Chapter Six
Isquinted at the leather boots and trousers Freya set out for me.
She pulled a sapphire-blue dress from the rack, silver threads catching the light as she hummed and laid it across a chair.
I hadn’t moved from the threshold of my dressing room, still staring as she bounced about, brimming with excitement.
It reminded me of Scythe.
“Those are traveling clothes,” I said, when she snagged a pale-blue shawl that shimmered like fish scales.
“Indicating we will be walking today.”
“I walk every day.” I tried to keep the bite from my voice, but it slipped out anyway.
“You’ve not been to the cities since you returned,” she said, planting her hands on her hips, leveling me with a challenging glare.
“I have other things to do.”
“What? Spend more weeks buried in books? You’re so pale, you’re an embarrassment to Draconia. A ghost! And for the love of the sea, you need a deep-fried fish or two.”
“Then I’ll ask the cook for one. I’m not going anywhere today.”
“Don’t make me get your mother.”
I scoffed. “Threatening to tattle?”
She shrugged, stepping closer. “If you’d rather I tell her I’m worried about your health and fetch George to confirm it and prescribe a walk on the beach, I will.”
I didn’t budge. She paused before me with a mischievous grin. George, our healer, had long been wrapped around her finger. If she called, he’d come running, and agree without hesitation: I needed air and sunlight, and the dragons’ landing wouldn’t suffice.
The idea of facing my people was worse than weathering the stares of the nobles. I had finally managed to bore them. Jehoikim stopped pursuing my hand, and the lesser lords no longer circled like sharks scenting blood.
I was the returned princess. Nothing more.
But to face the hollow-eyed mothers, the gaunt children—the consequences of my selfish actions—I couldn’t do it.
“Shall I fetch the queen, or are you going to get dressed?” Freya challenged.
Kallias would see his people. He wouldn’t hide from pain. He’d bear their grief and press forward.
I frowned when my heart gave no reply. No ache of longing. No rush of memories threatening to drown me in misery. Just cold. Solid. A stone had settled in its place.
There was my answer. I could handle my people’s sharp accusations and condemnation. It would shatter like glass against my hardened heart.
With a dramatic sigh, I pushed past her. She hummed her approval and helped me dress for the high winds of Draconia.
By the time we reached the highest commoners’ level, my thighs burned from the descent. Freya may have been right about my inactivity.
The ground floor teemed with voices and movement, the noise near deafening. This was where the common folk petitioned the nobles. Once a week, my father descended to hear their pleas, though matters often filtered to him all week long.
We slipped into the crowd at the base of the stairs. For a breath, I let myself hope this might feel like before, no different from previous years.
A shoulder clipped mine—bony, hurried. I turned with the motion. The man wore a tattered tunic and offered a hasty glance.
“Your Highness!”
He froze. Gaze wide. Recognition dawning.
“The princess!”
“She’s well!”
“Dragon’s Heart!”
The swell of voices rose around me, and I swallowed against my tight throat as I forced a smile. Bows dipped; eyes stared.
I had to get out.
Panic seized my chest.
These people were here seeking aid and answers. Aid I should have been able to give them—but I returned empty-handed, more burden than blessing.
A hand clamped over my clammy palm and yanked me through the swell of bodies. Freya pushed through the crush, moving like she meant to clear a path.
The stench hit first. Sour sweat and spoiled fish. My stomach rolled. Elbows clipped my ribs. Fingers grazed my skirt. Voices rose, calling my name—pleas for me to hear their needs. Freya didn’t slow.
We burst through the stone arch of the Spire, stumbling into open air.
Shadows pooled behind us where the crowd still pressed close, their faces upturned.
Freya guided me toward the carriage, where two white horses stood calm and poised, a vision of grace compared to the prancing war beasts of Radaan.
A guard in pale-blue livery opened the door. Sunlight blazed down. I gripped his gloved hand, grateful for the barrier between skin. Once inside, I wiped my damp palms on my dress as Freya climbed in after me, securing the latch.
Outside, the black stairs coiled toward the Spire behind us. On the opposite side, a vast open clearing yawned—one of the few spaces left untouched. Father would address Draconia there with Argos, his voice carrying across the space. Everywhere else, apartments and shops crowded the land.
“Williard first, then fried fish,” Freya said. “Unless you’ve got another stop?”
I shook my head, gaze drawn to the window as a flicker of shadow crossed the sun. A chirp broke through the light. I squinted into the glare—Tsunami’s tail, green and blue with flecks of gold, swept overhead.
“She’s going to pester me all day,” I muttered. She couldn’t resist anything with wheels. Or wings. Or noise.
Sure enough, she followed as the carriage rolled through the heart of Draconia. We veered southeast, toward K’bar—city of trades and craft. K’lan held the harbor. Goods moved from merchant to laborer along the main route, and somewhere above it all, Williard’s shop perched.
K’lan teemed with life. Youngsters darted between wagons, chasing rag balls. A red-haired girl tackled a boy, setting off a pile-on. Nearby, mothers worked—fingers weaving, curing strips of sharkskin, attention flicking toward the wild swarm while other women labored with their husbands on ships.
Laughter cracked the air. Brine thickened with the scent of dye. As we crossed into K’bar, lye stung my eyes, sharp enough to draw tears. Soap-makers lined the road, their faces swathed in cloth against the fumes.
Draconis worked hard for what they held. They built their legacy with blood and grit. Nothing was given, and nothing was taken. We earned the respect of our dragons.
The carriage slowed, too wide for the narrow lanes curling between the stacked stone buildings.
There were too many people. Crammed in tight.
Pressed shoulder to shoulder. The memory of Radaan’s open plains—bare, boundless, terrifying—rose sharp in my chest. This place had always felt like home.
But now? We were ants, piled high, scrambling skyward with nowhere else to go.
The sea pinned us in. There was no way out. Only up.
Dragons or no, we would have to expand to the Wild Shores soon. We had no choice.
The carriage rocked as the guard dismounted and swung the door open. I took his hand, skirts brushing the sand-packed road.
Freya followed, arm flung wide as a boy darted past me. “Back to K’lan!” she snapped.
“Probably an errand,” I said, unconcerned. Some parents encouraged their young ones into trades early. Technically forbidden until age twelve, but rules bent when there were mouths to feed.
“They belong in the safe havens with the rest of the children,” Freya muttered, moving ahead.
The alley pinched so tight we walked single file, brushing shoulders with passersby. Recognition flickered across sun-browned faces. Men and women bowed in awkward dips, as if unsure how to treat me. Some smiled. Others frowned and hurried on.
Their uncertainty mirrored my own.
Part of me was overjoyed to be back, wrapped in the cozy chaos of this close-stitched city. But I longed for vast green fields, the open sky, the wind.
I needed a good flight. A real one. I’d only ever ridden with my brother or father, and for whatever reason, asking either of them felt as if admitting defeat, surrender.
I didn’t stop to analyze that.
We passed oil refiners, tanners, dyers, weavers—the woodworkers came last. Williard’s shop stood ahead, its door painted in festive red and green. Inside, mage lights flared so bright I had to blink against the glare.
Mikal wore his flight leathers, goggles dangling loose at his neck. His wiry frame angled away from us, hands clasped with another man’s. I halted without thinking, my greeting caught behind my teeth.
An older man stood nearby. His graying brown hair hung in a braid, paint staining his worn clothes. His gaze latched onto me, a slow smile deepening the creases across his weathered face. A neat gray beard framed his chin and upper lip. He raised a finger, eyes flicking toward the two men.
Kites lined the far wall—bright, dyed sealskin in a dozen styles—but my focus returned to the pair.
Mikal’s back was stiff. The act of filling a Vessel was never easy. To open oneself meant letting the rider in—baring their soul, thoughts, and fears. Most chose their rider with care, knowing they might witness their innermost reflections.
It took intense concentration not to be distracted by the other person’s mind. Even a disciplined Vessel couldn’t hide everything. Elmo would be near. Dragons never strayed far when channeling, needing proximity to keep the current steady.
Mikal stepped back with a grunt, cracking his neck left, then right.
The younger man—tanned skin, black hair—shook out his fingers before folding his arms.
“It never gets easier,” he muttered, looking away.
“With time.” Mikal turned to Williard. “Keep an eye on him. The magic is for kites,” he said, cutting a sharp look toward the apprentice, “not for making fish dance.”
Freya snickered, drawing Mikal’s green gaze to mine. He grinned, then shuttered it back into a modest nod. “Princess. Good to see you out and about.”
Middle-aged now, Mikal wore his years in the corners of his eyes, sun-etched and faint, though he hadn’t lost that sly charm.
“I heard Williard’s not making kites for the Awakening.” I stepped deeper into the room, tracking the brilliant displays lining the walls. “Shame. I expected more of him.”