“What?”
“You don’t honestly intend to keep her in her room all the time, do you?”
“Of course not.” We pass another guard, who bows as deeply as the first. “She may leave,” I say, once we pass him, “when she is with me.”
Rally lays a hand on my shoulder. Normally, he would never touch me in view of others, so when he does, I stop and narrow my eyes at him. They shrink down even further as he searches my face like a physician seeking some hidden illness.
“You’re prowling your territory,” he says finally.
I sneer. “I am surveying the palace walls.”
“I bet in about an hour, you’ll have the urge to curl up in that absurd pile of pillows you keep on your bed.”
My lip rises. “Perhaps I’d like a nap.”
“And likely a few jewels to examine afterward.”
I show him my teeth. “You go too far—”
“Soren, there are flames in your eyes.”
My mouth clamps shut on the reprimand. With a casual turn of my heel, I put the palace at my back and face the city. “Tell me when they’re gone.”
Rally moves to stand a half pace ahead of me. I breathe, and he watches for the flames to fade.
“Gone,” he says on my third exhalation.
My eyes remain on the city, on its neat shops and sturdy homes. “I gave you a difficult task, watching over your king.”
“Yes,” my friend says.
“If you ever wish to be relieved of it, all you need do is ask.”
He snorts. “And be forced to lick your boots like everyone else? I think not.”
Now that I’ve regained control, I easily repress the smirk his response provokes. Rally alone is allowed to speak to me as he pleases, because Rally alone is tasked with ensuring my first form doesn’t emerge unless called upon. It’s imperative my subjects know I hold absolute control over both forms—the man and the beast. Slip-ups cannot be tolerated.
“We knew this could happen when the princess arrived,” Rally says as if reading my mind. He squints up at the sky. “A dragon with a mate—”
“Is a dangerous dragon,” I finish. Every fledgling learns the line by rote. It reminds us all to give fresh couples space. If the princess and I were following dragon tradition, we would retreat to the desert for the courtship period, returning only once the more primitive urges, like hoarding, abated.
But a king cannot retreat.
“Thank you, Rally,” I say as the dragon within recedes.
“Of course, Your Majesty.” He pauses. “Are you going to let her out now?”
I work myself through another round of breathing before answering. “I will consider it.”
We turn at the sound of anxious footsteps pelting the stone walkway. A youth, red-faced and panting, is sprinting toward us.
“That doesn’t look promising,” Rally says.
“Mm.”
The boy arrives in a state of near collapse. He manages to bow, but when he rises to deliver the message he’s been sent with, all color leaves his face. Rally and I exchange a knowing look.
“Easy, lad,” Rally says, his mouth quivering as he steadies the boy.
