I meet his gaze squarely. “What does it matter? We’re just fodder for a dragon, anyway, aren’t we?” I glare at him, seething.
The air ripples, tense and electric, like the moment before a storm breaks. He doesn’t flinch or blink. But behind those molten eyes, something flickers.
Something hungry. Something dark.
My skin crawls with the weight of what I’ve just said—and the threat of what he might do in return. My heart hammers against my ribs, heavy and loud, but I hold my ground. I can’t believe he deceived me. I can’t believe he made me trust him, opened me up, only to reveal that he was playing a game the whole time.
So, I do the one thing no one expects: I refuse to give him what he wants.
Seraphina’s voice slices through the silence. “I can tell you her name. It’s Virg—”
The king lifts a hand, cutting her off. “She may keep her name until she chooses to share.” Then, almost lazily, he lifts his goblet. “In the meantime… I shall call youFire.”
Fire. Of course. The same name he gave me the night we met—his secret little jest, now made public. A title and a leash all in one.
A slow, dangerous smile curls his lips. “For your hair,” he adds smoothly, “and your temperament.”
The others chuckle nervously, but I don’t look away, and I don’t laugh. If I’m fire, then I’ll make damn sure he burns.
For most of the meal, we eat in silence—all except for Seraphina and Elena, of course. They perch as close to the king as possible, batting their lashes and drowning him in compliments.
“How could someone as handsome as you not already be married?”
“Is it true this castle was built atop dragon bones?”
“How does the dragon choose us?”
He answers each question carefully, his words wrapped in velvet, dipped in myth. He paints pictures with his tongue, each story more fantastical than the last. They hang on his every word, but I know better than to believe him. This is not the same man I met in the garden.
The keep, he explains, was once a fortress, built not by men but by giants who warred with dragons long before the curse. The curse itself, he claims, binds him here, just as it now binds us. Neither ruler nor captive can leave until the Trials are complete, until one bride proves strong enough to tame the beast.
Physical, mental, spiritual Trials. A gauntlet for queens. A fairytale.
It’s a beautiful story; too bad it’s a lie. Just like the garden. Just like the gardener.
This is a game we were never meant to win. A test built to break us slowly, exquisitely. The narrative that one of us could survive, marry the king, break the curse, and defeat a dragon?
Yeah, right. We’re all so dead.
The music begins, soft and haunting, eerie melodies played by fairies in the shadows, their eyes gleaming, their instruments carved from bone and silver.
Seraphina and Elena leap at the chance to dance. One by one, the king partners with each woman, graceful, patient, regal. Even shy young Cassy and trembling Vivian look every bit the princesses they’re expected to be.
After the king finishes his first circuit, the floor blooms with motion. Cassian sweeps Lyra’s hand with a theatrical bow before depositing her beside Seraphina. Then he claims Elena with a laugh that makes half the court lean closer. Arther offers a curt, court-perfect hand to Vivian and, after the briefest pause, to Cassy, guiding them through the figures with a soldier’s precision. Miss Mae coaxes Mariel into taking a turn near themusicians, humming to the beat under her breath. Courtiers and attendants spill in after them, the patterns tightening until the dance is a living sigil drawn in silk and light.
After guiding Mariel back to her seat, Keiren turns to me. “And what about you, Fire?” he asks, eyes gleaming. “Will you dance with me?”
I frown. “No,” I say bluntly.
“No?” He blinks in surprise.
I turn my head, refusing to meet his eyes. “I’d rather dance with a thornbush.”
A fork clatters somewhere behind us, and silence falls in its wake.
My pulse hammers. “Your Highness,” I add quickly, bowing my head in a poor attempt to soften the insult.
The king laughs. Deep and honest, the sound makes something flutter in my chest. His dimples flash again, damn them.
