2. Kaedryn
Kaedryn
Inever hated the cold until we came to this damned kingdom.
It’s a slow cold, the kind that movement and heat can’t chase off. It lingers, quiet and constant, pressing through leather and fur until it feels like it belongs there, like the land itself has decided this is how things should be.
Frost gathers along the edges of the narrow window despite the fire burning behind me. Winter here is different from winter back home in Elyrion. Wilder. Less disciplined. It creeps instead of cuts, settling into stone and skin alike until everything feels heavy with it.
I brace one hand lightly against the window frame and look out over the snow-covered stretch beyond the manor.
The sky is flat and gray, swallowing distance until everything feels closer than it should.
There’s no movement except the guards stationed along the perimeter, no sound but the wind moving low across the frozen ground.
Dravaryn.
I’ve seen it before, years ago, but distance softened it then, made it easier to dismiss. It’s harder to ignore now that I’m standing in it again with the future of an entire kingdom resting on my shoulders.
It still feels wrong. Evander was supposed to stand where I stand now, to inherit the border disputes, the alliances, the weight of Elyrion’s future. He would have known how to walk into a foreign court and make a marriage of paper feel like more than paper. That was his gift.
I’m simply my brother’s replacement. The spare to the heir who never took the throne. Death doesn’t ask permission before it rearranges a kingdom. It handed me his crown, his work, and his ghost, and the only way I know to honor any of it is to give every ounce of myself to the role he left behind.
We arrived shortly before dusk last night for food, rest, and privacy before making our formal entrance into the capital. The manor belongs to one of King Varek’s high-ranking officials, but I’ve seen little of him beyond a brief greeting when we arrived.
Even the servants move carefully, quietly, like they’re afraid of making too much noise.
Behind me, my brother drags his heavier travel cloak back over his shoulders.
Sylas has complained about the cold since we crossed the border, and I’ve let him, because it’s the only thing about this trip he’s allowed to complain about freely.
“We’ve been traveling for days, and this is what we get? ”
I don’t turn. “It’s a strategic location. Close enough to the capital to host us, but stark enough to assert their dominance in this situation.”
“Of course it is,” he mutters. “Everything here feels like it’s built for control.”
“That’s because it is,” Rowan drawls from where he leans against the long table, arms folded loosely across his chest. His posture looks relaxed, but I’ve known him too long to mistake ease for carelessness. “Different priorities.”
“Different tolerance for freezing,” Sylas grumbles, tightening the clasp beneath his throat. “It’s too fucking cold here.”
A few chuckles move through the room, cutting through the tension.
We’re all tired. Days in the air will do that, even when you’re trained for it.
The last stretch was the worst, the air thinning, the cold settling deeper the farther north we flew.
We stopped when we had to, taking what rest we could in military outposts that felt more like extensions of Dravaryn than places intended for royal guests.
Soren stands near the hearth, one shoulder resting lightly against the carved stone mantel. “It could be worse.”
“That’s a low standard,” Sylas replies.
“It’s a realistic one,” I say.
Merritt snorts from his place beside the fire where he sharpens a dagger with slow, practiced movements. “I’m more concerned about whether these people season their food.”
Sylas huffs out a laugh. “You’re concerned about food everywhere.”
Merritt pauses. “Because unlike the rest of you, I believe suffering should have limits. Besides, they need us as much as we need them. You’re both princes and they are supposed to be welcoming the fucking heir to the Elyrion throne to marry their princess.”
Even Rowan smiles faintly at that. Kellan remains near the door, silent as usual, though his attention never stops moving, watching exits, windows, and shadows. Most people underestimate him because he speaks the least. They usually only make that mistake once.
I let the conversation drift around me, my attention returning briefly to the gray wasteland outside.
There’s something about this kingdom that presses in.
Something familiar in a way I don’t particularly like.
It reminds me too much of environments built on endurance instead of balance, on control instead of choice.
“We’ll be moving soon,” I tell them.
That pulls everyone’s attention back toward me.
“Already?” Rowan asks.
“The capital isn’t far. We’ll finish the journey in the air.”
Sylas exhales heavily. “Good. I’m ready to be done with this part.”
I turn then, letting my gaze move over the room. Five men stand with me. One is my brother. The other four are men I trust with my life. Rowan, Soren, Merritt, and Kellan have fought beside me for over a century. Wars, border raids, and the death of my older brother hadn’t broken us.
Rowan, my second, still carries a scar across his ribs from the western campaigns.
Soren, the healer of our group, healed the wound himself, though he’d put a blade through anyone who called him gentle.
Soren once took a blade meant for me, then stitched himself closed and lectured me about my footwork while he did it.
“We stay alert when we arrive,” I continue. “This isn’t a casual visit.”
“It’s a marriage proposal,” Sylas points out. “No one’s pretending otherwise.”
“No,” I agree quietly. “They aren’t.”
The silence afterward settles heavier than before.
Then Rowan pushes away from the table, faint amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Well, if we’re going to be tied politically to Dravaryn, it could be worse.”
I lift a brow. “Could it?”
“You’ve seen the portraits of the princess,” he replies. “Or are you planning to pretend you didn’t look?”
Sylas laughs. “He looked. He’d be blind if he didn’t.”
I don’t bother denying it. “There was information provided,” I answer evenly. “It would’ve been negligent not to review it.”
“Of course,” Sylas murmurs. “Entirely strategic.”
“Entirely.”
“Mmmhmm.” The corner of his mouth quirks up.
“Careful, brother.”
That only makes his grin widen.
Soren shifts slightly against the hearth, more thoughtful now. “She didn’t look like I expected.”
My attention flicks toward him. “How so?”
“Different,” he replies slowly. “Not… harsh like most of Dravaryn.”
“Softer,” Rowan adds.
“Softer doesn’t mean weak,” I say.
“No,” Rowan agrees. “It doesn’t.”
“But it does mean she’s difficult to look at,” Merritt cuts in unapologetically. “She was quite stunning actually. And if you’re going to be forced into bedding someone for an alliance, there are worse options.”
“That’s one way to frame it.” I roll my eyes.
“It is the truth.” He shrugs.
I exhale and pinch the bridge of my nose, already tired of this conversation. “This is a political alliance. Nothing more.”
Sylas smirks and raises a brow. “That’s how they start.”
“That’s how this is, period.” The certainty in my voice leaves little room for argument.
Rowan studies me before nodding once. “If that’s what you want, Your Highness.”
“It’s what’s required,” I reply.
That ends the conversation, at least outwardly. The room shifts into safer subjects after that, but the tension lingers.
I turn back toward the window. I’ve seen the portraits of Princess Adelina several times. It was part of the process. Negotiations stretched longer than any of us wanted, and with them came exchanges of information, appearances, lineage records, expectations.
She didn’t look like the women typically praised in Dravaryn portraits.
There was no sharp ambition in her expression, none of the cultivated intimidation I had come to expect from Dravaryn's court.
Silver-blonde hair instead of the sandy shades common here, and none of the cold triumph most women wore like armor.
If anything, she looked…
Contained.
The thought bothers me more than it should. She was stunning, ethereal even with silver-blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and wings unlike anything I’d seen before, iridescent enough to resemble carved opal in the painted light.
Beautiful. But beauty has never meant safety. I learned that lesson years ago.
The memory surfaces without warning. A different room. A different voice. Warmth mistaken for loyalty. Affection turned into leverage.
I see the dark-haired woman who made me believe I could be loved for something beyond the title. She was the last person I let close enough to matter, and she taught me how quickly attachment becomes a weapon in someone else’s hand. I learned from it. I don’t intend to repeat the mistake.
Everyone has a motivation.
This isn’t about love or desire. It’s about Elyrion.
Zerath pushes harder against the eastern borders every year.
That isn’t speculation anymore. It’s real.
Villages near the trade routes have already begun reporting increased movement near the borders.
Supply caravans disappear too often. Smaller territories are beginning to choose sides quietly.
Every decision we make now matters. This alliance matters whether I want it to or not.
I straighten and step away from the window. “Be ready. Inform the others. We leave shortly.”
The room moves at once. Weapons checked, cloaks gathered, belts fastened, the same practiced rhythm we had repeated a hundred times before.
Outside, the cold cuts sharper without the barrier of stone between us and the open air.
The sky stretches endlessly overhead, pale and unforgiving.
I don’t hesitate. My wings unfurl smoothly at my back, black against the gray sky, broad enough to pull shadows briefly across the snow beneath me.
Blue and green undertones shimmer faintly across the feathers when the light catches them.
Around me, the others follow.
Sylas launches first beside me, silver-gray wings catching the wind hard enough to kick snow across the courtyard. Rowan and Soren rise next. Merritt follows with a curse about frozen weather, while Kellan lifts silently into the air like something carved from shadow itself.
Years of flying together make formation instinctive. I look once toward where the capital of Dravaryn waits beyond the mountains. Then I launch.
The wind hits hard the moment I clear the cliffs, cold enough to sting my lungs before my body adjusts. Below us, Dravaryn stretches endlessly white beneath the fading light, forests dark against the snow like cracks spreading through ice.
The others settle around me automatically. We don’t have to speak to work together. We are a cohesive team.
For a while, the only sounds are the rush of wind and the steady beat of wings cutting through frozen air. Somewhere ahead, beyond the mountains and frost-covered rivers, waits a princess I’ve never met and an alliance I never asked for. The thought should not matter, but somehow, it does.
I adjust against the current, wings angling into the wind. Whatever waits within those walls, my duty and goal do not change. A signature. An alliance. A line held against Zerath for one more season. That’s all this is.
I tighten my wings and let the thought settle. The capital rises out of the frost ahead, black towers against a bleeding sky. I fly toward it, knowing there is no version of this where I turn back.