“Draconia seeks a lasting bond,” Mother said, tone cool and slicing, her attention shifting from me to Kallias. “One secured by blood. Nienna’s marriage to you jeopardizes Radaan’s line. If she married your son, her child would inherit the throne. Stability for generations.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. “You want me to remove Tallon from succession?”
Fallione’s face flushed red as he raised a hand, but Father silenced him with a glance.
“I’m not telling you how to handle a son who disrespected my daughter. Though I’d hoped you’d taught him better,” Father said. “Give her a future, a child with a claim to Radaan.”
“As a man, I swear to do my duty by her.” His fingers flexed on the table as if he hated saying the words.
“Too old to get it up?” Ronan tossed the comment like a stone.
My mouth dropped. Mother twitched. Father’s stare sharpened. Steel locked on Kallias.
I wanted to sink into the floor, vanish into the floor. This wasn’t just a conversation, it was legacy. Bloodlines. Empires. And Ronan had turned it into a tavern joke.
But Kallias didn’t flinch. His eyes held steady, locked on Father’s. The air thickened with tension, and still he didn’t waver.
“I cannot swear to things not yet known,” he said at last, and Mother’s breath hissed sharp. “But Tallon will never wear Radaan’s mantle.” His gaze found mine again. “He will never be king.”
My chest tightened, and my fingers dug into my skirt. That was no idle promise. He was carving a future with me at the center, even if it meant casting his son aside.
Father rubbed the bridge of his nose, elbow braced on the table’s edge. “And who, then, inherits your throne?”
“Nienna.” Kallias leaned into the chair’s curve, the tension slipping from his shoulders. “She will stand beside me. Queen in title and in power. I am older. Likely to die before her. If no heir is born, she shall rule and choose her next mate.”
Fallione’s face drained of color.
My breath hitched. Not because of the idea of Kallias dying, or remarrying after him. But because he was offering everything. In death, Radaan would pass into Draconis hands.
Unheard of.
Father studied him, squinting. Waiting. Surely a clause would follow. A safeguard. A condition.
None came.
It was reckless. If I married him, and my father ordered a dragon to end his life, we would own his kingdom. Just like that.
Why was he willing to gamble everything—his kingdom, his legacy—for me?
“Let us sleep on this. Prepare for dinner. Nobles will no doubt pester you.” Father dismissed him with a wave. “You stay,” he added when I shifted to rise.
I pressed my lips together and stayed put. Kallias hesitated, the crease between his brows deepening. He rose, followed by Greaves and Fallione, both silent as they filed out.
Father waved again. “The rest of you, leave.”
Scribes shuffled behind riders, doors thudding shut, leaving my family.
“Did he just offer us Radaan?” Father groaned, dragging a hand down his face.
“Only in the event of his death,” I replied.
“He’s twice your age. He’ll die long before you,” Ronan muttered with a scoff.
“Silence,” Mother snapped. Her slender finger tapped her bottom lip. “He avoided the question about the heir. He doesn’t believe he can sire a babe.”
My brother leaned back, eyes sharp and teasing. He smirked at me, goading, daring me to deny it. But this wasn’t just mockery. He’d called Tallon a bastard before. A slip, maybe. Or something more.
“Old or not, he’s well within his prime to–” Father winced, glancing at me. “From what I saw in his memories, that’s not in question.”
