Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Ahellish week passes.
After that brief success where Blight shared her scales to protect me, no other proof of our bond has emerged.
It makes it even more frustrating, having seen it—knowing that it's possible for us to accomplish something—yet it's not happening.
It feels like the dragon is resisting me now, as much as I've resisted her from the beginning.
Like she can finally sense how deep my hatred for her kind goes, and she's punishing me for it.
I've been trying to dig up and release some of that hatred. But it's not the kind of bitterness that seven days can erase. It's a root system, at this point. Tangled and twisted into the very core of my being.
And it's hard to believe I can unravel it without it killing me.
I'm allowed only a single visit with Briar, which comes on the second day of my indentured servitude.
Just enough for them to prove to me that she's actually here, actually alive, and to cruelly remind me of what's at stake if I can't figure out how to make myself useful to the ruler of this palace.
The palace itself grows no more inviting as I settle into it. I'm given relatively free roam, protected by the king because of our agreement, as he promised…
But that doesn't mean I can leave, so I’m still more prisoner than guest, as far as I’m concerned—and protected also doesn’t mean accepted.
Only a few of the palace courtiers seem to truly believe I have a legitimate dragon bond that could prove useful to their king.
The rest are distrustful, at best, while a few are outright cruel, whispering about everything from my appearance to the city I hail from.
And far, far too many are watching my every move, just waiting for me to make a mistake so they can report it back to their king in hopes that he’ll punish me for it.
Prince Arlo remains one of the few bright spots.
He pays several visits to the arena, usually to play with Blight while I'm recovering from whatever torture Gareth has inflicted upon me on any given day.
Even on the days I don't see him, he often leaves me little gifts and scribbled notes of encouragement.
I don't witness any more of his strange episodes of pain, or illness, or whatever happened on the day we met. He's mysteriously absent some days, though, and I see more than one doctor coming and going from the direction of his room.
Just a frail disposition, I hear some of the servants muttering to one another.
No one seems to know why he's sick, or how. Elise snaps at me to mind my own business when I try to pry; Gareth always changes the subject; others just outright ignore any questions I ask about the royal family’s health.
I'm not surprised they have secrets, of course.
I'm just afraid of how deep and twisted they might be.
As for the king himself, he comes and goes at all hours of the day and night—he isn't an idle ruler, I'll give him that much.
It's both a blessing and a curse to see so little of him. Because every second I spend with that man only reinforces my hatred of him and everything he stands for…and yet, so much of my fate, and Briar’s, unfortunately lies in his hands.
So whenever I catch a glimpse of him, I can't help being drawn in his direction, like a moth to a funeral pyre.
On the eighth day, I rise early and with a vengeance, determined to seek him out on purpose.
A week. That was the agreement we made on the morning I arrived here—one week, and then we would discuss Briar's release and all the other rewards I was promised.
And even though I haven't made much progress with the dragon bond, I'm still holding up my end of the bargain, as far as I'm concerned; I haven't missed a single day of Gareth's abuse.
I'm more bruised skin than not, with more failed attempts than I can count, but I've marched myself into the arena every single morning, prepared to try again.
After dressing and inhaling breakfast, I head for the small study on the second floor. This seems to be the most reliable place to encounter the king, during the rare occasions I've seen him sitting still; either there, or in the library adjacent to this room.
But before I make it to either of these places, the sound of familiar barking catches my attention. I follow it to a side entrance that opens onto a grand veranda, with steep steps leading down into a small courtyard lined with rose bushes and flowering white trees.
Arlo and Ruffus are playing in this yard, the boy throwing a stick while the massive dog bounds after it with clumsy enthusiasm.
I didn't see the prince yesterday, and he'd seemed even paler than usual the day before that, so I'm relieved to spot him out and about.
And, as luck would have it, the king appears only a moment later—though I hesitate at the sight of him; the confrontation I'd planned isn't one I want to have in front of the young prince.
Quietly, I draw back, waiting for an opportunity to get the king alone. I sit down on the top step, where I'm mostly hidden from the courtyard thanks to one of several wide columns spaced across the veranda.
Peering around that column, I watch Arlo run immediately to his brother, Ruffus tripping over himself to keep up. The king scoops him into his arms and lifts him impressively high into the air. Arlo stretches his skinny arms wide, prompting Reave to launch him so high it makes my stomach drop.
Reave catches him, of course, and is easily persuaded to do it again, and again, and again.
It's a private, softer moment—one of the few they probably get away from the spotlight. I feel somewhat wrong for encroaching on it. But I can't help it; over and over, my gaze is pulled back to the king.
He looks oddly…human.
Maybe because it's the first time I've ever seen an actual smile on his face. Not a predatory smirk, but an honest-to-gods grin. Maybe it's the laugh that eventually rumbles out of him, which is too sincere, too pure of a sound for a monster to make.
It doesn't change any of the monstrous things he and his family have done, but it's interesting nonetheless.
A few minutes pass before anyone happens upon me. The click of heels and the jingle of jewelry, followed by a long-suffering sigh, tells me it's Princess Kestrel even before I glance back to confirm it.
“Spying on the royal family? I could have you executed for that, you know.” She leans against a nearby column, a wine glass in her hand.
An incredibly strong scent of alcohol wafts from it—something much stronger than a typical wine.
A bit early for that kind of thing, maybe, but I'm not one to judge.
I keep my gaze on her brothers as I say, “On the plus side, if I'm executed, I'll never have to speak with you again.”
She snorts. “Cheers to that.”
We exist in a prickly silence for several minutes. For whatever reason, she seems content to just loom over the space. Maybe she's drunker than she seems, and that column is the only thing holding her upright.
I'm too tired and distracted to argue, so I attempt to make polite conversation instead. “Arlo seems to be feeling better today.”
She doesn't reply. When I finally tilt my gaze toward her again, her eyes are glazed over, and she's gripping the stem of her glass so tightly I'm surprised it doesn't shatter.
So polite conversation is out as well, it seems.
“Reave hates that fucking dog,” she mutters a moment later, after a particularly loud bark booms across the yard. “All it does is drool all over everything and chew up any stray shoes it can find. It's particularly fond of his boots.”
“…I've never seen one so big.”
“He's unnatural.” She swirls her drink, studying its contents. “From the Scalveth Valley, where most of the creatures grow to ridiculous sizes on account of the dragon magic that flows through the water supply there.”
“That place is only a legend, I thought?”
“And yet there stands proof of its existence.” She gestures toward Ruffus, as if she thinks I might have somehow missed the ginormous beast. Her head tips toward me, dark blue eyes shining with their usual cutting appraisal.
“Commander Gareth told me you were rather stupid.
His assessment was certainly apt, wasn't it?”
I don't take the bait, knowing that silence will irritate her more, anyway.
“Kind of strange to think you might be the first true dragon-bound we've encountered in such a long time,” she presses, “given how ignorant you are about the dragons and their magic.”
“We actually agree on something for once.”
I feel her continue to stare at me, but I still don't truly engage. Then she does something unexpected—she laughs. It's not a particularly nice laugh, but I suppose it's better than her usual threats and name-calling. “You're strangely entertaining, do you know that?”
I shrug, returning my full attention to the king.
He doesn't look like he hates the dog to me. Then again, I guess he’s pretending for Arlo’s sake; it’s easier to endure things for the ones you love than for yourself, I’ve found.
“He can't say no to our little brother,” Kestrel says, as if reading my thoughts.
“That's why when some of our soldiers brought that dog back from a surveying mission near Scalveth, it was allowed to stay. Because Arlo fell in love with it instantly.” Her glare levels on her older brother.
“Such a weakling,” she mumbles. It's an attempt at her usual scornful tone, but there's an obvious hint of affection in the words, too.
Arlo has turned his attention to the dog in question, and he's busy trying to get it to catch a ball he's throwing. Ruffus is…not particularly good at the game, his massive jaws snapping air far more often than the ball.
Reave leans against one of the courtyard pillars, watching them. I notice a heaviness in the king's expression, a weariness that sinks his shoulders, just slightly—but it disappears any time his little brother looks back at him.
It's impressive, how quickly he hides his exhaustion.
However tired he might be, he doesn't look like he's going to leave his little brother's side until someone pries them apart. And since I can't bring myself to do that, I decide our confrontation will have to wait until after my next torture session with Commander Gareth.
I bid Kestrel a curt goodbye, and I begrudgingly make my way toward the coliseum behind the palace.
When I step into the arena, I find a small army of servants tending to Blight, as usual.
Over the past week, her living area has been expanded, giving her more freedom of movement as her wounds have healed.
They've been spoiling her, too, supplying no shortage of luxurious bedding options, as well as a wide variety of food—most of it better than anything we ever ate back home.
Some have even brought her gifts; little polished trinkets of silver and gold, chunks of quartz, and various silk ribbons that she's hoarded into small piles.
A woman is currently tending to her dark claws, smoothing a soft cloth over them and making them shine. Blight watches her with a sleepy, contented expression, a sound almost like a purr rumbling in her chest.
As I approach, most of the servants quickly finish their tasks and scatter.
The admiration they have for Blight doesn’t extend to me; the king has ordered them to treat me like a guest, but that order is being followed with obvious reluctance.
While they aren’t outwardly hostile like so many of the higher-ranked members of the palace court, they clearly don't trust me and whatever bond I might be forging—or failing to forge—with the dragon.
I eye the pile of gifts that have been left for her. She's got her tail wrapped around one of the larger hunks of crystal, curling it to her body like a child cuddling a favorite toy.
“You're going to end up vain if you let them keep pampering you this way,” I tell her.
She sits up straighter, fluffing up her wings and giving her head a little toss. It reminds me of the way Briar flips her hair when she's feeling particularly smug about something.
I roll my eyes. But, much like earlier when I was watching the king, I can't help studying the beast before me.
Her scales are coming in brighter than ever in some places.
They're a particularly stunning shade of teal along her neck, while splashes of pale pink shimmer across her wings and face.
Some of her older, darker scales are scattered across the ground, along with a few stray feathers from her wings.
Those wings are a motley blend of black, teal, and rose, with various levels of growth among the feathers that are coming in.
Not particularly attractive at the moment, but there's obviously something beautiful starting to take shape.
Her overall size seems like it's getting larger, too. I'm still studying her, trying to compare the mental image I have from a week ago to what I'm seeing now, when I hear Gareth coming up behind me.
“…Is it just me, or is she already growing bigger?” I ask.
“You're not imagining it,” he confirms. “And it's a good sign that she's getting more attached to you.”
“Attached?” I snort. “Could have fooled me.”
He shrugs. “Dragons are complex. And the magical nature of a bond is even more complicated.
Just because you two hardheaded fools aren't outwardly bending toward one another yet, doesn't mean your intertwined destiny can be erased.
If she'd given up on you after the rather rocky start you’ve had, I don't think we'd be seeing these changes in her.”
“That's…reassuring?”
“Yes.”
He doesn't look particularly reassured, though.
And neither am I, for that matter.