Chapter 24
DAYN
Ipull on my trousers and scoop her clothes from the floor, the fabric feeling like something precious against my palms. Esme is still a beautiful, shivering wreck of pale skin and dazed eyes, her magic humming a low, satisfied vibration that resonates through my own marrow.
“Come,” I mutter, my voice still low. I don't give her back her trousers yet. Instead, I drape my own tunic over her—it hangs halfway to her knees—then slide my arms beneath her knees and back, sweeping her up before she can say a word.
She lets out a startled “Oof,” her hands instinctively flying to my neck for support. “I can still walk, you know,” she says, though she doesn't actually struggle.
“I’m aware,” I say. “I just prefer this arrangement.”
She smirks, her eyes flicking over my face. “I suppose from my angle, the view isn’t too terrible either.”
I glance down at her. “A compliment, Salem?”
Her mouth curves faintly. “Don’t get used to it.”
I huff a quiet laugh and head for the Crown Hall’s exit, adjusting my grip when she shifts. I keep my eyes straight ahead. Watching the way my tunic rides up over her bare thighs would be a fatal mistake when I’ve already used up every ounce of my self-control.
Carrying her probably isn’t a good idea either. But after stopping myself when I did… I’m allowing this much.
I take her to the royal bathing chamber several halls along.
The ancient room is a wonder that's somehow survived the centuries.
Water still flows crystal clear over dark stone, fed by the same deep mountain spring that once served my family.
I lower Esme into the pool, then step in after her, the cool water a welcome shock against my overheated skin.
We wash swiftly and in comfortable silence, the only sounds our breathing and the gentle lapping of water against stone. Her fingers occasionally brush mine as we share the soap I've found—an ancient bar scented with cedar and mountain herbs that's somehow retained its scent.
“I can't believe this is all still here,” she mutters.
“Dragons build to last,” I say, glancing at her as she rinses her hair. “Though I admit, I’m impressed the plumbing’s still good.”
When we’re done, I step out first and offer her my hand. She takes it without comment and lets me pull her from the pool. I grab a length of linen from a nearby shelf and shake it open.
“Here.”
She steps into it, and I wrap the cloth around her shoulders. My hands linger there a moment—long enough for her to notice—before I let the fabric fall into place.
I nod toward the bench where her clothes wait.
She follows the gesture… then glances at my discarded tunic beside them. Something curious crosses her face.
“Actually,” she says, smoothing her hands down the front of the linen, “I think I'll keep that on for now.”
My eyebrows rise. “You’re choosing my clothing over your own? Are you feeling well, witch?”
She rolls her eyes, though a small smile escapes. “It's like a mini dress. And I'm still feeling really hot. This is... cooler.”
“A mini dress,” I repeat slowly.
“Don’t overthink it.”
She reaches past me, grabs my tunic, and pulls it over her head, the fabric settling loosely over her frame.
Leaving me standing there with nothing but my trousers.
Not that I’m complaining.
She notices the direction of my gaze.
“Eyes up here, dragon.”
“I’m working on it.”
A moment later, we step out of the bathing chamber and back into the corridor—this time, with her walking beside me instead of in my arms. I lead her down several hallways until we reach an… achingly familiar one. It leads to my old quarters. Quarters I grew up in.
My footsteps slow as we approach, more lucid memories beginning to wash over me. I still remember the feeling of padding down these hallways as a child, feet bare against the cool stone, racing my brothers to the dining hall for meals.
“Anees cheated,” I murmur, almost to myself as we walk. “He'd push Byzu into the wall and then blame it on Arrynth.”
“What?” Esme asks, glancing up at me.
I realize I've spoken aloud. “My brothers. We used to race through these halls.” I run my fingers along the wall, feeling the ancient stone beneath my touch.
“Arrynth was the youngest—he'd cry if he lost, so Byzu would sometimes slow down to let him win. But Anees...” I trail off, remembering the fierce competition.
“Let me guess,” Esme says, “Anees was always a power-hungry little shit?”
I can't help the short laugh that escapes me. “I guess he was... determined. Even then.” I pause at a juncture where the corridor splits. I turn left, drawn by muscle memory to a heavy door inlaid with carved scales. “Here.”
I push the door open, and the faint scent of my childhood washes over me—cedar, incense, and the subtle metallic tang that always seemed to cling to my belongings.
The room is exactly as I remember leaving it, preserved in the airless quiet of the mountain: a large bed carved from a single piece of dark stone, shelves lined with books and curiosities, weapons mounted on the far wall, and a balcony that once overlooked the heart of Draethnar, now sealed by the mountain's shift.
“So this is where baby dragons sleep,” Esme says, stepping past me into the room. She eyes the massive stone bed. “Looks comfortable.”
“Dragons run hot,” I say. “Stone stays cool.”
“Hm, I’ve noticed,” she mutters, a faint flush creeping back into her cheeks.
She drifts toward the shelves instead, trailing her fingers along the spines of books written in languages most humans have been unaware of for centuries.
“What exactly are we looking for?” she asks.
“Something that resonates with me,” I reply, scanning the room. “An object that holds emotional significance, something that can serve as a spiritual tether.”
“Your wooden bird,” she murmurs.
“Precisely.”
She picks up a small metallic object from one of the shelves. “What's this? Some kind of ancient dragon fidget spinner?”
I glance over. “It's a calculation device. For plotting astronomical alignments.”
“Of course it is.” She sets it down and moves to another shelf. “What about this creepy little statue? It looks... intense.”
I look at the small carved figure—a snarling dragon with ruby eyes. “A gift from Anees, actually. He carved it himself.”
“Charming.”
“He was eight.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Still creepy.”
I move to the far side of the room, opening drawers I haven't touched in centuries. Old scrolls, ceremonial daggers, a collection of rare stones that once fascinated me. Nothing that calls to me the way we need.
“Oh my,” Esme says from behind me. I turn to find her holding a small, leather-bound book. “Is this what I think it is?”
I cross the room in three strides and snatch it from her hands. “That's private.”
Her lips curve into a wicked smile. “Dragon prince keeps a diary? How adorable.”
“It's not a diary. It's a record of observations.”
“Observations?” She tries to peek at the pages. “About what? The cute dragoness from the neighboring mountain?”
I open the journal and flick briefly through the pages. “About magical convergences and celestial anomalies,” I reply.
She snorts. “Uh-huh. I’m sure that’s exactly what it says.”
I glance down at the page again, my mouth twitching at her accusation. “Actually…” I turn a few more pages, scanning the neat script of my younger hand. “There are some… personal notes mixed in.”
Her eyes light up with mischievous interest. “I knew it.” She steps closer, trying to peek over my arm. “So who was she? Some dragon princess with scales that gleamed like moonlight?”
I find myself smiling at her curiosity. The memories feel strangely distant now, like they belong to someone else.
“Not quite,” I admit, running my thumb along the edge of a particularly well-worn page. “There was Lysandira, daughter of the Eastern Ridge ambassador. Copper scales, tall. Laugh like a landslide. At the time I thought she was devastating.”
Esme's eyebrows lift. “Uh-huh. Go on.”
“And Veridienn, from the Basalt Islands. She was... fierce. Could outfly most of the royal guard.” I shake my head, remembering. “But neither of them was Raelle, thank the gods. Even then, she was insufferable.”
“I'm shocked,” Esme says dryly, though there’s real curiosity under the sarcasm now. She settles back onto the edge of the stone bed, tucking one leg beneath her and pulling the hem of my tunic a little lower over her thigh. “Actually… that reminds me of something I’ve been wondering.”
“Hm?”
“Why don’t you already have a mate?” she asks, the question sounding casual, but her gaze stays fixed on me. “I mean, you’re… you know.”
“I'm what?” I can't help the smirk that forms.
She waves a dismissive hand. “Ancient. Royal. Presumably desirable in dragon circles. Seems strange you’ve reached this age without settling down.”
I close the journal and set it aside, leaning back against the table as I consider her question. It isn’t something I’ve talked about much in recent years. The last time was with my father, shortly before I left Draethys… and then I returned with a dark witch on my arm.
For a moment, I just look at her there on the edge of my old bed—bare legs, my tunic halfway down her thighs, eyes sharp and curious.
“Partly timing,” I say at last. “Partly circumstance.”
Her head tilts. “Meaning?”