Chapter Five
Iarrived at dinner on time, before the first dish was served. I ignored Ronan’s stare, but sought a single glance from my father. None came, still avoiding me.
Jehoikim locked eyes with me as he approached the dais. I met his attention with a relaxed face, though my gaze dared him to ask for my hand again.
Father clenched his spoon, glaring at the island chieftain across the table. The second night of soup marked either the depth of our desperation or a continued threat, with such utensils at my father’s grasp.
I dropped a seaweed crisp into the broth, watching it sink and swirl.
The space buzzed around me. Lanterns and mage lights bathed the walls in warm gold.
Their glow skimmed the polished black stone, throwing reflections that made the space feel larger than it was.
Long tables filled the chamber, brimming with guests—less so with food.
Smaller than Radaan’s grand dining hall, as was everything here.
We were only a small isle nation. I once believed this land to be vast. Now it felt like a droplet beside Radaan’s ocean.
My thoughts broke—fractured with the ache of wondering what he was eating.
I forced it away.
A roar shook the Spire. An indignant shriek followed. Father’s head snapped up, his brow fixed in that permanent scowl. Conversations quieted but didn’t fall silent. Dragons argued often.
“Tsunami,” he muttered, shaking his head and returning to his soup.
“What now?” Mother asked.
“Taunting Argos. Flirting for a dance, then darting off. If she keeps it up, he’ll ban her from the island.”
“She wouldn’t stay away,” Ronan said, pushing his empty bowl aside. He always ate like someone might steal the food. “Something’s keeping her here.”
“Regardless, Argos is the strongest bull. He alone decides which beasts remain and which leave.”
Mother set her spoon down. “Let him. She has sunk too many ships.”
Shock surged through me. Since when did we decide which dragons belonged?
“She refused the tithe,” she added.
A cackling chirp rang through the Cireendium—Tsunami’s laugh.
“She’s only playing,” I said. Tsunami was large, fast, and clueless. Like a pup too big for her paws. A rider would temper that immaturity, but for now, the dragons corrected her as best they could.
Father’s eyes speared to mine, and I wilted beneath the intensity. “Play is for hatchlings and children,” he said. “She’s old enough to know her place.”
Were we still talking about Tsunami?
Mother rested her hand on his arm. “Nereus, have we received word from the Ivetti concerning the Awakening?”
“They will send what we asked.”
Father sat back in his seat. His stare clung to mine for a breath, then dropped. My breath hitched in my chest, air rushing into my lungs as if I’d been drowning.
Abyss, he loathed me.
The urge to flee rose, sharp and sudden. I gripped my napkin, knuckles pale. I wasn’t a child who ran when scolded. If he meant that as a rebuke, I’d take it as a woman.
Mother found me in the library’s study the next morning. I sipped my tea, letting the salty mint settle on my tongue as she approached with a worn leather book in hand.
“Back at it, I see,” she murmured, stopping at the table to flip covers and skim titles.
I shrugged. “I’ve nothing better to do.”
“You might spend time with your people instead of your books.” Her gold dress whispered behind her as she crossed to the window.
She paused in a shaft of sunlight and studied the cities below.
“Draconia is hungry—for food, for inspiration. If you can’t feed them, walk among them.
Bring the Dragon’s Heart to the people.”
Grateful Freya wasn’t here to add her voice, I stared at the silver in Mother’s hair. “Shall I paint for them?”
I was a princess—trained in courtly customs, raised to sip tea and dab pastels on canvas.
She turned, half-shadowed in the glare, but her disapproval pressed into my skin like thorns. “You are the symbol of hope. Of a better future–”
“Ruined that one, didn’t I?”
“Nienna.” She stormed toward the table and slammed a book down, gaze full of fire. “Self-pity does not become a princess.”
Dragon Queen, indeed.
I bit my tongue. The words I wanted to hurl scorched the back of my throat. She’d stood by me, helped convince Father to stay. I didn’t want to drive her away. I needed her.
But pretending this was just another inconvenience—a minor nuisance I could brush off and smile through—hurt.
“What would you have me do?” I bit out, glare sharp as glass.
Her eyes glittered, lips tightening with approval. “See Williard. He’ll find something for you.”
She didn’t wait for an answer; only walked away, trailing gold and silence behind her.
Williard. Kite maker. Steady as stone. A pillar of K’bar. He would know where the peoples’ pain festered most. But what good could I do? A tarnished princess dressed in shame. I blew a strand of hair off my cheek and shoved aside the book Mother left.
Gold glinted in the corner of my vision.
I frowned, tugging it closer. The Heart of Dragons, the title stamped in flaked, gilded filigree across the cover.
I’d never seen it before. The leather felt unfamiliar beneath my fingers, its pages worn and tattered.
A strange scent clung to it—dried herbs, old smoke, something sharp underneath.
The spine gave with little resistance, pages crackling as it fell open.
The Tale of Nienna, the First Dragon’s Heart.
I frowned, squinting at the faded ink.
Born Year 17 After the Calamity, daughter of Mad Queen Violet and King Beorn.
The Calamity—the whirlstorm that stranded the dragons in Draconia—was common knowledge. So was Queen Violet; her portraits lined the second-floor gallery, painted in varying shades of red.
But this? Nienna?
How had I never known?
I closed the book. The leather cracked beneath my palm, rough and dry. With all the books held by the Spire, it would seem impossible to read them all—but I had. I knew every title, every shelf.
This one wasn’t from here.
It was Mother’s.
The binding sagged again, yielding to the same page; it read:
Queen Violet’s obsession with dragons is chronicled in the Book of Queens, a tale of its own.
When she became with child—her only—the obsession reached a pinnacle.
She demanded access to the Nest, where the beasts had driven out mankind.
Every request was denied, resulting in the tragic deaths of three maidservants.
In the throes of childbirth, she defied her husband, King Beorn, and ascended the Spire. Riders Silva and Quinn lost their lives upon entering, attempting to clear a path for their queen.
With a trail of blood in her wake, Violet forced her way inside. Dragon Queen Yuleni, enraged by the scent of flesh drawing other beasts to her Nest, fought off the bulls in an attempt to defend her clutch. Violet crawled toward the eggs, and there, amid the unborn hatchlings, she gave birth.
When bloodlust dissipated, Yuleni moved to strike the queen—but hesitated at the sound of a newborn’s wail. Whether from curiosity or pity, she spared the child.
Little Nienna survived—but became bound to the Nest.
When the new mother attempted to bring the young one back to the Cireendium, Yuleni blocked her path. Violet then placed the babe in a bed of bone and shell, then entered the Spire, leaving Nienna to the dragons.
The Wild Princess, more dragon than human—this is her tale. The story of the Dragon’s Heart.
I spent the rest of the day reading about Nienna, eating only when Freya brought me a small tray of pickled herring and dried grapes.
She was the first ever given to their kind. So soon after the Calamity, little was known about the bond between dragon and rider. They’d abandoned the babe to chilled winds. Her only warmth was the sweep of scaled bodies and her mother’s breast, offered when she deigned to nurse her.
At two, Yuleni allowed her into the Spire. The child cried, restless, never calm until she returned to the creatures that had claimed her. Even then, she displayed the ability to hold and use magic as any Vessel, but with the exception that all dragons heeded her—not only the bonded ones.
That struck me. Was every Dragon’s Heart different? Or was I simply obscure?
My mother loved me, stayed by my side. But I was an empty Vessel. Dragons only treated me the way they did because of Argos; the black bull would rip apart any beast before he’d let them hurt me.
Night fell. I carried the book to bed, declining dinner in the great hall.
The first Nienna used magic freely, tied to no single dragon—gifted, they said, by her link to Yuleni. Another skill I lacked. The words depicted her as wild, unpredictable, touched by madness like her mother.
At fifteen, she vanished into a whirlstorm on the back of a young dragon. Never returned.
I closed the book gently. Freya had dozed off on the chaise, a thick tome titled Acts of the Kings of Draconia slipping from her chest.
Why would Mother give me this? Did she want me to fly off into a storm? Was this a lesson in lineage? A warning of madness in my blood?
I groaned and collapsed into bed, blowing out the candle. Let her speak in cryptic riddles. Tomorrow, I’d demand clarity.
I set the book between our plates, raising a brow at Mother. “You named me after the first Dragon’s Heart?”
She looked up from her meal, sunlight pouring through the windows behind her, turning her pale hair to spun gold. I joined her in the private dining hall, noting the empty seats where Father and Ronan should’ve been.
“It seemed fitting,” she said, dipping a thin slice of bread into thick broth.
I folded my skirts and sank into the chair beside her with a quiet huff. “You didn’t know I would survive.”