Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Kallias
The Awakening wasn’t what I expected. Fallione roused me early, whispering about customs and traditions. I held on to what I could while the sky still clung to night. I hadn’t prepared for a pre-dawn summons—least of all for what happened on the landing.
But if Draconia’s queen invited me to share a private moment before I was officially a member of their family, I wouldn’t let it pass me by.
Nienna’s face lit like a sunrise, and every hour of missed sleep faded behind her glow. Watching the dragons perform their ceremony felt as if I were witnessing a living legend. I wished Radaan’s people could stand beside me and see it unfold.
Her joy spilled through her eyes, her smile pulling wide, bright as polished gold. She guided me through each movement, pointing out nuances while we sat among the commoners. No barriers, no thrones—just bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder in the clearing.
We followed the king and queen down winding paths carved between stone homes and woven awnings.
We reached the shore where booths lined the beach, colors vivid beneath the climbing sun.
Vendors shouted greetings over the surf.
Anyone could approach Nienna or her parents.
No guards blocked the way. But none spoke to me.
Draconis glanced; they scrutinized my mantle, but they didn’t speak.
The grain we supplied had softened their stares. Enough, maybe, to sway opinion. If I wanted Nereus’ favor, I needed his people behind me.
The dragons—now that was a different challenge.
The hours blurred, draining me. Greaves stuck to my side, close but never suffocating.
He made space when Nienna nudged me toward conversation.
But he never strayed far. Not with the beasts gliding overhead, wings outstretched like sails.
Ronan sparked flame from his palm with casual flicks, more stage magic than threat, but the message stayed clear—no one dared strike a Draconis royal.
Which made the attack on Nienna back home even more jarring.
No assassin would be reckless enough to target them. Not unless they found her alone. Not unless they knew her gifts were weak.
The thought snagged in my mind, sharp and splintering. She’d been with her handmaiden. Nienna had told me—confessed—she was a poor Vessel.
Who else in Radaan would’ve known that?
“Kal?” Greaves bumped my shoulder, his eyes raking the crowd.
I blinked. “It’s nothing.” I shook my head, clearing the hazy thoughts. We never found solid answers about the assassination. This wasn’t the place to chase them.
Nienna glanced over her shoulder, lifting her hand to beckon me forward. The sun leaned close to the horizon. My legs ached from the endless walk, joints stiff, back screaming. But gods help me, I wouldn’t look weak in front of her or her people.
I stepped in beside her, and she slid her fingers into the crook of my elbow. My thumb hooked around my belt buckle. Together, we led the crowd toward a stage that gleamed under flickering lanterns. They followed like water drawn to the shore.
“It’s time for the dance,” she whispered, excitement coloring her voice.
“I thought Draconis dances were solo affairs.” I drew her closer with a subtle shift of my elbow. She burned with energy. I wanted every spark.
“Most are,” she said, eyes flashing. “Though we don’t move quite like the Sols.”
“Are you performing?” I asked. “Or trying to coerce me into it?”
“When I ask you to dance, Kallias—I won’t have to resort to trickery.”
My brows climbed. I blinked, wondering just what she would do—and when I would have to learn a new dance. Greaves didn’t know a single step of their style.
Mage lights floated above, casting silver across silk banners draped between tall poles.
Lanterns swayed gently with the breeze. The illusion of walls wrapped the stage in a soft glow, though it stood open to the tide on one side.
The crowd surged closer, and when the king and queen mounted the stairs, we followed.
Our footsteps vanished beneath the swell of voices. A covered section with benches offered the best view, elevated just enough to overlook the display. She tugged me toward the shadows behind her parents, deeper into the corner.
Greaves took his place at my side, and I dropped onto the cushioned bench. Nienna leaned in at once, her weight pressing warm against my arm, and I sat forward to ease the pull in my spine. She’d pulled us off-center—still close, but not obvious.
Knowing her, she chose this spot for privacy.
We were hidden from view against the back wall; the only chance of being seen was by the stage or if her parents turned.
I worried over the latter more.
“The first dance is by Ciana,” she whispered as the crowd shifted and settled.
Nereus muttered, rubbing his knee. His wife leaned in, said something low, then pointed across the platform.
Nienna’s calf pressed against mine.
I rolled my shoulder, wincing as the chains of Radaan jangled over my chest. Pain bloomed sharp in my joint. I sank into the seat, resigned to the ache until I could finally collapse into bed.
Then the drums struck—deep, sudden, thunderous.
I searched the stage. No sign of them. The drummers had to be tucked near our box, hidden behind the draped panels. The rhythm lasted a breath, maybe two—just long enough to call her forth.
She stepped from the shadows.
Black curls spilled down her back in thick ropes. A stark white dress clung to her bronze skin. Her eyes—dark and unyielding—spoke of island blood. Not fully Draconis, not with that shade and midnight gaze. Their kind wore sunlight in their hair and sky in their irises.
She gripped her skirts and dipped into a bow, snowy fabric billowing around her legs.
“Rise, woman, and tell us your name.” Nereus’ booming tone cut across the murmurs. Silence followed.
“My name is Ciana, Your Majesty.” Her words curled with richness, weighted by an accent I recognized—the same as the Kulletti chief I’d once dined beside. “And I bring you the Dance of the First Light.”
The drums erupted.
She spun in a tight circle, faster than expected, then slammed her foot down with an abrupt snap. She faced away from us. A white hood swept over her head, and when she turned…
A dragon stared back.
Gold eyes shimmered in the stitching, so intricately embroidered they seemed alive, watchful.
She danced with the drums, skirts sweeping in wide arcs. This wasn’t the measured rhythm of Radaan’s court dances—no matched pairs, no slow, precise pacing. This felt like the Sols: quick, sharp, independent.
Nearing the end of the dance, she bent and angled her face to the sky. Fire shot out of her mouth with such force, my hand twitched.
A Vessel.
“She’s not Draconis?” I kept my voice low, just for Nienna.
“Ciana’s father is,” she murmured. Her breath brushed my jaw. “Her mother’s Kulletti.”
I watched the dancer flick arcs of flame skyward. “So the blood doesn’t have to be pure.”
“Some mixed children channel it with no issue,” she said softly. “Thinking of Radaan?”
“We’ve no use for magic. But…” I let the words trail. If magic was a usable resource, Clay would find a way to bend it to our benefit.
“They have to carry Draconis in them. No rider would share power with someone outside the blood. It’s our inheritance. Even if the blood’s thin, any Draconis has the right to be a Vessel—if they can bear it.”
“But the riders choose.”
“They search the mind.” She applauded as Ciana bowed, her dance complete. “The process is complicated. I’ve only been part of it twice.”
A flicker of shame slipped into her tone.
I nudged her knee with mine. “You need no magic, Dragon’s Heart.”
Her eyes rose to the sky, mage lights casting flickers across her face. “Something’s changed since I returned. The connection feels distant. I can’t hold their power—but I still feel them. Somehow.”
Another dancer stepped forward. The drums surged, loud enough to drown her out. I leaned closer.
“You’ve searched the records?” I asked. “Of the Hearts before you?”
“There are so few.” Her mouth moved again, but the rising beats smothered her words.
I ducked lower, giving her my ear. My gaze stayed forward—on the line of female dancers now circling the stage.
Her lips brushed my skin. Her palm settled on my thigh, fingers pressing into the muscle. Heat flared through me, sharp and immediate. I clenched my jaw, fighting the primal urge to move her hand higher. My body wanted it. I refused it.
“There’s a pattern,” she breathed. “Most of them went mad.”
Her breath lingered on my skin. All it would take was a single turn. My mouth could find hers with no effort at all.
Her mother glanced back, brow furrowed at our position.
I didn’t bother to smile, blood roaring through my veins.
I straightened, shifting so Nienna sat in full view.
The queen’s gaze dropped to her hand on my thigh.
I refused to move, but Nienna caught the warning.
Her fingers slid slow across my trousers, a bold stroke, before she folded them neatly in her lap.
She would pay for that later.
The dances spun on into the night. Lore wove itself through chants and movement—the old songs of Draconia, stitched from flame and myth. The dragons. The first settlers. Men abandoned on the island’s shore, left to rot but choosing to rise. Prisoners carving a nation from stone and fire.
That was what made Draconis different from their island kin. Fairer skin. Sun-kissed bronze, not as dark. Eyes like glacier water, hair like sunlight. The rest of the archipelago bore night-blessed curls, and irises like rich ink.
Draconis weren’t born of this place. Neither were their dragons.
One dance told the story of the first riot—when the sky split with storms and beasts crashed to earth. Windsingers joined the drums. The music surged, raw and guttural. Dancers moved with violence, ripping garments to reveal crimson cloth beneath—blood writ in silk.