CHAPTER 20 - The King's Uncle
???
【???????? ??????????????】
The island was usually overcast, but in the heart of summer, there were moments when light spilled through the gray. Farmers seized those fleeting hours with feverish urgency, their fields alive with motion, their hands heavy with sweat and soil.
Normally, I would've spent these bright hours in the sky, flying more than ever. But knowing winter crept just behind autumn soured the air.
Winter was when the dragons would sleep.
And when I was to meet my betrothed.
Most nights, sleep brought no rest. Only nightmares. I wondered what the Pyreen king's uncle was like. Most from Pyree were warlords. And I heard this prince was the worst there was. An undefeated general with a taste for violence and a temper as quick as it was cruel.
Drained, I lay sprawled along Starscale's back as he strolled through the farmlands. Villagers waved from their cottages and fields, offering wild berries to me or strips of dried fish to Starscale.
The sea breeze rolled inland, cool and briny, tugging at my pale pink gown as we approached the cliffside.
A roar cracked through the sky.
I looked up, shielding my eyes against a rare shaft of sun that pierced the cloudbank. Dragons circled high above. They dove into the churning sea, expertly grabbing fish and cackling amongst each other as they feasted.
One among them cast a shadow so vast, it swallowed the light.
Dreadwing.
The oldest of our flock. A mountain of black so large he could easily swallow Starscale with a single gulp. He plummeted in a sweeping descent, landing beside us with a crash that shook the cliffside. I jerked upright, gripping my saddle as the earth groaned beneath his weight.
Farmers who had once smiled now shrank back, hastily returning to their plows and baskets.
Claude expertly slid down the rope from her saddle. She landed on the grass and marched toward me, her black leathers slick with salt and wind.
"Skye!" she called, her voice carrying over the waves crashing below. "There's trouble."
My heart knocked against my ribs.
"What is it?" I asked.
"That damned prince," she spat. "Fishermen spotted a Pyreen vessel. They'll make landfall before dusk."
The world tilted slightly.
"What?" I choked out. "They weren't supposed to arrive until winter!"
After we'd sent our proposal, stating clearly the date of our readiness, their only reply had been a cryptic: We shall meet.
And now they come months ahead of schedule?
Claude turned on her heel, already storming back toward Dreadwing.
"We need to move the dragons to Guardclaw Nest. Now."
"W-wait!" I cried, hopping off Starscale and scrambling after her. "That island's barely large enough to hold them all and it's so close to here... What if they're discovered?"
She paused at the rope, gripping it tight. Her steely-gray eyes burned beneath furrowed brows.
"The mist is thick enough to veil the island's edges," she said. "The envoy won't stray far from Stormgard Castle. And if all is well, they'll be gone before the first leaf falls."
My mouth parted slightly.
They'll be gone before autumn? Did that mean I'd be leaving with them?
Biting down on my lip, I turned toward Starscale and climbed onto his back, the leather slick beneath my trembling hands. He angled his head my way, nostrils flaring.
"We need to gather the flock," I whispered.
His light blue eyes slowly blinked back at me, a sign of understanding.
Claude was already mounted atop Dreadwing. His massive wings unfurled with a guttural growl.
"Let's hurry!" she shouted over the wind.
Dreadwing surged forward, charging toward the cliff's edge. The grass tore beneath his talons. And then, he vanished, diving headfirst into the mist. A heartbeat later, the sound of his wings snapped through the air like thunder, catching wind as he dropped toward the sea below.
I kicked Starscale into motion.
"Go!" I urged, and we ran — my gown whipping around my legs.
The cliff rushed up to meet us.
And I didn't hesitate.
We leapt.
Starscale's body arched in freefall, the salt wind tearing at us as we plunged through mist-thick air. For a breathless moment, we dropped like a stone. Then, with a shudder that rippled down his spine, he flung open his wings. Wind surged beneath them, lifting us in a swift, cutting ascent.
To my left, Claude glanced over her shoulder. She gave a terse nod before banking hard to the right. I leaned into the curve, guiding Starscale to follow.
Side by side, we streaked along the jagged coastline, the cliffs rising like broken teeth from the churning sea below.
Ahead, a cluster of dragons wheeled through the sky, their fishing halted at our approach. They all bore the same muted palette — scales of bone-grey to ash-black. Some had faint shades of blue, violet or green reflect off their hides if the light caught them just right.
Dreadwing let out a guttural roar, and at once, the flock straightened, instinct snapping into place.
Claude surged forward while I dropped to the rear, scanning for stragglers.
"Ashmaw, keep up!" I yelled at one of the larger dragons. She gave me an annoyed grumble before picking up speed. "You too, Shadetail! Moonhide!"
The younger dragons snorted and cackled, trailing back until Starscale whipped toward them in a blur of white. He snapped at their tails, nimble and fast. The youngsters shrieked, then tucked back into formation with huffing reluctance.
With Claude leading, the flock was herded toward Guardclaw Nest, a small, ancient island rising from the sea like jagged crown. Pines taller than towers pierced the mist, their branches heavy with time.
I watched Claude signal from the front and the dragons near her banked toward the island.
"You all should stay here too!" I ordered the dragons from the back. "Go!"
Some turned to glance at me before angling downward, their wings catching the wind as they descended.
We continued gathering the remaining dragons while I kept a count in my head.
Checking all the usual fishing and napping spots, we herded everyone toward the small island.
Only Mistfang gave us trouble — still resting deep within her cave.
It took relentless coaxing and a growled command from Dreadwing before she finally gave in, following behind us.
"They're all here!" I called, slipping off Starscale's back as I approached Claude in the clearing.
She nodded.
"Leave Starscale here and tell him to make sure the others stay. I'll take you back on Dreadwing before sending him here."
I blinked.
"What?"
"We leave now."
Claude's voice was sharp with urgency. I didn't ask questions.
I didn't have time to. I pressed my forehead to Starscale's, whispering a command I barely heard myself say.
He chirped, low and soft, and nuzzled against my arm.
I wanted to stay, to tell him so much more, but I was too rushed to think properly.
I scaled up the rope to Dreadwing and held onto my sister as we flew back. Ahead, Stormgard Castle's spires speared the sky, pale and surrounded by clouds.
We landed hard in the castle's largest courtyard. Stone rang beneath Dreadwing's claws before he leapt skyward again, wings snapping open as he vanished into the clouds. The force was enough to knock most servants and guards off their feet.
Father and Mother were already there, rushing toward us.
"Did you gather them all?" Father asked, voice tight.
"We did. There should still be enough time," Claude said before turning to me. "Go. You need a bath. And make sure to wear your finest."
Before I could speak, my handmaidens already latched onto me, leading me away.
Everything was happening too fast.
Back in my room, they scrubbed me raw, doused me in scented oils I never asked for, and combed my hair until my scalp burned. The dusk-hued gown they chose clung fell like mist around me, its off-the-shoulder sleeves large and puffy.
I loved wearing beautiful gowns, but today I wished to tear it all off.
My eyes wandered to the sky beyond the pillars of my room. The sun was slowly setting.
What happens if the king's uncle likes me?
Will I be sent to Pyree?
Will I leave Starscale behind forever?
Even now, with the envoy here, I knew I wouldn't be allowed near my dragon.
Would I even get the chance to say goodbye?
"Princess Skye!"
The door slammed open. A servant stood trembling in the doorway, her face pale.
"The... the Pyreen envoy is here!" she gasped. "Prince Malrik is on his way to speak with your father."
My stomach dropped. The air thinned around me.
I had agreed to this. I knew it was coming.
But I hadn't expected it to be so soon.
And my foolish heart wasn't ready at all.
I bolted.
Shoes forgotten, I ran, the hem of my gown whipping around my ankles as handmaidens shrieked after me. I tore through the halls, down the winding stairs, and past startled guards and servants who stumbled out of my way.
I needed to see Starscale again. I needed to fly away as far as I could.
Lungs burning, I reached the stables.
And then — collision.
I crashed into someone, hard enough to send us both sprawling.
"Ack!" I gasped, clutching my head.
My vision swam as I glanced over, prepared to apologize, but froze.
The boy before me was no stablehand. His hair was dark as night, his skin a warm, rich shade that reminded me of my mother's brunette hair. But it was his eyes that truly startled me — burning bronze and gold.
He wasn't from Drakfjord.
There was no doubt.
He was Pyreen.
"Watch where you're running, child!" he barked, his voice sharp and authoritative despite his youth.
Huh?
Anger flared hot and sudden in my chest, and my expression twisted into a glare.
"It was an accident!" I snapped, rising to my feet.
He stood as well, brushing the dirt off his regal black and bronze tunic. It was only then I realized something that sent a flicker of amusement through my anger.
I was taller.
A smirk curled my lips.
"Ha! Who are you calling a child when you're so short?" I taunted. I turned to the small crowd that had gathered. "Someone, please fetch this lost babe before he gets trampled again."
His face darkened, his ears flushing crimson as his bright gold-bronze eyes narrowed into slits.
"You dare speak to me like that!?" he growled.
"How old are you?" I scoffed, crossing my arms. "Six?"
"I am twelve!" he snapped.
I threw my head back and laughed.
"Ha! Twelve? I'm two years your senior, boy. You'd do well to learn some proper respect."
"I could cut out your tongue for that," he snarled, unsheathing a strange blade of onyx.
"Oh, really?" I mocked. "You'd have to stand on your tippy toes to reach me."
The boy's posture shifted, his small frame taut as a drawn bow. He held his sword with a precision that belied his age, falling into a dueling stance as though the weapon was an extension of himself.
I merely crossed my arms and raised a brow, prepared for whatever he had to offer.
"My prince!"
The tension broke as we both turned toward the voice.
A man rushed toward us. His hair was just as black as the boy's, though his skin a darker hue. And he was taller, much taller, carrying himself with the gravity of someone who had seen many battles. His piercing amber eyes flicked between us before settling on the boy.
"Where have you gone off to? We are meeting with the Drakfjorden king, my prince," he said, his tone scolding yet restrained.
My brows shot up.
Prince? That boy?
Did the king send his son to travel with his uncle?
Before I could process the revelation, another voice called out behind me.
"Skye! There you are!"
Claude's tone was sharp with frustration as she hurried over. She seized me by the puffy sleeve of my gown, her grip firm.
"No more running!" she hissed, her steely eyes pinning me.
"This child was being rude," I said, pointing at the boy.
The reaction was immediate.
Faces paled and onlookers averted their eyes. Even the taller man tensed just as my sister did. Only the boy glared at me with a smoldering intensity.
Claude's hand tightened on my arm, and her voice dropped to a low, urgent whisper.
"Skye... that person is—"
"Prince Malrik Solfyr," the boy interrupted. He sheathed his onyx blade with an effortless motion. "I'm here at my nephew's request."
My jaw dropped.
No way...
He's the Pyreen king's uncle?
This little rat?
???
The dining hall sat high above the world, its walls open to the sky. Pale marble pillars framed the clouds that rolled like calm waves just beyond. A long table stretched down the center of the room, heavy with steamed root vegetables, moss-seasoned trout, roasted mushrooms, and fresh bread.
I sat between Claude and my mother, hoping they didn't notice I kicked off my shoes. My father, regal in his storm-gray robes, lifted his goblet with a forced smile.
"Prince Malrik, again, I must offer our deepest apologies for my daughter's... introduction."
I opened my mouth to protest, but Claude shifted beside me. One glance from her and I knew to keep my lips pressed. Frustrated, I stabbed at a piece of beetroot and shoved it into my mouth.
Was this how Raine felt during her last dinner here?
At least her betrothed was tall and handsome...
Mine is so...
I glanced over at the prince. He was seated across from me in robes of black and burnished bronze, leaning back in his chair like he owned the clouds.
"Had she not been of royal blood," he said, "I would have demanded her tongue be cut."
"Hmpf," I snorted.
Perhaps if his voice wasn't so pitched, I would've taken him seriously.
His eyes flicked my way. With no one else looking, I stuck out my tongue and took a long, smug sip of water.
The boy's eyes thinned, his fingers tightening around the stem of his goblet. I turned back to my food, chewing with exaggerated calm.
My mother, graceful even in tension, let out a soft laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Skye is still young, Your Highness. She has many more lessons ahead of her."
"She is not the youngest here," I muttered, too quietly for anyone to hear.
But Malrik heard it anyway.
"I was appointed general at the age of ten," he said. "My strategy won us a battle everyone thought was impossible. Yet we took no losses, and I haven't lost a battle since. What did you do when you were ten? Buy dresses?"
His eyes burned into mine, daring me to answer.
I nearly did.
My mouth opened to boast about flying Starscale since I was three — the youngest recorded rider in our bloodline.
But I bit the words back before they would cost us, stuffing my mouth with bread instead.
Malrik pushed his plate with the edge of his spoon, barely hiding his distaste.
"Is all Drakfjorden food this... bland?" he asked lazily. "I suppose it suits the climate. Cold. Wet. Gray."
The table quieted slightly as cutlery slowed. I glanced around, but no one met my gaze.
"My prince, there's no need to judge food simply because it's different from what you're used to," the tall warrior beside Malrik scolded subtly.
He had introduced himself as Azreen earlier, though I forgot his last name already.
"The difference is night and day," Malrik scoffed, reaching for his goblet.
"In Pyree, meals actually taste like something.
Spiced meats. Roasted fruits. I wouldn't even feed my tiger anything from this table.
" He took a sip, eyes pinned on me again.
"Actually, maybe there is something I'd feed him. "
I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat.
"Young children should eat what they're given," I said, sweet as rot. "So, they can grow."
Claude stiffened beside me while my mother pressed a hand to her temple as if nursing a headache.
Malrik didn't speak at first. He simply studied me, one finger tapping the rim of his goblet.
"I was told my betrothed would be a beauty, but it seems the women from Drakfjord are as plain as their food."
"My prince," Azreen warned. "Please."
"What?" Malrik sighed, gesturing with his hand. "Am I wrong? Everything here is dull and boring. I thought even if the marriage would be disappointing, at least I'd see something fun. But look. No duels or performers at all. Are all dinners so lackluster?"
"Our meals are meant for sharing, not performing," my mother said gently, but there was the slightest bite to her tone.
The prince leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in one palm.
"I heard Drakfjord was known for its dagger dance," he said. "I was hoping to see it."
My father's grip tightened around his goblet. Claude looked as if she were holding her breath.
And then Malrik smiled — showing off fangs slightly sharper than normal.
"In Pyree, we dance with blades too," he said. "Though it usually ends with someone dying. I could show you if you like."
"Prince Malrik," Azreen warned again.
The prince glanced over, unimpressed.
"What? I'm simply trying to see what this place has to offer. But it seems there's nothing. Why should Pyree enter in an alliance?"
"Victory," Claude answered.
Everyone turned to her. Only then did I notice how tightly she was holding her cutlery.
"Once Thornmont conquers Driftwoode, it will surely set its sights on Sahra-khal and Pyree next," she said. "And while you two squabble amongst each other, you'll both be conquered. You need Drakfjord."
Malrik's eyes narrowed.
"I don't need Drakfjord," he said. "I need the storm sword."
???