Chapter Nine
The next morning brought worse news. The Innaku were sailing home, pulling every one of their people from our island.
We ate a meager breakfast. Tension crackled between my father and me, frayed further by the steady stream of messenger doves and Chief Jehoikim’s demands for answers.
If he didn’t back off, Argos might eat him.
I ended up in the soup kitchen again, sleeves rolled, ladle in hand beside Freya and Miral.
Together we fed the crowd—our people—though a hush hung over them, a shadow of grief clinging to their shoulders.
The cries of rock gulls echoed above their murmurs.
They’d watched the Innaku ships vanish over the horizon—along with our last steady supply of bread.
It wasn’t my fault this time, but I still stood at the center of it.
Disaster spiraled around me like a whirlstorm, dragging everyone into its eye.
I was a curse in human skin. The story of Nienna, the first Dragon’s Heart, resonated with me.
She vanished into the sky—and I wished I could too.
If I knew how to fly alone, I might not come back.
An elbow jabbed my ribs. I sucked in a sharp breath as hot broth splashed down my front.
“My apologies, Your Highness!” Freya deadpanned, her reproving expression unrepentant. “Perhaps it’s time to return to the Spire?”
The sun had begun its descent, orange bleeding into the clouds. I’d spent the day in the heat, handing out portion after portion, yet the line stretched on.
Some would leave hungry.
I bit back a curse and glared at her. “I’ll stop when the beach is empty.”
“Begging your pardon, Princess,” Miral said, passing another steaming bowl, “but we’re nearly out. Best you go on.”
I glanced at the hunched woman, shawl clutched tight as she peered into the pot. She was right. We’d refilled it four times from the mage light bubbling in the corner, but it wouldn’t last much longer.
The line had thinned. Mothers clutched tired children, some already turning away, heads bowed—not all would eat tonight.
“Come, Princess. King Nereus will be waiting.” Freya gestured toward the narrow door at the back of the kitchen. I managed a tight smile and placed the ladle beside the steaming pot.
“I’ll return in the morning!” My voice carried to Miral over the clatter of pans and hiss of boiling broth.
She nodded without looking, busy with another bowl.
We had barely stepped down the stone stairs before Freya cornered me.
“They won’t starve. This is just extra to their rations and whatever they can buy. You act like they’re wasting away.”
“They are,” I snapped, slipping into a shaded alleyway between buildings. The sun couldn’t reach us there.
“Are we out of fish? Kelp? Salt?” She scoffed. “Have the coconuts fled the island? No, they’ll grumble, but they’ll endure.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. She wasn’t wrong, but the knot in my chest didn’t loosen.
There was nothing I could do now.
Onward.
She caught my silence and sighed. “You need to leave the mainland.”
“I just got here.” My laugh came bitter.
“Ask your father to take you to the Wild Shores. Maybe the dragons will settle with you there.”
“Argos and Artorious won’t even stay the night. And you think I can soothe them?”
“You’re the Dragon’s Heart,” she said. “That title means something. You calm them in ways riders can’t.”
I wasn’t so sure. My father had more sway over the dragons than I ever would. Still, she had a point. My body was nothing more than a brittle shell painted with forced smiles. I craved an escape—the opposite of the girl I’d once been, the one who begged to stay among my people.
Draconia held a piece of me. Mother always told me I belonged elsewhere, that my future was across the sea. Now, my heart lay there too—and this place no longer felt like the home it once was.
“Perhaps I’ll visit one of the islands after the Awakening,” I said, mostly for her sake.
She shook her head, looped her arm through mine, and together we walked toward the Spire. Narrow passages twisted like snakes between old walls. Around us, commoners drifted home, shoulders heavy with fatigue. The scent of brine clung to the air as we pressed on.
When we reached the palace, the sun had vanished. Green and gold scales blocked the doors in a living wall.
“What are you doing, Tsunami?” I laughed, stepping toward her. She lifted her head, tilting it as she studied me, golden membrane sliding over her eye in a slow blink.
Her body uncoiled in a stretch, claws digging into the stone steps like a waking cat.
“Father won’t be pleased,” I said, climbing the dark stairs to meet her.
She snorted, unimpressed, and sank onto her haunches, peering down.
Dragons were sentient, though more beast than man. She wasn’t a dog to command. Intelligence glimmered in her gaze—a question I couldn’t begin to guess at.
I slipped free of Freya’s grip and stepped forward. Tsunami towered above me. I had to crane my neck to meet her eyes.
“Princess?” Freya’s voice wavered, unsure. I had no answer for her.
Something inside me stirred. A spark, a tug—intuition, raw and insistent. I frowned and reached for her. She wasn’t mine, wasn’t anyone’s. All my life, she’d ignored me. She wouldn’t choose me now.
Still, a strange sensation pulled tight beneath my ribs.
Tsunami snapped her jaws with a sharp clack, biting the air. I yanked my hand back. A warning—one dragons gave each other.
With my palm to my chest, I stepped away. The sensation pressed, persistent and aching. A low trill rose from her throat as she dipped her head and sniffed my hair. Her breath stirred the loose strands, and I smiled.
Then she turned.
I backpedaled, letting Freya tug me toward the doors as Tsunami’s wings unfurled. Leathery and vast, they snapped wide. She launched skyward, beating the air. Dust lifted in her wake. I shielded my eyes and rubbed at the ache in my chest.
“What’s wrong?” Freya asked, glancing at my hand as she steadied me.
That pull tightened, then eased. I didn’t lower my palm as Tsunami vanished into the night. Relief and worry twisted together.
“Ever since I’ve come back… the dragons feel different,” I murmured, searching the stars for her shape.
“Their scales?” Freya sounded doubtful.
How could I explain it? I wasn’t a rider. Their thoughts couldn’t reach me. I was just the grown version of the babe they hadn’t eaten. But since returning to Draconia, it felt like they knew. Knew when I needed them. Adoni’s attack shouldn’t have stirred them. And yet it had.
Ronan’s answer echoed in my head: Gyrak heard you.
“It’s nothing,” I said, brushing her off as we entered the Spire’s first level. Mage lights flickered between lanterns, catching the black stone like flecks of obsidian.
“It’s never nothing with you.” She snorted, linking arms with mine as we climbed the stairs.
We rushed to clean up. She slipped into the servant halls, and I made for the dining room. Zane stood guard, flipping his dagger with lazy precision, catching it midair with a wicked grin.
“No comment, Princess?” he asked as I approached.
“You meet expectations,” I said. “A rider should know which end of a blade to hold.”
He recoiled with mock horror. “You wound me.”
“Better my words than your knife.” I laughed and strode past him. The scent of fish broth and kelp wrapped around me, fragrant and briny, richer than what we served on the beach.
Scarcity didn’t discriminate.
A dull ache pulsed through my heart again. The Innaki abandoning our shores wasn’t just a signal—it was a warning. But until word came, we could only wait.
Adoni was Galdoni’s only heir, but the king could still produce another. I mourned the boy I once called friend, but the grief had torn itself to pieces. I didn’t know how to feel anymore.
He thought I was easy.
Retaliation hadn’t crossed his mind. He thought I would fold. Surrender.
My stomach soured.
I approached my father’s table with a careful grin. He greeted me with a clenched jaw and a terse nod.
But he saw me. That counted.
These were hard times for Draconia. He hadn’t smiled in public for weeks. I missed the days when we’d fly with Argos, his arms around me, the wind a song and the sky a promise.
Now everyone had a scheme.
“You’re late,” Mother whispered, dipping her bread into her soup.
A servant placed a portion in front of me. Bits of fish bobbed in the broth.
“I was feeding our people.”
Across the table, Ronan cleared his throat and raised his brows at his empty bowl, refusing to meet my eyes.
Mother caught it. Her gaze snapped to him, daring him to look up.
“Tomorrow you’ll be better used in K’seer,” she said. “The stage needs your touch.”
“Something you can’t do?” I kept my voice low. Nobles didn’t need to hear bickering between a queen and her daughter.
“I could spend my days in beach kitchens.” Her tone lowered. “However, there are duties that demand more of me.”
I pressed my lips together. Her words stung, despite their gentle delivery. I’d spent weeks hunting for impossible answers in the library and sweating in the kitchens, trying to atone for something no one asked me to fix. Perhaps it was selfish either way. Both were for my own benefit.
This mess was mine. Our people needed something to lift them. The Awakening would remind them of what we still had—an abundance of fish, music, community.
Dragonlings.
We would not perish or starve.
The festival, a symbol of hope, meant rebirth after the storms that assailed our islands.
Our people needed that reminder.
So did I.
Haldor, an aged rider, burst into the dining hall and drew my gaze. He didn’t move with his usual ease. His stride had urgency—long legs devouring the space between us. He raked a hand through gray-brown hair, eyes flicking to me as he stopped at the base of the dais.
“Rise,” Father said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, his frown deepening. The table quieted, every noble straining to eavesdrop while pretending to eat.