Chapter Seventeen
ChApter
Seventeen
I’ve barely slept. Dante and I took advantage of almost every minute we had alone together, only drifting off for a couple of hours, our naked bodies tangled in his sheets.
The dawn’s light announced that our time was up.
It took every ounce of willpower within me to finally leave his room and find my way back through the secret passageways.
I know I’m getting back too late. Ezra’s powder would have certainly worn off by now, and I can only imagine what Indira must be thinking. When I reach the panel that accesses my room, I push it open slowly, peering around to see if she’s around.
Instead of Indira, I find Nadya. Her eyes are wide as I slip into my room, and she looks over her shoulder at the closed door.
“Where have you been?” she whispers.
“I… got tied up.” I can’t help but smirk to myself. “Where’s Indira?”
Nadya lets out a sigh. “I asked her to fetch us some tea. She burst into my room about twenty minutes ago asking where you were. I convinced her that you woke up early to get some books from Ezra you wanted to take on the tour.”
“She bought that?”
“I doubt it, but if you hurry up and get ready, maybe we can get down to the carriage before she can badger you.” Nadya is already dressed in a light-yellow dress, her hair pinned up in an elegant bun. “What’s this?” she asks, reaching for my hair.
My eyes widen for a minute when she pulls a peony petal out from my strands.
I instantly snatch it away from her. “Nothing.”
She studies me for a moment and then slowly nods. “Yeah, okay. I’m sure you’ll tell me later.” She gives me a smile and a wink. “Good for you. Now get ready.”
Despite the fact that I love Dante’s scent on me, I know I can’t travel for the next couple of days brewing in my own sweat-stained skin, so I wash up and get dressed in a traveling dress suitable for the mourning period.
I grab the black tiara with the veil, but I decide to wait before putting it on.
Servants arrive to bring my traveling chests down to the carriage, and before I know it, we’re loading up the entourage to head out on our way.
Before I climb into my carriage, I catch sight of Dante, and I immediately want to rush back into his arms. But I can’t.
It’s time for us to play our parts, to pretend there is nothing between us.
I school my features as I place the mourning tiara upon my head.
We only have to endure the duration of the tour, and soon after that, we won’t have to hide anymore.
The carriage rocks gently beneath us, its wheels bumping over the uneven dirt road as the royal caravan snakes its way across the golden plains of eastern Hedera.
Outside the window, wildflowers sway in the breeze, painted in soft hues of violet and amber.
In the far distance, the mountains rise like sleeping giants beneath a pale-blue sky, their snowy caps catching the late morning sun.
Inside, the carriage is warm and polished, with smooth, dark paneling that gleams faintly in the shifting light.
Velvet cushions, deep green and gold-threaded, soften each jostling movement.
Across from me, Nadya is curled into the corner, her boots tucked beneath her as she reads, one gloved finger tapping lightly against the page.
Her book makes me think of Ezra, who rides in a separate carriage, probably with his nose in a few books of his own.
At the front of the caravan, the king is in his royal carriage with Farvis and a couple of his advisors, but separate from the queen.
I noticed, when we were leaving Hedera, that she entered her own carriage with her ladies-in-waiting, while Dante boarded a carriage that used to belong to Torbin.
I can’t help but wonder if that makes him uncomfortable or not.
I lean against the frame of the window, cheek resting in my palm, and let the rhythm of the ride lull me into a kind of haze.
The wind slipping through the small, cracked window cools the back of my neck, and my mind wanders to the night before, and how Dante and I spent every moment we could exploring each other’s bodies.
When I close my eyes, I can still feel his hands on me, the taste of his lips, the feel of him filling me.
My eyes snap open, worried that Nadya might be watching me, but her nose is still buried in a book.
I smooth the folds of my dress over my lap, absently tracing the embroidery along the hem. The gown is a dark grey, cinched at the waist with a twisted black ribbon. A constant reminder of the role I’m being forced to play.
My thoughts drift, unbidden, to my uncle. Is he eating? Sleeping? Does he even remember what happened to him? The last time I saw him, his skin was still too pale and his eyes too dim, like the light inside him hadn’t quite returned. I don’t know if he’ll ever be the same.
Nadya sighs. “Are you going to tell me about your night, or are you going to keep it a secret forever?”
The corner of my mouth slides upward. “You don’t always tell me about your little night meetings.”
“You don’t really want to hear about them, do you?”
I laugh. “Not really, no.”
She drops her voice to a whisper. “Were you with Dante the entire night?”
I can’t hide my smile. “Yes. I don’t know if the gods would approve of half the things we did, let alone the king.”
She lets out a giggle and swats me playfully. “Oh, Your Highness,” she teases, “so very scandalous.”
“There’s only one thing I regret.”
“Honestly, Celeste, it only hurts for a minute. You just need to—”
“No! Not that.” My cheeks heat, and I have to laugh. It takes me a second to recover. “I had meant to tell Dante about my powers, but it… slipped my mind, given the circumstances.”
“Oh, that.” She giggles a little before continuing.
“Well, it’s not like you won’t get a chance to speak to him again.
The king can’t be watching you the entire time.
Besides, you said you wanted to find out more about controlling the magic first. And it’s not like you’re keeping a secret from him. ”
I worry my lip and nod. “That’s true.”
There’s a brief silence, the kind that hums with quiet comfort.
“Are you reading another one of your torrid love stories? The kind with knights in shining armor and fair maidens sighing in meadows?”
She laughs. “No meadows. No sighing. Did your parents ever read you the story about the sun dragon and the moon dragon?”
That gets my attention. I shift to face her more fully, curiosity tugging at the edge of my tired thoughts. “I seem to remember a bit of that, yes.”
“This is an account by an historian who translated accounts from a seer, making a case that the story has some true origins.”
“Really? Remind me how the story goes.”
“There were once two mighty dragon species,” she recites, her voice dipping slightly into a storytelling cadence.
“The sun dragons—creatures of flame and light—and the moon dragons, born of darkness and shadow. They ruled the skies in ancient Terre Ferique, powerful and proud, but never allies. Always adversaries.”
I listen, intrigued despite myself.
“The tale says that whenever a great shift came upon the world—a changing of thrones, the rise of a powerful force—these two species would stir. Wake from their slumber as if called to take sides and champion a leader. But they were too destructive. Every time they fought, they left the world around them in ruins. So a curse was cast. It bound them to dormancy, locked them away.”
“Sleeping dragons,” I say. “That sounds familiar.”
Nadya’s voice lowers, the tone laced with eerie reverence. “And the curse said this: when the sun is blocked by the moon, the dragons would awake, and their final battle would begin. And then only one would survive. The other would perish forever. One cannot survive so long as the other lives.”
I tilt my head. “I vaguely remember it, but it was just a tale told to children. Unfortunately, dragons are extinct. Died out centuries ago.”
She shrugs, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Or maybe they’re just sleeping, like the story says, waiting to be awoken when the world shifts. When the moon blocks the sun. I don’t know. Stories have to start somewhere.”
“I guess we can’t count anything out.” I glance out the window again, watching the distant clouds unravel across the blue horizon. The tale sits in the back of my mind, strange and oddly persistent.
Sun and moon. Fire and shadow. Locked in a battle that could end the world.
The caravan comes to a slow halt on the outskirts of a quiet village nestled between rolling, green hills.
The next leg of our journey will be over mountains too treacherous to conquer at night, so we need to stop and rest at an inn until morning.
The evening air is cool, scented with damp earth and the faintest hint of honeysuckle from the distant forest. Lanterns flicker to life along the cobbled main road, casting a warm, golden glow upon the inn’s timbered facade.
The establishment is modest compared to the grandeur of Ivystone Citadel, but there is an undeniable charm to it—its walls washed in soft cream, the windows framed by dark wooden beams, and flower boxes spilling with violets and ivy.
The sound of carriage doors unlatching and booted feet striking the road fills the quiet, and I step down with care, smoothing the skirts of my black traveling dress.
The fabric is wrinkled from the day’s wear, traces of sweat marking the seams, but I keep my chin lifted, remembering to play my part—not as a soldier, but as a princess. Sir Holden is immediately at my side.
The rest of the caravan begins to disembark in a slow, practiced rhythm.
Guards move into place, alert but not tense, and attendants begin unloading satchels and cases from the backs of the wagons.
The creak of leather, the clink of bridles, and the low voices of nobles fill the air with a kind of buzzing quiet.