, and throw.

The blade drops and strikes the bottom ring.

Xaden lifts the middle knife. His thumb finds the balance point. The blade tips wrong. He weighs it again, then sets it down.

His lips find my ear. “Hollow grips. Packed with sand.” His left hand cups the far side of my head, fingers threading through loose hair. “Shifts when you throw. Fucks your aim completely.”

The backs of his fingers trail from cheekbone to collarbone. His palm slides to my nape, thumb pressing the first vertebra. He winds loose strands from my braid around his knuckles.

“Wait until the sand slides forward. Then release.” His fingers tighten, the wrapped hair pulling taut. “I’ll tell you when.”

Xaden moves behind me, his boots framing mine. His chest seals against my back and air abandons my lungs. His right hand glides down my arm, fingers lacing through mine around the knife’s grip.

The vendor laughs. “Ten coppers says you miss.”

“Twenty.” The word drums from his chest into my spine.

“Deal.”

His left palm spans my waist, the smallest finger slipping against bare skin beneath my shirt hem. His ribs expand against my shoulder blades with each breath. Stubble scratches my jaw as his mouth finds my ear.

“Raise the blade.” His hand guides mine upward. My arm obeys. “Stop there.”

“Ready?” Sand slides inside the handle. “On my count.”

His fingers flex against mine.

“Three.” The sand shifts forward. “Two.” His palm tightens at my waist. “Release.”

Our fingers open as one. The knife flies true and punches through the center circle. Paint chips scatter.

The vendor whistles. “Gods damn.”

Xaden steps back. Cold air rushes between us. He crosses his arms and leans against the stall post.

“Last throw’s yours.” His eyes stay on mine.

I lift the final blade. The sand moves. I throw.

It quivers next to its twin in the center circle.

“Fucking hells.” The vendor shoves twenty coppers at Xaden. “Pick your prize.”

Small treasures cover her table. I touch a black dragon carved from oak, no bigger than my thumb.

“This one.”

She wraps it in rough cloth. Xaden tucks it inside his jacket.

We drift to another stall. He wins at darts. Two stalls later, he lands all three axes in the center.

He points to a pair of leather cords hanging from a nail. Each has a hammered iron ring worked into the weave. The man cuts them free.

Xaden catches my wrist, his thumb pressing into the soft underside where my pulse hammers. He lifts the leather to his mouth. His teeth catch the end. He pulls. The cord slides through the loop. Each exhale warms the thin skin at my wrist.

The leather tightens against my veins. His bottom lip drags across the inside of my wrist before he releases the cord. Goosebumps race up my arm. The matching band disappears into his pocket.

“Come on.” His palm presses against the small of my back. “You need to eat.”

“I’m not—”

“Your hands are shaking.”

I look down. They are. My mouth opens to protest—it’s his touch, not hunger—when my stomach betrays me with a growl that cuts through the drums.

His eyebrow arches.

“Fine.” I push past him toward the food stalls.

“Wrong way.” He catches my waist and pivots me left. “This way.”

The vendor’s ladle scrapes the barrel bottom. Honey wine sloshes into a wooden cup. Black stains ring the rim. She wraps a sticky cake in broad leaves and sets both on the counter.

Xaden counts coins from his belt. Five coppers hit wood. The vendor’s fingers close around them.

He presses the cup into my hands. The wood is soft, worn smooth. I drink. Honey coats my tongue first, then heat follows. It pools warm in my stomach. Court wine never burned like this.

“Strong.” I cough the word.

“That’s the point.”

His fingers brush mine and take the cup. He drinks from the wet mark my mouth left. His throat moves as he watches me.

My thighs press together. I reach for the cup.

He lets me take it. The cake splits when he peels back leaves. Golden syrup spills down his fingers. His tongue slides from wrist to fingertips, catching every drop. Heat pools in my stomach.

He tears the cake. “Here.”

He holds the piece between us. My teeth graze his fingertips as I take it. The cake dissolves on my tongue. I swallow. Syrup glazes my bottom lip.

His thumb drags across it and collects the remnants.

He sucks the sweetness from his skin.

“You’re making a mess of yourself, Princess.” His eyes drop to my chin.

“Where?”

He cups my face. His thumb tilts my chin up. Our eyes meet. He waits.

I hold still.

His mouth lowers to my chin. His tongue drags up the sticky path to my mouth’s edge. My fingers dig into his chest. His heart slams against my palm. Mine pounds just as hard.

“Still shaking.” His lips move against my jaw.

“Get a room,” someone shouts.

I jerk away, but Xaden’s grip holds my face steady.

“Mind your own fucking business.” He doesn’t turn his head.

Laughter ripples through the crowd. Bodies flow around us. The drums fade. Strings take over. His thumb traces my cheekbone.

“Let’s go. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

He nods toward where the strings grow louder. “Prove a princess can keep up when the music turns rough.”

Fire throws shadows across tangled bodies. Women arch against men. Men’s hands span ribs, grip thighs. Someone lifts his partner. Her legs wrap around his waist. They spin. Others stamp the earth until it shakes. The strings saw faster. The crowd matches their pace.

“You think I can’t handle rough?” I grab his hand. “I handle you every day.”

My fingers lace through his. “My turn to lead.”

I yank him forward.

Heat from bodies closes in. I bunch wool in my fists and hitch my skirts to my knees. Cool air hits my shins.

A girl beside me stomps twice, kicks once, spins. Her braids fly. She repeats the pattern. My feet copy hers. Stomp, stomp, kick, spin.

The earth drums back through my boots and my braid whips across my back. My hips roll with the rhythm. Sweat beads between my breasts.

“So the gavotte lessons weren’t wasted.” Xaden circles me. “Look at that—the princess can move.”

“Shut up.” But I’m smiling.

His palm catches my waist mid-spin. He pulls me against him.

We separate and move around each other. He passes behind me. His fingers trail across my stomach. I reach back for his hip but close on empty air. He circles to face me, walks backward, watches me follow. Firelight cuts his face in half. Shadows claim the rest.

I dart forward. He sidesteps and my braid swings through the space he left. He catches the end and tugs. The pull spins me toward him.

I spin away from him and find the rhythm again. Stomp, stomp, kick, spin. He mirrors me. We face each other and match the pattern. His boots strike earth when mine do. We jump together. Mud splatters our shins.

He spins right. I spin left. Our hands collide as we pass each other. The momentum whips us around. Our fingers slip apart. We catch hands again on the next pass. His palm cracks against mine. Laughter spills from both our throats.

The pattern dissolves. We create something new. He stamps three times. I copy him and add a kick. He repeats my sequence and throws in a turn. We trade steps back and forth.

His eyes lock on mine and stay there. The corners crinkle. My cheeks ache from the smile stretching my face. The space between us shrinks. Our shoulders collide when we turn. Our elbows knock. We don’t step apart.

The drums build. Everyone leaps. So do I.

Xaden catches me in the air and lifts me above his head. His hands span my ribs. My palms press his shoulders for balance. Wind catches my ruined braid. I float. The crowd blurs below but his face stays clear. He tips his head back and watches me.

Our eyes meet.

The drums stop. They start again. I stay suspended.

Then he brings me down. My body descends through space. My ribs drag past his face. My hips reach his chest. My thighs bracket his waist. My boots find mud again.

We stay pressed together. Dancing continues around us. We don’t move until the wild spinning melts into slow swaying. Our bodies decide without words.

His right hand travels up my spine. It stops between my shoulders and presses me closer. His left hand grips my hip. My fingers thread through his hair. It’s damp with sweat. He tilts his face into my palm.

We move in a circle. Our feet stay planted. Our weight shifts from hip to hip. Fire throws orange light across his jaw. Shadows pool beneath his cheekbones. His eyes hold mine.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” The words vibrate from his chest into my ribs where we’re pressed together.

“Xaden—”

“Not just tonight.” His hand drags lower on my back. “Since the tournament. I can’t stop fucking looking at you.”

“Those flowers in your hair—”

“Made me look ridiculous.”

“No, Ayla.” His hand stills on my back. “You looked fucking perfect. Like you didn’t belong there. I was prepared for a princess. I wasn’t prepared for you.”

Words build in my throat and lodge. My mouth opens and closes. The words won’t come.

“That green dress.” His fingers tighten in the wool at my waist. He pulls me closer by it. “Your eyes—Aretia’s green. All I lost in fire, staring back at me.”

My hands drop from his hair to his chest. His heartbeat kicks against my palms.

He watches my eyes now the way he did that first day. The way he does every day. He searches for Aretia in them.

“I wasn’t prepared for you either.” The words catch on smoke in my throat. “Fen Riorson’s son. Here to prove your loyalty to the king who killed your father.”

A couple stumbles into us. Their bodies press us closer, then spin into the crowd. The muscle in his jaw jumps.

“Another guard. Another set of eyes watching me eat, sleep, breathe.” Ash from the fires dusts his cheek. I reach up and smear it with my thumb. “But you look at me like I’m a person. Not a prize or a problem or a pretty thing to protect.”

Someone’s elbow catches my shoulder. He shifts us left.

“You taught me to throw knives. To want things that are mine. Not what Father wants. Not what the court expects.” My voice drops. “Twenty years of being nothing but what they made me. Then you.”

“Say it.”

“You made me real.” The confession burns. “Safe. Free. Like I could finally fucking breathe.”

His hand leaves my waist and grips the back of my neck. His fingers tangle in the sweaty hair at my nape and pull.

“Fuck the king. Fuck his palace. Fuck every chain he put on you.”

He pulls harder. My head tips back. He presses his open mouth to the hollow of my throat.

“You were meant for dragons. For sky. For fire.” His teeth scrape up to my jaw. My pulse jumps against his tongue. “Every knife I put in your hand. Every curse. Every fight back. That was the rider in you waking.”

My fingernails pierce the borrowed shirt. His heartbeat invades my body. It pounds in my wrists, my throat, between my ribs. I dig my nails deeper. His pulse stutters. I relax them. It steadies.

“And I saw it. You breaking free.”

He releases my hair and grips my face with both hands. His thumbs press into the hinges of my jaw. He tilts my face up. Our noses touch. His exhale enters my mouth. I breathe him in.

Twenty years of court protocols. A lifetime of being told what a princess does and doesn’t do. None of it prepared me for wanting to bite Xaden’s mouth. For wanting to crawl inside his skin. For this hunger that has no precedent.

The thread between my palm and his heart pulls taut. Then snaps.

Something tears loose in my chest and spreads outward.

A vendor counting coins freezes. The coppers fall from his fingers and scatter. He grabs the edge of his stall.

A child playing with ribbons sits hard in the mud. Her mother sways. She catches herself on a stranger’s shoulder. The stranger’s already pale.

“My heart.” A woman tears at her bodice laces.

An old man selling carved whistles puts his hand to his chest. His eyes widen. His mouth opens and closes. He drops.

The dancing staggers. A girl in yellow stumbles out of rhythm. Her partner reaches for her but his own knees buckle. They collapse together.

More follow.

The synchronized stomping becomes chaos. Bodies lurch and grab for support and miss.

Xaden’s grip on my face tightens. A vein stands out on his forehead. Sweat beads at his temple.

Xaden’s gaze snaps from the old man sprawled in dirt to the woman tearing at her collar to my hands still pressed against his chest. “You’re doing this.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t—I can’t—” My hands shake against his chest.

“Your signet.” He grips my wrists. “My pulse—you’ve been controlling it all night.”

I know his heart the way my tongue knows my teeth. Every surface, every rhythm, every skip when I shifted against him during the dance.

The vendor sorts coppers with muddied fingers. The dancing couple hold each other’s faces and breathe into the space between their mouths. Everyone in the square rebuilds themselves from whatever I made them into.

“Did I kill anyone?”

“Look at me.”

Gold consumes the black in his eyes.

“No one’s dead.” His hands bracket my face.

Foreign heartbeats invade my palms. Slow ones drag through my wrists. Fast ones pierce my fingertips. A doubled pulse throbs behind my knuckles. They burrow deeper with each breath.

My fingers claw his arms.

Bodies press closer. Their blood calls to mine. Rhythms tangle in my ribs. My knees give. Xaden catches me before mud claims me.

“Fuck.” He crushes me against his chest. “Hold on.”

Darkness eats the world.

The ground returns solid beneath my boots. Walls cage us in on three sides. Festival drums thud through buildings, muffled but persistent.

My ear seals against Xaden’s chest where his pulse thuds steady while mine skitters twice that speed.

I straighten. My hair catches in his shirt buttons. His fingers untangle the strands, push the sweaty mass back from my forehead and trace the bone beneath my eye once before dropping away.

“Take me back home.”

Dice crack against wood around the corner. Men shout over copper.

“You’re not running.”

Brick weeps moisture behind him. A broken crate spills leather scraps into mud. Between the windows above us, undergarments hang on rope and drip water onto stone.

“I felt them die. Their hearts just… stopped.”

“The old man’s counting whistles in the mud. Alive.”

A fist hits wood hard enough to rattle coins. The copper rings against itself before settling.

My palms ache with absence. The space where hundreds of heartbeats lived throbs empty now.

“I can’t be around people.”

“Locking yourself away won’t stop it. Your signet doesn’t give a damn about walls.”

“At least I can’t hurt anyone there.”

“You’ll hurt yourself. You’ll put me at risk when I’m on guard. Maeve. Imogen. Garrick—what then? This needs control, not a cage.”

“I’ll send them away. All of you.”

“Good luck with that.”

I turn away from him. Garbage rots in the corner. A cat picks through fish bones.

“Then leave.”

“Not happening.”

“Xaden—”

“You’ve been fucking with my pulse for weeks. Every flinch. Every want. I felt it.”

My fingers curl into fists. The phantom heartbeats still echo in my knuckles.

“I didn’t know.”

“Now you know. Face it.”

“What if I kill someone?”

“Then I’ll carry it. The body. The weight. But you won’t.”

“You can’t—”

“You stopped tonight. Mid-manifestation. That’s control.”

My throat closes. “And if I can’t stop next time?”

“I’ll pull you out before it gets that far.”

Cridhe’s heartbeat overtakes my skull.

My rider will not cower.

I almost killed—

You did not. But you will. You are mine. You are a rider. Blood comes with that.

The cat abandons its fish bones. Yellow eyes track the darkness between buildings. It hisses, then bolts.

Cridhe—

Power manifested is power to be wielded. You insult us both with this weakness. Control what is yours.

Cridhe’s heat fades from my skull.

I wanted the sky without the fall. The fire without the ash. A coward who wants dragon wings without blood on them. Cridhe knows what I pretend not to know. The blood comes first. The wings come after.

The dice hit wood again. Three voices argue. Three heartbeats drum beneath the shouting if I reach for them.

Xaden moves toward the sound. “Come on.”

My feet follow.

We round the corner. Three men squat around a crate turned on its end. The wood bears old knife scars and fresh spit stains. Dice click in someone’s palm. Copper moves from pile to pile. The smallest man chews something dark and wet.

“It gets overwhelming, you tell me.” Xaden’s breath warms my ear. “I'll pull you out.”

I nod and drag my hood forward until shadow cuts across my nose.

Three heartbeats invade my chest. One hammers. One crawls. One stutters on every third beat. But I can’t match the pulse to the person. The rhythms exist separate from the bodies crouched around the crate, refusing to connect to their owners.

The smallest man looks up from his dice. “Game’s closed.”

Xaden drops copper on the crate. Ten coins ring against wood. “It’s open.”

The men trade glances. One heartbeat spikes—the hammering one—but I still can’t tell which man it belongs to. The dice pass between grimy fingers. Tobacco juice splats mud. The tallest counts his pile with a split thumbnail.

“Lady throws.” The smallest pushes iron dice toward me. “Your man watches.”

“He’s not—”

“My woman plays.” Xaden cuts me off. “I watch.”

My woman. The words hook behind my ribs. Heat crawls up my throat.

You never told me you belonged to someone. Cridhe’s laughter rumbles through my skull. Should I be offended you kept this from your dragon?

The smallest man grins. Yellow teeth peek through split lips. “Your choice.”

I pick up the dice. One side pulls heavier. Lead sunk into the iron to drag it down. The six will never show. These dice cannot roll higher than five. My thumb finds the weighted corner.

I throw. The dice hit wood and show three. The lead drags them down exactly as designed. The men snort.

My own pulse thumps in my ears, my wrists, the hollow of my throat. I use it as an anchor while the other heartbeats crowd in. Three separate rhythms push into my awareness. The hammering one beats so hard I taste copper. I track it through the air until it lands in the tallest man’s chest. His heart slams against bone while his face stays bored.

The rhythm hooks into mine. His racing pulse drags mine faster. My breath shortens. The tall man’s hand trembles reaching for the dice. His eyes widen. His heart kicks harder because mine does. His panic feeds mine and mine feeds his.

Xaden’s palm presses against my spine.

My breath deepens. I release the tall man’s rhythm. His heartbeat untangles from mine and becomes his own again. He grabs the dice with steady fingers now, throws eleven.

The smallest man spits tobacco juice and takes his turn. His dice show seven. No one’s pulse changes. The middle man with thick fingers rolls nine. His stuttering heartbeat stays steady throughout.

They play three rounds. I throw low each time. The weighted dice drag down while the men switch to clean ones for their turns. I watch the tall man palm the real dice from his pocket, roll twelves and elevens, then slide the weighted ones back to me.

“Bad luck,” he says. His pulse hammers triumph.

“Or bad dice.” 

The men go still. The tall one’s heartbeat triples. The smallest stops chewing. The middle man’s fingers curl.

“You calling us cheats?” The tall one stands.

“I’m calling you thieves.” I stand too. “The real dice are in your pocket.”

He lunges. Xaden’s fist meets his jaw before he reaches me. Bone cracks. The tall man spins and hits mud. The smallest scrambles backward. The middle man pulls a knife.

Xaden’s hand wraps around the man’s throat and drives him into the alley wall. His skull cracks against brick. The knife clatters away. “You pulled a blade on her.” His fingers tighten. The man’s feet leave the ground. “You’re dead.”

The man’s face purples above Xaden’s grip. Veins bulge at his temples.

I grab Xaden’s forearm. The muscle contracts beneath my fingers. “Darling, you’re making a scene.”

“He pulled a knife.” Xaden doesn’t look at me.

“And now he’s pissing himself.” The dark stain spreading down his leg confirms it. “Let him go.”

The tall man with the broken jaw staggers upright behind us. Blood runs from his mouth onto his shirt. The smallest one edges toward us from the left.

“Behind you,” I say.

Shadows slice across the alley floor. The tall man’s legs tangle in nothing. He crashes backward. His head bounces off stone. The smallest trips over his own feet and sprawls.

Xaden releases the choking man, who collapses gasping.

He bends and throws me over his shoulder.

“What are you—”

My stomach folds over hard muscle. The world inverts. His hand clamps across the back of my thighs.

“We’re done here.”

“Xaden, put me down.”

“You know I don’t put you down, darling.” He starts walking.

My hood hangs toward the ground. My braid whips against his spine with each step. I plant my palms on his lower back and push up, then shove the hood aside to see behind us. The men crawl through mud, clutching jaws and throats.

My ribs shake against his shoulder. The sound starts low in my chest, then bubbles up through my throat. I can’t stop it.

Xaden’s stride falters. “Are you crying?”

The question makes it worse. Laughter spills out of me, muffled against his back. My whole body convulses with it.

He stops walking. His hand leaves my thighs and I slide down his body until my feet hit the ground. Warm palms cup my face. Thumbs tilt my chin up. Light from a nearby doorway spills across his features.

“Ayla—”

I step back and bend forward, hands on my knees, and laugh harder. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes. “You licked syrup off my face. Almost kissed me. I dropped a festival. Nearly killed everyone. Then read three cheaters without dropping them. Then you choked a man for pulling a knife.” The words come out broken between gasps. “And I called you darling while you did it.”

“You forgot the part where you almost made my heart stop.” His thumb swipes another tear. “Fiery little thing.”

I hiccup-laugh. “I didn’t mean—”

“Dancing with your hand on my chest, my heartbeat in your palm.” He steps closer. “You owned me completely and had no idea.”

My cheeks burn.

“But that’s nothing new.” His voice drops. “You’ve owned me since the fucking tournament. Before you knew you could take what you wanted. Before you knew what you were.”

His pulse hammers in his throat. I don’t need a lamplight to see it racing. His fingers curl and uncurl at his sides. All that control cracking while he stands there pretending these words cost nothing.

A door slams open three buildings down. A couple staggers out into our alley. The woman has her legs wrapped around the man’s waist, her skirts bunched between them. He pins her against the brick opposite us. She moans into his mouth. His hand disappears under her bodice.

My eyes move between them and Xaden.

“Never seen a tavern fuck before?” His voice carries heat.

“I’ve never been in a tavern.”

“You’ve never snuck out?”

“Alast—” I stop. “No.”

“Twenty years and not once.” He shakes his head. “Fuck. Your father really did cage you.”

“Are we going in or not?”

“Your call, Princess.” He tips his head toward the open door. Smoke and music spill out.

I follow the melody. A fiddle wheezes through a song I don’t recognize.

Xaden catches my elbow before I reach the door. His hand slides down to my waist and turns me into his side. We walk through together, his hand on my hip while mine rests at his waist.

The fiddle player sits on a barrel near the back wall, one foot tapping time. Men pound tables with their fists to match the rhythm. Someone wins at cards and the whole corner erupts. A barmaid spins between tables balancing six mugs. Hands reach for her skirts. She slaps them away without breaking stride.

A staircase curves up the right wall. Doors line the upper hallway. One opens and a man counts coins into a woman’s palm. She tucks them between her breasts before adjusting her bodice and heading downstairs.

Xaden steers us left toward a long counter. Bottles crowd shelves behind it. Most have no labels. The barkeep has burns up both forearms and a rag tucked in his belt.

The barkeep waits. I stare at him. Xaden orders for us both. Meat charred at the edges, yesterday’s bread, cheese sharp enough to bite back. The barkeep slaps it all on a board scarred with knife marks.

I tear into the meat with my teeth. Grease runs down my chin. Xaden watches me eat without a napkin or knife or anyone ensuring I chew twenty times before swallowing. The bread crunches, then gives. My jaw works through the crust.

He pushes a mug toward me. The ale tastes like burnt grain. I cough harder than I did with the honey wine. Foam shoots up my nose. Xaden pounds my back while I wheeze.

“You lived through assassins and dragons, but tavern ale takes you out?” His mouth twitches at the corners.

I take another drink to prove I can. This time the burn doesn’t surprise me. Warmth spreads from my stomach outward.

We stand at the counter because all the tables are taken. My shoulder presses against his arm. When someone pushes past, I lean into him. His hand finds my lower back and stays there while I demolish the cheese. The sharpness makes my mouth water. I eat every piece.

The fiddle player starts a slow song. Couples press together in the shadows. I watch them sway while Xaden drinks. When he sets the mug down, I steal it and drain what’s left. The room shifts. Everything softens at the edges.

My weight shifts into his side. His arm comes around me. We stand there eating day-old bread and sharp cheese while strangers dance to a broken fiddle. His thumb traces patterns on my hip that match the music.

For twenty years, people watched me, measured me, protected me. Tonight no one looks twice. We lean against this sticky bar and share terrible food like any other couple. The ale burns going down. No one stops me from drinking it.

A woman approaches Xaden’s other side. Red hair piled high, breasts pushing against her bodice hard enough to threaten the laces. She sets her mug on the bar and leans across him to look at me. “You two together?”

“No.” The word aches leaving my mouth when I want the opposite.

“Yes,” Xaden says at the same time.

The woman’s smile widens. Her hand lands on his forearm. “Which is it?”

Xaden looks at her hand on his arm, then at her face. “Take your hand off me.”

“Oh come on.” She traces the muscle through his shirt. “She said no.”

My molars grind together hard enough to ache. I want to peel her fingers off him and bend them backward until they snap. I blink at my own violence.

I reach for her heartbeat the way I reached for the cheaters’ earlier. Find it hammering beneath her ribs. Fast, eager, wanting. I could stop it. Make her drop like the festival crowd. My hands curl into fists to keep from taking control of that rhythm.

“And I said yes.” He removes her hand finger by finger. “We’re together. We fuck. She sits on my face twice a day. Is that clear enough?”

The lie burns worse than the ale. We don’t fuck. I don’t sit anywhere on him. But he just claimed me in front of everyone like I belong to him. Like he belongs to me. The truth beneath his lie makes my stomach twist.

The woman’s face drains. She backs away from the bar and melts into the crowd.

Xaden watches her go, then looks at me with golden eyes gone dark. He drains his mug in three swallows and cracks it down. Foam jumps the rim. His fist strangles the handle until his knuckles go bloodless, then his fingers peel from the stem 

“You wanted to break her fingers for touching me.”

His palm clamps my hip. He jerks me between his thighs until the barstool cuts across mine. Tomorrow I’ll wear his fingerprints in purple. His free hand presses the bar hard enough to creak wood.

“You can’t possibly know that. Stop pretending you can read my mind.”

He leans in until his mouth brushes my ear. “I don’t need to read your mind when your body tells me everything.”

My bladder aches. I’ve held it too long. The pressure makes thinking difficult.

I push off the bar. Xaden’s hand catches my elbow.

“Where—”

“To piss.”

“I’ll come.”

“I can piss by myself, Xaden.”

“Not here.”

I stare at him.

“I survived twenty years without you guarding my piss. I’ll survive two minutes more.”

“Back hallway. Straight there—”

“Straight back. I know.”

“Don’t talk to anyone.”

I count three doors, then four, then five. Dark enough that I trail my fingers along the wall to guide me. The wood comes away wet under my touch.

Relief makes me careless. I push through the door without checking the hallway first.

Three shapes detach from the walls.

Chapter Text

Fingers knot in my hair and yank. A hand seals over my mouth. My teeth catch flesh. Blood floods my tongue.

“Bite again and you’ll swallow teeth.” He presses harder. My lips crush against my own teeth until I taste copper. “Understand?”

They drag me backward. My boots catch and stutter on the sticky floor. Black spots eat my vision, but not from lack of air; from the storm of heartbeats crashing through me. The barkeep’s. The fiddle player’s. The couple fucking upstairs. All of them one panicked breath away from dying.

The men shove me through a door into the bathroom. My hip cracks against the sink.

“Private now.” The one with tobacco teeth slides the bolt.

What was a crash becomes a flood. Every rhythm in the building forces itself deeper into my consciousness. They tangle together until I lose my own pulse in the mass of others. My hands shake against the porcelain.

“Three of us and one of you.” The tall one grabs my jaw and wrenches my head back. “One for each hole.”

The third one’s hand moves to his pocket. Steel emerges slowly. A blade worn thin from sharpening.

The heartbeats pound harder, faster. Mine disappears among theirs. My vision splits into doubles as the pressure builds.

The door explodes inward. Wood splinters against tile.

Xaden stands in the ruined frame. His hand presses against his chest. Arteries bulge in his neck. His heart stops for two beats, then hammers to catch up.

“You touched what’s mine.” Each word comes out between gasps.

The man with yellowed teeth spins toward the sound. Xaden staggers forward and closes his hand on the man’s throat. Cartilage collapses. The man slumps to the floor.

Xaden’s knees buckle. He catches himself on the sink and forces himself toward the second man who swings a blade. Xaden catches the wrist but his grip slips when his heart stops mid-beat. He twists anyway until bone tears through skin. While the man screams, Xaden drives shadows through his throat. Blood hits the mirror.

The third man raises his hands. Xaden vomits blood but keeps moving. He grabs the man’s skull and drives it into the sink. Porcelain and bone crack together.

Xaden collapses against the doorframe. His pulse races then stops then races through his shirt. I’m killing him.

“Are you hurt?” He reaches for me even as his legs give out.

His pulse skips and crashes. I force myself to remember other things. The tournament when his helm came off and I saw his face. Gold dust catching in his hair as we danced tonight. His mouth hovering an inch from mine. Anything but the wet sound of his failing heart.

His pulse slows from chaos to steady thud. Beat by beat, it settles into the rhythm I know.

He drops to his knees. I drop beside him.

“I’m sorry. I almost—I couldn’t—”

His fingers brush my jaw where bruises will bloom tomorrow. “You stopped.”

Every heartbeat but ours has stilled. The silence makes my chest ache.

“Xaden, I can’t feel anyone.”

My legs barely hold as I stand. I move into the hallway and see them through the doorframe. The barkeep slumps over his counter. A woman’s arm hangs from a table where she fell mid-reach. Boots jut from behind an overturned bench. They’re all dead. I killed them all.

“No. No, no, no—” My knees hit wood. “I killed them. The whole tavern—”

Xaden’s arms close around me from behind. My back hits his torso hard. Darkness seeps up from the floor, over our bodies, into my mouth and nose until I can’t breathe.

Then air returns. We’re in the hallway outside my chambers. Xaden stumbles. His grip loosens. I shove him against the wall before his knees buckle completely.

His head drops forward. Each breath tears from his chest. Fresh blood drips onto the floor between his boots.

My fingers curl into fists to keep from reaching for him.

I push off the wall and walk toward the servants’ stairs.

“Where are you going?”

The stairs lead down to the kitchens where servants prepare breakfast and guards change shifts. Too many heartbeats waiting below. I pivot and walk back toward my door.

Xaden catches my elbow. I tear free.

“Ayla, stop.”

“The barkeep was working. Just working.” The words catch in my throat. “There was a girl. Young. Someone’s daughter, someone’s—”

He catches both my wrists and pulls me against him. Our ribs collide.

“Stop running from me.”

“Let go, Xaden.”

“No.” He threads his fingers through mine. “We face this together.”

My thumb stutters against my pointer finger, scraping dried blood free. The flakes fall between our joined hands.

“The girl behind the bar was laughing when we walked past. She was laughing and now—”

“She’s dead. You can’t change it.”

I wrench at our joined hands. He doesn’t let go.

“The couple was holding hands going upstairs. What if—what if she was pregnant?”

“It’s done. They’re gone. Stop letting the dead take you with them.”

They already have me.

Alastair. Grace, I’m so sorry—

My lungs fill with something heavier than air. Each breath draws in the weight of strangers whose names I’ll never learn. I drown on solid ground, chest packed with stopped hearts. My fingers go limp in his grip. My knees want to fold. I lock them straight.

“That’s all you have to say? They’re gone?”

“Yes. They’re gone. What those men tried to do to you.” A muscle jumps beneath his eye. His fingers tighten around mine hard enough to grind bone. “If it’s between them or you, I choose you. Every fucking time.”

I twist my wrists down and out. Our skin burns with the friction. My shoulders wrench at the angle but I keep pulling.

“You can’t just decide.”

His hands open. All ten fingers release at once. The sudden freedom sends me stumbling sideways. Xaden catches my shoulder.

“I already did. I killed them, Ayla. You are my choice in everything.”

“Stop saying that.”

I rip his hand off my shoulder and lunge for my door. His palm slams the wood beside the handle. The impact rattles the frame.

“I won’t. Nothing changes it.”

Tendons ridge beneath the skin of his forearm. The door handle sits six inches from his hip. I’d have to reach through the heat of him to grasp it.

“I don’t deserve it. Not after what I—”

His heartbeat stutters once, then twice. The rhythm skips and crashes in his chest.

“Your heart—gods, I’m doing it again. Let me pass, Xaden.”

I duck under his arm. He drops his elbow, catches me against his ribs. My shoulder jams into his chest. His free arm locks around my waist and drags me backward.

“No.”

My heels scrape stone as he pulls me from the door. I twist in his grip but his arm only tightens. My spine seals against his chest.

“I can’t control it.”

“You can.”

“I CAN’T.”

His heartbeat lurches sideways. Three beats crash together where one should be. His grip loosens. A groan tears from his throat. His forehead drops against my shoulder. Blood hits the floor between our feet in three precise drops.

His weight shifts off me. He staggers backward until his spine hits the door. His chest heaves. He wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, then plants both palms flat against the wood behind him.

“No, no—please no. This is who I am. This is what I’ve become.”

“This isn’t you.” He gasps between words. “Your signet isn’t you.”

Another breath rips through him.

“You’re the woman who bleeds for her people. Who remembers their names. Who walks through fire and survives.”

His knuckles whiten against the door.

“You stand up to your father and his council. You’re the first chosen outside Basgiath.”

His eyes lock on mine. Gold burns through the black.

“And you’re mine. I don’t fucking deserve you, but I’m taking you anyway.”

“You’ve pushed me away since the tournament. Told me we’re nothing but knight and princess. And now—now after I’ve killed an entire tavern, after what I just did to you—you suddenly want me?”

The stones dig into my shoulder blades through rough wool that smells like someone else. I press harder into them.

“I’ve always wanted you.”

His fingers curl against my door. Wood groans beneath his grip.

“You’ve done everything to prove otherwise. And now when I’m covered in blood, when I’ve proven I’m exactly as dangerous as you always knew I was, now you choose me?”

He crosses the hallway. His palms plant against stone on either side of my shoulders. Purple powder still clings to his temple. His right hand leaves the wall and follows the curve of my arm down to my wrist, fingers catching the braided leather and rotating it until copper presses warm against my pulse. His left arm trembles holding his weight.

“I’m done denying myself.”

I duck beneath his arm. My shoulder drives into his ribs where I made his heart stutter. He grunts. I reach my door in four strides.

“You’ve been shoving me away with both hands.”

My fingers close on iron. The handle turns halfway before his chest collides with my back.

“And it didn’t fucking work.” His breath hits the back of my neck. “You’re under my skin. In my head. In my blood.”

I shove the door open and throw myself through, grabbing the edge to swing it shut. His palm strikes wood. The impact reverberates up my arms. His fingers curl around the edge above mine.

“What do you want from me, Xaden? To accidentally kill you? Is that it?”

My knuckles ache where they grip the door edge beneath his. Splinters dig into my palm. I pull. The door stays exactly where his hand holds it.

“I want you to step aside.”

His thumb shifts against the wood to graze my smallest finger. My stomach drops.

“What?”

“Step aside, Ayla. Let me in.”

My fingers peel away from the wood one by one. I step backward. He steps forward. I step again. He matches me. Our eyes lock and hold through each measured retreat and advance.

He crosses into my chambers. Behind him, the door falls closed and wards crackle awake. His fingers dig into the curve where hip meets waist and he drives me backward through the room. Glass bites cold through wool when my spine collides with the window. The panes flex against my weight.

“If I lose control, I’ll kill you.”

“Kill me. I already die outside that door every night.”

“You’re the one who put that door between us.” My voice cracks. Four heartbeats pound between us before I exhale slow enough to keep mine from tangling with his.

“Knight. Princess. The excuse that’s kept me from this mouth.” His thumb drags my bottom lip down. The rough pad catches where teeth have torn flesh from wanting.

I sink teeth into his thumb and taste violence. He pushes deeper instead of pulling away. Gold drowns the black of his eyes watching me suck the taste from his skin.

“You’re still my knight.”

He withdraws his thumb from my mouth. Spit strings between us. His hands grip the soft underside of my thighs hard enough to bruise. “And you’re still the princess—” He hauls me up. Glass shrieks against my spine. My thighs clamp around his hips. “—wrapped around your knight.”

His hipbones bruise into the soft meat of my inner thighs. His cock presses against me through wool. A hundred palace heartbeats crash through my awareness. I wall them off, narrow my focus to the single rhythm pressed against my sternum.

“This is forbidden.”

“That’s why you’re trembling.” His mouth opens against my throat. His tongue traces the raised rope of scar tissue across my neck.

Thread pops as I tear what remains of his shirt apart. When I reach skin, his burned hand catches my wrist. The melted texture of his scars drags against my palm. He flattens my hand over his heart where it kicks against bone.

“If they see us—they’ll kill you.”

“I’m already a dead man.” His teeth find the deepest scar. He bites down.

My back arches, pressing my chest to his. Glass creaks behind me. Every sleeping heartbeat in the palace jolts awake at once. I shove them back into dreams while his teeth print bruises over old wounds.

“You can’t want this.”

“I do.” He groans into my neck.

“If we do this—”

“When.” His burned fingers tangle in my hair, tilt my head back until my throat bares to him. “When we do this.”

“Everything changes.”

He rolls his hips once. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. Heat floods through me where we’re pressed together.

“Look at me.”

His pupils have swallowed everything but a ring of gold. Every heartbeat in the palace pounds through me. I count them all to keep from seizing his.

“Fuck it.”

His mouth takes mine. I taste myself in him. My spit from his thumb, my skin from where he bit me, and beneath it all, his blood still coating his throat. His tongue slides against mine and I chase the copper taste deeper. Months of watching him breathe outside my door, and now his breath fills my lungs.

He groans into my mouth. The sound vibrates through my teeth, down my throat. I make a noise back that I’ve never made before. Something between surrender and demand.

His hand tightens in my hair while the other grips my thigh hard enough to leave fingerprints for days. I need those marks. Need proof this is real after months of him stepping back, looking away, choosing distance over this.

The kiss deepens. Becomes something else. His tongue strokes mine in a rhythm that makes me understand what comes next. My hips rock to match it. He groans again, deeper this time. I swallow the sound and give him one of my own.

The glass cracks behind me. Neither of us stops.

When we finally break for air, his forehead drops to mine. We breathe the same breath between us. His lips are swollen. Mine throb with the best kind of pain.

“That first day,” I gasp against his mouth. “I wanted to be the blood on your tongue.”

He licks the split in my lip where teeth met flesh. “You are. You were. You will be.”

I lean into him again and open my mouth against his. We move slower now. I trace the edge of his bottom lip with my tongue. He exhales into me when I find the corner of his mouth. His teeth close on my split lip and hold without pressure. My hands slide down his chest to his waist. The belt buckle confounds me. Metal refuses to thread through metal no matter how I twist the leather.

Shadows coil beneath my thighs and lock me against the glass. His hands capture both my wrists. My fingers still shake against his belt buckle. He watches them fail at the simple mechanism. His pupils blow wide. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice. He flattens my palms against his stomach. The muscles there contract beneath my touch.

He takes my mouth for the third time tonight. I bury my hands in his hair and grip the tangled strands at his nape. He lifts me from the glass. The shadows dissolve. My legs lock tighter around him as he carries me through my chambers, past the bed, into the bathing chamber.

I pull back from his mouth. “The bed is the other way.”

“I know where the bed is.”

He sets me on the tub’s carved edge. The marble shocks cold through wool. My legs release him. Candlelight flickers across the vaulted ceiling. The tub could hold six people. Gilt mirrors cover every wall. We multiply across the mirrors, dirty and bloodied, an army of ruined selves.

He leans past me to turn the taps. Water pours into the marble basin. Steam rises. He tests the heat with his unburnt hand, adjusts the flow, tests again.

I grip the hem of my shirt. The rough fabric scrapes my palms. I lift it an inch and stop.

“I thought we were going to…”

“Not tonight.” He turns from the taps.

“Why not?”

“Because you just killed men. Because I nearly died. Because you’re covered in blood that isn’t yours.” He steps between my knees. “That’s not how your first time should be.”

“What if I don’t care?”

“I do.” His hands cover mine on the hem.

“Then you’re rejecting me.”

“I’m protecting you.” His thumbs trace my knuckles.

“I don’t need protecting. I need you.”

“I want you.” His voice breaks. He lifts my palm to his cheek and turns into it. His lips press against the center where my pulse beats hardest. “It’s killing me how much I need you. But not like this. Not tonight.”

“You’ll wait?” I ask. 

“I’ve waited months. I can wait longer.”

“And if I still want you?”

“Then I’m yours.”

My fingers trace his jaw. The muscle jumps beneath my touch. I lean forward and take his mouth with mine. This kiss belongs to me. 

For months I watched him breathe outside my door and wanted this exact power. To kiss him when I choose. To pull away when I choose. His lips part beneath mine. I withdraw before he can chase the taste deeper.

“Stay there.” I stand from the marble edge and step around him. “Don’t move.”

“Ayla—”

“Don’t move.” I reach for the hem of my shirt. My fingers grip the fabric. I lift it slowly, wondering if I’m doing this wrong. If I should turn around. If he even wants to watch.

His pupils dilate. His hands grip his thighs hard enough to whiten his knuckles. The front of his trousers strains against the fabric.

I pull the shirt over my head. The fabric drops to marble. I stand bare from the waist up, arms at my sides. Steam curls around us both. The assassination scar stretches ugly and puckered from my left hip down toward my trousers. The direwolf scars rope across my neck. Twenty years of damage. Twenty years of hiding this body. And now I offer it to him.

“Fuck, you’re perfect.”

He stands and crosses to me. His mouth opens against my neck. He tastes each scar.

His hands frame my waist. His forehead presses against my sternum. He breathes me in then kisses the freckle above my left breast. “Watched this one peek out of your dresses all summer.”

He sinks to one knee. His mouth finds the birthmark below my right rib. “Mine to learn.”

His lips press wet against my scar’s deepest point. The place that nearly killed me. No man has seen this ruin before him. His tongue traces the raised edges.

He looks up from his knee. “You’re the only woman who’s ever brought Xaden Riorson to his knees by choice, Ayla Tauri.”

My hands tangle in his hair. Words die in my throat. The deadliest man in Navarre kneels at my feet by choice.

His fingers close on my trouser laces. My hands tighten in his hair. He keeps his eyes on mine while he works the knot loose. My belly tightens when his knuckles brush bare skin. The knot gives. He wraps the laces around his fingers and pulls. The waistband gaps. Air touches skin that’s never known another’s gaze. 

He waits. 

I nod. 

With shaking hands, he hooks his thumbs inside and draws the fabric down.

The wool pools at my ankles, caught on my boots. He unlaces the left boot first, pulls it free, then the right. My bare feet touch cold marble. I step out of the trousers, gripping his shoulders for balance. He sets everything aside.

I stand naked before him.

Goosebumps rise across my skin. His gaze travels from my feet to my thighs, slow enough to feel like touch. His palm glides up my calf. When his fingers brush behind my knee, my leg jerks. His other hand traces the scar on my shin. Dead nerves wake.

His palm continues up my thigh to cup my ass. The muscle in my thigh quivers. My weight shifts forward into his touch. He presses his mouth to the soft skin of my inner thigh. My hands tighten in his hair.

His mouth opens wider on my thigh and his teeth sink into the muscle until nothing exists but that pressure. Water fills behind us, the pitch dropping so low the walls seem to breathe with it.

My fingers loosen in his hair. He makes a wounded sound. I pull harder and he groans into my skin. Something answers in my throat.

His breathing stutters against my leg while his thumb presses into the soft dip of my hip. When his tongue finally touches my thigh, I breathe his name.

He pulls back. We stare at the glistening mark on my skin. His thumb smears through it, spreading it wider.

He looks up from the mark and catches my wrists. He brings my hands to his face. Stubble scratches my palms. He turns his head into my right palm and kisses it. Then the left.

Water thunders behind me, the pitch dropping as the tub fills. He guides my hands down to his throat. His pulse beats calm when he swallows. Then to his bare chest through the torn shirt. His heart kicks harder the instant my skin meets his.

He releases my wrists. My left hand stays on his chest. My right rises to trace the raised scar through his eyebrow. Water trembles at the tub’s rim. His breathing quickens. I follow the scar down to his cheekbone. He trembles under my touch.

Water spills over the edge. Warmth spreads across the floor and reaches my bare feet first, then pools around his knees where he kneels. His trousers darken as the water soaks through.

He reaches past my hip for the faucet. His shoulder presses into my belly as he twists the tap. Metal squeals. The water stops. Only the dripping remains, each drop loud in the silence.

When he pulls back, his shoulder drags across my stomach. He looks from the puddle spreading between us to my feet up to my face. His pupils have blown wide.

Water drips from him as he rises.

“Get in the water, Ayla.”

I step toward the tub and his hand slides down to grip my elbow. I lift my leg over the marble rim and hot water swallows my foot whole. My weight shifts wrong on the slick bottom and his fingers tighten, not letting me fall, never letting me fall, and I wonder if this is what trust feels like.

I find my balance and bring my other leg over. The water climbs my calves as I lower myself. His hands guide my descent. Heat rises past my thighs, past the scars, past my ribs, and stops just above my nipples. Only then does he let go. The absence of his touch aches more than the heat that should burn my skin.

My knees draw up and I wrap my arms around myself, but it’s not shame that makes me small. It’s the weight of his gaze, still on me, seeing everything and not turning away.

He watches me pull my knees tighter to my chest and his jaw flexes. “Don’t hide. Not from me. Not after I’ve tasted your scars.”

My knees loosen but don’t fall completely. I force my spine straighter even as my arms stay wrapped around my shins. The water laps higher with the movement, and my nipples harden where the air brushes wet skin above the waterline.

When I lift my chin to meet his gaze, I see what my body has done to him. His cock strains against dry fabric, the evidence of his want unmistakable. He doesn’t move to hide it or turn away. He lets me see exactly what power I hold over him, even as I sit curled in my bath.

He sinks to one knee in the puddle, pulls his left boot free in three quick motions, then shifts to the other knee for the second boot. His eyes never leave mine.

He stands. His socks make wet sucking sounds as he peels them off, first left, then right. They land against the marble with twin slaps.

What remains of his shirt hangs from his shoulders in tatters. Blood has dried the fabric stiff in places. He reaches over his shoulder to grab the ruined cloth and pulls it over his head. His stomach appears first, the rigid lines of muscle flexing as he moves. A scar cuts diagonal across his ribs. Dark hair trails down from his navel and disappears beneath his waistband. The shirt drops to join his socks. He stands before me bare from the waist up, breathing harder than undressing requires.

His hands go to his belt and my mouth goes dry. The buckle releases without the fumbling that defeated me earlier, and the corner of his mouth lifts when he catches me watching his fingers. The leather slides free with a whisper.

My teeth catch my bottom lip as his fingers touch the buttons of his trousers and work them loose one by one, lingering on each as he watches my face. His eyebrow arches when I lean forward without meaning to. Water sloshes against the tub’s edge.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and pushes the wet fabric down past his hips, past his thighs, and the muscles in his legs flex as he steps out of them. Black smallclothes remain, and his cock strains against the fabric so clearly that my thighs clench beneath the water.

He tosses the trousers aside and his hands shake just once before he stills them, but the smirk returns when he catches where my eyes have landed. I want to rise from the water and bite it off his mouth.

His fingers move to his smallclothes and pause. When he speaks his voice drops to that pitch that makes my stomach clench.

“Still think I’m just your knight?”

Heat pools low in my belly where annoyance should sit. He pushes the fabric down in one smooth motion and steps free of them. He stands there, naked, unashamed, waiting.

“This is yours, Ayla.”

My throat closes. Every scar on his body tells a different story. His muscles cord with every breath, and my hands ache to know the feel of them. He’s too magnificent, and I wonder if he’s truly mine when I’ve never learned how to reach for a man like him. He’s also impossibly thick and long, and my thighs press together beneath the water because I’m certain he’ll split me in half. Something must show on my face because his expression shifts.

“I won’t break you.” He steps toward the tub and his cock bobs with the movement, drawing my eyes again. “Not unless you ask me to.”

He steps over the marble rim before I respond, and the water rises with his weight, climbing higher on my body until it laps at my collarbones. Pink swirls between us where the wet blood on my skin meets the dried blood on his, the colors twisting together as he moves. He sinks down and crosses the space between us, his thighs bracketing mine beneath the surface.

“Then I’m asking.” The words come out raw. “I want you to break me. Claim me. Take every part of me that no one else has touched.”

A groan tears from his throat and his hands find the marble on either side of my hips, his knuckles white with the effort of not touching me.

“Fuck, Ayla.” His forehead drops to mine. “Don’t say that. Not when you’re the only thing that’s ever threatened my control.”

My knee brushes his beneath the water. His skin burns hotter than the bath itself, and I press closer, chasing the heat that matches my own.

He kisses me and I forget the tavern exists. His tongue slides against mine and I forget my own name. His cock twitches against my thigh. We kiss until we’re breathless, and when we finally part, my lips feel swollen and used.

He washes my hair with the jasmine oil from the tub’s edge. His fingers pull through the tangles harder than Maeve ever would, but I don’t tell him to be gentler. When I wash his hair with the same oil, I kneel between his legs to reach. My breasts brush his chest and his hands explore my spine, memorizing each ridge, fingertips pressing into the muscles along my back. He traces the bones under my skin, the dip of my waist, but his hands always return to rest on my hips without pulling me down onto him.

He turns so I can wash his back. Sgaeyl spans from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, navy ink darker than bruises. Scars cut through her wings, one lash for each of the hundred and seven children he claimed responsibility for. I kiss each mark. He remains still. When I reach the starburst near his spine, he shudders.

The water has gone from pink swirls to the color of diluted wine. He stands first and guides me up with him. Water runs down our legs and pools at our feet. He wraps a towel around me and dries my skin, his fingers turning feather-soft where bruises bloom. I dry him the same way.

He laces our fingers together and I lead him to my bed. We lie down still damp, both smelling of jasmine, and when he pulls me against his chest, his heartbeat thrums through my spine, steady and strong and wholly mine.

Chapter Text

I cannot move. An arm is a heavy bar across my ribs, my leg pinned by the weight of another's. My back is pressed to something solid, something that breathes. I draw a breath to protest, but the air is thick with a scent I know. Jasmine, yes, but tangled with the salt of his skin and the musk of sleep. It is the scent of our bodies, woven into the sheets. 

Xaden.

My mind reaches for the horror of the tavern, but the memory of his hands meets it. The quiet way they learned the shape of my bones. The soft press of his mouth against my scar. His thumb stroking the birthmark at my hip.

My breath catches. The muscles in my back, which I had not known I held so tight, give way, and my body goes heavy against the mattress. His heart is a steady beat against my spine. I stir, and a low groan rumbles through his chest and into my back. His fingers begin to thread the hair at my nape.

With a slow, patient pressure, he pulls the strands free, combing through my hair until he gathers all of it in his hand. He lifts the mass of it and drapes it over my shoulder, and the ache in my scalp dissolves.

Cool morning air touches the newly bared skin. Then his mouth is there, a welcome warmth that covers the chill. He does not kiss me, not at first. He holds his mouth to my skin. Then the wet heat of his mouth travels from my jaw down the line of my throat.

A second kiss, then a third, each one a small, fervent vow against my skin. By the fourth, a tremor starts in my shoulders, a deep shudder that has little to do with the chill. He lifts his head, and I feel the light scrape of his finger tracing a circle on the bone of my sternum. Then another, and another.

He speaks, his voice a low rumble, thick with sleep. “Didn’t know princesses snored.”

My spine goes rigid. 

“I don’t snore,” I hiss.

“You do,” he murmurs. “Little sighs. Sometimes words.”

The soft stroke of his tongue passes over the tender skin of a bruise. A pulsing ache ignites deep within the purpled flesh.

His words are a puff of warm air against my shoulder. “Sometimes my name.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie?” The heat of his tongue vanishes, replaced by the light scrape of his teeth against my bone. Another shudder works its way down my spine. 

“Do you dream about me, Ayla?” The words are hot against my ear. “Because I sure as hell dream about you. Every night since I knelt at your feet and took that oath.”

I twist to face him, but he groans, and his arm tightens, pulling me flush against his chest. His cock presses into the small of my back. My body answers, my hips pushing back against him. A guttural sound tears from his throat, and his teeth close on the sensitive skin of my throat. A sweet weakness floods my arm. My hand clenches, my fingers knotting in the tangled sheets.

“Careful,” he mutters. “Unless you really are trying to kill me.”

I answer with a slow roll of my hips, seeking the hardness of him. “You must have forgotten I already tried that.”

The hard ridge of him gives a single, convulsive jump against me. Then he goes still, his whole body locking, a wall of rigid muscle. The moisture of his breath is gone from my skin. 

“Three times,” I say, the words a ragged whisper. “Last night. When your heart stopped.”

The rough pad of his thumb traces a line upward from my sternum. Where his thumb passes, my skin tightens, the flesh pebbling. His hand slides higher, his calluses catching on the delicate skin of my throat, until his palm comes to rest at its base. 

There is no pressure, but the frantic beat of my own pulse hammers against the tips of his fingers. That hand tilts my head back. The room blurs into a swirl of wall and ceiling, and then his face is all I see.

A line of thin light cuts the gloom behind him, catching the edge of his dark hair in gold. His face is left in shadow. In the half-light, the harsh lines of his face seem to soften. The pale track of the scar through his eyebrow is just a ghost of a mark. He is beautiful in this light. A dangerous, broken sort of beauty. The sight of him is a hollow ache that opens in my chest, a grief for something I cannot name. 

“My heart’s already yours.” He speaks, and his lips brush mine with each word. A series of soft touches, each one gone before my own mouth can answer. “Stop it. Start it. Kill me with it. I don’t care.”

An ache pulls at the base of my skull as I tilt my head back, my muscles fighting the motion. I close the last awkward inch between us. My mouth meets his at an odd angle, my bottom lip pressing against his top one. The rough, chapped skin of his lip grates against the soft underside of mine, but there is a warmth to it that sinks deep. 

The tip of his tongue probes the seam of my lips. I open for him. A low groan rumbles through his chest. His fingers tighten their hold as his tongue sweeps into my mouth. My neck screams at the angle. I follow anyway.

Boot heels strike marble beyond my door. I flinch at the sound, a useless attempt to pull away from him. The fingers at my throat tighten, their hold firm and unyielding. At the same instant, his teeth close on my bottom lip, a gentle pressure that stills my struggle. The handle of the door clicks.

“For fuck’s sake, Xaden, the least—”

The door slams against the stone wall. Imogen goes utterly still in the doorway. The hand at my throat is gone. My head lolls forward, and a painful release spreads through the muscles of my neck. In the heavy silence that follows, a draft of cold air from the corridor creeps across my bare breasts.

Maeve has dressed me a thousand mornings; she knows every scar and freckle on my skin. But she has never seen this. She has never seen the raw scrape of a man’s stubble on my chin, nor the faint bruises his fingers left on my ribs. She has never had to witness the solid muscle of a man’s arm, locked against my ribs, holding me to his side as if I were his to keep.

“Get dressed.” Imogen’s voice is flat, each word a separate stone dropped into the quiet of the room. “Your room, Riorson. Two minutes.”

“I’ll be there,” he says against my shoulder. “Now turn around.”

Footsteps shuffle in the outer chamber. The mattress shifts as he pulls away. Shadows worm down my naked spine, and the cold of them goes bone-deep. Then nothing. I am tangled in ivory sheets that smell of him, the fading heat of his body trapped in the threads.

“He’s gone.” I turn to face them, the sheet clutched tight under my arms. Maeve’s eye goes first to my throat, then to the ruin of the sheets tangled at my waist. I cannot read the look. Imogen is even harder to decipher; her scarred face is a mask of perfect composure. I hear the accusation in their shared silence. “I wanted this,” I say, and the words are a flimsy shield. “Not just him.”

A muscle jumps in Imogen’s cheek. “Choices like that have consequences—ones that reach a hell of a lot farther than your bed.”

Maeve’s hands twist the fabric of her apron into a knot. Imogen turns without another word, and the door slams shut in her wake. Her boot heels strike twice in the hall. A moment later, the wood of Xaden’s door groans, then cracks shut. Maeve has not moved. She stands by the door, her hands still tangled in her apron, her one good eye fixed on me.

“You’re certain this is what you wanted?” She murmurs. 

“Yes.”

She gives a single, pointed nod. The wardrobe doors creak as she opens them. Her hands pass over silks and velvets, then find a dress of midnight blue. She pulls it out. It is a dress meant for hiding, with a high collar that would chafe my chin and sleeves that would cover my wrists. The sort of armor I wore yesterday, when I still feared my own body.

You have learned to trust your own flesh, Cridhe’s voice rumbles, not in my ears, but in my marrow. You are the one who commands hearts and bends the very essence of life to her will.

My dragon speaks the truth.

I think of champagne tulle, the scatter of pearls like trapped starlight. It is a dress that dares the world to look. He would not want me to hide.

My whole life, I have been a thing to be locked away, I think, the thought meant for Cridhe. My father built a cage of silks and tutors. Xaden built walls around my body to protect me, but left my soul to roam. He did not change me. He freed me.

“No,” I tell her. “The pale one with the pearls.”

Maeve discards the midnight silk. Her hands draw champagne tulle from the wardrobe, and the countless pearls catch the watery light flooding through the tall windows, peppering the walls with brightness. My chambers sway without moving.

The tulle is a weightless cloud as it settles over my head, but then it finds my body, the bodice cinching tight around my ribs while the rest of the fabric falls loose to my ankles. She steps back, and her one eye takes me in, a slow appraisal from my face down to my bare feet.

“Thank the gods.” Maeve’s voice is heavy with smug satisfaction. “If your first time had to be with some court bore or a servant boy just to spite your father, I’d have murdered someone.”

A hot prickling starts at my neck and spreads up into my cheeks. “It wasn’t,” I whisper. “It wasn’t… that.”

“The bruises on your throat say different.” She gives a small shrug.  “I’m not complaining, mind you. He has good shoulders. Better than Ranulf’s.”

The name is a jolt. I stare at her reflection in the mirror. “Ranulf? The steward?”

“Who else?”

A sound that might have been a laugh catches in my throat and becomes a cough. I turn from her, my gaze fixed on the mirror, but I see only the memory of faces from the tavern. “He was helping me,” I say to the glass. “After the festival.”

“What happened?” Maeve’s voice is quiet behind me.

I swallow, but the muscles in my throat work against dust, and the only sound is a dry click. “My signet. It manifested. There were people dancing, Maeve.” A shudder starts in my hand, and I press my palm flat against the cool silver of the mirror. “I stopped their hearts.”

The sound of Maeve’s breathing stops.

“Families enjoying the music. Couples sharing ale.” My thumb grinds the sharp edges of my father’s signet ring into my finger. “And then their hearts stopped.”

The words are out. I watch her reflection in the glass, my own body held so tight I am not breathing. I watch the corner of her one good eye, the set of her mouth, waiting for the disgust to form.

It does not. Her arms come around me from behind, a solid weight that pulls my head back against her chest. Her cheek presses against my hair, and the clean, harsh scent of lye soap is in my nose.

“Your whole life turned upside down.” Her words are a warm breath in my hair. “Princess to rider. Safe little world to whatever is out there.”

I do not answer. I am just a weight in her arms.

“Listen to me,” she says, and her arms tighten around me. “Out there, people don’t bow. They try to gut you. You’ll sleep in mud and eat what you can find and watch good people die screaming. My cousin Cornelia comes back from the outpost missing pieces of herself. Others just come back in pieces. There’s no protocol for when your dragon dies under you, no rule for burning a village of children because you must. No one teaches you how to sleep when you can still hear the sounds they made.”

Her chest rises and falls against my back in a slow and steady rhythm that is the only solid thing in my world.

Her voice drops to a fierce whisper. “And I’ll be right there with you through every godsdamn minute. Because that’s what we do. You and me.” Her arms are a sudden vise around me. “I don’t care if it kills us both. Where you go, I go. End of discussion.”

I turn in her embrace and wind my arms around her waist. The coarse weave of her apron scratches my cheek, but I press my face deeper into the worn cotton. “Thank you, Maeve. I could not have asked for a better friend.”

“You and Cam are the only good things to ever come of the Tauri name.” Her hand thumps my back. “And if your father doesn’t start paying what he owes for all this royal nonsense, I’ll put you on the throne myself.”

I pull back from her. The sun has warmed the stone of my chambers, and the heat of it soaks through my soles. “He isn’t paying you?”

“Three months behind.” The words are a low grind of her teeth. “The cook makes soup from bones for us, while your father feasts on roasted fowl.”

Maeve leans closer, her voice a conspirator’s whisper. “And that’s not the worst of it. He’s planning a war. With Poromiel.”

My head comes up. “What?”

“The girls who clean the war room, they see the maps. Troop movements, supply lines. The stable hands are counting horses for a campaign, and everyone is scared.”

The stolen gold. The empty treasury. My father’s desperation. It is not just mismanagement. It is a deliberate march toward a war no one can afford.

Maeve shakes her head, her eye full of a weariness that goes bone-deep. “They talk of walking out, Ayla. But where would they go? So they stay. And hope.”

I turn from her. Each step toward my bed is an effort, my legs strangely heavy, the floor itself seeming to shift beneath my feet. My knees give as I reach the mattress, and I fall onto the coverlet. I lie there, face down in the velvet. It is not enough. The mattress does not hold me. I sink through it, through the floor, pulled down by the weight of their hungry faces and their desperate hope and my own useless name.

A tremor starts on the floor, a deep quivering that climbs the legs of my bed and shudders through the mattress. The balcony doors slam inward. A wall of wind tears through the room, whipping my hair across my face and sending tapestries snapping against the stone. 

The water pitcher overturns with a glassy crash. A great shadow eclipses the light, and the impact of Cridhe’s landing is a thunderous concussion that resonates in my bones. 

Amid the chaos, Maeve stoops to right the empty pitcher. “Your dragon is as dramatic as you are,” she mutters. I turn toward the balcony, where Cridhe’s scaled head is already rising above the balustrade, her crimson eyes level with mine.

My next thought is not my own.

Little queen.

Her massive head lowers until I can press my cheek to the smooth plate of her scales. She exhales, and a slow gust of air from her nostrils, smelling of sulfur and brimstone, stirs the hair at my temple. 

The air shimmers where it meets her obsidian scales. A blotchy, red flush rises on my skin where it presses against her. I wait for the searing pain of a burn that I know will not come. 

She rumbles, and it travels from her scales, through my cheek, and settles deep in the bones of my skull.

You are troubled.

Sweat beads on my forehead. “Everything’s changing.”

Change is the way of dragons. And of queens.

“I am a princess.”

You speak of what you are now. I speak of what I see.

The flow of the palace finds me in my moment of vulnerability, hundreds of faint heartbeats pulsing in the stone. But one is closer, its beat faltering, then quickening into a familiar cadence. Xaden.

“He’s back,” I whisper, my lips brushing her scales.

I have eyes.

The thought is so dry it prickles. I roll my eyes and turn my head, my cheek scraping against the hard edges, and look for him. He is leaning in the doorway to my chambers, his arms crossed over his leathers. The corner of his mouth tilts when he sees me watching, and a familiar ache blooms deep in my chest.

“Your nose is crinkling again.”

“I’m surprised you aren’t halfway across Navarre by now.” I call to him.

“Imogen couldn’t chase me off with a blade to my throat.” He pushes from the doorframe, and his shadow flows over me. “And I’m going to finish what we started.”

The air in my lungs thins. I try to speak his name, a warning, but only a small breath escapes. “Xaden.”

“Time to go,” he says. “Before your father remembers I’m expendable.”

I back away from Cridhe. The flush of her heat on my skin recedes, and Xaden’s hand takes its place at my back.

Imogen looks up from folding my silks. “Your morning schedule, Your Highness.” The title is a dismissal.

I halt in the doorway, my hand tightening on his arm. “Wait. Maeve told me something about my father.”

The arm beneath my hand goes unnaturally taut. 

“The staff haven’t been paid in three months. He’s planning war with Poromiel while people here go hungry.”

Xaden’s jaw ticks, a small, hard knot of muscle. His gaze finds Imogen’s across the room. He does not look at me when he speaks. “How does Maeve know of the war plans?” 

“Did you not just hear what I said?” My fingers dig into his arm. “People are starving while my father plays at war.”

Xaden’s thumb traces the bones of my knuckles. “It doesn’t concern you, Ayla.”

His own heart is a frantic, guarded rhythm beneath his skin, a lie I can feel but cannot name. 

A hot anger flashes through me. He speaks as if I am still the girl he found in the palace, a fragile thing to be protected from the truths he and Imogen live every day. He does not see that I have changed. Or perhaps he does not want to.

I pull my hand free. “War concerns everyone. These are my people starving while he sharpens his swords. If he pushes Poromiel further, Cridhe and I won’t be sitting behind the castle walls.”

“You’ve never set foot in Basgiath,” he says. “First-years don’t see combat unless their commanding officer orders it.”

“I’ve been a princess playing at being a rider.” My chin lifts. “Maybe it’s time I stop pretending. Maybe it’s time I convince my father to send me.”

“Cadets don’t get guards.” His hand drops from my back. “They don’t get protection. They sleep in barracks with people who’d slit your throat for looking at them wrong.”

“I have Cridhe—”

“And I won’t be there,” he interrupts. “Neither will Garrick. The moment you step through those gates, they’ll ship us off to some godsdamn outpost to finish our service.”

“But Imogen—she’ll be there, and I could—I could visit you when—”

“Cadets don’t get leave.” He shakes his head. “Not unless their dragons are mated.”

“Then I suffer like everyone else.”

“War isn’t just you and Cridhe in the fucking sky, Ayla.” His eyes lock on mine. “It’s watching your squad mates burn because some general decided they were expendable.”

“Then I’m expendable too.” I meet his stare.  “Someone gets to decide if my life’s an acceptable loss. My crown doesn’t make me untouchable.”

Imogen stills. For a moment, she is just a woman caught off guard, her fighter’s stance forgotten. Her gaze shifts from me to Xaden, and her mouth sets in a hard line.

Xaden drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t doubt you’d survive Basgiath. You’d be one of the best to ever set foot there.”

He looks away, jaw flexing, then back at me. “But I can’t watch you die. I won’t survive it.”

I close my hands over his. They are rough, warm, and with a fine tremor that runs through his fingers into mine. “You don’t get to decide when I die.” 

His nostrils flare. “Like hell I don’t.” 

He tears his hands from my grip. One step closes the space between us, and his breath is a hot shock against my mouth before his palms cup my face. The frantic beat of his own heart hammers into the bones of my jaw.

“Not while I’m still fucking breathing.”

His dark eyes hold mine. I find no answers I want in them, only a reflection of my own confusion. I break the gaze first, stepping back from the circle of his warmth. “I’m late.”

He nods, his stare unwavering. “This conversation isn’t over.”

He does not move, so I turn for the door. His hand comes to rest on my lower back as I walk. At the door, he stops me with a hand on my shoulder. 

“Wait.” He turns me back to face him. He leans down, and his mouth presses against the bridge of my nose. The spot that crinkles when I smile. He pulls away, and the skin on the bridge of my nose comes alive with a strange buzzing where his mouth had been.

He leans closer, and his breath is a puff of moist air against my ear. Then he speaks. “That dress is a godsdamn problem for my self-control.” Teeth graze the cartilage, and a shiver takes me. “But it’s that brilliant, infuriating mind that’s worse. You’ll argue circles around me until I let you win—and fuck, I’ll let you.”

From across the room, Imogen snaps, “Get a room.” 

The words are a douse of cold water. I try to step away, but his hands are firm at my waist. 

“This is my room,” I remind her.

“Then get out of it.”

Her disrespect should sting. It does not. 

She treats me as if I were anyone. Not a princess, just a girl. The thought is unburdening, and for a moment my own skin feels lighter.

Xaden’s palm claims the space between my shoulder blades. I follow him into the corridor, our footsteps the only sound in the palace’s quiet turnings.

A draft of crisp air finds me, stirring the loose strands of my hair. It is a clean chill with the promise of spring’s warmth in its bite. I take a step, and the cloister’s shadow falls away behind me. The yard opens, an expanse of bright, flat light. 

I draw the cold deep into my lungs. It is a clean shock to my system, and it smells of damp earth and something green and crushed.

The yard is a chaos of sound. Steel rings on steel in a constant, punishing rhythm. Garrick’s voice tears through it, shouting at his men. Then a flash of yellow catches my eye. 

A small bird lands on the rim of the stone fountain. It is the first I have seen since the leaves fell. It watches me for a long moment, its head tilted. Then it is gone, a flick of yellow wings toward the budding apple trees.

The yard falls silent, the last ring of steel fading from my ears. The men turn to me, their faces slick with sweat, their expressions open and questioning. 

A quiet falls, so deep I can hear a man’s ragged breath. Then that too is gone, and a hundred unsteady rhythms begin to thrum deep inside me.

A slow beat from one man. A panicked flutter from another, a bird trapped in its cage of ribs. The chorus of their lives pushes into me, a flood of mismatched rhythms that drowns out the steady beat of my own heart. 

My breath hitches, trying to find a rhythm that is no longer there. My spine straightens, and I lift my chin, as if a few inches of height could pull my head above the drowning sensation inside me.

Then Xaden’s shadows reach for me. A deep cold soaks through the fabric of my slippers. It is not the air's chill. It is a deadness that climbs my leg and makes the muscle in my thigh go rigid.

“Eyes front,” Xaden commands. “Or I’ll take them.”

The yard erupts again in a chaos of clashing steel and stumbling feet. Garrick’s roar of disgust cuts through the din. My eyes find Xaden. He moves without haste, his stride long and even, his boots making no sound on the cobbles. But the shadows at his feet are not so quiet. They spill from him, a restless black tide crawling across the yard and drinking the sunlight.

His hand urges me toward the palace. The memory of our argument is a hot knot in my stomach. I mean to stiffen, to pull away from his touch. Instead, the muscles in my back soften, my body leaning into the solid weight of his palm.

The air in the keep is thick, cloying with the smell of beeswax. In the gloom of the gallery, a girl is on her knees, a small, brown smudge of motion. She is polishing the floor, and the hazy light from a high window catches the pale veins in the marble and the sharp ridge of her spine where it pushes against her worn smock.

Her arm makes a slow, weary circle on the stone, her shoulder a sharp knob of bone under the thin cloth. Her heartbeat is a faint flutter inside my skull, a moth beating its wings against bone. A ghost of her life inside me.

Three months. A sourness rises in my throat. 

The tulle of my dress, a moment ago so light, goes heavy on my shoulders, a dead weight that pulls me down. The pearls stitched to the fabric turn cold against my skin and a cramp seizes my stomach, an emptiness that is hers, not mine. My fingers dig into the loose tulle of my bodice, finding the hard line of my ribs beneath.

I take a small step forward, and Xaden’s hand falls from my back. The place where he had been is not cold; it is empty. 

"What are you doing?" His voice is low. I do not answer him. I keep walking, toward the kneeling girl, into a pale wash of light from a high window. The light is too weak to warm the stone or melt the wax, but it catches on the pearls of my dress, making them gleam. I take another step, and the weak light illuminates the hollow of her cheek, and the thin, bloodless line of her mouth. 

Her name is Elara. I remember her little brother, a boy of six, his face sticky with the candied apple I had given him at the last harvest feast. When was the last time she had coin for such a treat? When was the last time she had a proper meal at all? A cold settles deep in my bones. This is my house. This is my father’s sin. This is my responsibility.

I sink to my knees on the cold stone. The pearls on my dress skitter across the marble, the sound a disturbance in the gallery's heavy silence. 

The tulle of my hem brushes against her coarse, brown smock, and she looks up. Her eyes are a faded blue, so like Maeve’s, but where Maeve’s hold a fire, this girl’s are wide with a fear that is not for herself. Her gaze does not hold mine. It darts past my shoulder, searching the long, empty gallery for a witness.

I reach for the cloth in her hand. “Let me.”

She flinches from my touch and clutches the rag to her chest. Her thin shoulders curl inward. “No, Your Highness. You cannot.”

“Why not?” The words are a quiet breath.

“Because you are the princess,” she whispers.

The princess. The word is a brand, a mark of separation. She speaks it as if a crown could dam a woman’s monthly blood, or a title could calm the cramping in her womb. But my own blood flows, red and common. The pain that seizes my belly each month is no different from any other woman’s. Our tears are both salt.

A hiss from the far end of the gallery pulls my gaze from Elara. The torch flame there shrinks to a small, blue point and dies. Another follows, and then another. Shadows unspool from the corners of the room, a tangible blackness that blots out the texture of the stone as it flows toward us. A choked sound tears from Elara’s throat.

My fingers fumble at my bodice, seeking the waxed thread that anchors the pearls. I manage to hook a fingernail under the thick cord and pull. 

The thread goes taut, digging a sharp crease into the soft flesh under my nail. I pull harder. The fiber parts. A line of pearls goes slack against my chest. I bring my hand up to catch them, but it is a clumsy gesture. They are already spilling, a rush of small, smooth things that slip through my fingers before I can close them. They strike the marble floor, a dozen tiny ticks that echo in the quiet before the pearls roll away into the growing dark.

My fingers close around only a few of the fleeing spheres. It is not enough. The thought is a bitter hurt. But they are all I have. I reach for her hand. The skin of her palm is rough and dry against my own, her fingers knobby beneath the chapped flesh. I uncurl my fist. The few, wax-slick pearls fall into her palm with a sad click. Her fingers remain stiff and open. I use my own to fold hers, one by one, over the inadequate gift.

 "Rest," I say, my voice an intrusion in the unnatural dark. "These are for your brother." 

Her gaze drops from the distant shadows to the pearls in her hand. The terror that held her rigid drains from her shoulders. She looks at me, her mouth parting, but no words come, only a single, jerky nod. Then she scrambles backward on the slick marble, her worn slippers finding no purchase at first, before she turns and flees down the corridor, her brown smock disappearing in the growing dark.

The light that bleeds through the high windows is a distant, thin thing, too weak to matter. The chill of Xaden’s shadows is the only real presence; it bites straight through the useless tulle of my dress, leeching the heat from my skin.

I work the lid off Elara’s tin. The paste inside is a thick sludge that smells of old wax and the ghost of herbs. It clings to my fingers. I press it to the marble, trying to force life into the stone with the small, tight circles I’ve seen her use. My efforts leave only a sickly film. A hot knot of frustration tightens in my stomach. The harder I press, the more the stone resists, until the rag escapes my grip and disappears in the gloom. My hands sweep the floor, finding nothing but a profound cold.

Xaden detaches himself from the deeper shadows without a sound. The whisper of his blade is followed by a sharp rip of fabric. He kneels, and his proximity is a living heat that makes my skin prickle. He takes the strip of his shirt and lays it against the stone.

“You need heat,” he says. “The marble’s too cold. It won’t take the wax.”

I don’t answer, watching the strength in his arm. There is a language in his rhythmic motions. The sound shifts from a slick slide to a gritty grinding. Under his hand, the marble begins to wake, a deep luster coating the surface.

“Felix—” I start.

“Can wait.” He tears another strip from his shirt and pushes it into my hand.

The cloth holds the fading warmth of his body. A rhythm establishes itself between us, born from the rasp of cloth on stone and our own tired breathing. My own weary circles fall into the cadence of his. When a sharp complaint from my knee makes me shift my weight, he moves without looking, a silent accommodation that gives me the space I need. We do not speak. There is no need.

A fire builds in my shoulder, a deep and burning ache. I falter, then clumsily switch to my left hand. Xaden mirrors the motion without pause. Our eyes meet over the dull stone. The murky light carves his face into unfamiliar planes, but I see the flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes.

We return to the stone. My knuckles scrape against his as we both reach for a stubborn patch. I expect one of us to pull back. Neither of us does. We work the same small circle, our hands overlapping, a strange and clumsy intimacy of chafed skin and shared labor until a sheen bathes the marble between us.

This morning’s memory, of waking in his arms, feels a world away from this gritty reality. I feared the daylight, feared he would retreat behind the wall of duty and title. But he is not my knight at this moment, not a guard set to watch over me. He is the man who tears his own shirt because I chose to kneel. He is simply Xaden, who understands that some lessons must be felt in the bone.

The darkness is a shelter, separating us from the palace, from Felix, from my father, from all the titles that grate and bind us. Here, there is only the grit of the paste, the scent of wax, and the shared pain  in our shoulders. Two people learning the shape of one another through a shared burden.