I memorize the guard rotation once more, noting how the eastern garden gap coincides with the evening meal service. The windows are warded, but the service passages between chambers might not be as well protected. Information that could mean the difference between escape and captivity.
The platinum threads at my collarbone feel like a collar. Not ornamental; ownership. House Silverthorne’s claim made visible.
The lead attendant steps forward, inclining her head slightly. The other two move to the chamber doors, opening them to reveal four guards waiting in the corridor.
It’s time.
I stand in the center of the great reception hall as the doors part to admit the royal dragon delegation. Fae courtiers line the walls, their faces plastered with practiced smiles that don’t reach their eyes. Guards position themselves at every exit—not the ceremonial kind who stand at attention and look decorative, but trained warriors whose eyes never stop moving. They’rewatching me specifically, I realize. Tracking my position even as they pretend to scan the room.
The crystal chandeliers above refract light into thousands of rainbow patterns that dance across marble floors. In the corners, dark shadows linger—corruption traces that most wouldn’t notice, but my healer’s senses detect immediately.
Prince Korren enters with measured steps. Tall, broad-shouldered, with scales shimmering subtly beneath his formal attire where his neck meets his collar. His amber eyes meet mine briefly before sliding away, his bow precise to the exact degree protocol demands—no more, no less.
I curtsy in return, matching his formality while cataloging every detail. His shoulders remain too rigid beneath his ceremonial armor. His jaw tightens when my father steps forward. His fingers drum once against his thigh before he catches himself.
"Lady Silverthorne.“ The prince’s voice carries the natural resonance of dragon. “Your father speaks highly of your healing gifts.”
I incline my head. “I’ve been fortunate in my training, Your Highness.”
Something shifts in his amber eyes. “Before we proceed further—I must express my condolences for Lady Caelynn. I knew her only briefly during the initial negotiations, but she struck me as formidable.” He pauses, and I catch genuine regret in his voice. “Her loss was a tragedy for both our realms.”
The words hit like a blade between my ribs. He doesn’t know. The genuine regret in his voice—he truly believes it was an accident.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” I manage, my voice carefully controlled. “She was irreplaceable.”
The delegation forms a semicircle behind him—five dragons in human form, each watching with careful neutrality.
Prince Korren gestures toward the refreshment table. “Would you honor me with a moment of conversation?”
As we move across the floor, I note how the guards track our movements, how the courtiers lean closer to catch our words. I accept a crystal goblet from a server while studying the prince’s face.
“I understand your practice specializes in cross-species healing,” he says, voice lowered. “That’s quite rare.”
“All beings deserve care,” I respond, watching his expression. “Dragon physiology particularly interests me—the regenerative properties are fascinating.”
His eyes brighten briefly. “Few outside our realm appreciate such details.”
I mention a specific draconic healing technique I’ve studied. His posture relaxes slightly as we discuss healing practices—this interest is genuine beneath the duty performance.
“The ceremony will begin at midday tomorrow,” he says, gaze shifting to the crystalline throne room visible through archways beyond. “In the throne room. The tribunal expects precise timing for the binding elements.”
He pauses as a group of fae pass by, laughing as if there aren’t two people being forced into marriage standing by.
“The timeline acceleration was ... unusual,” Prince Korren continues, voice dropping to barely above a whisper when we’re relatively alone near the towering crystal columns. “Dragon courts typically allow proper courtship periods—sometimes years to establish compatibility.” His fingers trace the rim of his goblet in slow, deliberate circles, and I catch the brief shimmer as scales emerge along his knuckles, catching the ethereal light before he consciously suppresses them.
“What changed?” I ask, keeping my tone carefully modulated.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, those same fingers flexing around his goblet before he forces his grip to relax—a tellI recognize from treating anxious patients. “Political necessities have ... intensified. War casualties mount daily in ways that threaten both our realms’ survival.” He takes a measured sip, amber eyes distant with the weight of information I suspect he shouldn’t be sharing. “The eastern provinces suffered catastrophic losses last month—entire settlements reduced to ash. The council believes this alliance represents our last hope to stabilize the conflict before it consumes everything.”
I extend my healer senses toward him while nodding sympathetically; subtle, the way I’d check a patient’s vitals without them noticing. His energy signature reads clean. Stressed, grieving even, but no corruption threading through his aura. No magical manipulation twisting his emotions.
He’s nothing like my father. Korren is being pressured through politics, duty, and genuine fear for his people—not Faelan’s insidious magic.
“That must put immense pressure on both our houses to perform miracles through marriage,” I say, allowing genuine understanding to color my expression.
“Four hundred years of bloodshed could end with our union,” he says, and the raw weight behind his words settles between us like a physical presence. “Sometimes the greater good demands we sacrifice our personal desires for the survival of our people. My advisors remind me daily that thousands live or die based on our success.”
“And you’ve always known marriage would serve political ends rather than personal choice?”
