King Harold’s gaze sweeps over us, assessing. Calculating. Then he gestures for us to step forward, and the weight of the room settles heavily on my shoulders.
The king and queen sit on matching ebony thrones raised upon a dais. King Harold is as severe as his surroundings—a broad-shouldered man with black hair cut close to his scalp. His square jaw is clean-shaven,lips pressed into a firm line that does little to soften the chill in his pale-grey eyes. At his side, Queen Agatha is a study in perfect composure. Her dark-brown hair is pulled into a flawless knot at the nape of her neck. Both king and queen sit with their backs rigid, their expressions unreadable.
King Silas strides forward, every step echoing through the hall. His black robes brush the floor behind him, the gold embroidery glinting under the light as he bows his head with measured respect. “Your Majesties,” he says, his voice deep and authoritative, carrying effortlessly in the vast chamber. “It is an honor to stand once more before the esteemed rulers of Podrosa. Though many years have passed since our last meeting, I hold the memory of your hospitality with the highest regard.”
A long, heavy silence follows his words. Podrosans value ceremony above all else—it would be an insult to interrupt their king’s measured consideration. When King Harold finally inclines his head, the movement is slow and deliberate, as if weighed by the weight of duty. “Hedera’s presence honors our court, King Silas,” he replies. His voice is low and even, each syllable clipped with precision.
I notice that Queen Agatha doesn’t speak up, only giving a solitary nod in agreement with her husband.
Silas stretches out his arms to free them from his cloak. “Today, I come before you not only to formally present my son Dante, but to reaffirm the alliance and cooperation between our lands.”
“We receive you in the spirit of peace and would first like to extend our condolences on the death of your son Torbin.”
“You are very kind, Your Majesty. Thank you.”
I almost shudder. It seems so cold, so devoid of emotion. It’s hard to believe either of them is actually sincere. I glance at Queen Eleanor, whose gaze is trained on the floor.
King Silas’s lips curl faintly at the corners and with a wave of his hand, his attendants step forward, carrying heavy coffers they set in front of the dais. “As a sign of appreciation for allowing us to have an audience with you, we have brought you tokens of our gratitude.”
The first is a chest of polished blackwood, its surface inlaid with veins of silver. Silas steps toward it, opening the lid himself as if only he has the power to do so. I stretch my neck a bit, but not enough to be noticed.
“Finely crafted steel,” King Silas announces. “Ceremonial blades forged by the finest Hederan smiths, each one engraved with the insignia of both kingdoms entwined—a gesture of unity.”
King Harold’s brow lifts by the smallest fraction, and when one of his guards steps forward to examine the craftsmanship, I catch a flicker of approval behind his stern mask.
“For your archives,” Silas continues, gesturing to a second offering. “A bound collection of maps—each painstakingly detailed—outlining the trade routes between our realms and beyond.” The parchment gleams with fresh ink.
Ezra is called to the front, and it is his duty to bring the item to Queen Agatha. She accepts it with a graceful nod, her long fingers tracing the elegant leather binding before passing it to an attendant.
Two of Silas’s men step forward, carrying a velvet-lined trunk carved with Hedera’s crest. When they unlatch it and ease the lid open, the torches around the room seem to dim in comparison to what rests inside.
I blink in surprise.
Dragon scales.
I step forward instinctively, drawn by the shimmering contrast within. One is pale gold—no, not gold, something more radiant. A yellowish white like the heart of the sun, with a sheen that dances as the light shifts. The other is darker—blue-black, like midnight ink spilled across glass, with an iridescent halo at the edges that makes it look like the stars have taken root in its surface. Each scale is about the size of a soldier’s breastplate.
A sun dragon and a moon dragon.It was only a few days ago when Nadya regaled me with the tale.
I can’t be sure that the dragons these came from were actually sun and moon dragons, but still, my throat tightens. I’ve never seen anything like them before. Delasurvia doesn’t deal in dragon scales. We trade incoin and gold and well-earned respect.
It’s hard for me to grasp the idea that Silas would part with such treasures. I wonder if he truly values the alliance, or if this is merely the smallest edge of the hoard he holds. Somehow, I suspect it’s the latter.
“For the throne of Podrosa,” Silas says smoothly, his tone practiced, regal. “A token of trust from Hedera. Scales retrieved and preserved from the great age before the dragons fell. May they serve as a reminder of strength and dependability.”
King Harold’s eyes narrow slightly as he regards the scales, the way one might study a weapon instead of a gift. I might be imagining it, but I swear he shifts forward, almost as if he wants to stand but is holding himself back. He nods once. Queen Agatha says nothing, but she visibly swallows as her gaze lingers on the scales.
And I… I can’t stop looking at them. The way one glows like fire. The way the other drinks in the light like shadow.
The king and queen exchange a glance—brief but filled with unspoken meaning—before King Harold speaks again. “Hedera’s gifts are generous, King Silas. We accept them in good faith.” His words are as rigid as his posture, but the slight dip of his chin signals the closest thing to gratitude one can expect from the ruler of Podrosa. “And we will extend our hospitality, as is proper. Our chamberlain will show you to the rooms we’ve readied for the duration of your visit.”
Before the chamberlain can step forward, Queen Agatha inclines her head with the elegance of someone born to diplomacy. “Princess Celeste,” she begins, her voice soft but clear, like still water over glass.
I curtsey to her in greeting. “Your Majesty.”
“I would like to express my sorrow to you on the loss of your brother,” she says. “King Bennett was always an honorable man when we met with him, and you have our sympathy.”
It takes me a second to find my voice. “I’m much appreciative, Your Majesty.”
