A Perfect place to rest | clingy Duncan the Tall x wife!reader
Duncan had become terribly spoiled after marriage.
Not in the way great lords were spoiled, with rich food and silks and servants hurrying at every lifted finger. Duncan still bore himself like a man who had known too many cold roads and too many nights with nothing but a cloak for comfort. He was humble where other men might have grown proud, still awkward in fine rooms, still more at ease in a yard with a sword in hand than seated among nobles.
No, Duncan had become spoiled in only one particular way.
He had grown used to touching his wife whenever he pleased.
It had started innocently enough, with a hand at the small of your back, with his fingers finding yours beneath the table, with the quiet habit he had of drawing you nearer whenever you sat together. But little by little, Duncan had discovered that if left to his own devices, he preferred you not merely close.
but on him.
In his lap. Against his chest. Curled into his side. Carried in his arms from one room to another as though you weighed no more than a blanket thrown over one shoulder.
You had once accused him of wanting to keep you like some pampered little creature.
Duncan, entirely unashamed, had said, “Aye.”
So now this was your life.
If you stood too near him, he would hook an arm around your waist and tug you down onto his knee before you could protest. If he found you half-drowsing by the fire, he would simply gather you up and carry you to bed, no matter how much you insisted you could walk. If he returned after a day apart, even if only from the yard or the stables, his first instinct was always to pull you against him with the quiet, needy certainty of a man coming home.
It ought to have been ridiculous.
Sometimes, it was.
This afternoon, for instance, you were meant to be cross with him.
“Duncan.”
He hummed, low in his chest.
“Duncan.”
Still he did not answer properly, only tightened one arm around your middle and rested his chin more firmly atop your shoulder.
You sat sideways in his lap beside the chamber window, one of his enormous arms banded securely around you, the other draped lazily over your legs. Outside, the sky was gray with coming rain. Inside, the room was warm, the hearth crackling softly, and Duncan had apparently decided there was no earthly reason to let you move ever again.
You had been trying to rise for the last several minutes.
Every attempt had ended the same way: with Duncan pulling you back as though it were the simplest thing in the world.
“Duncan,” you said again, with as much sternness as you could manage while partially trapped against a very comfortable chest, “I was doing something.”
"Uhm...”
“Uhm?” You twisted enough to look at him. “That is all you have to say?”
His expression was maddeningly calm. “You were doing something.”
“I still need to do it.”
He considered this. “Later.”
You stared at him. “Later?”
“Aye.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You cannot simply decide that.”
He looked down at you with infuriating gentleness. “I think I just did.”
You made a sound of disbelief and tried once more to push yourself upright. Duncan, who could probably lift a full-grown man in armor without much effort, held you where you were with insulting ease.
“Duncan!”
That finally drew a smile from him.
Gods, that smile. Soft and crooked and so unfairly fond that it robbed half the heat from your irritation at once.
“You’re smiling,” you accused.
“I am.”
“You know you are impossible.”
“Aye.”
“And overbearing.”
His hand rubbed slowly up and down your side in absent comfort. “Maybe.”
“And entirely too pleased with yourself.”
That earned a faint laugh, more breath than sound. “A little.”
You huffed and folded your arms. “I need my sewing basket.”
“I’ll fetch it.”
You blinked. “What?”
“I said I’ll fetch it.”
Before you could stop him, Duncan shifted, rose with you still in his arms as if this changed nothing whatsoever, and crossed the room.
“Duncan.” Your voice had gone half scandalized, half helpless. “Put me down.”
“No.”
“You cannot carry me every time you stand up.”
He bent to retrieve the sewing basket with one hand, still holding you securely with the other, then returned to the chair and sat with you settled right back across his lap.
“There,” he said.
You looked at the basket. Then at him. Then back at the basket.
“I hate that this solved the problem.”
His mouth twitched. “No, you don’t.”
No, you didn’t.
That was the trouble with Duncan.
He was far too easy to love when he got clingy like this—big and warm and shamelessly affectionate, with none of the pride that might have made another man pretend indifference. Duncan never pretended. If he wanted you near, he reached for you. If he missed you, he said so. If he thought you looked lovely in the morning light with your hair all undone and sleep still heavy in your eyes, he told you in that quiet, earnest voice that made it sound less like flattery and more like reverence.
And when he wished to hold you, he held you as though he saw no reason in the world not to.
You opened the sewing basket with a bit more force than necessary.
“I was cross with you,” you muttered.
“I know.”
“And now I cannot be cross properly, because you’ve trapped me.”
“You can still be cross if you like.”
You gave him a suspicious look. “Can I?”
“Aye.” He adjusted his hold until you were even more comfortably settled against him, your back to his chest, your legs draped over the arm of the chair. “I’ll listen.”
Something in the way he said it made your heart soften despite yourself.
Duncan always listened.
Not in the distracted way some men did, nodding along while their thoughts wandered elsewhere. Duncan listened with his whole attention, whether you were speaking of something grave or merely complaining about a lady at court whose manners offended you. He liked hearing you talk. That much was plain. Sometimes you suspected he would gladly sit for hours with you on his lap, saying almost nothing himself, so long as you kept speaking and let him keep holding you.
You threaded your needle, aware all the while of the slow rise and fall of his breathing behind you.
“You are absurd,” you informed him.
“I’ve heard that.”
“You have made me lazy.”
At that, he sounded genuinely pleased. “Have I?”
“Yes. Because now I expect to be carried whenever I’m tired.”
“I can do that.”
“That was not meant as encouragement.”
“It sounded like it.”
You tilted your head back enough to glare at him. “You are not even listening to the meaning of my words.”
“I am listening.”
“Then what did I say?”
His eyes were very blue in the firelight, his face open with amusement so gentle it never once felt mocking. “You said I make you lazy, that you expect to be carried when you’re tired, and that I’m not to take it as encouragement.”
“Exactly.”
“Aye.” He bent and pressed a kiss just behind your ear. “I heard every word.”
Your fingers faltered on the needle.
That was another thing Duncan did when he was particularly soft: he kissed you wherever he could reach. Your temple. Your cheek. The slope of your shoulder if your gown left it bare. The inside of your wrist when he held your hand. Little quiet touches of affection, as if love sat too full in him to remain still.
“You’re distracting me,” you said, much less sharply than before.
“Sorry.”
He did not sound sorry at all.
You resumed your sewing. For perhaps half a minute, peace held.
Then his hand, broad and rough and warm, found your waist again and gave an almost absent squeeze.
You sighed.
“What now?”
“Nothing.”
“Duncan.”
He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice had gone softer. “I missed you.”
Your expression gentled at once. “I was with you this morning.”
“Aye.”
“And at dinner.”
“Aye.”
“And in the yard before that.”
He nuzzled lightly against your hair with all the unselfconscious affection of a man far gone in love. “Still missed you.”
You set the sewing aside entirely then and turned enough to face him properly.
There it was that look.
Duncan never hid it. That simple, aching devotion in his eyes, as though loving you was as natural to him as breathing and nearly as constant. It was impossible to stay annoyed when he looked at you that way, all tenderness and want, with no shame in either.
“You are clingy,” you said softly.
His hand came up to brush a loose strand of hair back from your face. “Aye.”
“Very clingy.”
“Aye.”
“More than any husband ought to be.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Maybe.”
You reached to smooth the crease between his brows with your thumb. “And what am I to do with you?”
His answer came so quickly it was nearly boyish. “Stay.”
It stole the breath from you.
There was such naked sincerity in Duncan. He never dressed his heart in cleverness. He just offered it to you exactly as it was.
Stay.
As though that were all he wanted.
As though that were everything.
Your palm cupped his cheek. His eyes fluttered for the briefest moment into that touch, leaning into it in a way no one else ever saw.
“I am staying,” you whispered.
He looked relieved, though there had never been any true danger of your going. “Good.”
Then, after a beat: “Come closer.”
A laugh escaped you. “Duncan, I am in your lap.”
“You could still be closer.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“Maybe.”
But he was already drawing you in, until your sewing had to be abandoned altogether and you were gathered fully against him, your head beneath his chin, his arms wrapped around you with the contented certainty of a man who had finally set right something that had been wrong all day.
You should have protested.
You meant to, perhaps.
Instead, you let out a slow breath and melted there.
His hand moved in lazy strokes along your back. Up and down, up and down, patient as a lullaby. He was so warm that it made you drowsy, and Duncan, noticing this at once, shifted his legs to support you better.
“You see?” he murmured.
“See what?”
“You were meant to be here.”
You smiled against his tunic. “On your lap?”
“Aye.”
“All the time?”
“If possible.”
“That seems inconvenient.”
“Not for me.”
“It is for me.”
He considered. “I could carry you where you need to go.”
You laughed into his chest, and his arms tightened reflexively, as though the sound itself made him want to hold you more. “Like some little pet?”
He kissed the top of your head and pout. “Like my wife !!”
The words should not have affected you so much after all this time, and yet they did.
My wife.
Not possessive in any cruel sense. Only full of wonder, full of tenderness, as though he still could not quite believe he was allowed to say it.
You tipped your face up to his. “You’re spoiled, you know.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Probably.”
“Shameless.”
“A little.”
“Hopelessly attached.”
At that, his expression turned so openly fond it nearly hurt to look at. “Aye,” he said. “That too.”
You kissed him before he could say anything else.
Duncan made the softest startled sound, then gathered you closer with impossible care, one hand splaying broad and warm at the small of your back. He kissed like he did everything else with you: gently at first, then with deepening feeling, as though all the affection he carried through the day found its truest home there.
When you drew away, his forehead came to rest against yours.
For a little while, neither of you spoke.
The fire crackled. Rain began softly against the glass. Duncan’s thumb stroked slow circles at your waist as if he could not help himself.
Then, very quietly, he said, “Better.”
You smiled. “Better?”
“Aye.” He pressed one last kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Now you’re sitting properly.”
You let out a helpless laugh and tucked yourself back against him, your earlier scolding forgotten completely.
“Fine,” you murmured. “But only for a little while.”
Duncan’s arms locked around you at once, smug in the most innocent way a man could be smug. “Aye.”
“You are not to gloat.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
His chest moved with silent laughter beneath your cheek.
You closed your eyes, listening to the rain, to the steady beat of his heart, to the comfort of being held by someone who loved you without restraint and without end. And when you shifted closer still, Duncan let out a contented breath so full of happiness it nearly made you blush.
He would listen to every complaint you made, every sharp little remark, every bit of fond bickerin so long as you stayed right where he wanted you.
In his lap.
In his arms.
In the safest place he knew.
................................
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Want to read more Masterlist
Requests are open, feel free to message me specific scenes or ideas you’d like to see in my fics 💕
I've missed you, you absolute shit.
Don't get all sappy now, you sentimental fuck.
With a dash of heat & a lot of heart, OUR ROGUE FATES is an Achillean fantasy romance between two childhood best friends turned lovers turned disaster. When they go on a quest together to hunt for buried treasure, old feelings come to the forefront. 👀 And...
OUR ROGUE FATES IS OUT NOW!!!
You can come see me & Sarah together at the RippedBodice, in Brooklyn NY, THIS THURSDAY, May 7, at 7pm!!!
Bonus: The Ripped Bodice managed to buy some of the last copies of HOW TO SURVIVE THIS FAIRYTALE before it went out of print -- so buy a ticket, grab Sarah's book, and get mine, too!
Mini Message: Yes I know there are no dragons during A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms timeline — this is an “what if dragons returned” AU because I will always love dragons.
Fire and Blood Masterlist
The egg felt warm before it ever felt alive.
You noticed that first.
Not the color — though it was beautiful, pale as melted gold with veins like trapped sunlight — and not the weight either, heavy enough that your arms trembled when you first lifted it from the ash where it had been forgotten.
No.
It was warmth.
A living heat.
You should have told someone immediately.
Instead, you closed your fingers around it and said nothing.
—
You had read everything.
Every scrap of dragon lore hidden in cracked tomes and fading scrolls, every myth half-dismissed by maesters who claimed dragons were gone forever. You knew the rituals whispered by old Valyrian texts — placing eggs near flame, feeding them heat, speaking to them as though they listened.
You knew it was foolish.
You did it anyway.
The hearth fire glowed red that night as you carefully settled the egg into the coals, heart hammering like you were committing treason.
You expected nothing.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
You returned each night when the castle slept, adjusting embers, whispering stories about ancient riders and skies filled with fire.
Sometimes you thought you imagined it — the faint shift beneath the shell.
The pulse.
The crack.
—
The sound came softly.
Like a breath breaking.
You froze, kneeling before the hearth.
Another crack split the silence.
Light bled through the fractures — molten gold, impossibly bright — and suddenly the egg shattered outward with a soft, violent release.
A creature unfolded from within.
Wet wings.
Small claws scraping stone.
Eyes like dawn breaking over the world.
You forgot how to breathe.
The hatchling chirped — a delicate, questioning sound — and turned toward you as if it had always known you existed.
—
Your father stared at the dragon for a long time without speaking.
The room smelled of smoke and fear.
“A dragon,” Prince Maekar said finally, voice low, almost reverent — almost horrified.
You held the hatchling close, shielding her from his gaze without thinking.
“They were meant to be gone.”
“I know,” you whispered.
He looked older in that moment than you had ever seen him.
“And yet,” he murmured, “one has returned.”
Silence stretched.
Then his expression hardened.
“No one must know.”
You knew immediately who he meant.
—
Aerion.
—
Your twin had always burned too brightly.
Where others feared dragons, he worshipped them.
Where others saw history, he saw destiny.
He spoke of Valyria as though it still existed, of fire as purity, of blood as proof of superiority.
Sometimes he frightened you.
Sometimes he fascinated you.
Always, he watched the world as if it owed him something.
If he discovered the dragon…
Your father’s jaw tightened.
“We hide her,” he said.
And so you did.
—
You named her Aelythra.
She grew quickly.
Faster than seemed possible.
Days turned into months, and the fragile hatchling became a creature of grace and fire — scales like molten cream catching the light, wings shimmering pale gold when stretched against the sky.
You visited her in secret caverns beyond the castle, places forgotten by most.
You fed her.
Spoke to her.
Listened to the strange hum that vibrated through your bones whenever she curled around you.
She did not feel like power.
She felt like trust.
—
Meanwhile, Aerion changed.
He grew sharper.
More restless.
He spoke of dragons often — too often — insisting that one day they would return because Targaryens were meant to rule with flame.
Sometimes his gaze lingered on you too long, as if searching for something hidden beneath your skin.
You learned to smile and say nothing.
—
Years passed.
The dragon grew.
You grew.
And when your father announced your betrothal to Aerion, the court whispered while you felt only quiet understanding.
Protection.
That was all it was.
A shield wrapped in tradition.
Your father would keep you safe in whatever way he could.
Even if it meant binding you to the one person he feared most.
—
You were nearly grown when everything changed.
—
The air smelled like rain that evening.
You carried a bundle of meat through the forest, humming softly to calm your nerves.
Aelythra waited beyond the ridge, massive now — wings folded like sunlight captured and held still.
When she saw you, she lowered her head, breath warm and sweet with ash.
“My girl,” you whispered, smiling.
She rumbled in response, nudging you gently.
You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you.
Didn’t feel the shift in the air.
Not until a voice cut through the silence.
“…what is that?”
You froze.
Slowly, you turned.
Aerion stood at the edge of the clearing.
His face had gone pale.
Eyes wide with something beyond disbelief.
Aelythra lifted her head instantly, wings spreading slightly, a low warning growl vibrating through the ground.
You stepped in front of her without thinking.
“Do not come closer,” you said.
Your voice sounded different.
Stronger.
Commanding.
His gaze snapped to you.
“You…” He laughed softly, unsteady. “You are hiding a dragon.”
Not fear.
Awe.
Obsession.
“It is not yours,” you said quietly.
His eyes burned.
“Everything dragon belongs to me.”
Aelythra growled louder.
He stepped forward anyway.
“Stay where you are,” you warned.
He hesitated.
Not because of you.
Because of her.
His expression shifted — wonder warring with fury.
“She chose you,” he whispered.
The realization seemed to wound him.
“She chose me,” you agreed softly.
Something broke behind his eyes.
Years of belief cracking like fragile glass.
“I am the dragon,” he murmured.
But Aelythra did not look at him.
She watched you.
Only you.
The silence stretched heavy and unbearable.
Aerion’s voice turned soft, dangerous.
“You hid this from me.”
“Yes.”
“From your own twin.”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“You think yourself above me now.”
“No,” you said gently. “But she is mine.”
The words echoed.
Possessive.
Unyielding.
Aelythra shifted closer behind you, heat radiating against your back.
Aerion laughed again, but it sounded hollow.
“You stand between me and fire.”
“I stand between you and her.”
For a moment, something almost fragile flickered across his face.
Hurt.
Then it vanished beneath obsession.
“She should have been mine.”
The truth of that statement — the grief buried beneath it — made your chest ache.
“I never wanted power,” you said quietly.
“And yet you have it.”
He stepped closer.
Aelythra snapped her jaws, a flash of molten light bursting between her teeth.
Aerion froze.
The dragon ignored his Valyrian murmurs.
Ignored his presence entirely.
Her world began and ended with you.
The realization shattered him.
You saw it happen.
The moment he understood that destiny had chosen someone else.
Not him.
Never him.
“You must leave,” you whispered.
His eyes lingered on the dragon.
On you.
Something dark and aching twisted in his expression.
“This changes everything,” he said softly.
“I know.”
He turned away slowly, like a man walking from a dream.
But before disappearing into the trees, he glanced back.
And the look in his eyes promised that nothing would ever be simple again.
—
Above you, Aelythra spread her wings.
Sunlight caught on pale gold scales, turning her into living flame.
Dragons had returned to the world.
And nothing — not blood, not destiny, not even love — would survive unchanged.
—
👀 should we continue this story? I have ideas for a darker part two…
Female Main Character (plus size) x Male Monster (10.4k words)
Food to Flirt - Size Difference - Arranged Marriage - Instant Attraction - Secret Meetings
“It’s not so bad,” my brother said. I know he was trying to lighten the mood; he was trying to be a good big brother. But I was not in the type of mood that anyone could lighten! Not even a bit!
“Have they ever selected you to be basically subjected to the feminine equivalent of tar and feathering?“I gave him a warning glare, that little sisterly expression that says you screwed up and grandmama is going to find that wooden spoon.
“Eden! I had nothing to do with this,” Bram said as he slunk down into his seat and kicked his heavy boots.
“You just had to save the prince’s life, didn’t you?” I daggered him with my words, poking my fingers into his arm, shoulder, and cheek. He lay there and took his punishment from my short, chubby fingers.
He sighed dramatically and threw his arm up. “Whatever was I thinking? I should have been thinking about you! Dear sister! I should have let Septimus die there on that battlefield! Dear sister! Forgive me!”
I kept needling him with my fingertips. “That’s right!”
He swiftly grabbed both my wrists with one of his. “You think I would have had any idea something like this would happen for saving Prince Septimus?”
I pouted, bemoaning how he got our mother’s lovely hands while I got our father’s. It wasn’t fair. A lot of things happening to me right now weren’t fair.
“He has no sisters, so I would not get married…unless-” his thoughts turned just enough for me to wrench free.
“The kingdom of Yuria lines up prospective brides for the princes, allowing them to pick from the line until they narrow it down to a few maidens.” I repeated from memory, having read up on Yurian traditions when I learned of my so-called selection for Prince Septimus.
Bram scoffed.
“I am already lined up enough, thank you.” I scoffed. “I stand out with our cousins and their friends enough. Picture my appearance next to Yuria’s dragonborns! Imagine Bram! Imagine!”
“You’re shaking the carriage!” Bram snapped. “And what does it matter? You’re adorable for a sister, smarter than all our tutors-”
I set my jaw and glared at him. “Yurian’s are built, and proud of their physical exploits and accomplishments. They like fit, they love muscle.” I held up my arm. My short, chunky, little arm and smacked it, letting Bram witness the prime fatty jiggle from the impact. “I pride myself on perfecting the best tiramisu and on how many strawberries I can eat in a sitting. I am going to appear like a fucking idiot! A swine in a silk dress and purse.”
“Small,” Bram corrected. “No one is going to think you’re stupid, Eden.”
“Laughingstock.” I nodded my head, already decided. I flopped back and sighed, trying to keep myself from crying. “You’ve done this to me! You’ve made me the short, pale, piggy of the royal Yurian marriage line!”
“I made you short?”
I screamed and threw myself at Bram.
“Kids! Quiet back there! You’re spooking the horses!” Dad yelled from the carriage seat. He was all too glad to drive us in. After all, Mom had gone into a trance-like state upon my selection and was all but assured I would be the next Yurian princess.
Truly, I love my family. They are all so supportive and loving and kind. But they are unfortunately all fools who believe I have a chance at catching the eye of some hulking, masculine, thoroughly trained and proper dragonborn prince.
Yurian castles were actually more like strongholds that housed the entire community. Massive walls and gates at each end of the compass with a monstrous courtyard filled with vendors, trade, and anything one could desire. The royal family stayed in the highest tower above the south gate; we would stay in the tower southeast.
Although as soon as we were inside and my father could step down from the carriage, he was already hungrily looking around.
“I had been daydreaming about Yurian fried chicken,” my father sighed. “They use a type of curry powder that will keep your sinuses clean for decades.” He proudly put his arm around me. “Soon, I’ll be able to get that curry powder delivered to my front door.”
“Dad,” I grumbled. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he and Mom shouldn’t have been so confident.
“Wait here, sweetness,” Dad said as he stepped aside, sniffing out the dish his heart called for.
I waited there by the carriage while Dad hunted fried chicken. Bram shared dirty jokes with the palace guards he had gone to battle with. Beholding all the tall, beautiful Yurian women, I wished I had powerful arms like theirs, waists thick from muscle, not from cheesecake.
“I bet you like strawberries.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Suddenly, there was a ram-driven cart near our carriage. The ram was twice as big as me, though the cart seemed dainty and quite pretty, decorated to resemble a gingerbread house made of wood.
The Yurian vendor was, well, let’s just say it might take four of me to please a man like that properly. Tall, rugged, powerful. His scales were a mix of silvery gray and burgundy flame, creating markings along his body that reminded me of raspberry jam in trifle.
I blinked, realizing he was smiling coyly at me. “Excuse me?”
“I bet you are a lady who likes strawberries.” He leaned forward ever so slightly on the cart, flashing me a smile of teeth where most were gold.
“Um-” His voice was deep and velvety; it took away my ugly duckling guard. “Yes. They’re my favorite.” I stepped closer to his cart. “How could you tell?”
He chuckled. “Well, your lips are a dead giveaway.” His voice became a velvety purr. He reached into his cart. “It was between that or peaches.”
Yurians were known to be flirtatious, enjoying making warm-blooded folk blush. He then produced a tray of these plump, soft-looking dollops of pink.
“You’re in luck, because I made strawberry today.” He held the tray for me. “Take one. A treat to welcome you to Yuria.”
The confection was soft, bouncy. I took a delicate bite at first, marveling at the texture. There was a decadent strawberry filling as well. I moaned with pleasure as I ate.
“Royal mochi, made to the queen’s loving specifications,” he chuckled.
“Oh, my goodness.” I covered my mouth with my hand as it felt so sinful to chew. “I can’t believe this was made by hand! let alone anyone mortal!”
He laughed with pride. “That’s why I had to give you one. I had to make sure you would return and come buy more.” He chuckled, silver eyes flashing in the sun.
I clicked my tongue after licking the last bit of rice flour from my fingertip. “I may not be here long. But I would certainly buy as many as I can.”
He tilted his head. “I can send through the mail.”
I giggled, already reaching for my purse to buy out his cart then and there. “Well, it may not be safe, but I am so very tempted.”
“Eden!” Bram called from inside the carriage. “Where the hell is Dad?”
“He’s looking for fried chicken!” I turned back to the mochi vendor. “I had best hurry. Give me four to take.”
The vendor had a strange expression upon his face. One of confusion and intrigue. “Your name is Eden?”
I nodded. “My mother wanted me to sound like an inviting and wonderful thing.” I scoffed. “Joke is on her; I took after my father. My brother and I should switch names.” I offered him the money.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he purred again as he handed me a box with my mochi. “I think your name suits you well.”
I blushed, looking away shyly before giving him a smile. “I’ll be staying here in the southeast tower.” Don’t wander too far.” I let out a girlish giggle.
“I promise! I won’t.” He smiled devilishly at me, like he offered more than mochi on his cart.
My goodness, I hadn’t had thoughts like these since Bram brought his soldier friends to the lake house.
“I’ll try to make a few strawberries for you. I usually do a unique flavor each time I’m here.” His tail swayed behind him.
“Oh. You don’t need to do that. I’m sure I’ll be happy with whatever flavor you have.” I smiled shyly up at him, licking my lips slightly.
“Then I will try my best to outdo myself each time.”
Oh my! I was growing warm all over.
“Eden!”
“Coming!” I huffed before bowing my head to the mochi vendor and trotting back to the carriage.
“It is so wonderful to meet you, Bram.” Queen Kaori greeted us in our room, kissing Bram’s cheeks. “My Septimus has told me so much about you. I feel I have let you down.”
“Let me down?” Bram laughed. “No, no, your highness, I did only what my family taught me was right. I do not expect thanks.”
She smirked, tall, and regal. Her scales were dark silver and purple, giving her an almost shadow-like visage. But her eyes were bright, almost like diamonds.
“That is why I am so excited to have your sister here.” She turned, standing before me like a goddess. “Miss Eden, welcome!” She knelt down to hug me, and she smelled like the most luxurious of perfumes.
Her hug surprised me! “Oh! Yes, thank you.”
She squeezed me tight, and then also kissed my cheeks. “I am honored to have you here. My little Platecrusher is quite the stubborn one. He has been putting off this selection for ages upon ages.” She sounded distraught. “Now, he has no choice. It is this, or back to the front lines.”
It sounded quite harsh, but Bram had spoken about Septimus’ unwillingness to take part in his family’s royal customs. He said that, as the youngest of seven, he felt useless to the cause and didn’t see the need to have any fuss over him.
“Oh,” she noticed the box of mochi on my table. “I see you already have something in common with my little Platecrusher.” She was using his childhood name, as any loving Yurian mother would. “He has had the biggest sweet tooth ever since he freshly hatched. Right from his egg, he made his way straight for the sweet root to teethe upon. “And I think he must be made of mochi, the way he eats it.”
“He always traded me for my dessert rations,” Bram replied.
She clicked her tongue. “Well I’ve brought you your selection box.” She motioned to the wooden box on the table. “The journal is in there, along with extra paper and ink. There’s also the fabric book. Go through it to select the material and dress you want made for selection day.”
My stomach became queasy.
Queen Kaori smiled upon me. “I know you’re not the usual Yurian type. But you are of the people who exude what matters most to us.” She smiled reassuringly at me. “Hold strong, little Eden.” She bowed to us, leaving the room as if her feet never touched the ground.
“That is the most beautiful woman I have ever met,” Bram sighed dreamily.
I glanced at the box and pouted. “And she’s kind on top of it!” I huffed. “When did royalty stop having the worst flaws imaginable?”
“Now, Edi,” Dad tried to coax.
I sat down with the box, opening it to find my supplies inside. Every day, I had to write little Platecrusher a letter, detailing things about myself so he could get to know me without appearances. The journal I would fill for the king and queen, for their own input. This would be a very long few weeks for me. I wasn’t much of a writer, and I didn’t enjoy talking about myself. At least I knew I could visit the mochi vendor each day to forget my worries for a moment.
That evening I could hear Dad’s snoring through the walls. Back home, there was a distance between our rooms, so I never had to hear it. But here there was just a wall, and it didn’t matter how much brick there was; Dad’s snores could break through. Poor Bram, but then again, he could sleep during battle. I’m sure Dad’s snores were nothing compared to that.
I went into the hall, which connected our tower with the rest of the southeast housing. It was quiet, but murmurs of life came through locked doors. I roamed down to the solarium, where the south and east walls met and glass decorated the entire place, which someone filled with plant life. I sat there, staring out the large windows towards the moon and stars that would hover over home and Mom.
“Unusual.” The deep voice came out of nowhere.
I turned abruptly, looking with wide, frightened doe eyes towards the mochi vendor, who was rising from lying down between plant beds.
“It’s you!” I clutched my hand to my robe, closing it shut more.
“I was about to say the same thing.” His silver eyes matched the glow of the moon; his silver scales seemed to twinkle like the stars. “Unable to sleep away from home?”
I shrugged, screwing up an awkward smile. “Unable to sleep too close to it. My father snores.”
“I see.” He stood over one bed overflowing with lush life. “I was checking a few plants before bed.” He held a flowering vine in his large hand. “Found myself stargazing a bit too hard.”
“Oh,” I murmured. “Something you’re trying not to think about?”
He smiled. “Smart, aren’t you?”
I chuckled. “I suppose I am trying to do the same thing.”
“You’re one of the prince’s lineup, aren’t you?” He asked, head hung a little low, brows pursed curiously.
I furrowed my brow in return. “I am.“ He and the queen were impressed by my brother Bram, so they invited me. Look at me.” I tried to laugh it off, but the mochi vendor nodded his head.
“I am.”
A shiver of surprise ran through my body, tingling even the ends of my hair. I scoffed to shake it off. “Not exactly a Yurian beauty standard.”
He tilted his head one way and then the other. “I wouldn’t say that. The majority of Yurians prefer individuality rather than looks. That’s why the line-up starts with the letters and the journaling.”
I pressed my lips together. That would explain the box and its contents. “What about you?” I asked. “What do you go for?”
He chuckled. “My life revolves around mochi. I like sweetness and softness.”
I’m not sure if that was a direct correlation, or he was trying to make me feel better. But it turned my body into a box of embers.
“I like a flavorful filling to go with it.” He shrugged, smirk growing ever bigger. “So yes. I prefer personality to anything else. But I have my preference.
I swallowed hard, gulping down the beating lump in my throat. I forced a laugh that squeaked a bit too much. “Like strawberry mochi?”
His eyes seemed to shine. “Yes, like strawberry mochi.”
I let out a nervous, bizarre laugh, quickly trying to correct that mistake by forcing a polite sort of titter. I cleared my throat when that also seemed mad. “Excuse me.”
An amused snicker came from his mouth. “I wouldn’t worry so much about the lineup. The prince, eh, he’s the youngest, so this is a sort of pomp and circumstance to make him feel included. You know? The queen, she tries, she wants all her sons to be happy with their place. But with seven?” He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s hard to have a place.”
I furrowed my brow slightly. “You speak as if you know him.”
There was a pause, a puff to his chest as he tried to hold in laughter. “He enjoys my mochi. Big, big fan of sweets that prince is.”
“That’s quite good to know.” That sent a spark of excitement through me. A common thread between the prince and I. An idea of how to impress him. Maybe I would survive here after all.
“Would you like another secret about poor number seven?” The mochi vendor asked with a sly smirk.
I giggled coyly, whispering to him playfully. “If you have more secrets, I will gladly take them.”
The mochi vendor stood, walked closer and took a seat near me. He smelled of earth, like he had been digging in the flower beds. There was a slight hint of something herbal. I know the Yurian dragonborn had a special oil and tincture to make their scales so shiny and smooth. What herb was it? It was so tantalizing.
“The prince is desperate to escape.”
I gasped softly. He was so close to me; his whisper tickled my ear, my neck. Hell, my soul. “Escape?”
The mochi vendor nodded. “He does not care for the royal life. Being number seven, he feels his only jobs are to go into battle and appear at social functions. He wants a simple life, a home in the countryside, a farm to tend to, a family to adore, a wife to pleasure.”
I shivered. “He told you this.”
He chuckled. “He thinks about it all the time.” He then furrowed his brow. “What was your name again?”
“Eden.” I replied, breathless.
“Eden.” The way he said my name made me sound…delicious. “Of course. How could I forget?”
Despite my place in the lineup, I wanted him. This mochi vendor — with his deep, comforting voice, his powerful hands, his jewel-like scales. My god, he could throw me around like my waist size didn’t matter at all.
I swallowed hard, trying to keep the uh…hard thoughts out of my mind. What must it be like? No, do not think about cock!
“How about I walk you back to your quarters?” he offered. “It’s late, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want your first letter to number seven to be written in a sleepy fog.” He offered his hand to me.
“Thank you. I’m not too worried about the letters,” I sighed. I took his hand, and the crackle that ran through me made my face light up like flaming cherries. “What’s your name?” My voice cracked.
The mochi vendor smirked. “Call me Sep.”
“Sep” is a rather simple name for a Yurian. I smiled. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Sep. Thank you for helping to ease my mind.” I wanted to ease him into bed, but I had duties at hand.
I was standing in a room with others in the lineup. The queen was fitting us with special dresses for the selection event. I wanted to be eating mochi, especially after seeing the Yurian maidens and gentlemen also in the line lineup.
“You’re from Fayvein! Oh, I love the countryside! I’m so jealous.” One candidate started talking to me. She was a tall, leggy Yurian with pitch-black scales and a split tail. She was gorgeous, and her name was Sable.
I was nervous, but my father said that perhaps everyone in the lineup is nervous. “I have to admit, I miss it. Last night I was looking at the moon and thinking about how it looked over our cow pasture back home.”
“You have cows?” She asked excitedly.
I nodded. “A dairy, actually.”
Sable squealed. “No wonder you have such soft skin.”
I chuckled softly. What was skin to perfect glittering scales? She looked carved from onyx, come to life to woo all men within her reach and feed off their adoration to stay beautiful forever. But she was far too nice to be that way.
“Thank you,” I smiled shyly.
“Eden!” the queen’s voice was sharp through the soft murmur of the room. “Come, come, darling. I have such ideas for you.” She extended her hand to me as I stood up, moving through the crowd that watched my every step.
“You will look so darling in Yurian silk.” Kaori said. “Did you make a selection from the fabric book?”
“I liked a couple of things.” The Yurian before me wore a belt of many pockets and a bracelet of puffy material, which was filled with various pins, dozens upon dozens of them until their wrist looked spiked.
“A soft one!” The Yurian tailor announced.
As they spoke those words, I felt dread.
“Strawberry,” the tailor gasped again. “She will be perfect in the strawberry regalia!” They excitedly tapped their feet and clapped their hands.
“It’s up to her, Jubal,” Kaori giggled. “But I think you are right.”
“Oh, please,” Jubal begged me. “Oh, please let me try it on you. If you dislike it, I will understand!”
I fought the urge to fidget and play with my fingers as I stood under their expectant gazes. “Um…sure. I like strawberries.”
Jubal ran off giddily, opening up a trunk and tossing out bundles of fine fabric.
Kaori suddenly started playing with my hair. “I used to have a friend as a girl who had such soft hair like yours. I used to beg her to let me play with it.” She giggled. “Not much hair around these parts,” she teased.
I chuckled with her. “Oh, thank you. I enjoy having my hair played with, Your Highness.”
Jubal came running back up, happily tapping their toes as they showed me the fine fabric that was lush red and soft pink, decorated with glittering, golden thread shaped like teardrops. Jubal placed it against my skin, wrapping it about my arm so they could see if it suited my skin.
“I’ve never really worn red before,” I admitted. “Back in Fayvein, it’s all about pastels.”
“You were born for red,” Kaori murmured. “You will certainly catch Platecrusher’s eye in this fabric.”
“It’s perfect! And I haven’t been able to use this fabric for years! Please!” Jubal begged me, wiggling from tip to toe.
I nodded. “I like it.”
Jubal exclaimed loudly, tapping their toes again. “Oh wonderful! Wonderful!”
After going through dress options and being sized, I was more than ready to escape into the courtyard. I had an allowance from the queen to spend, and all I wanted was something meaty, and more mochi than I could eat.
“Yurian’s like it spicy,” Bram warned me. “Be careful what you eat.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I scoffed at him. “Go deal with your business; I’ll deal with mine.” I shooed him off to go meet his friends at the pub.
There was a noodle stand that sold its noodles in the most adorable lidded bowls made of handmade paper. I took my bowl and went searching for the noodle stand, hoping I could eat near Sep. I saw him finally in a shady spot right near the southeast gate.
“I’ve been waiting for you!” Sep exclaimed. “Come, sit with me.” He offered me his stool, leaning on his cart to look at me.
“I am starving.” I said, sitting my bowl in my lap.
“Noodles, eh?” he chuckled. “Have you ever had Yurian food before?”
I shook my head. “No. Aside from your mochi, this will be my first. The thick noodles had a red sauce that clung to them. I took my first bite, trying to be delicate as I slurped up the noodles. The bite of the noodles was satisfying, and the sauce had a nice tangy kick.
Then the heat built on the back of my tongue.
Sep was trying not to snicker as my face grew red.
“I see!” I took another bite, not wanting to seem weak in front of Sep. Fayvein didn’t have many spicy dishes. And in our dairy, I was used to cheesy, creamy dishes. The acidity, the spice, it was quite new.
He finally broke out laughing.
“Shut up!” I pouted.
“Here.” Septimus offered me a mochi covered in black and white sesame seeds. “It’ll help soak up the spice.”
I took the mochi, eagerly biting through the soft flesh, finding a surprisingly savory yet sweet filling.
“You just eat that.” Sep took my bowl. “A trade. I love Pow noodles.”
“But the flavor is so good,” I replied. “I thought I could handle it.” Another massive bite of mochi would save me! Maybe I wasn’t as red as the strawberry fabric. “I would never make it as a Yurian bride.”
Sep scoffed. “Nah, don’t say that.”
I turned and scoffed right back at him. “We all know my invitation here is a novelty.” I chewed slowly on the mochi and sighed. “Everyone has been so kind at least. Even the others in the lineup.”
He tilted his head, looking down at me with a soft gaze. “We Yurians look mean, but we all have good hearts. Do you think your brother would have risked his life for the prince otherwise?”
I finished the large mochi, dusting the rice flour from my fingertips. “You’re right. But you must admit, I am a fish out of water here.”
“If that were the case, you’d be dead,” Sep gave me a wink. “That doesn’t appear to be the case here. More like a kitten wrangled up by a mother hen.”
I smiled. “Maybe.”
I had little time to stew, though. I had to send off my letters and write in the journal. There were more fittings for my dress to attend to, and teas with the other potential mates in the lineup.
“We are supposed to prepare a gift for the prince,” one girl bemoaned. “I don’t know what to do!”
“I have been making little paper stars to fill a jar.” Another girl replied.
“I hate all my paintings,” one more scoffed from the corner.
I could have kept this to myself; instead, I shared. “I heard the prince has a massive sweet tooth. Perhaps baking would be the best gift.”
“No!” the first girl exclaimed. “Eden, that is my worst attribute!”
“Mine too!” The room bubbled up with murmuring between the others, who all seemed to doubt their skills in the kitchen.
I thought for a moment, wanting to sit on my hands and agree. Instead, I opened my mouth one more time. “I can help. I’m quite used to making cakes and sometimes bread.”
Then, I took on the role of a teacher. The kitchen was hot with all the extra bodies in it, regardless of the stoves. There was a mess of flour and sugar, the aroma of sweets along with charred crusts.
“No, you don’t bathe them in eggs. The egg wash is like painting on the dough, so that way it becomes golden!” I was quickly explained to a potential mate who was about to dunk their entire lump of pastry into a bowl of eggs.
“Oh! Oh my gosh! Thank you Eden! I knew that sounded silly.” He laughed.
Most of the potential mates had rarely set foot in the kitchen, and a few others knew the basics of cooking, but not baking. I thought of how I would explain this all to Sep, and how he’d laugh at the humor of the situation. He’s probably wondering where I am.
I then had to stop myself and that train of thought. I would not be in Yuria much longer. Not only that, I hadn’t even been here that long either. I shouldn’t put so much…thought into a mochi vendor.
Even if I really liked Sep, what was to become of it? I had to face reality.
“The heart is a strange thing sometimes,” my father said as we sat down for supper. “Much like the wind, you can never tell which direction it will go.”
I pouted. “Yeah, I suppose.” I took a piece of bread, chewing slowly. “Where’s Bram?” My eyes cut to the empty seat at the table.
“With his war buddies, I’m sure.” Dad put more food on my plate, seeing I wasn’t eating all that much. “Did you write your letter?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?” Dad laughed. “Either you did or you didn’t.”
I scrunched up my face. “I just asked the prince a question, that’s all. What would he do if he thought he was falling in love with someone?” I shrugged, picking at my plate. “Food for thought, I suppose.”
I went walking that evening, heading to the solarium yet again. Funny how I never got to use it during the day for its intended sunny purposes. I sat on the same bench I always did, gazing out towards the moon, thinking of Mom briefly before my thoughts turned back to mochi and…conflict.
Part of me was expecting Sep to reappear. Well, more like hoping than expecting. But I was alone there.
“Oh well,” I grumbled to myself. I lay down, hidden by plants and vines dripping from the ceiling.
“You should turn here,” I heard a voice faintly whisper. Then a laugh. “You should have stayed in bed.”
“I can’t help it. I won’t be able to see you tomorrow,” a woman whispered back. The sound of kissing, passion.
“I’m sure you’ll sneak away,” the male replied. “Like today, and yesterday, and the day before.”
The woman moaned softly. “I can’t stop thinking about you, about what you do to me.”
At that point, curiosity got the better of me. I had to see the longingly in love, or lust, couple who made kissing sound like the most needed thing before air. I kept myself hunkered low, hissing between large, bushy plants, and I saw…
My brother?
I had to hold my breath to keep silent.
“You could have stayed the night,” the woman purred, just out of view.
“And risk getting caught by your brood?” Bram was grinning from ear to ear, eyes alight and dazzling. I had never seen such a look on his face before. He took a step back, pulling the woman into his arms.
OH MY GODDESS!
“I’ll see you soon, my darling. Promise.” She kissed him before walking off.
Bram blew kisses after her, basically floating on air until I yanked him down to my level. He looked petrified despite the cloudy haze of romance still in his eyes.
“What are you doing?!” I hissed at him.
“Eden!” His voice cracked, and he scrambled, falling on his rear and pressing his back into the wall. “Wha-what are you doing here?”
“Queen Kaori?” I snapped at him. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Maybe!” he yelped. “I mean…” he was searching for some way to explain himself. “It’s not the first time!”
I pummeled his chest with my tiny fists. “What are you thinking? Obviously, it’s just what’s in your pants!”
“It’s not!” He tried to shield himself from me. “I adore Kaori! I have!”
I stopped long enough to look into his face. “Explain yourself!”
He instinctively shielded his face. “Back when I saved Septimus!” He opened one deep-pinched eye. “Kaori was the one who took care of me. We bonded, we…” he gulped. “We fell in love.”
I just stared at him, wide-eyed, wild. “Is that why I am really here?”
“No! No, of course not. Kaori genuinely thought you and Septimus would make a good match. I told her so much about you. Bragged really about what a sweet, kind, understanding-” I started slapping him. “Stop! Eden, please!”
I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Even if Septimus picks me, how fucked up is that going to be if you’re the queen’s concubine?”
“I want to marry her!”
I stopped shaking him and took a deep breath. I sat down beside him, setting my head upon his shoulder. He smelled of Kaori, that same sweet, dark perfume.
“I’m falling for the mochi vendor,” I grumbled.
“Mochi vendor?” He sounded genuinely lost, not that I had set him up on a path to find my point.
I sighed. “Can you even marry the queen?”
He shrugged. “She’s the queen; she can do what she wants.”
“You don’t look like a king.”
Bram laughed. “Yeah. I know. Big guy like me? Who would ever believe it? But I don’t care about that. I just want to be with Kaori. I know it’s strange, but…she’s everything.” He took a deep breath. “Sorry I didn’t tell you. I was just…well, I wanted to be sure. But who’s the mochi vendor?”
It then clicked. “So if you marry the queen then…” I wouldn’t have to worry. I could be in Yuria or at home whenever I wanted. But if Bram wasn’t at home, they would expect me to take over the farm and the dairy.
“I think you’d like Septimus too.” Bram replied. “Give this thing a real fighting chance. See what happens; you never know.”
I pouted. “Easy for you to say.”
Bram rose, offering me his hand. I took it, and silently we returned to our chamber. We sat up almost all night talking about him and Kaori. It was obvious he loved her, and I envied how he was feeling. I too, wanted that sort of romance.
The next day, I was exhausted, excusing myself from activities with the others in the lineup to sleep and be lazy. I did, however, get hungry enough I wanted to venture back out into the courtyard.
“There you are!“There you are!” Those words greeted me as soon as I left the gate. “Where have you been?” Sep seemed excited to see me.
I hoped I didn’t look terrible with thick eye bags and dark circles. “The other marriage candidates turned me into a teacher.” I put on a bright smile for him. “They kept me busy all day!”
“Ooh, too bad. I made a speciality yesterday.” He said this to toy with me. “Guess you’ll have to wait to see if I ever make it again.”
I giggled. “Fate may be on my side for that one,” I teased back.
He furrowed his brow. “What makes you say that?”
“Nothing.” I so wanted to tell him the big secret, but I had to respect my brother’s wishes, as well as Kaori’s.
Sep was already packaging mochi for me. “You think you’ve got a good chance with the prince, don’t you?
That sent a shock through my system. “No. That’s not what I was trying to suggest at all. You know I don’t have high hopes.”
“Hypothetical then, humor me.” He handed me the box of mochi. “What will happen when you meet the prince? Maybe, just maybe, you’ll discover you have a chance?”
I wrinkled my nose. “That the prince likes short, round, pink things?”
Sep beamed; he seemed proud of that. “And what if he does?” He licked the pad of his thumb as he looked at me. “What then? All this worrying and doubt about yourself, and then you look into his eyes and see something. A future, happiness, everything your heart could desire.”
“That sounds like a very magical glance.” I was looking into his eyes. “Especially when, well, feelings may grow elsewhere.”
He bent down slightly to be closer to me. “But what if?”
I shrugged, heart pounding, face flaming. “I would follow my heart.”
“That is exactly the thing I like to hear.” Sep took my hand. “Meet me in the solarium tonight. Once the moon blossoms open.” He kissed my knuckles.
Please, this little body of mine can only take so much! “Okay. But, why?” I was breathless, practically squeaking my reply.
Sep chuckled. “You’ll see. I want it to be a surprise.”
I nodded, ready to turn and walk away, floating on air. But I had to drop back down to earth. “Oh! I need another box.”
Sep laughed. “Another box? Not going to miss me again tomorrow, are you?”
I shook my head. “No. I want to send them to the prince. I know he’s a big fan of sweets, and I think he’ll adore your mochi.”
Clicking his tongue, Sep filled up another box. “You think so?”
I bounced excitedly on my heels. “Yes. Your mochi deserves to be served to the prince daily.”
It seemed as if he was holding back a laugh. “Alright.” He handed me the box for the prince. “Put another letter in the box for him. Tell him what you like about the mochi that I make.”
Oh, the sonnets, the epic ballads I could write about how much I adored his mochi, his smile, his…calm down, Eden. “I will!”
“And remember, when the moon blossoms open,” he whispered to me. “Maybe even earlier.”
I wanted to say screw it and meet him there now. “Okay. I promise.” I smiled shyly, turning back towards the gate entrance as my heart fluttered about wildly.
Queen Kaori’s maiden gently placed the letter inside the box of mochi and carried it away. My gut sank as I watched it go off, wondering what the prince would think of the words on the page. But I had little time to think about it; I had Sep to think about. He wanted to meet me that evening, and while I didn’t know why, I still wanted to dazzle him.
Bram knocked on my bedroom door. “What are you doing?”
“Busy,” I retorted curtly as I tried to place a curl precisely.
“Kaori wants to meet with you.”
I slammed down my comb and knocked over the aloe I had been using. “What? No!” I jumped up to clean up the aloe as Bram walked in.
“She said she had something to discuss with you and would have dinner.” Bram watched as I struggled on the floor. “Were you getting ready?”
I could kill him, take him down by his ankles and drag him away like a vicious beast. I was so pissed. Sep would be waiting on me!
“Here, let me help.” Bram knelt down beside me.
I scoffed, plopping down on my rear. “I had plans. Can I meet with her another time?”
“I think it’s rather important.” Bram gave me a look, trying to see through me and read the pages of my mind. “Why? What were you going to do?”
I frowned at him.
His look turned to knowing. “You know my big secret.”
My frown deepened. “It’s the mochi maker,” I scoffed. “There. Are you happy? I like him, and I want to see him.”
“Mochi maker?” He appeared utterly confused, but I didn’t want to waste time discussing it with him.
“I like him, and we all know I’m no candidate for a prince.” I stood up, taking down my hard work on my hair by roughly scrambling my fingers through the now tousled strands. “And if you marry the queen, what will become of home? The farm! Our dairy?”
“It will still be ours-”
“Not what I meant!” I huffed, shoving my feet into shoes. “I love you, you know I do, but you’re so stupid!” I stomped out of my room, out of our chambers and into the hall, heading towards the solarium to explain to Sep why I couldn’t meet with him.
I saw him there, sitting right beside the moon blossoms as they turned to face the light of the moon. He was tenderly admiring the petals, eyes fixated on their soft blue glow. He sensed me, looking up as I watched him. An enormous weight settled on my heart, and guilt rattled through my bones.
He stood up with a smile. “There you are.”
I swallowed. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.” I continued walking to meet him halfway.
“No,” he laughed it off, but I could tell he was fibbing. He took hold of my hands as I held them out. The size difference was remarkable, yet he held me with the gentleness of flowing silk.
“You look bothered,” he remarked. His gentle touch brushed my unkempt hair aside. “Is everything all right?”
“No,” I blurted out. I couldn’t keep up the facade. I was frustrated with how out of place I was. No matter what he said, I was a fish tossed out of water, gasping for air and life in an unfamiliar land.
Sep looked shocked.
“The queen wants to see me! And I don’t have the foggiest idea why. Maybe because I found out that she and my brother are so in love! And I‘ve been questioning why I’m here this whole time, now I know! I know because of them! It’s them! And let’s be honest, what prince is going to go for the dairy farmer?” It poured out of me, like so much spilled milk. I stomped my little feet and stormed about while I poured and poured and poured.
After the discussion ended, I sat down with a huff. “Why does everyone have to be so kind though? I say all this, and I feel like I am evil.”
Sep was standing there, perhaps shocked, even more likely he was stunned by what a lunatic I was. “No. Don’t say that.” His reply was very slow.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “This was not how I wanted this evening to go.” I stared out toward the moon. “I should be forthright with the queen and tell her I wish to go home.”
His gaze rose, and a look of fear went through his eyes. “No!” It was his time to blurt. “Eden, please don’t go. Not yet, anyway.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Stay.” For a moment, I thought we might kiss, that this would seal my fate.
“Septimus?” Bram’s voice cut through the air, and my desire to destroy him like a feral creature returned. It didn’t even occur to me what he said.
“I’m going to see the queen,” I huffed at him.
Bram looked confused; Sep appeared petrified. Maybe I was also confused, but I didn’t acknowledge that.
“Bram,” Sep stood stiff, clutching his fists to his chest.
Bram’s face went pale, and his eyes almost turned pitch black. A glaze of sweat began at his hairline and trickled down as Sep placed him under his glare.
“Septimus,” Bram tried to keep the same bravado in his voice, but it cracked horribly.
“Sep-” I stopped as it all finally fell into place in my silly head. “Sep!” I gasped out loud, cupping my hand around my forehead. What a fool I am!
“My mother?” Sep said with a clenched jaw.
Bram’s color got even paler. “Well!”
“Septimus?” Once I said his name, he looked at me, eyes as wide as Bram’s. There was a moment where either hell would break loose, or a calm would settle. It was a flip of the coin decision.
“We need to talk,” all three of us said in unison.
The coin was on its side.
“I see,” Kaori murmured as she added honey to her tea. She stirred delicately. The thin, wire-like spoon clinked musically upon the side of the teacup. “So everything is out now.” Her eyes cut over to Septimus, who looked as though he was holding a bomb in his belly. “Eden, I am so sorry that this spoiled your experience.”
“Oh, uh-” I didn’t expect that response. It sort of took the air out of me. “Thank you?” It truly wasn’t something I was prepared to answer for.
She sighed, shaking her head. “Platecrusher has never been one to play with the rules of his royal status.”
“Youngest of seven. Or is it eight now?” Septimus snapped.
Kaori’s eyes focused on his, going harsh, terrifying. The sort of look only a mother could pull. “Seven. You’re still the baby, but you do not have to act like it, Platecrusher.” She took her teacup into her hands again, fidgeting in her seat to calm herself. “Anyway, I am talking to Eden right now. She deserves answers for, well, I guess the best word for it is shenanigans.”
“Shenanigans?” Septimus blurted out, fist hitting the table.
“Are you referring to us too, darling?” Bram spoke up, voice a little shaky.
Septimus’ eyes cut across the table at Bram. “What did you call her?”
Bram flinched, then stood his ground. “Darling. It’s my pet name for her.”
“Maybe it’s best you don’t call her pet names right now,” I grumbled at him. “Considering the situation you’ve put us in.”
Bram scoffed. “Me? What about you and Septimus? This was a big deal for you, Eden! Imagine all you could have accomplished with this chance?”
A fire was lit under me. Was that all this was? A selling point? I shoved him as hard as I could, nearly wrenching him out of his seat. “How dare you? There was nothing going on! I didn’t even know he was the prince!”
“He did!” His finger crossed the table towards Septimus.
“You’re not free from a pointed finger!” Septimus stood up, nearly chucking his seat back into the wall. “If anything, you deserve a thrown fist!” He was almost on top of the table when Kaori tossed her teacup down onto the ground, shattering it. The sound broke the tension, and we all froze where we stood.
Kaori’s heavy sigh was like a knife in the air, slicing through the thick meat of tension we had created. “All of you,” she said through clenched teeth. “Sit. Down.”
Slowly, we all returned to our seats. Bram put some space between us, and he looked down at the table. I gazed across, seeing how Septimus wanted to remain standing, but his mother pointed to the chair.
“I fell in love with Bram,” she stated the simple fact for what it was. “I know it is strange, and I know how it must look, but I adore him and I wish to marry him. That means nothing salacious. It does not mean I push aside the memory of your father. “I accept I was foolish and should have been honest.” She then focused her eyes on me, which once again softened. “I am truly sorry, Eden. For all of this. I would understand if you wished to go home.”
Septimus’s face dropped. His jaw went slack, but as he moved to speak, Kaori cut him off by touching his hand.
That was all I wanted. To go home, to be with mom again, to not worry about all this royal stuff. I swallowed, trying my hardest not to glance at Septimus at all. “What about the others in the lineup?”
“It won’t end,” Kaori replied. “There will be some regrouping, of course. But the lineup stands as is.”
The pit in my stomach turned cold and hard. It ached horribly.
“Mom!” Septimus snapped.
“You’ve behaved atrociously, Platecrusher. And as such, I believe you deserve a proper punishment.” She settled into her seat, taking in a deep, cleansing breath. “Your brother Quintus has returned from his mission overseas. He will replace you as the candidate in the lineup.”
What did that mean? I was beyond baffled. I didn’t know where to look, so I looked at my hands like they were fascinating.
“I am sending you to Fayvein to work on the farm owned by Bram and Eden’s family. You owe them a massive debt for your behaviour.”
A collective ‘what’ echoed around the table.
Kaori nodded decisively. “I think it is only fair, especially since Bram will have to stay here with me, as I plan to announce the engagement and end our secrecy.” She cleared her throat, glancing at Bram, whose nod was a bit too excited. “The farm will need help, and I expect you will need to earn back the lovely Eden’s trust. Understood?”
“Yes, Mom!” He acted just as excited as Bram.
Kaori motioned her elegant hand towards me. “I will entrust my son to you. Make up his schedule, oversee his chores, put him to good hard work on that farm of yours. I want you to report back to me and how he is doing, of course. I will pay for any mistakes he makes, new equipment, new livestock, whatever you may need while he is there.”
Her words knocked breathless. It was one thing to have Septimus be there with me back home, but having a royal, having the royal become a patron of the farm, my god, this opened the world to our tiny Fayvein dairy!
“I do not think your son’s actions warrant all of that.” I was still trying to breathe.
“Nonsense. As long as my son is working for you, I want to make sure the farm succeeds.” Her smile was soft, knowing. “Who knows how long it will take him to work off his debt to you.”
I furrowed my brow at her. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll leave it up to you how long his stay will be.” Kaori then rose from the table. “I’ll start preparing for your journey home tomorrow. Let your father know I will handle the details.” She said this to Bram. “I know my status, so he does not have to give me a dowry. Instead, I will compensate him for the gift of his son.”
“What do you mean?” Bram was just as breathless as I was.
“I will figure that out. For now, I want you and Eden to go back and tell your father the plan. Septimus, come with me.”
It was a silent walk back to our chambers. I really wasn’t sure how to broach the topic. It seemed better not to say anything at all.
“It seems like she’s handing you Septimus on a silver platter,” Bram forced a laugh a few feet from the door.
“Is she suggesting what I think she’s suggesting?” I murmured.
“Sounds like.”
It still made little sense to me. “But, he’s a prince. How will that work?”
“I would let Kaori do what Kaori thinks is right, and, um…figure the answer out down the road.” Bram smiled at me, apologetic, loving. He took hold of my hand, squeezing it. “I’ll come and visit often. Promise.”
I pouted. “It’ll be strange not having you there.”
Bram’s smile was so sweet. “Explain it to the cows for me?”
I brought him into a tight hug. “I am happy for you,” I whispered.
“What do you think Dad will say?” He asked, just as quietly.
I shook my head. “I think he’ll be excited.”
Dad drank a lot of wine that evening, so we took that as him celebrating. Come morning, he was hungover and horribly sick from it.
“I’ll drive.” There stood Septimus while I stood near Dad as he threw up in the bushes.
“Do you know the way?” I asked.
He nodded shyly. “I should. May need some directions if you want to help me.”
I broke into a smile. “Of course. You’ll have to memorize the road, of course. I fear we’ll be traveling it often.”
Septimus’ smile grew, and he nodded excitedly.
I won’t bore you with the details of the journey home. The first few days were strange, as we all settled into our new lives. Mom was livid, to say the least, upon our return. It took her the longest to get used to the changes that were going on with her family. Although she enjoyed having Septimus on the farm with Bram gone.
Septimus was used to hard labor to a degree, having been a soldier and working alongside his older brothers and their ventures. He was strong, which was needed on a farm, but he was also kind, which was also needed. The animals warmed up to him quickly, and teaching him the basics of milking was a quick lesson. At first, they gave Bram’s room to Septimus. That was until Kaori commissioned an extra farmhouse to be built, which Septimus would take care of, and house his family when they visited. He would also have to work on building, an activity in which he seemed less skilled.
But while he stayed in Bram’s room, there was merely a hallway between us. I could hear him coming and go. From my bed, his heavy footsteps, his voice if he spoke to one of my parents. In the mornings he rose early just to make breakfast for us.
It was quiet the first few weeks he was here. He seemed to be shy, anxious even, as he worked about the farm, especially in the house. I chalked it up to his getting used to everything. But occasionally I caught a smile, a glance, something that was meant only for me.
It grew bit by bit. He started sounding more like the Sep I came to know. There were more glances, occasional touches under the table. While working at the dairy, he always stood very close to me. Which became a brush of my arm, then into holding my hand when no one was around.
There were soft kisses shared in the hallway before we turned in for bed. It was nothing more than a peck goodnight, or at least I tried to tell myself that. Until one evening when the kiss went deeper than before. I placed my hands on his burly chest, not to push, but to hold him in place. I didn’t want him to go to bed so soon.
“Goodnight, Eden,” he whispered.
I grabbed hold of his shirt and shook my head. “Wait-”
“We have an early day tomorrow,” he chuckled. His fingers slid under my chin, and he lifted my head. “More-so than normal.”
I pouted, glaring daggers at his face. “Then why did you kiss me like that?”
His smirk grew. “As a warning.” He kissed the top of my head. “Now, good night, Eden. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I reluctantly let go of him, shuffling off to my room with a very heavy pout. Was something wrong with me? All the gentle touches, hand-holding, and stolen kisses. Was he just playing with me?
No, Kaori said everything was up to me. Maybe he took that literally! What if I had to make the first move?
With this thought in mind, I quickly found my nicest nightgown, my best perfume, and the rosy lip salve I got at the last royal fair. I made myself up, double-checking my breasts, my rear, the shape of my thighs even to make sure I filled out the nightgown, which had gotten smaller since I last wore it, just right.
I snuck across the hallway, which was not the feat I made it out to be. I knocked gently on his door, but no answer. Surely he wasn’t asleep already! I knocked again and pressed my ear to the doorway. There was a sound, not exactly a sleeping sound, more like a rustle of sheets and heavy breathing.
I decisively opened the door, peeking into the dark room. There was a low moan, a panted breath coming from Septimus’ bed. I shut the door behind me, and the room went silent.
“Eden?” His voice cracked in the shadows. Like from the window showed his silhouette sitting up on the bed. “What are you doing?” His voice was a gruff version of that deep velvet.
What was I doing again? “I uh-”
Septimus stood from the bed. “That is you, isn’t it?”
I swallowed. What was I doing here? I forgot already! I pressed my back against the door, moving my hand to lock it. “You-” I remember now. “I’m here for you.”
“Oh?” He was standing over me at the door; his eyes gave off a dim glow. “Did you want to tuck me in?”
I licked my lips. “Muh-more like fuck you in.” Oh my goddess, I wanted to die and crumble away into dust, never to be seen again.
Septimus’s head threw back in laughter. That was it; I would be a secluded spinster forever, happy to raise an army of beautiful milkmaids and spend my winters with all my adopted children and grandchildren who asked why grandmama was so lonely.
His hand thudded against the door near my head, and his body moved in close. “Try again, love.”
Love? My head was swirling.
“Go on,” he whispered.
I swallowed. I could do this! “I’m sick of waiting. Ever since that night in the solarium. I’ve waited. It’s just been teasing at this point.”
His chuckle rippled through the air and tickled my skin, making my breath shudder. I looked up towards his eyes.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” He whispered, inching closer. “Look for yourself how ready I am.” He took hold of my hand and placed it upon himself.
“Oh-” I whispered, fingers curling around his shaft.
“Most nights here alone, I think about you, Eden.” He moved his hips, thrusting his cock into my willing palm. “I picture that soft, little body of yours and how much I can touch it.”
I swallowed again, trying to seem cool pinned against the door.
“How much I can fuck you before you beg me to stop,” he growled into my ear. “I’m not a human man, you see. You see, I can come over and over and over. I can fuck you for hours on end if I keep my stamina. I can make you come and come and come until you beg me to stop.” All the while his cock thrust slowly into my hand, growing slicker, harder. My thighs were a dam keeping the waters at bay.
“I’ve never known a human man,” I admitted. “I’ve only known myself and some of my lady friends.”
His growl was low and dangerous. It made me shudder with excitement. “I’m not sure if I feel better than the kisses and fingers of a woman.” Another deep laugh. “I’m quite fond of those myself.”
“Try?” My voice cracked.
He kissed me, pinning me hard against the door. His body crushed mine, rutting his cock into my belly. He hoisted me up, holding my buttocks with his mighty hands. I wrapped my arms around him, clutching him close.
“I’ve been waiting,” he growled. “Eden, I need you.”
“Me too,” I whimpered. “Please. Sep, I’m yours. Do what you want to me.”
Septimus shuddered all over, eyes flickering brighter for just a moment. He pushed up my nightgown with one hand, holding me with his other arm. He lowered me down, piercing me with his long, hard cock. I squealed, shivering as he fit deeper and deeper inside me. His shaft shuddered inside. He snarled, bucked, and something began dripping from inside me.
“Already?” I whimpered.
Septimus laughed. “Not to worry, I told you; we Yurians can go for hours and hours. I’m just excited; I couldn’t hold that first one.” He thrust into me, pushing me back into the door again. He growled into my ear, kissing and biting my neck.
“Sep-” my voice broke again. Something about the curve of his cock did something to me, hit places I was unfamiliar with. I was used to touching my clit, making it sing. But this, this was deeper, richer, even if it wasn’t as acute as the clit.
“You’re so sweet,” Septimus moaned. “Soft…my little mochi.”
I whimpered at that. How could he talk at a time like this? I focused too much on how amazing he felt and how ecstatic I became. With every thrust, there was a new rush of pleasure, every rush a new current of nothing in my mind.
“Take it, darling. Take it,” he growled. “Let me fill you. Only let me fill you.”
I shuddered, unprepared for the deep, breathtaking flood. I squeezed tight around him, holding on for dear life as ecstasy drowned me. My toes curled; my voice came out stilted and squeaky.
“Good girl,” he growled. He carried me over to the bed where he laid me down and kissed me, touching me all over. He stripped off the nightgown, laying his naked body against mine.
“I read your letter constantly,” he murmured, stroking from my chest down to my belly. “Almost every night I read it, and I remind myself that I am working towards earning you.”
“Letter?” I murmured, still dazed.
Septimus climbed onto me, spreading my thighs to slip between them. He ever so slowly penetrated me again. Still hard, still eager. I trembled, biting my cheek as I took him in.
“The one you put inside the mochi.” His hips swayed gently, teasing me. “Where you confessed your feelings for Sep, and how I deserved someone whose eyes did not turn so easily.” He moaned through his soft laugh. “You told me of things I deserved, of how love is this strange little creature, elusive, sweet, and eager to please.”
“I didn’t know it was you I was writing to,” I pouted.
“I knew. As a mochi vendor and prince, I knew.” He leaned over me, kissing me. A tear from his cheek fell onto mine. “I never meant for you to doubt yourself,” he whispered against my neck. “I only wanted you.”
I held him in my arms, matching his breath, moaning to echo his own. “All I want is you.” I was pleading, desperate to have him. During these months on the farm, all I ever wanted was to hold him like this, to spend my nights sleeping in his arms.
“Stay with me.” I touched his face. “Never leave this farm without me.”
“Yes.” His hips thrust faster. “I’ll stay. Forever.”
“You’re a farm boy, not a prince,” my voice was breaking as he brought me to that overwhelming place again.
He whispered in my ear. “As you wish.”
I lost track of the hours that night. For all I know, we spent minutes to eternity with barely a wisp of air between us. We ruined our early morning, but it didn’t matter. I would deal with my parent’s aggravation, and be all the happier for it.
Sunlight burned through my eyelids, and I pulled the blanket up to block it. Septimus groaned, laying his heavy arm around me.
“We’re late.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I grumbled back.
“No, it does.” He sat up slowly despite my weak, squeaking protests. He kissed me, gazing into my eyes lovingly. “I promised to take care of this farm, to take care of you.” His hand cupped my cheek. “If we are going to run it together, I cannot risk letting anyone down.”
Thunder boomed outside, and in an instant, the sun vanished as a storm grew. I chuckled, pushing him back down in bed.
“The goddess is looking out for us.” I kissed him, tracing my finger around the scales on his chest.
“Then I will make you mochi today.” He kissed the top of my head, breathing my scent deeply before resting back upon the bed. “And every day, if the goddess lets us.”
Princess x knight trend was cute and angsty and all, but now it's time for Princess x court jester. The guy is making jokes and nobody is paying attention to him, nobody views him as a threat. Then suddenly the princess' arranged husband dies of being poisoned, secrets are leeked because nobody remembers the jester's face behind his painted makeup, and he can dress as a servant and sneak around.
Who, the court jester? No, no, that's just some silly boy who was bought and sold until he ended up making the Princess laugh on her nameday celebration and won her favour. He's been her toy since. At least his jokes and stories have improved and now he performs for the court. The boy couldn't point out his nation on a map, don't be ridiculous. What do you mean he has connections all over the city?
Pairing: Sir Jack Abbot x Princess!Reader
Word Count: 13, 104
Summary: After the High Council questions your claim, your dragon, and your unmarried status, King Aldren appoints Sir Jack Abbot as Captain of your Guard. Jack wastes no time rearranging your security, challenging the council’s assumptions, and swearing an oath that sounds dangerously like he means it. Later, in your chambers and on the eastern dragon terrace, you learn that Jack may be harder to dismiss than you expected — and his war dragon may have already chosen sides.
Warnings: fantasy politics, assassination attempt aftermath, injury mention, blood/wound references, misogynistic council members, arranged marriage pressure, protective guard dynamics, dragon bonds, slow burn, tension, no use of Y/N
Author's Note: Welcome to my dragon rider/bodyguard/princess fantasy romance era. This is very much a slow burn, heavy on political tension, dragon bonds, sworn protector energy, and Jack Abbot being devastatingly competent while trying very hard to remember himself.
Xoxo, Del
Six days after someone tried to put a blade between your ribs, the High Council gathered beneath the emerald banners of House Avelor to decide whether your greatest danger was the assassin, the dragon, or the fact that you remained unmarried.
The council chamber had been built to impress visiting kings.
It succeeded.
Sunlight poured through the tall arched windows in clean, silver sheets, catching on the polished stone floor and the banners hung between pillars carved with dragon wings. Beyond the glass, Crownreach Palace dropped in pale terraces toward the Silvermere, where the lake flashed bright enough to make grief look holy.
You did not look at the reeds.
You kept your hands folded on the council table instead, one thumb resting lightly over the other. The movement pulled at the healing cut beneath your ribs, a thin line of pain sharp enough to remind you that the assassin’s blade had missed your lung by less than two fingers. The gown chosen for you was Avelor emerald, the neckline stitched with silver thread fine enough to look like frost. Crown colors. Heir colors. A reminder and an argument.
Beside your place at the table, your brother’s chair sat empty. No one had removed it. No one knew how.
Across the chamber, High Chancellor Oren Veyre inclined his silver-gray head with all the grace of a man placing a knife exactly where he wanted it.
“No one questions Her Highness’s claim,” Oren said.
That was the trouble with Oren Veyre. He never lied when a careful truth would do more damage. King Aldren sat at the head of the table, one hand resting against the carved arm of his chair. He looked thinner in the morning light than you liked. Grief had not weakened your father so much as narrowed him, carving quiet hollows beneath his eyes.
Oren continued, “We question only the wisdom of leaving her unsupported.”
There it was. Unsupported. You let the word pass over your face without touching it. Unsupported meant unmarried. Unmarried meant uncertain. Uncertain meant vulnerable. Vulnerable meant manageable. And manageable, in the mouths of men like Oren Veyre, meant Cassius.
Vaela’s attention stirred beneath your ribs. Not words. Never words. A heat instead. A pressure. A deep, ancient irritation blooming through the fresh bond as if the dragon had turned one gold eye toward the council chamber from the eastern terraces and found every man inside it wanting.
You breathed in slowly.
Calm, you pressed back, though you were still learning the shape of sending anything through the bond without feeling foolish for trying. Somewhere beyond the high windows, stone scraped under talons. Several councilmen went still. Oren did not so much as blink.
“Six months is not long enough to settle a realm shaken by old magic,” Lord Alaric of the western holdings said, his gaze flicking toward the windows before returning to the king. “The Crownfire’s appearance has inspired awe, yes, but awe is not the same as confidence.”
You wondered how many times a man could call you a blessing before he admitted he meant a problem.
“My daughter is not old magic’s inconvenience,” Aldren said.
The room quieted at once. He had not raised his voice. He never needed to. Even grief-thinned, even tired, Aldren Avelor was still king. He looked down the length of the table, silvering hair catching the light. “The princess is my heir by royal decree. Every man in this chamber witnessed the oath.”
Oren bowed his head. “Of course, Your Majesty. Law is not in dispute.”
You almost smiled. Beside you, Queen Isolde did not move. Your mother sat with the kind of stillness people mistook for peace if they had never known a woman who survived by mastering every inch of herself. Isolde wore dark green silk, nearly black where the shadows touched it, her hair twisted into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes gave nothing away.
Oren lifted his gaze again. “Confidence is.”
Aldren’s jaw tightened.
At Oren’s right, Cassius Veyre shifted as if the conversation had only now become worthy of him. He was beautiful in the way court liked men to be beautiful: tall, lean, and polished into something almost decorative. His light brown hair had been combed back from a face too symmetrical to be trusted, and his hazel eyes held the soft gleam of a man who had never entered a room without knowing how it should receive him. Wine-red velvet framed his shoulders. Gold thread glinted at his cuffs. The Veyre signet sat heavy on one elegant hand.
A portrait of reassurance. A cage dressed for a wedding.
“Her Highness has carried an impossible burden with admirable grace,” Cassius said.
His voice was warm enough to sound kind if one did not listen closely. You listened closely. Cassius looked at you then, and the corner of his mouth softened by a practiced degree. “But the realm does not need only a crowned heir. It needs the reassurance of unity.”
“Unity,” you repeated.
Cassius dipped his chin. “Between crown and council. Between old blood and present need. Between houses strong enough to hold Eldara steady.”
Beside him, Oren let the silence breathe. Then Lord Alaric said what everyone had been herded toward saying.
“A marriage alliance between House Avelor and House Veyre would quite much of the uncertainty.”
There it was at last, placed gently on the table like a gift. You looked at Cassius. He did not look triumphant. That would have been too honest. He looked patient. That was worse. You unfolded your hands. Across the chamber, a councilman inhaled as if even the movement of your fingers required interpretation.
“And after the wedding, Lord Veyre,” you asked, “which of my duties would you expect me to keep?”
The room went very still. Aldren’s eyes flicked to you, and something in them warmed with the briefest spark of pride. Isolde’s face did not change. Cassius smiled. Not widely. Not enough for anyone to call it condescension. Just enough for you to hate him.
“All of them, Your Highness,” he said. “I would only hope to make them easier to bear.”
Your mouth curved, though nothing in you softened. “How generous.”
Cassius’s smile held. “I would call it loyal.”
You let your gaze drop briefly to the Veyre signet on his hand. “I’m sure you would.”
A faint shift moved through the council. A few men glanced down at their papers. One cleared his throat and thought better of speaking. Cassius’s smile held. Then he leaned forward, just slightly. “You need not stand alone in this.”
And then he said your name. Not your title. Your name. In the High Council chamber, with your father’s crown at the head of the table and your brother’s empty chair still close enough to haunt the room. The sound of it landed like a hand set at the small of your back without permission. Aldren’s fingers tightened on the arm of his chair. Isolde’s gaze sharpened.
You did not look away from Cassius. “In this room, Lord Veyre,” you said, “I am Your Highness.”
For one breath, the polish cracked. Only a little. Enough. Cassius inclined his head. “Of course, Your Highness.”
Vaela’s satisfaction moved through you like a low curl of smoke. You nearly laughed. You did not.
Oren spoke before the silence could favor you. “No one here means disrespect. But a realm is not steadied by pride alone.”
“No,” you said. “It is steadied by roads that remain open, grain that reaches the villages before frost, and lords who do not dress their own interests as public concern.”
Another silence. This one had teeth.
Lord Alaric’s expression tightened. “Your Highness, those matters are being handled.”
You arched a brow, “Are they?”
Oren watched you carefully. You turned to Alaric. “The lower road through Wrenford has been washed out since spring. The temporary crossing cannot hold more than one grain cart at a time, and the river has already risen twice this month. If northern stores are sent that way, half the wagons will be waiting at the ford when the first snow hits.”
Alaric’s mouth opened. You did not give him space to use it. “The eastern toll road would be faster,” you continued. “But Graymere Post sits close enough to Veyre-held routes that any delay there becomes less a problem of weather and more a problem of permission.”
Cassius’s expression did not change. Oren’s did not either. That was how you knew you had touched the right nerve. You looked from one Veyre to the other. “If grain is delayed at Graymere, the lower settlements will not care which lord’s ledger slowed it. They will only know their children are hungry while the capital debates whether I require a husband to read a map.”
Aldren’s gaze stayed fixed on you. Queen Isolde’s hands rested motionless in her lap, but one finger pressed into the other hard.
Lord Alaric cleared his throat. “No one suggests Her Highness is incapable of understanding the realm’s needs.”
“How strange,” you said. “When I know too little, I am unprepared. When I know too much, I am overburdened.”
Cassius exhaled softly, almost like regret. Almost. “No one doubts your mind, Your Highness,” he said. “We only question how long one person can bear so much without breaking.”
Vaela’s heat flashed beneath your ribs. Sharp. Immediate. Threat. Outside, talons dragged hard against stone. Every man in the room heard it. This time, even Cassius’s eyes flicked toward the windows.
You breathed through Vaela’s anger. Calm, you pressed. The dragon did not understand tables. Or councils. Or the delicate art of letting men talk long enough to reveal where they were weakest. Vaela understood threats. She did not understand letting them finish speaking.
Oren turned fear into opportunity before it had finished crossing the room. “This is precisely the concern, Your Majesty,” he said. “The Crownfire is magnificent. No loyal servant of Eldara would claim otherwise. But magnificence unsettles men who must sleep beneath its shadow.”
Aldren’s voice cooled. “Careful, Chancellor.”
Oren bowed his head. “Always.”
No, you thought. Never.
“There are practical measures to consider,” Lord Alaric said, with the eager caution of a man stepping onto a bridge someone else had built. “Temporary measures. Until the realm steadies.”
You looked at him. “Temporary.”
“Your Highness’s movements,” Alaric said. “Her public appearances. Her flights.”
The chamber seemed to narrow around that last word. Vaela went still inside you. Not calm. Still. There was a difference.
Cassius folded his hands on the table. “No one would dream of severing Her Highness from the Crownfire.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself. Coldly. “No,” you said. “I imagine you would prefer a prettier word than severing.”
Cassius’s mouth tightened. Oren’s eyes sharpened. Lord Alaric pressed forward. “No one is suggesting harm to the bond. Only that Vaela’s flights be limited to ceremonial appearances and crown-approved routes until the investigation into the attempt on your life is complete.”
Your healing wound pulled as you sat straighter. “Vaela is not a carriage to be scheduled.”
“No,” Oren said smoothly. “She is a dragon powerful enough to unsettle an entire kingdom.”
“She is bonded to me.” You said.
“And that,” Oren said, “is exactly why your safety is not merely personal.”
The room settled around the sentence. There it was. The shape of it. Your body was not your body. Your grief was not your grief. Your dragon was not your dragon. Your life was not your life. You were the last heir of House Avelor. Therefore, everyone in the room believed they had a claim to the space around your ribs. You laid one hand flat against the council table. “There is no version of my bond that belongs to this council.”
Vaela’s presence opened beneath the words. Heat. Gold. Ancient, pleased fury. Outside, stone cracked. A line of pale dust sifted from the edge of the nearest window arch. No one moved.
Queen Isolde spoke into the stillness. “A measured response is not surrender.”
You turned to your mother. The words had been offered calmly. Carefully. With no direct support of Veyre, no plain betrayal to name. That almost made it worse.
“And how measured must I become,” you asked, “before I disappear entirely?”
Something moved behind Isolde’s eyes. Fear, perhaps. Or grief. Then it was gone, folded back beneath the queen’s perfect composure.
Aldren rose. Every chair in the room shifted back at once. “The matter of my daughter’s hand will not be decided by fear, rumor, or trade pressure.” His gaze moved from Oren to Cassius and then over every councilman seated before him. “Nor will her bond be made subject to men who speak of dragons as if they are troublesome horses.”
No one spoke. Not even Oren. Aldren placed one hand flat on the table. “As for her safety, I have not left the protection of my only living child to this council’s appetite for caution.”
Your eyes went to him. Aldren did not look away from you, and that was how you knew. Whatever he had done, he had already done it. Something tight and cold moved beneath your breastbone. Not Vaela.
You.
“Captain Marek will retain command of Crown Patrol and the outer rider rotations,” Aldren said. “He will continue to answer to the crown.”
At the far side of the room, Marek’s jaw shifted once. He stood near the eastern wall, crown leathers dark against the pale stone, his hands clasped behind his back. He had said little all morning, which was one of the things you trusted about him. Marek did not waste words where action would do. Now, however, even he looked as though he had only recently been told the next sentence.
Aldren continued, “But the princess’s personal guard has been reassigned.”
Your fingers curled once against the table before you stilled them. Isolde’s eyes lowered. She had known.
Oren Veyre’s brows lifted with careful interest. “Your Majesty?”
“The attempt on my daughter’s life proved there are weaknesses in this palace that cannot be mended by adding more men to the same doors.” Aldren looked toward the chamber entrance. “So I have recalled a man who knows the difference between a locked room and a defended one.”
The council chamber doors opened. The man who entered wore no court velvet. Dark riding leathers. Weathered steel. A sword at his hip. Broad shoulders dusted faintly with ash, as if he had come from the dragon terraces instead of the palace corridors. Silver threaded the hair at his temples, catching briefly in the morning light before he stepped beyond it. He moved like someone who had long ago stopped asking rooms for permission to occupy them. Not hurried. Not arrogant.
Certain.
The chamber shifted around him. Marek straightened against the wall. Tovan had once told you that old war dragons did not need to bare their teeth to make lesser creatures remember their own throats. You understood him better now.
The man stopped before the king and bowed. “Your Majesty.”
His voice was low, roughened by smoke and command. Then, after one measured breath, he turned. He bowed to you. Not as deeply as he had bowed to the king.
Deeper.
“Your Highness,” he said.
Vaela went very still beneath your ribs. You hated, immediately, that you noticed.
“Sir Jack Abbot,” Oren Veyre said.
He spoke the name as if it had entered the room armed. Perhaps it had. Jack did not look at the chancellor. Not at first. His gaze remained on you for one measured breath after he bowed, steady and dark and unreadable. Close enough now, you could see the faint scar cutting through one eyebrow, the smoke-darkened edge of his riding coat, the silver at his temples catching in the chamber light like steel beneath water. Then Jack straightened and turned to the king.
“Your Majesty,” Jack said.
Aldren inclined his head. “Sir Jack.”
The room adjusted itself around him. You saw it in the councilmen first. Small things. Spines lengthening. Hands settling. Eyes measuring the distance between Jack and the nearest door, Jack and the windows, Jack and the table where the king sat with his only living child beside him. Marek remained near the eastern wall, but something in his posture had changed. Not deference, exactly. Recognition.
You knew of Jack Abbot. Everyone did. Former commander of the Ashwing Riders. Siege-breaker of Valen’s Pass. The man who had flown through black stormfire over the northern border and came back with half his unit, a dead enemy prince, and a dragon so scarred that stablehands still spoke of Bramor in lowered voices.
Then, three years ago, Jack Abbot had stepped away from command. Not retired. Men like him did not retire. They simply stopped offering kingdoms convenient access to their violence. He had been training riders at the western aerie ever since, until now.
Vaela’s attention moved through you with a cool, sharp focus. Not approval. Not threat. Observation.
Oren folded his hands before him. “Your Majesty has chosen a formidable answer to a delicate concern.”
Jack looked at him then. Nothing in his expression changed, and still the air seemed to tighten. “An assassin coming within arm’s reach of the heir is not a delicate concern,” Jack said.
The room went still. You felt the words land beneath your own skin. Assassin. Not an incident. Not an attempt. Not unrest. Not a concern. Assassin. You had heard the softer versions for six days. The careful versions. The court versions that rounded the blade until people could pretend it had not been meant for your body.
Jack Abbot did not round it.
Oren’s smile remained smooth. “No one intends to diminish the severity of what occurred.”
Jack held his gaze. “Good. Then we may stop speaking as if severity is the same as surprise.”
Lord Alaric’s brows drew together. “Sir Jack?”
Jack’s gaze moved once around the council chamber. Windows. Doors. Servant entrance. Guard placements. Balcony access. Then, finally, Jack looked back at the table. “Her Highness was not attacked because she lacked guards,” Jack said. “She was attacked because too many people knew where the guards would be.”
Marek’s mouth tightened. Not with offense, you thought. With agreement. Aldren’s face had gone very still.
Oren’s fingers rested lightly against the table. “That is a grave accusation.”
Jack did not blink. “It is an assessment.”
Oren tilted his head. “Of the palace guard?”
Jack’s voice stayed even. “Of the palace.”
Another silence followed. This one was colder. Jack did not seem to mind. “The royal wing has four servant corridors, two old guard passages, balcony access from the eastern terraces, and inherited rotations that have not changed meaningfully in eight years,” Jack said. “Her Highness’s appearances are announced before breakfast. Her chapel hours are known by every maid who carries linen through the west hall. Her route to council has been the same since she was sixteen.”
Your fingers stilled against the table. Since she was sixteen. Not since you became heir. Not since the assassin. Not since Vaela chose you. Since you were sixteen. Jack had been in the palace for less than an hour, and he had already learned how long you had been predictable. The thought should have irritated you. It did. It also unsettled you.
Alaric cleared his throat. “Then you agree Her Highness’s movements must be limited.”
Jack turned his head toward him. “Changed.”
Alaric paused. “Changed?”
Jack’s eyes did not leave him. “Not limited.”
Your gaze lifted to Jack. He did not look at you. Oren did. The chancellor’s voice softened. “And Vaela?”
Jack’s gaze moved toward the windows. Beyond the glass and the carved stone arches, somewhere on the eastern terrace, your dragon waited. You felt the shape of her attention turn toward the room like sunlight catching on a blade.
Jack was quiet for half a breath. Then he said, “Grounding Vaela would be a mistake.”
The chamber seemed to inhale. You did not. You were afraid that if you did, someone would hear how much those words had shifted inside you.
Alaric leaned forward. “Sir Jack, surely until the threat is known—”
Jack cut him off. “The threat is known.”
Oren’s eyes sharpened. “Is it?”
Jack looked back at the chancellor. “Yes. Someone wants the princess dead and has had enough access to nearly manage it. That is the threat. The name can come later.”
Cassius, who had been silent since Jack entered, leaned back slightly in his chair. “A practical man.” Jack’s gaze moved to him. Cassius smiled. “I mean that as a compliment.”
Jack’s expression did not change. “I did not ask.”
The corner of Aldren’s mouth moved. Only slightly. You looked down at your hands before anyone could see your own reaction. Vaela’s satisfaction curled through the bond, warm and dark. Jack continued before Cassius could decide whether offense would serve him. “If the assassin has access to the palace, then stone is not safety. Familiar corridors are not safety. Locked doors are not safety. The air may be the only route Her Highness has that has not already been mapped by whoever wants her dead.”
You looked at him then. Really looked. Jack was not watching your father. Not Oren. Not Cassius. He was watching the room, as if every man in it was both a person and a possible opening for a knife. You had spent six days hearing people discuss whether you should be kept from Vaela for your own protection. Jack Abbot had been in the chamber less than ten minutes and had understood that taking Vaela from you would not make you safer. It would make it easier to trap you. Vaela’s attention pressed beneath your breastbone. A cool, ancient flicker moved through the bond. Not trust. Not approval. But the first sharp edge of interest. Jack’s eyes moved to you at once. You stilled. His gaze dropped, only briefly, to your mouth. Then away. So fast you might have imagined it. You did not think you had.
Jack turned back to the council. “Captain Marek will retain command of Crown Patrol and the outer rider rotations. He will answer to the crown as he has always done. On matters concerning Her Highness’s personal protection, he will answer to me.”
Marek gave one short nod from the wall. No hesitation. No surprise. So he had known. Jack continued, “Kael Ardent and Liora Venn will be reassigned to the inner watch. No other rider approaches Her Highness’s chambers, Vaela’s saddle, her feed, or her flight routes without my approval.”
Alaric’s brows rose. “Her feed?”
Jack looked at him. “Tack can be cut. Buckles can be weakened. Feed can be poisoned. Fire glands can be irritated. A dragon does not need to be killed to make her rider vulnerable.”
The words struck harder than you expected. Not because you had not known them. Because you had. Because some part of you had been trying not to.
Jack looked toward the eastern wall. “Tovan remains in charge of Vaela’s terrace stores and saddle checks.”
Marek nodded once. “He has already been informed.”
You turned slightly. “Has he?”
Marek met your eyes with the grim steadiness of a man who knew there would be consequences and had chosen them anyway. “Yes, Your Highness.”
You looked back at your father. Aldren held your gaze. No apology. Not yet. That stung more than if he had looked away.
Jack’s voice drew you back. “Your private chambers will be re-secured by sundown. The old guard passage between the captain’s room and the princess’s suite will be reopened.”
Your attention snapped to him. “The captain’s room,” you said.
Jack faced you fully. “Yes, Your Highness.”
You kept your voice even. “And who, exactly, will be occupying it?”
Jack answered without hesitation. “I will.”
The chamber went quiet in a different way. Not political. Personal. Your mother’s stillness sharpened. Cassius’s eyes flicked between you and Jack, something almost amused touching his mouth. You hated him for seeing anything at all. You kept your gaze on Jack. “You intend to sleep beside my rooms?”
Jack’s voice remained steady. “Near them.”
Your brows lifted. “That is not much better.”
Jack held your gaze. “It is faster.”
The answer was so blunt that, for one dangerous second, you had no reply. Jack did not look pleased with himself. He did not look embarrassed either. He looked like a man who had given you the relevant fact and did not understand why the room had tried to make something else of it. Or perhaps he understood perfectly and refused to help them. You had not decided which possibility was more irritating.
Jack looked back at the council. “At night, watch will rotate between Marek, Kael, and Liora. No one else.”
Alaric shifted in his chair. “Surely the existing palace guard—”
Jack turned to him. “No.”
The single word cut cleanly through the chamber. Jack kept his gaze on Alaric. “Until I know where the breach came from, I trust the existing palace guard to remain exactly where I can see them.”
A muscle feathered in Alaric’s jaw.
Oren leaned back slightly. “And during the day?”
Jack’s answer came without pause. “I remain with Her Highness from the moment she leaves her chambers until she retires.”
Your pulse moved once, hard. All day. Every day. You thought of council chambers and corridors. Of Vaela’s terrace. Of the library steps where you read reports, no one knew you had requested. Of the chapel alcove where Elias’s memorial candle burned low in blue glass. Of the bathing chamber door, the private sitting room, the balcony where you stood when the palace became too small to breathe inside. You thought of this man in every doorway. This voice behind you. Those eyes watching.
You forced your hands to remain still. “And was I meant to be consulted before my life was rearranged, Sir Jack?”
The title came out cool. Sharper than courtesy. Jack accepted it without flinching. “I was summoned to keep you alive, Your Highness. Not comfortable.”
Aldren’s eyes cut to him. Marek went very still. Your eyebrows lifted. Jack held your gaze. The room waited for you to take offense. You did.
Then Jack added, quieter, “When I can give you both, I will.”
Something in your chest shifted. Not softened. Shifted. You looked at him for a long moment.
“How generous,” you said.
Jack’s expression did not change. “No. Necessary.”
Infuriating man.
Oren’s voice slid in before the silence could become anything with a shape. “As Your Highness can see, Sir Jack understands the difficulties involved in protecting such a valuable life.”
Jack turned his head. “No.”
Oren paused. “No?”
Jack’s gaze did not move from him. “Her Highness will be briefed on every change to her guard. She will know the names of the men and women outside her doors. She will know every route I close and why I close it.”
Your anger, which had been moving cleanly through you a moment before, faltered.
Jack continued, “A protected ruler who does not understand her own cage has not been protected. She has been contained.”
The word moved through the chamber like a struck bell. Cage. You felt your mother look at you. You did not look back. Vaela’s presence opened under your ribs, slow and watchful. Not pleased. Not yet. But listening.
Oren’s mouth had gone flat. “An interesting philosophy for a guard.”
Jack’s eyes hardened. “I am not a guard.”
The room chilled. Jack stepped forward once. “I was commander of the Ashwing Riders for twelve years,” Jack said. “I have taken orders from kings, fools, dying boys with better instincts than their generals, and dragons who knew a storm was coming before any man looked up.”
His voice stayed even.
“I know the difference between protection and possession,” Jack said.
Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack did not look at you. Somehow, that made it worse. Aldren rose from his chair. Every man in the chamber straightened.
“Then make the oath,” Aldren said.
Jack turned back to the king and bowed his head once. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
He removed his right glove. The motion should not have mattered. It did. His hands were broad and scarred, the knuckles marked pale in places where old wounds had healed badly. Not court hands. Not soft hands. Hands that had held reins in war winds, blades in blood, a dragon’s saddle straps through smoke and stormfire. You noticed.
Gods help you, you noticed.
Jack stepped toward you. For the first time that morning, the council table felt like too little space between your body and anything else. He stopped three paces away. Then he lowered himself to one knee. Not before Aldren.
Before you.
The entire chamber seemed to hold its breath. Jack laid his bare hand over the hilt of his sword. His head bowed, but not enough to hide his face from you. Not enough to turn the oath into performance.
When he spoke, his voice was low. “I swear my blade, my wings, and my life to your protection,” Jack said.
The words settled over the room.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “I will guard your body, honor your command, and abide your will until death releases me from service.”
Vaela went utterly still. You did too. Jack looked up at you. Dark. Steady. Unsoftened by ceremony.
Then he said, “If you will have me, Your Highness.”
No one moved. Not your father. Not your mother. Not Oren, whose silence had gone sharp enough to draw blood. The choice was not real. You knew that. Jack knew that. Every person in the room knew the king had already summoned him, already arranged the passage beside your chambers, already spoken to Marek and Tovan and whatever trusted riders Jack had brought back with him from the edges of war.
And yet Jack waited.
On one knee. In front of the entire High Council. As if your answer mattered.
Your throat tightened once. You hated that too. “You may rise, Sir Jack,” you said.
Something unreadable moved through his eyes. Jack stood. The motion was smooth, controlled, and too close to graceful for a man built like a fortress wall.
You tipped your chin up, refusing to step back. “And do not mistake my acceptance for obedience.”
For the first time, his mouth almost changed. Almost. Not a smile. Not quite.
“I would not dare,” Jack said.
Vaela’s attention sharpened inside you. Heat bloomed beneath your ribs before you could catch it. Jack’s eyes flicked, just once, to the windows as if he felt the dragon stir. As if he knew. Then his gaze returned to yours, and whatever had almost been in his expression vanished behind discipline.
Aldren’s hand settled against the arm of his chair. “The council is dismissed.”
Chairs scraped at once. Papers were gathered. Men stood too quickly or too slowly, depending on what they wished to prove. Alaric bowed first to the king, then to your mother, then to you. Oren Veyre moved with more care, his expression returned to its usual polished calm. Cassius lingered. He approached with the softness of a man who knew how to make intrusion look like concern.
Cassius’s eyes moved briefly to Jack, who had stepped back to your right, not close enough to crowd you, not far enough to be ignored. Cassius looked back at you. “How fortunate that the crown has found a man so eager to stand at your side.”
Jack said nothing. You did not look at him. You smiled at Cassius with every lesson your mother had ever taught you sharpened behind your teeth. “Yes. Fortunate men are so rare.”
Cassius’s smile held. Barely. He bowed. Beautifully. Like a man who believed time itself had been raised to favor him. Then Cassius turned and followed Oren from the chamber.
Outside, Vaela’s claws dragged once against stone. Slow. Deliberate. Every man leaving the room pretended not to hear it. When the doors closed behind the last of them, the chamber felt larger and more dangerous for being nearly empty. Your mother remained seated. Your father stood at the head of the table. Marek waited by the wall. Jack stood beside you, silent as a drawn blade.
You looked at Aldren first. “You should have told me.”
The words were quiet. They landed anyway. Your father’s expression did not soften. That would have been easier to resent.
“Yes,” Aldren said. “I should have.”
The honesty hurt more than an excuse.
Isolde rose then, dark skirts whispering against stone. “Your father did what was necessary.”
You looked at her. “Everyone is very fond of that word today.”
Her mouth tightened. Jack did not speak. You noticed that too.
Aldren’s gaze moved between you and the man he had placed in your shadow. “Sir Jack will inspect your chambers and the eastern approaches before the next bell.”
You turned toward your father. “Now?”
Jack answered before Aldren could. “Yes, Your Highness.”
You turned to him. His face gave nothing away. Of course, it did not.
“You have only just arrived,” you said.
Jack met your eyes. “Yes.”
You narrowed yours. “And you intend to begin by entering my rooms.”
Jack’s jaw shifted once. Marek looked down. Aldren closed his eyes briefly, as if asking patience from every god who had ever ignored him.
Jack said, very evenly, “I intend to begin by inspecting your exits.”
Something about the correction should not have warmed your face. It did. You hated him for that, too.
“How reassuring,” you said.
Jack inclined his head. “It is meant to be.”
You studied him. The broad set of his shoulders. The ash still clinging to one sleeve. The scar through his brow. The silver in his hair. The bare hand still ungloved at his side, fingers relaxed now, but ready. Always ready, you thought.
Vaela shifted somewhere outside. You felt the faintest pulse of interest through the bond. Not warmth. Not welcome. Assessment. As if the ancient thing bound to your soul had finally found one man in the chamber worth watching.
You drew a slow breath. “Very well,” you said. “Inspect my exits, Sir Jack.”
Jack bowed his head. “Your Highness.”
You turned toward the council chamber doors. For most of your life, guards had followed you through Crownreach Palace. Their boots had sounded behind you in corridors, outside chapels, across terraces, beside gardens where you had not been alone since childhood. You knew the weight of being watched. You knew the shape of being protected. But when Jack Abbot fell into step behind you, not too close, not too far, something in the air changed. Not because he crowded you.
Because somehow, he knew exactly how far away to stay.
The corridor outside the High Council chamber was colder than it had any right to be. Crownreach Palace had always held its chill well. Stone kept memory better than warmth, and this wing of the palace had been built from pale northern marble veined with silver. Sunlight spilled through the arched windows, bright across the floor, but it did little to soften the air. You walked through it anyway, spine straight, hands loose at your sides, every inch of you arranged into the shape of a princess who had not just had her life rearranged in front of half the realm’s most dangerous men. Behind you, Jack Abbot followed. Not too close. Never too far.
That irritated you more than it should have.
You had expected him to crowd you. To loom. To make his new authority known with the weight of his boots and the angle of his shoulders. Instead, he moved like a shadow that understood doors. At your chambers, the guards outside straightened.
Jack looked at the first one. “Name.”
The guard swallowed. “Brennan, sir.”
Jack’s gaze moved over him once. “Rotation?”
Brennan clasped his hands behind his back. “Second bell to fourth, sir.”
Jack glanced toward the second guard. “Who relieves him?”
The woman lifted her chin. “Darron and me, sir. Elise.”
Jack nodded once. “You and Brennan remain until Marek sends replacements. No one enters without Her Highness’s leave or mine.”
Elise bowed. “Yes, sir.”
You glanced at Jack. “Mine or yours?”
Jack opened the door and stepped aside. “Yours first.”
That should not have pleased you. You entered your sitting room before your face could betray you. Inside, Minka stood near the hearth with a tray of untouched tea. Her eyes widened the moment she saw Jack behind you. Then her cheeks went pink. Nessa, who usually managed your bath linens and riding leathers, paused beside the inner door with a stack of fresh cloth folded over one arm. Her gaze moved from Jack to Minka, and her mouth curved before she politely pressed it flat again. Elowen, older than your other attendants and far better at hiding what she noticed, stood near the writing desk with a folded shawl in her hands.
You looked at them, and the tightness in your chest eased by a fraction. “Elowen. Minka. Nessa.”
Elowen’s gaze moved once to Jack before returning to you. “Your Highness.”
Minka dipped into a quick curtsy. “Your Highness.” Her voice came out softer than usual.
Nessa lowered her head. “Your Highness.”
Jack’s attention sharpened at the names. You felt it.
You looked at him. “Is knowing the names of the women who dress me also a security concern?”
Jack’s eyes remained on the room. “It is useful.”
Elowen’s brows lifted slightly. Minka looked at the floor as if it had become deeply interesting. Nessa looked at Minka as if the floor had not been interesting at all until Jack entered the room.
You folded your arms. “Useful.”
Jack looked at Elowen first. “How long have you served Her Highness?”
Elowen’s spine straightened. “Since she was eleven, sir.”
Jack nodded once, then looked toward Minka. “And you?”
Minka lifted her eyes too quickly. Jack’s expression softened by the smallest degree. Not a smile, exactly. Close enough to make Minka’s blush deepen.
Minka swallowed. “Two years, sir.”
Jack inclined his head. “Thank you, Minka.”
Minka nearly forgot the tea tray in her hands. Nessa’s mouth twitched. You looked at Jack. Jack looked back at you with perfect innocence. Infuriating man.
Jack turned to Nessa. “And you?”
Nessa adjusted the linens in her arms. “Four years, sir. I attend Her Highness’s baths and riding changes.”
Jack’s gaze did not flicker at the word baths. “No one outside these rooms is to enter with garments, linens, water, food, or correspondence until I have reviewed the access list.”
Elowen’s mouth tightened. “Sir Jack, Her Highness’s household has its own order.”
Jack looked back at her. “Good. Write it down for me.”
You blinked. Elowen did too.
Jack continued, “Names. Duties. Hours. Who enters which rooms and why. I will not replace women Her Highness trusts unless I am given cause.”
Something in Elowen’s expression shifted. Not approval. But consideration. You hated that Jack had earned even that much.
You turned away from him. “You may go for now. All of you.”
Elowen looked to you, not Jack. “Your Highness?”
You softened your voice. “I am all right.”
Minka’s gaze flicked toward the bandage hidden beneath your gown. “Should I bring fresh tea later, Your Highness?”
You nodded. “Please. And eat something before you do. You look pale.”
Nessa murmured, “She has been pale since Sir Jack entered, Your Highness.”
Minka’s eyes went wide. “Nessa.”
Elowen gave Nessa a look. “Enough.”
Nessa lowered her eyes with entirely false innocence. “Yes, Elowen.”
Jack turned his face toward the balcony doors. It was the closest thing to mercy he had offered anyone since entering your chambers. You stared at Nessa until her mouth stopped twitching.
Then you looked back at Minka. “Eat something.”
Minka’s cheeks remained bright. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Nessa looked toward the bathing chamber, then back to you. “Should I prepare the afternoon bath?”
You glanced at Jack before you could stop yourself. Jack continued studying the balcony doors as if they had become the only thing in the room worth knowing.
You faced Nessa again. “Not yet.”
Nessa curtsied. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Elowen guided the younger women toward the door with a small motion of her hand. Before she left, she looked at Jack. Elowen’s voice stayed perfectly even. “Sir Jack.”
Jack inclined his head. “Elowen.”
Minka curtsied again, far too quickly. “Sir Jack.”
Jack’s voice was gentle. “Minka.”
Minka fled. Nessa followed her with a look of profound entertainment. Elowen paused at the door and gave you the smallest look. These young women, it seemed to say. Then her gaze flicked once toward Jack. You narrowed your eyes at her. Elowen’s expression did not change.
The door closed behind them.
Your private chambers seemed to grow quieter at once. Jack did not move for a moment. Then his gaze went to the balcony doors, the servant entrance, the inner bedchamber, the bathing chamber, and finally the folded maps half-hidden beneath a book of trade law on your desk. He saw all of it.
You folded your arms. “Do you intend to interrogate my curtains?”
Jack checked the balcony latch. “If they begin letting assassins through, yes.”
You hated the laugh that tried to rise in your throat. You swallowed it.
Jack tested the frame. “This lock is decorative.”
You watched his hands on the latch. “It locks.”
Jack looked at the metal. “It suggests locking.”
You narrowed your eyes at his back. “You have a gift for comfort.”
Jack kept his attention on the balcony. “No. I have a gift for noticing how people die.”
The air changed. You looked away first.
Jack moved to the servant's entrance. “Who uses this?”
You kept your voice even. “Elowen, Minka, Nessa, and occasionally Tovan when Vaela’s saddle needs adjusting from the terrace side.”
Jack turned his head. “Tovan enters your private chambers?”
You gave him a look. “Only as far as the terrace doors, and only because Vaela dislikes waiting.”
Jack absorbed that. “Vaela seems to dislike many things.”
You felt the faintest pulse beneath your ribs. Warm. Dry. Anciently offended.
You almost smiled. “Yes. She does.”
Jack looked back toward the bathing chamber door. Your skin warmed before he said a word. Jack’s expression did not change. “Who has access when you bathe?”
You lifted your chin. “Nessa and Elowen. Minka, if I need something fetched. Two water carriers bring the filled pails to the outer door and leave them there.”
Jack kept his gaze on the latch. “Always the same carriers?”
You stared at him. “You intend to inspect my bathwater now?”
Jack did not look at you. “I intend to know who can reach you when you have no blade within arm’s length.”
The answer landed too cleanly to argue with. That irritated you, too. Vaela stirred beneath your ribs. Not angry now. Attentive.
Jack moved toward the tapestry along the far wall. “This covers the old guard passage?”
You looked at the embroidered scene: the first Avelor king kneeling beside the Silvermere, one hand lifted toward a dragon made of gold thread. “It has not been used in years.”
Jack pulled the tapestry aside. “That is rarely the same as unusable.”
Behind the fabric, a narrow door sat half-hidden in the stone. Jack tested the handle. It opened with a groan of old iron and colder air. You stepped closer despite yourself. Beyond the door, a dim passage stretched between the walls, narrow enough that Jack’s shoulders nearly brushed both sides when he leaned in.
He looked back at you. “This leads to the captain’s room.”
You held his gaze. “You truly mean to sleep there.”
Jack answered quietly. “Yes.”
You folded your hands together before they could betray you. “Lightly, I assume.”
Jack’s mouth almost moved. “Very.”
You exhaled once. “That was not the reassurance you think it was.”
Jack released the door. “It was not meant to reassure you. It was meant to tell you the truth.”
You studied him in the pale light. “That is your habit, then?”
Jack’s gaze held yours. “When I can afford it.”
Your voice lowered. “And when you cannot?”
Jack did not look away. “I try to make the lie useful.”
That should have sounded worse than it did. You stepped away from the passage. “I have been watched my entire life, Sir Jack. I also know the difference between protection and possession.”
Jack let the tapestry fall back into place. “Good.”
Your brows lifted. “Good?”
Jack faced you. “Then you’ll know if I cross the line.”
You held his stare. “And if you do?”
Jack’s answer came without hesitation. “Tell me.”
You laughed softly, without humor. “And you’ll listen?”
Jack’s gaze did not move from yours. “I swore to abide you.”
You tipped your chin up. “Men swear many things in public.”
Something in his expression stilled.
Then Jack said, low and even, “Then test me in private.”
The room went quiet. Not empty, quiet. Not safe, quiet. The kind of quiet that had a pulse. Vaela’s attention sharpened beneath your ribs, a sudden gold-edged pressure that made your next breath feel too warm. Jack seemed to realize the shape his words had taken a moment after they left his mouth. His jaw tightened. Yours did too. You looked away first, furious that you had to. Jack turned toward your desk as if the maps had personally saved him.
His gaze caught on the folded reports. “Graymere.”
You followed his eyes. “Yes.”
Jack stepped closer to the desk but did not touch the papers. “Wrenford crossing. Western stores. Veyre toll routes.”
You looked at the reports. “You read quickly.”
Jack kept his attention on the map. “I recognize roads.”
You glanced at him. “Most men in that council recognize borders. They still manage to forget the people living inside them.”
Jack looked at you then. For once, he had no immediate answer. You lifted one shoulder, and the healing cut beneath your ribs pulled hard enough to make your breath catch. Jack noticed. His eyes dropped to your side.
You straightened before he could speak. “Do not.”
Jack’s gaze returned to your face. “I wasn’t going to.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You were.”
Jack held your stare. “I was going to ask how deep the wound was.”
You gave him a flat look. “That is not better.”
Jack’s voice stayed calm. “No. But it is relevant.”
You held his stare. He did not soften. He did not look away either.
Finally, Jack turned back to the maps. “These should be copied and kept somewhere secure.”
You blinked. “You are not going to tell me I should not have them?”
Jack looked at the notes again. “No.”
You waited. “Why?”
Jack’s fingers rested near the edge of the desk, close to your ink-stained notes but not touching them. “Because ignorance is not safer.”
Something in your chest shifted again. You were beginning to dislike that feeling.
Jack looked from the maps to you. “Lock the drawer.”
You stared at him. That was all. Not a warning. Not a lecture. Not a demand that you hand over your reports and let wiser men decide what you were allowed to know. Lock the drawer.
“I want to see Vaela,” you said.
Jack’s gaze moved from the closed door to you. “Then we go to Vaela.”
You hated the steadiness of that answer. You hated more that some part of you had expected resistance.
You crossed the room toward the terrace doors. “You are not going to tell me I should rest?”
Jack followed at a careful distance. “Should you?”
You set your hand on the latch and looked back at him. “That is not an answer.”
Jack’s mouth did not move, but something in his eyes almost did. “It is if you already know yours.”
You opened the doors before he could say anything else. The afternoon air met you at once, cool from Silvermere and sharp with the mineral scent of sun-warmed stone. It carried ash, leather, lake wind, and the faint copper-sweet trace of dragonfire. The tightness beneath your ribs eased before you meant to let it.
Jack noticed. He said nothing.
That, somehow, made it worse. The eastern terrace stretched wide beyond your chambers, built into the palace’s outer face with enough space for a Crownfire dragon to land, turn, and launch without scraping the carved balustrades. Beyond it, Crownreach fell away in green terraces and silver roofs until the city met the lake.
Vaela waited near the far edge. She was not pacing. She never paced. Your dragon stood as if the terrace had been built for the sole purpose of holding her, dark emerald scales catching the afternoon light in shifting flashes of green and black. Her horns swept back from her head like a crown grown from shadowed bone, and her gold eyes fixed on you the moment you stepped outside.
The bond opened. Heat moved under your breastbone. Recognition. Possession. Relief, though Vaela would have turned the palace to glass before admitting anything so vulnerable. You crossed the terrace before you remembered Jack was behind you. Vaela lowered her head, not in submission. She lowered it because she allowed you near. You pressed your palm to the smooth plane between her eye and jaw, and the breath you had been holding since the council chamber finally left you.
“There you are,” you murmured.
Vaela exhaled through her nose, warm enough to stir your hair back from your face. The bond pressed close around you. Gold heat. Old anger. The remembered flash of council voices, Cassius’s polished smile, Oren Veyre’s careful hands folded on the table.
You closed your eyes. “I know.”
Vaela’s talons shifted against the stone.
You opened your eyes again. “No burning anyone today.”
Behind you, Jack went very still.
You looked over your shoulder. “That was not for you.”
Jack’s gaze remained on Vaela. “Comforting.”
You almost smiled. Almost. Vaela’s attention moved past you and settled on him. The change in the bond was immediate. Cooler. Sharper. Assessing.
Jack stopped several paces away without being asked. He did not reach for his sword. He did not bow too deeply. He did not do what most men did with Vaela, which was either step back in fear or step forward with the arrogant hope that old magic could be impressed by posture.
He simply stood still and let her look at him.
Vaela lowered her head another fraction, bringing one molten-gold eye level with his face. Jack held her gaze. The air tightened. You felt Vaela’s judgment move through you with the slow patience of a blade deciding whether it needed to be drawn. Not welcome. Not threat.
Evaluation.
You watched Jack’s hands. They remained open at his sides. Vaela breathed once. Smoke curled thin and dark from her nostrils, drifting across the stones between them. Jack did not move. Something in the bond shifted. Not approval. Not yet. But you felt, with sudden and inconvenient certainty, that Vaela had expected to dislike him more.
Jack glanced at you. “Something amusing, Your Highness?”
You faced Vaela again before your mouth could betray you. “No.”
Jack’s voice stayed even. “No?”
You stroked your thumb along one emerald scale. “She is only deciding whether you are tolerable.”
Jack looked back at Vaela. “And?”
Vaela’s eye narrowed. You pressed your lips together. “Unclear.”
A sound came from near the covered archway leading to the lower aerie steps. It might have been a cough. It was not a cough. Tovan stood beside a low stone table with a basket hooked over one arm and amusement tucked very poorly behind his eyes.
“Tovan,” you said, grateful for the interruption.
Tovan bowed his head. “Your Highness.”
Jack inclined his head once. “Tovan.”
Tovan looked from Jack to Vaela, then back again. “Sir Jack.”
You looked between them. “You know each other.”
Tovan set the basket on the stone table. “Most men who command dragons learn who keeps them fed, saddled, and less inclined to eat the wrong person.”
Jack’s gaze moved briefly to the basket. “A lesson too few men retain.”
Tovan’s mouth twitched. “He remembers me fondly.”
Jack looked at him. “Bramor remembers your left sleeve.”
Tovan lifted his left arm, where the cuff sat shorter than fashion required. “A misunderstanding.”
You turned toward Jack. “Your dragon ate his sleeve?”
Jack’s face remained unreadable. “He disliked the stitching.”
Tovan nodded solemnly. “A known critic of embroidery.”
Vaela’s attention flicked toward Tovan with clear impatience.
Tovan lifted both hands. “Yes, yes. I brought them.”
He reached into the basket and drew out a strip of ironroot, dark red and fibrous, cut into neat lengths the way Vaela preferred. Your chest softened.
“You remembered,” you said.
Tovan gave you a look as if the idea of forgetting offended him. “You give her one after council sessions.”
Jack’s attention moved to you. You felt it like a touch. You ignored him and held out the ironroot. Vaela accepted it from your palm with imperial delicacy, crushing it once between her teeth before swallowing.
Tovan watched her with satisfaction. “Her stores were checked this morning. No rot in the western sacks, no damp in the inner bins.”
Jack looked at Tovan. “Who has access?”
“Myself,” Tovan said. “Two senior handlers, four lower aerie hands, the feed clerk, and whoever I assign to water and ash sweep under watch. Kael and Liora check saddle security when Her Highness flies, but they are riders, not stable hands.”
Jack’s expression sharpened. “Names.”
Tovan reached into his tunic and produced a folded scrap of parchment. “Already written.”
Jack looked at him.
Tovan’s expression did not change. “You were always going to ask.”
Jack took the parchment. “Good.”
Tovan glanced at you. “He says that when he means thank you.”
Jack did not look up. “I say thank you when I mean thank you.”
Tovan’s brows lifted. “There. Growth.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
Jack folded the parchment and tucked it away. “Where is Bramor?”
Tovan nodded toward the far end of the terrace. You followed the motion. At first, you thought the shadow beneath the eastern arch belonged to the palace itself.
Then the shadow breathed.
A black-bronze dragon lay stretched along the sun-warmed stones, massive enough that the terrace seemed suddenly smaller for having to hold him. Scars broke the dark plates of his hide in pale, jagged seams. One horn bore an old crack near its base. His wings were folded tight, but even folded, they looked like things made to blot out fields.
Bramor.
War dragon. Siege-breaker. The kind of creature soldiers lowered their voices to discuss because speaking too boldly of death felt like inviting it to turn its head. He turned his head now. One ember-dark eye opened and fixed on you. Vaela did not move. That was what you noticed first. Your dragon did not bristle. She did not step between you and him. She watched Bramor with cool familiarity, as though the ancient war beast was an unfortunate but tolerated fixture of the stonework. Jack, however, shifted half a step closer to you. Not enough to block you. Enough to reach you. You noticed. So did Vaela. So did Bramor.
You looked at Jack. “May I greet him?”
Jack did not answer at once. His gaze moved to Bramor, and something wordless passed between rider and dragon, too old and private for anyone else to read. Bramor watched you. Still, Alert.
Jack’s shoulders eased by a fraction. “You may.”
You stepped forward slowly. Jack moved with you, close enough to intervene and far enough not to insult either dragon. You stopped several paces from Bramor and lowered your hand at your side, palm visible but not offered.
“I will not touch him unless he permits it,” you said.
Jack’s gaze flicked to you. Something in his expression changed. Not softness. Not surprise, exactly. Recognition, perhaps. Bramor’s enormous head lowered. The motion was slow enough to make the terrace feel silent around it. You held still. Warm breath rolled over your hand, dry and faintly smoky.
“Hello, Bramor,” you said.
The dragon’s eye narrowed. Not in threat. In focus. Jack felt the bond shift. You saw it in the sudden stillness of his face, though you did not know what Bramor had given him. Bramor lowered his head another inch. You lifted your hand only when his snout came close enough to invite it, and you rested your fingertips against the hard ridge above his nostril. His scales were warmer than Vaela’s. Rougher. Scarred in places where old wounds had healed thick and uneven. You touched him carefully. Not like a weapon. Not like a monster. Like something alive.
Bramor exhaled.
The sound rolled low through the terrace stones. Tovan went very quiet. Jack stared at his dragon.
You glanced back at him. “Is this all right?”
Jack’s eyes remained on Bramor. “Apparently.”
You looked at Bramor again. “Apparently?”
Jack’s mouth flattened. “He has opinions.”
Tovan murmured, “Usually louder ones.”
Bramor’s eye shifted toward Tovan.
Tovan immediately looked into the basket. “Ironroot, Your Highness?”
You withdrew your hand from Bramor slowly and returned to Vaela’s side. Bramor’s attention followed the basket. The movement was slight. You noticed it anyway. Jack noticed you noticing.
You lifted your brows. “May I give him one?”
Jack hesitated. It was the first true hesitation you had seen from him. Not uncertainty in the face of council politics. Not discomfort in your chambers. This was practical. Immediate. Born from knowing exactly what Bramor was.
Jack looked from the ironroot to your hand. “People have lost fingers offering Bramor less.”
Tovan’s head tilted. “Only once.”
Jack did not look at him. “Twice.”
Tovan considered that. “The second man was warned.”
You kept the ironroot in your palm. “Is that a no?”
Jack’s gaze returned to Bramor. Bramor stared at the ironroot with an intensity that did very little for his dignity.
Jack said, “That is a warning.”
You looked at the black-bronze dragon, then back at Jack. “Then warn me properly.”
Jack stepped closer. Not close enough to touch you. Close enough that his voice dropped between you like something meant only for your ears.
“Flat palm,” Jack said. “Fingers together. Do not curl them. Do not pull back when he lowers his head.”
You followed each instruction exactly. Jack’s attention moved over your hand, checking. Then his eyes lifted to your face. You hated that your pulse noticed.
You held your palm steady. “Like this?”
Jack’s voice lowered. “Yes.”
Bramor moved. Jack’s hand flexed once at his side. Steel would have done nothing if Bramor truly meant harm, but the instinct was there anyway. Protect. Intervene. Put himself between teeth and skin. Bramor lowered his scarred head to your palm. His mouth opened. His teeth closed around the strip of ironroot. Delicately. Absurdly delicately. He did not so much as brush your skin. The ironroot vanished between his teeth with a sharp crack. Jack went still.
You looked up at him. “Was that acceptable?”
Bramor chewed once. Then his massive head lowered again, and he nudged your palm with the blunt ridge of his snout. Not hard. Not demanding. Almost careful.
Your surprise softened into delight before you could stop it. “Oh.”
Jack stared at his dragon. Bramor nudged your hand again. Through the bond came something Jack did not expect. Not hunger. Not warning. Not the iron-hard focus Bramor carried into battle. Warmth struck behind Jack’s ribs with enough force to steal half a breath. Satisfaction. The memory of your hand, steady and gentle. The shape of your voice around Bramor’s name.
A deep, ancient certainty that had nothing to do with ironroot at all.
Jack’s fingers flexed again. Bramor did not know court law. He did not care for vows spoken under painted ceilings, bloodlines recorded by trembling scribes, or the fine architecture of restraint. Bramor knew fire. Fear. Loyalty. The difference between a hand that took and a hand that offered. And apparently, with the full force of his inconvenient soul, Bramor knew you. Jack looked at his dragon as if Bramor had just betrayed twelve years of military discipline for a strip of ironroot and a kind voice.
“Bramor,” Jack said, low.
Bramor ignored him. That was also new.
You glanced at Jack. “Is he asking for more?”
Jack looked at the ancient war dragon who had once torn the roof from a siege tower and was now presenting his scarred jaw to you like a cat in the sun.
“No,” Jack said.
Bramor rumbled.
Jack’s jaw tightened. “He is asking for that.”
You followed Jack’s gaze to the place beneath Bramor’s jaw, where scarred scales overlapped in rough bronze-black ridges.
You smiled. “May I?”
Jack should have said no. He knew that. He had no reason to know it, but he knew it anyway.
Instead, he said, “Carefully.”
You lifted your hand beneath Bramor’s jaw and scratched along the rough edge of a scarred scale. Bramor’s eyes slid half-closed. The rumble that moved through him shook dust from the terrace stones. Tovan made another sound that was absolutely not a cough. Vaela’s attention brushed through you, cool and gold-edged. Judgment. Satisfaction. Perhaps, if a dragon could be smug, that too.
You looked toward Vaela. “Do not be rude.”
Jack’s eyes moved to you. “Was that to me?”
You kept scratching beneath Bramor’s jaw. “No.”
Bramor leaned into your hand. Jack stared.
“He does not do this,” Jack said.
You looked down at the enormous head resting close enough to your hand to ask without words. “He seems to.”
Tovan folded his arms. “I have never seen him do this.”
Jack’s gaze cut to him. “Helpful.”
Tovan’s expression remained bland. “I thought so.”
Bramor nudged your hand again. You laughed softly and gave him another careful scratch. The sound of it moved across the terrace, small and unguarded. Jack looked at you before he could stop himself. The sun had caught in your hair. Your wound still troubled the line of your breathing, and your face was too pale from council rooms and blood loss and stubbornness, but your hand was gentle beneath a war dragon’s jaw. Gentle, not foolish. Kind, not weak.
Bramor felt it too.
The bond surged again. Warm. Certain. Fierce enough now that Jack almost stepped back from it. Not command. Not request. Recognition. A claim older than language and more dangerous than either of you understood.
Jack swallowed once.
Vaela watched him over your shoulder. Her golden eyes were steady. Assessing. The cool pressure of her attention seemed to say she had seen exactly where his gaze had gone and had not yet decided what to do about it. Jack looked away from you and back to Bramor. The traitorous beast looked blissful.
“Enough,” Jack said.
Bramor’s eyes did not open.
You looked at Jack. “Is that for him or for you?”
Tovan turned away sharply. Jack’s gaze returned to you. For one breath, the terrace seemed to narrow around the space between you.
Jack answered, “Him.”
Your mouth curved as if you did not believe him. Vaela exhaled smoke. Bramor rumbled again, lower this time, pleased past all dignity. Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them, he found Bramor still leaning into your hand. Still sending warmth through the bond. Still certain.
Jack had known Bramor’s loyalty in battle. He had known his rage, his discipline, his grief, his stubborn refusal to fall from the sky even when stormfire burned black across his wings. He had never known this. He had never stood on a royal terrace and watched his war dragon choose softness. You scratched once more beneath Bramor’s jaw, then slowly lowered your hand.
Bramor followed it.
Jack stared at him. “You are not helping.”
You glanced up. “Was that to me?”
Jack held Bramor’s gaze. “No.”
Your smile widened.
Tovan reached into the basket and held out another strip of ironroot toward you. “For Vaela, Your Highness.”
You took it from him. “Thank you, Tovan.”
Tovan’s eyes flicked toward Bramor. “I will bring something else next time.”
Jack turned his head slowly. “Next time?”
Tovan looked perfectly innocent. “Ironroot is Vaela’s preference. Bramor has his own.”
Bramor’s eyes opened. Jack felt the interest flare through the bond. Immediate. Shameless.
You looked at Bramor, then at Tovan. “He does?”
Tovan nodded. “He does.”
Jack said, “Tovan.”
Tovan ignored him with the ease of long practice. “I will see that it is prepared.”
You gave Vaela her ironroot, but your eyes flicked once more to Bramor. “Then I will thank him properly when I know what he likes best.”
Bramor’s rumble deepened. Jack looked at his dragon. Bramor looked back with no remorse at all.
Vaela’s attention warmed behind your ribs. Not laughter. Not quite. But something old and satisfied, watching two armed men, one ancient war dragon, and one princess all pretend something important had not just happened.
Jack’s voice came dry and low. “This has become a very poorly disciplined terrace.”
Tovan nodded. “Dragons are known for respecting rules.”
Jack looked at Bramor, who was still angled toward your hand as if waiting for the universe to correct itself and return your touch to him. Vaela’s tail curved along the stone behind you, elegant and possessive. Bramor lowered his massive head near your feet, not touching, only near. Jack watched him. Then he watched you. For the first time since he had entered the council chamber, Sir Jack Abbot looked as if he did not know what came next.
Jack walked you back through the terrace doors in silence. Not the same silence as before. Before, he had been unreadable because he meant to be. Controlled. Measuring exits, locks, servants’ doors, and weak points as if every room had already confessed its failures to him. Now, he was quiet because Bramor had unsettled him. You should not have enjoyed that. You did anyway.
Behind you, Vaela settled along the terrace stones with a slow scrape of talons and scale, her satisfaction moving through the bond like a curl of gold smoke. You did not look back at her. You did not need to. She was pleased with herself. That was rarely good for anyone.
Bramor rumbled once more before the doors closed, low and deep enough that the glass trembled faintly in its frame. Jack’s jaw tightened.
You glanced at him. “He is very expressive.”
Jack shut the terrace doors with more care than necessary. “He is usually more disciplined.”
You moved farther into the sitting room, fighting the urge to smile. “Perhaps he was bribed.”
Jack turned the latch and tested it once. “With ironroot?”
You looked back at him. “And manners, apparently.”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For one breath, his expression shifted. Not a smile. Not quite. But something close enough to make your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the wound beneath your ribs. Then he looked away first. You hated that you noticed. You hated that you liked noticing.
Jack crossed to the balcony-side window and checked the latch again. “Tovan will need to revise the feed access list.”
You folded your arms. “Because your dragon has developed a preference for being hand-fed by princesses?”
Jack glanced at you. “Because Bramor’s attention has changed.”
Your amusement faded by a fraction. “Changed how?”
Jack did not answer immediately. He looked toward the terrace as if the door were not thick enough to keep the dragon’s certainty from reaching him.
“Clearly,” Jack said at last.
You studied the side of his face. “That is not an answer.”
Jack’s mouth flattened. “No.”
You waited. Jack turned from the window. “Bramor does not offer softness to strangers.”
The words landed more carefully than you expected. You looked down at your hand, the same hand that had rested beneath Bramor’s scarred jaw. You could still feel the rough warmth of his scales against your palm.
“He did not feel like a stranger,” you said.
Jack went still. You regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth. Not because they were untrue. Because they were.
Jack’s gaze stayed on you, steady and intent. “No?”
You closed your fingers against your palm. “No.”
The sitting room felt too quiet. Too small after the open terrace. Too full of things neither of you had permission to say.
Jack looked away again, this time toward the inner door. “Then he knew something before I did.”
You searched his face. “What does that mean?”
Jack’s attention returned to you. For a moment, you thought he might answer plainly. Then his shoulders settled back into discipline.
“It means,” Jack said, “that I will account for it.”
You let out a quiet breath. “Of course you will.”
Jack’s brows drew faintly. “That displeases you?”
You looked toward the writing desk, where Elowen’s shawl still lay neatly folded. “Everything becomes a security concern with you.”
Jack’s voice stayed even. “Not everything.”
You looked back at him. “No?”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “Some things are only important.”
Something warm and dangerous moved beneath your ribs. Vaela stirred through the bond, sharp and interested. You ignored her. You did not do so successfully. Jack’s gaze flicked toward the terrace doors, as if he could somehow feel the dragon’s attention through the stone and glass. Perhaps he could.
You cleared your throat. “Were you frightened of her?”
Jack looked at you. “Vaela?”
You nodded once. “Most men are.”
Jack’s answer came without hesitation. “No.”
You studied him. He did not sound proud of it. He did not sound like a man making himself larger for the sake of being believed. He sounded as if he had simply been asked whether the sky was blue and saw no use in dressing the truth.
You asked, “Why not?”
Jack looked toward the terrace again. “She did not threaten me.”
You almost laughed. “She considered it.”
Jack’s mouth moved by a fraction. “I noticed.”
You stepped closer without meaning to. “And that did not frighten you?”
Jack’s gaze returned to yours. “It made me respectful.”
The answer was so simple that it stripped something raw inside you. Respectful. Not afraid. Not enthralled. Not suspicious. Respectful.
You looked toward the terrace doors, where Vaela’s dark green shape moved faintly beyond the glass. “Most men call that fear.”
Jack’s voice softened by the smallest degree. “Most men need better words.”
You did not know what to do with him when he said things like that. It would have been easier if he had been arrogant. It would have been easier if he had treated Vaela as a threat to manage or a weapon to wield or a crown symbol to display under prettier lighting. It would have been easier if he had looked at your dragon and seen only danger. Instead, he stood still and let her judge him. Instead, he had waited. Instead, he had not reached for his sword. You hated the gratitude that tried to rise in you. You hated more that it felt deserved.
“You understand bonds,” you said.
Jack’s expression changed again. A shuttered thing. Old, perhaps. Or wounded. “I understand mine,” Jack said.
You tilted your head. “Only yours?”
Jack’s eyes moved briefly to the bandage hidden beneath your gown, then back to your face. “Enough to know yours is not ornamental.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it. The words struck too close to council chambers. To polished men and careful arguments. To all the ways they had spoken of Vaela as if she were a problem of optics, succession, and public confidence. You turned away first. Jack did not follow. That was what undid you a little. He did not step closer when you needed space. He did not fill the silence because it made him uncomfortable. He simply let you stand inside your own chambers and decide whether to speak.
You touched the back of the nearest chair. “The council thinks she unsettles people.”
Jack said, “She does.”
You looked back sharply.
Jack held your gaze. “That does not make them right.”
Your fingers tightened on the chair.
Jack continued, “Power unsettles people most when they cannot control it.”
The words moved through you with a strange, aching precision. You wondered if he knew how cleanly he had cut. You wondered if he had meant to. You suspected he had.
You turned back toward the room. “And you?”
Jack’s eyes did not leave you. “Me?”
You kept your voice steady. “Do I unsettle you, Sir Jack?”
Silence followed. Not empty. Not safe. Jack looked at you as if every answer available to him was dangerous. Then he said, “Yes.”
Your pulse jumped. Jack’s jaw tightened, as if he had not meant to give you the word so plainly. You should have left it there. You did not.
You lifted your chin. “Because of Vaela?”
Jack’s gaze held yours. “No,” he said.
The room changed. Or perhaps you did. For a moment, there was no council. No assassination attempt. No old guard passage behind the wall. No Crownfire dragon beyond the terrace doors, watching through gold patience. There was only Jack Abbot standing in your sitting room, sworn to your protection, far too close and nowhere near close enough. Vaela pressed through the bond. Cool. Interested. Judgemental.
You swallowed once. “That sounds like the sort of thing a man says before remembering himself.”
Jack’s expression closed by degrees. Slowly. Deliberately.
“Yes,” Jack said.
The honesty should have made it easier. It did not.
You looked away. “Then perhaps you should.”
Jack inclined his head. “Your Highness.”
There it was again. Distance restored with two words and a title. You should have been relieved. You were not.
Jack turned toward the writing desk, where he had left the list Elowen would complete by morning. “I will have Marek place the first watch outside the outer corridor before sunset.”
You let him change the subject for now. “And the old guard passage?” you asked.
Jack looked toward the hidden panel. “I will inspect it myself before nightfall.”
You folded your arms. “Alone?”
Jack’s gaze returned to you. “With Tovan, if the lower hinge route is still open.”
You frowned. “Tovan knows the old passage?”
Jack said, “Tovan knows most things that are inconvenient for other people to forget.”
You could not argue with that. Jack moved toward the inner door, then stopped before opening it.
He looked back at you. “I will send Elowen back first.”
You lifted your brows. “You are announcing my own attendants to me now?”
Jack’s face remained composed. “I am asking whether you want them.”
That quieted you. He was not ordering. He was not assuming. He was asking. You looked at the empty room, at the tea tray Minka had nearly forgotten, at the bath linens Nessa had abandoned, at Elowen’s folded shawl on the desk. You were suddenly tired. Not weak. Not fragile.
Tired.
Your wound ached beneath your ribs. Your head felt full of council voices and dragonfire and the low, impossible rumble Bramor had made beneath your hand.
“Yes,” you said. “Elowen first.”
Jack nodded once. “Then Elowen first.”
You watched him reach for the door. A thought caught in your chest before he could open it.
“Sir Jack.”
He stopped immediately. “Your Highness?”
You drew yourself straighter. “If I object to one of your changes, what happens?”
Jack turned fully back to you. “You tell me.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And then?”
Jack said, “Then we discuss it.”
You stared at him. The answer was too clean. Too simple. Too unlike the men downstairs who wrapped cages in velvet and called them policy.
“You make that sound easy,” you said.
Jack’s eyes did not soften, but his voice did. “It rarely is.”
You studied him. The dark riding leathers. The silver at his temples. The scarred hands held still at his sides. The sword he had not touched when Vaela judged him. The man who had knelt before you in a council chamber and sworn to abide you until death released him from service.
“And if discussion does not change your mind?” you asked.
Jack answered, “Then I'll tell you why.”
You lifted your chin. “And if it does change your mind?”
Jack held your gaze. “Then I change it.”
You did not speak. Jack did not look away.
Your voice came quieter when you found it. “Because you swore to abide me?”
Jack’s answer was immediate. “Because I meant it.”
The words settled between you. No flourish. No performance. No velvet. You could distrust a speech. You knew how. You had been raised inside speeches. You did not know what to do with a man who made his vow sound like a fact.
Jack opened the door. Elowen stood beyond it, one hand lifted as if she had been about to knock. Minka hovered several steps behind her with fresh tea and cheeks that pinked the moment she saw Jack. Nessa leaned against the corridor wall with her arms full of folded linen and an expression that said she had already guessed more than anyone had told her.
Jack stepped aside at once. “Elowen.”
Elowen’s gaze moved from Jack to you. “Your Highness?”
You nodded. “Come in.”
Elowen entered first. Minka followed, clutching the tea tray with both hands. Jack’s eyes flicked to the tray, then to Minka’s pale face.
His voice gentled. “Careful with the step.”
Minka looked down at the perfectly flat threshold as if it had personally betrayed her. “Yes, sir.”
Nessa made a small sound behind her. Elowen gave Nessa one look. Nessa immediately became very interested in the linens. You looked at Jack. Jack looked back at you with that same infuriating innocence he had worn earlier. You should not have found it charming. You absolutely did.
Jack inclined his head. “Rest, Your Highness.”
It was almost an order. Almost. But then he stepped back, leaving the choice in your hands. That was the trouble with Sir Jack Abbot, you were beginning to realize. He looked like every man sent to stand between you and your own life.
