#chapter one

I just want to thank everyone for letting me take my time with this, I think these two chapters really work super well together. Chapter 2 will be released to the public in a couple of months, so if you want to wait then feel free. But I do think the content is worth it.

I'll be taking a short break from writing! But I'll be back in a week or two.

Enjoy!!

The dream of flying the skies with the same heartbeat as the mighty animal had come true. Except, the yearning for the freedom to fly to the edge of the forest–to see the ocean– had become a distant fantasy. There was nothing freeing about fleeing for your life or flying into battle, hoping–praying to Ewya, that you might live long enough to fight the next battle. Praying that you might live long enough to hug your family one last time. 

In another life, you would be embarrassed and full of shame at how good you had become at running for your life. A warrior should stand their ground and fight. But you had seen enough death to know when to give up. When to leave. You had developed an advoident style of surviving.

Together, you and your ikran, Leya, had become very good at retreting. Fast and proficient. Flying quickly and smoothly above trees, through the crevices of the flying mountains, above the clouds.

Someitmes you could almost taste the freedom, just there, on the tip of your tongue. Like a word about to be spoken. In the moments of stillness that came from flying above the clouds. Leya’s strong wing beats would level out and a loud, windy silence would settle over the two of you. There was nothing in moements like this. No commands. No explosions. No war. Just the fleeting presence of peace. 

Those moments had become rare: far and few between.

By the age of fifteen, you had become the main source of protection for your two younger siblings. The job had once been split between you and your older brother, but when he died in battle against the sky-people, the weight of his loss fell heavily on your shoulders. 

That was the first time you had painted the white kxetuve line of mourning down the center of your body. 

A body that had become a killing machine. 

You weren’t skinny and frail anymore. The years had begun hardening you. Muscles had grown where they previously hadn’t been. Your legs now taut with stamina to carry your body nimbly through the forest. Your arms and shoulders tense with lethal precision; always ready to aim for the kill. 

Killing the sky demons got easier the more you did it. Poison-coated arrow tips did most of the work; even if the hit wasn’t clean, they would eventually die. Even so, no matter how many humans you killed, they seemed to come back faster, and with their metal abominations were killing off your clan faster than you would comprehend. 

The longer the war went on, the more devastating the losses were. Death had become a friend to your clan.

Bones rattled against themselves, hung in patterns on new garments. Some even had them braided into their kuru’s. The warriors around you wore the human bones with pride. It was an honor to wear so many; to have killed so many. You might have participated in the trend; however, your mother demanded you never adorn the alien ones. 

And you obayed her wishes for a while.

By the next year, you had lost your father and youngest sibling. You didn’t even have time to truly mourn them. No, wave after wave of the aliens came, bringing death and destruction with them. The RDA had begun burning the forest around your clan in an effort to force your clan from their home. From your home. 

The white paint had become as familiar as the yellow and purple war paint. In fact, the white paint had become a second skin. A layer of emotional armor to coincide with your physical armor. 

Just like your paint your armor also hardly left your body.

A traditional necklace of muted teal and bone-toned river stones—once belonging to your older brother—rested heavy against your slender neck. A leather chest band, crafted by your mother after your iknimaya, crossed your torso, doubling as a sheath and resting atop a green, beaded chest covering that echoed the earthy tones of the leather loincloth at your hips. Soft purple riding leggings clung to your legs, their surface marked by wear. Your younger sister had made you an armband as well, adorned with two feathers—one deep violet and one pale yellow—to mirror the colors of your war paint and ikran. You treasured every gift they had given you, but your favorite piece of armor was the sheath you kept after your father’s death.

You took great pride in replacing his knife with a bone balde you had spent weeks crafting out of the remains of the human who had killed him. That had been the first time you had dragged the killing out for your own pleasure. 

If your mother had been displeased at the alien bone you wore daily, she never mentioned it.

By the age of sixteen, the size of your clan had been cut in half in just two years time. 

Traditional celebrations were slipping through the cracks. Effort and time could no longer be wasted on pretty weaving and dancing. Everyone was making sacrifices in hopes that the aliens would give up or die out.

Your presentation was not a clan-wide celebration, like it once should have been, but a quaint meal with your two surviving family members in your family’s hut. 

You hadn’t even been excited when you had presented as an omega. 

At one point, the clan would have called you a gift from Eywa. Your second gender was considered a sacred honor; Eywa’s promise of the next generation secured in your body.

Now survival meant lasting the day, not the procreation of the next generation. 

During war being an omega was less than ideal. 

Your first heat was a war in itself. The pain was unbearable. Heat and sweat coated your body. Your senses shifted. The smell of the people around you shifted; their pheromones appeared louder, sharper than before. The change was an assault to your nose. Shifts in vocal tone had made your body have a physical reaction that only the angry tone of your deceased father could have elicited. Obedience. 

Maybe in some other life, you could have lived out the delicate tradition of going through your first heat with a potential mate. Spent days alone together, feeling out the new changes in your body with soft embraces. But that was not reality. 

No, reality was sudden and rough and all consuming. War waited for no one; granted no reprieve from its constant drumbeat. You fought your way through bodies of pink skins while your biology fought its way through you. 

The years following your presentation were harder. Stress had caused your body to stop going into heat. Which you were glad about; in war, there was no time to be incapacitated with throbbing pain and aching need. There was no need for your body to bring you more pain when the pink skins flourished in their afflicting torment.

By your twentieth year, there were almost as many scars on your body as stripes. Some small injuries, from training too hard or scraping your body against the rough bark of the forest trees when bolting from unwinnable battles. Others, like the one on your left side just above your hip bone, were bigger and deeper. You had been nicked by a bullet and had almost lost your life from the blood loss. The wound had resulted in a raised scar that you preferred to keep hidden under the ties of your green, leather tewng. 

You had developed a true hatred for the metal machines they used to slaughter your people. If it weren’t for the seemingly endless bullet rounds the pink skins had and their metal flying birds, you were sure they wouldn’t have even lasted this long. If they fought like real warriors, with skill and knives instead of cowering in their metal skins and their skin walker suits, they wouldn’t last very long on Pandora. That much you were sure of. 

Humans fight dirty and kill dirty too. They never went for a clean kill. Never spoke to Eywa for guidance. No, they killed for no reason and cared little about how their actions affected the forest. How they had they affected you. 

The kxetuve mourning line hadn’t left your body in all that time. Every time it faded, there seemed to be a new reason to repaint it on your body. Loss was felt each time you had to apply fresh paint…it was hard to keep track of when one friend's death was repainted over by the loss of a fellow warrior. 

And now you had another reason to freshen up the pigment.

A fresh wave of tears was seemingly never-ending despite the wind’s effort to instantly dry them. 

You had been crying for days now. The most recent attack from the sky-people had been devastating. They had attacked while your camp was sleeping. There had been no time to prepare or to defend. 

The cries of your mother echoed loudly in your head. 

You had awoken to her screams.

To your little sister's last breath. 

To the sounds of skin walkers raiding and killing off the last of your people. 

You had begged, pleaded, and implored your mother to flee with you. But she was more than broken; she was lost. After so much grief–the death of her first son, then her husband, then her most recent child, and now her youngest daughter lay dead in her arms–she could take no more. Her eyes, once bright and golden, had been turned dull. Between her screams, she whispered for you to go–to flee; to leave her to die and finally be with the rest of her family. 

You had felt like a child. Not the warrior you were. You were a coward and left sprinting–and soon flying– as fast as you could instead of fighting like you should have. 

That had been nearly two days ago. Leya was begging for rest through the bond; she was tired from the endless flying. You were sore from sitting for so long and wanted to stop just like her, but you were scared to stop. 

You needed to find toruk makto.

You need revenge. 

The thought was the only thing keeping you going. The thirst for blood–for justice–was all-consuming. It outweighed the hunger in your belly and the pain from the windburn on your face. You craved senseless, brutal, savage violence. 

The younger, softer version of you would be terrified of the monster you were willing to become. 

You would have to kill off the last little pieces of her that still lived in you. And if you had lost that soft, innocent version of you for the justice of your younger siblings who would never reach the age of sixteen; for your older brother who you had aged past; for your father who died protecting your clan; for your mother who had given her children to a senseless war; then you would kill off every soft and weak verson of yourself. You would become harsh, rigid, and lethal to avenge their lives. 

You lost count of the different types of terrain you had flown over.

You couldn’t remember when the forest had turned to water, but now the shoreline before you had shifted into another woodland jungle without much time to register the abrupt change in landscape.

Your body ached, protesting every shift in position as Leya descended lower.

The blue ocean that had stretched endlessly before you, its waters darker than you had imagined in all your childhood fantasies, was now a green sea of trees taller and brighter than you had expected. 

Just a little further, you told yourself, though exhaustion made your vision blur at the edges. Just a little more.

The Ometicaya clan came into view gradually—first the massive Hometree rising like an ancient sentinel, then the movement of Na'vi below. So many Na'vi. The sheer number of them made your chest tighten. You hadn't seen this many people alive in one place in years.

Their lives continued. Training. Laughing. Living. Like the war was something distant. Manageable.

The sight of it twisted something violent in your gut.

Leya's landing was far from graceful. Her legs nearly buckled as her feet touched the ground, and you dismounted more like falling than descending. Your own legs shook, muscles screaming from days of sitting astride her back.

The moment your feet hit earth, the noise hit you like a physical force.

Voices—so many voices—shouting, laughing, calling to one another. The clash of weapons from sparring warriors. The thud of bodies hitting dirt. Somewhere, someone was singing a war chant, deep and rhythmic, and others joined in with aggressive harmonies that made your skin prickle.

The Na'vi around you didn't just stop their tasks to stare. They turned. Warriors mid-spar froze with weapons raised. Hunters with fresh kills slung over their shoulders pivoted to track your movement. Even the children stopped their games, wide eyes fixed on you.

You must have looked feral to them. War paint faded and smeared. Mourning line stark against your blue skin. Eyes red-rimmed and wild. Covered in days of grime and dried sweat and blood that wasn't all yours.

Your hand instinctively went to the knife at your hip—the bone blade made from your father's killer was more comforting than you might care to admit—fingers wrapping around the handle.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. You caught fragments of words. Omega. Alone. Look at her war paint. Is she one of ours? 

The weight of their stares made your shoulders hunch. Made you want to bare your teeth. These people were whole. Their clan was thriving. Their warriors were strong and unbroken and looked at you like you were something strange. Something other.

Everything about them screamed what you weren't. What you'd failed to be.

Your clan was dead. Your family was dead. And you had run.

Survivor. Failure. Coward.

"I need to speak to Toruk Makto." The words came out harsher than intended, your voice hoarse from disuse and crying. Your accent was different from theirs, shaped by a different forest, a different way of speaking. "Now."

An older woman approached, her movements slow and deliberate. She carried herself with the kind of authority that didn't need to be announced—power that radiated from her very bones.

This clan’s Tsahìk you assumed. The title fit her like a second skin. Behind her, a younger woman followed as if she were the older woman's shadow. 

But it was the crowd pressing closer that made your pulse spike. Too many bodies. Too much noise. The scent of so many Na'vi—alphas, betas, omegas, all mixing together in a cacophony that assaulted your nose after days of nothing but wind and Leya's familiar musk.

Your fingers tightened on your knife.

"I am Mo'at, Tsahìk of the Ometicaya," the elder woman said, her eyes sharp as they cataloged every detail of your appearance. Every scar. Every weapon. The mourning paint. Her gaze seemed to pass right through you. Like she was looking into your soul. "This is Kiri, my granddaughter. Toruk Makto is not here.” 

Of course he wasn't here.

Of course.

You had flown for days. Days. Pushed Leya past exhaustion. Fled your mother's corpse and your sister's cooling body and the ashes of your home. And he wasn't even here.

The laugh that escaped your throat was sharp and broken. Several warriors shifted, hands moving toward weapons. You couldn’t care.

"When will he return? Who leads in his absence?" The desperation in your voice made you sound young. Weak. You hated it.

"When Eywa wills it," Mo'at replied, her tone giving nothing away. "What is it you seek, child? His son speaks for him in his absence.”

“I must speak with him then.” You can’t help but growl out in frustration. Child. The word scraped against your pride like a blade. You hadn’t felt or been innocent like a child in many, many years.

“He and his brother fight the sky-people as we speak." Her voice never wavers in tone as she answers your questions.

"And when will they return?” You demand.

The Tsahìk doesn’t answer right away. She tilts her head and, with a hum, begins to circle around you like a predator. 

You straightened your spine despite the trembling in your limbs. Despite the way your vision swam. Despite the crowd pressing closer with their whispers and their stares and their wholeness.

She was assessing you. Decided if you were even worth giving any information to. Only once she's completed a full circle around your weak, shaky form does she speak.

“They will be home by tomorrow evening.” She holds eye contact with you for what feels like a lifetime before you realise she wants an exchange of information. 

The disappointment and frustration of the situation tasted bitter on your tongue. You had flown for days with the singular focus of finding him. Toruk Makto. Jake Sully. The warrior who had done the impossible—tamed Toruk, the great leonopteryx that hadn't been ridden in four generations. The alien who had traded his life to become Na'vi rather than stay with the sky-people he had arrived to pandora with.

Stories of him had reached your clan even in the darkest days of the war. Whispered around fires. Passed between warriors. Legends that felt too grand to be real, and yet the evidence of his existence was undeniable.

He had united the clans. United them. Something no one had accomplished in living memory. Rode a beast of pure fury and death itself into battle against the sky-people and won. Drove them from Pandora with nothing but the will of Eywa and the strength of the people behind him.

Your older brother had spoken of him with reverence before he died. Had said that if anyone could save the Na'vi, it would be Toruk Makto. That he was a lethal legend—a warrior unmatched, tactical and brutal in equal measure. He didn't just fight; he destroyed those who threatened his people.

You had clung to that hope. Through every loss. Every death. Every moment you thought you might break. The thought that somewhere, Toruk Makto was still fighting—still winning—had kept you going.

And now you were here, and he was gone. Off fighting while you stood hollow and broken before his Tsahìk, surrounded by his strong, living, thriving people.

People who looked at you like you were a ghost.

Maybe you were.

"I seek Uturu." Your voice came out flat. Empty. "My clan is gone. I am all that remains."

The murmuring around you grew louder. You caught more fragments now. She seeks uturu? Sole survivor? Her whole clan? 

The girl Tsahìk called Kiri shifted beside her. Her expression shifted to something soft. Sympathetic. It made your skin crawl. You didn't want sympathy. You wanted revenge. You wanted the sky-people to burn the way your home had burned. You wanted them to scream the way your mother had screamed.

Mo'at's expression remained unreadable, but her eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes—narrowed slightly. You watched as she scented the air, and her gaze sharpened further.

"You are omega."

Not a question. A statement. Another assessment.

Around you, the whispers exploded. Alphas in the crowd shifted, their postures changing. Some leaned forward, seemingly interested in the Tsahìk's observation. Others stepped back, wary. You could feel their attention like insects crawling across your skin.

"Yes." You lifted your chin, defensive, aggressive. Daring any of them to make it a problem.

Mo'at exchanged a look with Kiri that you couldn't decipher. The silence stretched long enough to make your teeth grind.

Was there something you didn’t understand? Why was your second gender so important?

"And unmated," Mo'at said, and somehow it sounded like an accusation. 

The crowd's reaction was immediate. Shock rippled through the gathered Na'vi like wind through leaves.  Clearly and unmated omega was wrong to them.  Apparently shameful, even. Given the number of people who stepped further away from you. 

Your jaw clenched so hard it hurt. "There was a war," you bit out. "Mating was not a priority when survival—"

"I understand," Mo'at interrupted, though her expression remained severe. "But you must understand our customs. An unmated omega of your age...it is unusual. It will draw attention. Challenges for you."

Challenges. Of course. You hadn't even considered—

Alphas here probably had rights. Claiming rights. The Ometicaya were thriving, which meant their traditions were intact. Their social structures were unbroken by war. Which meant unmated omegas were probably claimed young, properly courted, and bonded according to ancient customs you'd never had the luxury of following.

Which meant you walking in here unmated, unclaimed, smelling of no alpha, was probably the equivalent of ringing a dinner bell.

Fuck.

"I can fight," you said quickly, and your hand was still on your knife. Still ready. "I have killed more sky-people than I can count. I have survived unimaginable battles. I am not some delicate—"

Mo'at silences you with a raised hand. 

Your mouth snaps shut. It takes the rest of your willpower to keep a frustrated growl inside your throat. This was not a battle of strengths but a test of submission. Obedience. Willingness to obey their clan's hierarchy of leadership. 

You hated it. Hated how your biology was seen first and your skill second. Hated how you were willingly subjecting yourself to be reduced to a weak version of yourself that was helpless, all for the sake of claiming uturu. Claiming uturu for the chance, Toruk Makto will help avenge your clan–your family. 

Mo'at's expression softens, just slightly. "I will grant you temporary uturu. The law is sacred, and you have asked. But you will follow our rules while you are here. Until the Olo'eyktan returns and decides rather to grant you permanent uturu, you will respect our ways."

Relief should have flooded through you. Should have made your knees weak. But all you felt was hollow. You were going to have to play a role to fit in here. Another sacrifice of your character you were willing to make for vengeance.

"Thank you, Tsahìk," you managed. The words tasted like ash.

"Kiri will show you where you will stay." Mo'at turned to her granddaughter, and something passed between them. A look you couldn't read. "The large tent near the edge of the gathering space. It has not been used in some time."

Kiri's eyes widened. "Grandmother, that's—"

"It is available," Mo'at said firmly. "And it is far enough from the main camp to give our guest some... peace."

Mo’at turned to dismiss the gathered crowd. She mumbles a few words to a girl much younger than you. The girl nods and starts to make her way past you and towards Leya. You go to stop her, but a hand on your shoulder stops you.

"Go. Rest," Mo'at said, her tone slightly gentler now. "You look as though you might collapse where you stand. We will speak more when you have slept."

“My ikran…” You trail off, watching as the girl starts to untie your ikrans' saddle straps.

“Nita will take care of her. Now go.” Tsahik’s tone leave no room for argument. 

So you find yourself following Kiri through the clan's settlement, and it was wrong. All of it.

The Ometicaya didn't just survive—they thrived. Their tents were well-made, sturdy, decorated with trophies and weavings and signs of life. Warriors sparred with a viciousness that spoke of skill, not desperation. Their strikes were precise, practiced, and confident. Not the frantic fighting of people who expected to die.

You passed a group of young warriors—barely older than you—laughing as they wrestled, their bodies covered in scars that they wore like badges of honor. Scars from victory. From surviving battles they'd won.

Children ran through the paths, playing with toy ikrans, their laughter high and bright and so fucking innocent it made your chest ache.

Everywhere you looked, you saw what you should have been. What your clan should have been.

Strong. Whole. Alive.

The weight of eyes followed you. Whispers trailed in your wake like smoke.

Omega. Alone. Unmated. Survivor. Failure.

That last one you supplied yourself.

The tent Kiri led you to was far more spacious than you expected. Luxurious, even. Woven mats covered the floor, soft and carefully crafted. Weapons hung on the walls—a bow with arrows that looked like they could tear through metal, several knives with edges so sharp they caught the light, a spear that had seen use. All well-maintained. All belonged to a warrior who clearly knew their worth.

Furs were piled in one corner, creating a sleeping space that looked absurdly comfortable compared to the hard ground and cold stones you'd grown accustomed to.

Trophies lined the walls. RDA dog tags. Pieces of shattered equipment. And bones. Human bones, carefully cleaned and displayed.

This wasn't just any warrior's tent.

This belonged to someone important. Someone lethal.

"This is..." you started, uncertain.

"It's available," Kiri said quickly. Too quickly. Her eyes darted away from yours. "You can rest here. I'll bring you food later, okay? Just... just rest."

She left before you could ask questions. Before you could protest. The tent flap fell closed behind her, and you were alone.

Finally and blessedly alone.

The silence pressed down on you like a physical weight.

You stood frozen in the center of the tent, surrounded by signs of a warrior's life. A successful warrior's life. Someone who fought and won and came home to comfort and safety and a clan that celebrated their victories.

Everything you weren't.

Everything you'd failed to be.

Your legs gave out just as you reached the edge of the furs and you collapsed onto the thick, padded bed, and the scent hit you immediately.

Alpha.

Strong and woodsy with undertones of leather and high-altitude winds and something sharper— something you couldn’t seem to name, maybe some type of oil. It was overwhelming after days of nothing but your own fear-sweat and Leya's musk.

This was an alpha's space, but the scent was faded, and with one last look around the room, you decided that whoever had lived here hadn't been home in a long time. The thought made you unreasonably sad. 

You should leave. Should demand different accommodations. Should drag yourself back to Mo'at and insist on being placed somewhere—anywhere—else. 

You couldn’t stay in the home of a deceased warrior. This hut belonged to someone’s dead son, to a dead brother. It was wrong to stay, but your body had other ideas.

The exhaustion was too much. The furs too soft. And despite the faint foreign scent—or perhaps because of it—something in your omega biology insisted this was safe. Protected. An alpha's den–even a dead one–meant security. 

Your eyes slipped closed against your will.

Just for a moment, you told yourself. Just long enough to catch my breath. To gather my strength.

But the moment you relaxed into the furs, your body made the decision for you. Sleep dragged you under like a riptide, swift and merciless and ruthless.

You didn't even remove your weapons.

The bone knife pressed against your hip, the bow across your back dug into your shoulder blades. Your armor stayed laced tight, a second skin you couldn't bear to shed.

You were safe for now, and that was enough.

D-16 rubbed his helm exasperatedly, “A pet, Pax! Why can’t you just obey the rules for once.”

“Hey, there are no rules against keeping pets,” Orion said excitedly, heading over to his locker to retrieve the creature in question.

“Of course there aren’t! Because no one would be stupid enough to keep one!”

“You just haven’t seen it yet. It’s really cute.”

“I hope your spark eater tears off your face, Pax. I really do,” D-16 deadpanned.

“Not a spark eater,” Orion chuckled, then he began whispering into his locker, “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt ya, little cutie. That’s it, settle down now.”

D-16 shook his head, “You’re gonna get demoted all the way down to the 40th sub-level and when you do, I’m not gonna save your sorry aft. Besides Pax, there isn’t enough energon to go around as is. How’re you gonna feed a pet?”

“That’s the thing,” Orion said eagerly. “It doesn’t fuel up on energon.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. What kind of thing doesn’t need energon?” D-16 asked, his curiosity finally getting the better of him as he tried to peek over Orion’s shoulder at the so-called ‘pet’ he was trying to grab.

He heard some scrabbling, Orion said some more soothing words and then Orion turned around, holding a creature half his size around the waist in both servos.

“D-16, meet our new pet, Minitronus.”

“Minitronus!” D-16 said excitedly. He knew Orion had only picked the name to foster his attachment and ensure that he kept the creature a secret.

D-16 got close to Orion’s pet, resting his hands on his thighs as he bent down. “Whoa, what is it?”

“C’mon D-16. If you don’t know, I’m not gonna tell you.”

“You have no idea, do you.”

“Not a one.”

The creature chittered angrily, pushing at Orion’s servos.

“It looks angry,” D-16 observed.

“It’s just getting used to us. That’s all.”

Orion began stroking at the creature’s head.

“Okay Pax,” D-16 said, resigning himself to Orion’s crazy new pet, as he knew he would from the start. “C’mon then. Tell me all about it. What does it eat? Where’d you find it? And most importantly, how’re we going to keep it a secret?”

“Hey! I said HEY! YOU UP THERE! STOP PETTING ME! I’M NOT AN ANIMAL, YOU BIG DUMB IDIOT!”

The giant metal man smiled at you affectionately, opening his mouth to say something you couldn’t understand. It all sounded like scraping metal and electrical noises and you couldn’t make sense of any of it.

Ever since the Quintessons had abducted you, your life had been nothing but trouble. You were their prisoner but when they found out your planet had nothing of worth, they decided it would be better to experiment on you. The only consolation was that you could at least understand the Quintessons, who had multiple translator devices on their ship.

You were very fortunate that the Quintessons didn’t view you as a threat since they didn’t bother keeping you in any kind of high-security prison and so you managed to escape before they did anything too terrible. The worst you suffered were a few zaps from a weak cattle prod, probably testing your nervous system.

Yet, having escaped the Quintesson ship, you had landed yourself into deeper trouble. You had found yourself on a living metal planet, and though a few plants grew on the ever-transforming surface, the pocket computer you had stolen from your captors informed you they were poisonous.

Fortunately, you had thought a few things through regarding your escape. You had managed to grab a backpack, stuffing it full of provisions and interesting gadgets. The food was stored in dehydrated cubes so with proper care, it could last you months, maybe even an entire year. The backpack also contained a device to keep you warm, a cube that turned into a forcefield when thrown to the ground, and most importantly one of the translators that had allowed you to understand the Quintessons along with a few other gadgets.

However, despite your planning, things hadn’t gone very well for you. After touching down on the planet, you boarded a train that you hoped would take you to civilisation, and while it did take you to a city underground that was more beautiful and advanced than you could imagine, it was clear that the alien life-forms there had never seen an organic creature before.

The few you tried to talk to initially screamed as if you were vermin and tried to blast, stab, and crush you in succession. As you scrambled for your life, you took a kick to the back, saved by your pack which had broken your much-needed translator.

You ran and hid, keeping out of sight and soon you started feeling like the vermin the metal people viewed you as. You learned quickly to keep out of sight and made your way to where there were fewer bots, spending many quiet hours either sleeping in vents or trying to repair your translator with the limited knowledge you had.

Yet, your luck couldn’t last forever and eventually, you ran into a vent that turned out to be a transportation tunnel to and from the mines. It was there that Mr Big-Red-Idiot-Bot caught you and took you to the charging bays. At first, you thought your luck was turning around and that he was going to take you to someone who would be able to understand you since he was obviously trying to be gentle with you. Then it became clear that he just thought you were some kind of stupid animal in need of care and he adopted you as his pet.

“What are these things?” D-16 asked, gently lifting your top.

You slapped at his servo, swearing at him even though he couldn’t understand you. Orion laughed, “I don’t know, but that’s how it reacted to me too. I think they’re to keep it warm. Either way, it doesn’t like it when you touch them. Oh, and hey, check this out, it does tricks.”

Orion shoved you back into his locker where your bag was. You ran to your pack, hurriedly grabbing your broken translator and showing it to the new grey bot. You had tried repeatedly showing it to Big Red, but he didn’t get what you were trying to do and always just laughed at you.

“What’s it holding?” D-16 asked.

“Playing with some scrap metal. Isn’t that cute? It has a favourite toy! I think Minitronus might have belonged to someone else once because it has all these adorable toys in there and it can make its own fuel.”

You sighed. Clearly, the grey bot was no better than Big Red, but at least he wasn’t trying to kill you. You shook your head and began searching your pack for some tools to repair the translator. Upon seeing you grab a screwdriver, Orion took it from you.

You yelled a few more insults, demanding it back but Orion just teased you, holding it just out of reach.

“Aww does Minitronus want the toy? Do you? Do you? That’s it, reach for the toy. Grab it.” He cooed.

D-16 rolled his eyes, amused by both Orion and his new pet. He snatched the miniature ‘toy’ screwdriver from his friend, handing it back to you. “Don’t tease it, Orion.”

You nodded gratefully at D-16 and he ruffled your hair. This time, you didn’t bother insulting him since he had given you what you wanted.

The work alarm went off overhead and Orion slammed his locker shut just in time for the influx of workers to come through the shared stasis bunker on their way to work. D-16 tried to fight against the crowd to stay by the locker but Orion pulled him into the fray, muttering that it would look suspicious if he wasn’t at work on time.

“But what about- Will it be okay in there?” D-16 whispered as they headed into the lift.

“Sure,” Orion said from the corner of his mouth, trying to be quiet. “It’s been in there for days and it's been fine.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. Now be quiet and act normal.”

D-16 smiled and gave a small awkward wave to a bot in front of him who was observing the pair with a raised optical ridge. Over the years, Orion had caused more than his share of trouble so D-16 was used to the scrutinising looks from others, though he always got nervous when they both had something to hide.

You sighed and rested your hands on your hips. It was awful being constantly stuffed in a locker, especially since Big Red didn’t seem to think things through. He shoved you in your new ‘home’ whenever other bots were around or when he went to the lift which you assumed meant he was working. The problem with that was that his species didn’t tire easily and could work a very long time, and with this being what you could only assume was the poorer part of the city, there were always other bots around. You had to get your translator fixed quickly, or else you would spend the rest of your life in the locker. Still, things weren’t all bad. It was warm and safe. You often used your backpack as a pillow, sleeping through the first few hours before getting back to your repair work. You had privacy and a personal collapsable service suite that pulled moisture from the air so you could drink or shower - it even took care of your waste by vaporising it; alien inventions sure were convenient. Besides, now the other bot knew about you too, and perhaps he could help you. Resignedly, you set about keeping to your normal routine and began some light repair work, too awake to rest now. You only wished you knew what you were doing and that you had even the faintest idea on how to fix alien technology; your life depended on it.

Orion and D-16 were the first up and out of the elevator, avoiding the usual crowds by skipping the last few minutes of work with a lame excuse about being called upstairs. Honestly, the pair got into so much trouble they were often called up to meetings with higher-ups for tellings-off, which Orion usually tried to talk his way out of, and so nobody so much as batted an optic when they left.

Upon getting up to their quarters, Orion and D-16 were both relieved to see that the rotation team had already filed out, presumably having taken one of the other lifts to a different mine. Orion ran to his locker and hurled it open.

“Aww, look,” He pulled D-16 close to get a good look at you. “Minitronus is recharging. Hey, do you think it’s dreaming of us? Pets do that, right? Dream of their owners?”

“I mean, if Minitronus is thinking of me, that’s a dream. If it’s you, it’s a nightmare.”

Orion elbowed D-16 in the chassis then reached in to grab you.

D-16 pulled him back, “Whoa hey, don’t wake it.”

“We have to. It’s time for walkies and this is the only time we can get out of here quietly before the others catch up.”

Reluctantly, D-16 let Orion go.

You jolted awake, terrified until you remembered where you were and that you were now the ‘pet’ of an advanced alien. You settled groggily in his arms, wondering what he was going to do with you now.

He proffered you some words that sounded like two lawnmowers smashing together, but by his expression, you could tell he was happy. Then he jostled you, miming something you couldn’t understand until it was too late.

You scowled at Big Red with your arms folded, too insulted to even try yelling as he tugged you along an empty alley on your new wire lead.

This was a new low.

“I don’t think Minitronus likes walkies,” D-16 commented as you dug your heels into the floor, trying to hold your ground.

“Nonsense,” Orion said, trying to be gentle as he pulled at your lead, making you stumble forward, “It’s just not used to it yet.”

D-16 patted his thighs, “C’mon Minitronus. That’s it. Here Minitronus. Minitronus.”

After a few more attempts, you realised that the gentle electrical hum Grey kept repeating must be his name for you. Huh… Well, at least the repetition meant they had a stable language.

You listened again and tried to mimic the sound, making both bots pause to look at you.

“Did it just…?” D-16 asked, pointing at you.

You mimicked the sound again.

“It did,” Orion agreed. He ran over to pick you up, spinning you in his arms, “Who’s a smart Minitronus, huh? Yes, you. You are!”

Although your mimicry had been good, it wasn’t quite enough to convince them that you were sentient. Rather, they were looking at you like a parrot who had picked up a new phrase. Instead of repeating your name, you had managed a babyish mumbling somewhere close, that sounded more like Mini–Tron.”

D-16 beamed and petted your head, quickly coming to love his new pet. Orion was right, it was smart and cute.

“That’s so cool, I wonder if we can teach it more words.”

“I’m definitely teaching it swears,” Orion laughed.

Eventually, the pair headed back to the underground, with Orion heading in first, making sure everyone was recharging, before signalling for D-16 to follow with you.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t put me back in the locker,” You whined as you were placed on the top shelf.

“Oh no, don’t cry,” D-16 begged, listening to you pitchy chittering. He held a digit to his lips, shushing.

“You two will be gone for ages, what between sleeping and working, and it’s dark in there,” You continued, even though he couldn’t understand you.

You only stopped talking when he held you against his chassis, petting your head. You sighed in understanding. He was trying to keep you safe; this was all for your own good.

‘Okay,’ You thought, feeling strangely comforted by Grey’s actions. ‘If this is how it has to be for now… Okay.’

Orion gave an enthusiastic thumbs up to D-16, glad that he had managed to keep your mewls under control.

“Goodnight, Minitronus,” Orion whispered before shutting the door.

“We love you,” D-16 added.

You shook your head after the door shut; life was going to be interesting with those two.

“PAX!” Elita-One shouted, jetpacking up the empty elevator shaft to catch up with Orion and D-16 who had stolen away from work early for the third time that week.

Orion held you behind his back, hiding you just in time before Elita got in his face.

“Captain, what a surprise!” Orion grinned cheekily, already trying to smooth-talk his way out of the situation. “Me and D-16 were just saying what a great and wonderful leader you-”

“Can it, Pax!” Elita glowered. “I’ve had just about enough of you. It’s bad enough that you’re a troublemaker but now, you’re dragging D-16 down with you and- what’s behind your back?”

“My back? Nothing at all,” Orion shoved you into D-16’s open arms, and he in turn hid you behind his leg, trusting that you wouldn’t run away if he wasn’t holding you.

Elita grabbed hold of Orion, slamming him into the lockers, her eyes narrowing when she didn’t see anything worth hiding. She glared at D-16 who held up his servos in a shrug, gesturing to Pax who was already babbling about how strong she was and how no other Captain had had the strength to throw him so hard.

While Pax created a distraction and Elita-One continued her tirade against him, D-16 shuffled backwards, sneaking you out for your daily walk.

You had grown used to the routine now, learning the building’s alarms that marked the beginning or end of a shift. When it was coming time for Orion or D-16 to take you out, you always hitched on your backpack, just in case you needed anything, though you had long since learned not to work on your translator in front of Big Red, since he kept assuming it was a toy and continually threw it for you to fetch. Honestly, he was doing even more damage to the already broken machine, and it stressed you out constantly whenever you were forced to catch it before it hit the ground.

When you and Grey were alone, you always did repair work at the end of a walk, since he would take you somewhere quiet to rest for a while.

You had been living with the pair for just over two months now and in that time a few things of note had happened.

First, they had entrusted knowledge of you to a few of the others in their ‘platoon’ or whatever the group they worked in was called. This had happened after an incident wherein you had escaped your locker to explore and a silver and blue bot with a passion for dance stumbled into you and squealed. Big Red, and Grey hurried to your rescue and had to explain their ‘pet’ to him.

This led to you being the worst kept secret in the mining facility, though it was bound to happen eventually with so many bots living in close quarters. However, all the mining bots found you sweet enough and they all had a code of honour that meant they kept you secret from anyone with authority like Elita-One or any of the other captains.

Yet, while everyone knew about you and you were generally allowed out of the locker most of the time, it was still only Orion or D-16 who took you out, and they still tried to get out of work a tad early to check on you.

One of the other changes in your life was the delivery of a big bundle of wires as ‘toys.’ That was another word you had learned to mimic since Orion kept bringing you play-things and repeating the Cybertronian equivalent.

This happened after you kept picking up pieces of scrap wire on walks, taking them with you so you could use them in your repair work. At first, Orion and D-16 took them off you, afraid you would hurt yourself somehow, but when you kept collecting them and fought hard to keep the few you had, they assumed it must be a normal nesting behaviour and brought you a great deal more than you needed.

You were delighted with the gifts and hugged both bots for it. Then, after saving the few you needed for your translator, you weaved the extra wires into a new over-shirt. It was uncomfortable, but quite practical since your jumper was wearing away and you needed a new one to keep decent when you were washing your actual shirt.

Another problem to occur was your hair. In your time with the bots, it had grown very long, and much to your bemusement, Orion had tried cutting it. The whole thing had gone disastrously, and you suddenly understood those dogs that got terrible haircuts because they tried to escape their groomers; you could only be thankful that the bald patch was beginning to grow back.

The final change was Grey’s idea. He felt confident that you were well trained since you now responded to your name, paying attention when you were called through the miners’ hab-suite. Because of your actions, he often let you off-lead, which you were immensely grateful for. He rarely put the lead back on you unless he thought something was unsafe, so whenever it went on now, you clambered onto his shoulder, trusting that he would take you home and away from danger quickly.

It wasn’t a perfect life, but things were slowly improving. You could only hope that your lucky streak didn’t break and that you would be able to communicate your needs fully before the year was up.

D-16 sighed, sitting on the side of a tall building overlooking the city with you in his lap. You were content to let him pet you while you toyed with your translator. You went in an almost trance-like state whenever you tinkered with it now, honestly not expecting anything to come of it but needing to work all the same.

He continued speaking in his gentle, rhythmic noises and you hummed as if you understood, pressing a wire down with the flat of your screwdriver.

“- and that’s why I know what we’re doing is important. Even Sentinel says so. Us miners, we’re keeping Cybertron alive,” D-16 said proudly.

“Who’s Sentinel?” You asked absentmindedly.

D-16 screamed, accidentally throwing you off his lap.

“Hey, be careful!” You scolded. “You could have dropped me over the edge.”

You picked up your translator and brushed yourself off.

“Minitronus, you’re talking!” D-16 accused.

“Yeah, well so…are… Oh my God, I did it!” You breathed. Then you punched the air excitedly, “I DID IT!”

“WHAT IS GOING ON? HOW ARE YOU TALKING?!”

“I fixed my translator,” You squealed ecstatically, waving it in front of D-16.

“Your- Your toy?”

“Yeah,” You nodded, practically bouncing on the spot.

“This is impossible. You- You’re our pet!”

“No. Not a pet. Not anymore. I’m (Y/N). Okay, (Y/N),” You repeated your name slowly, trying to get it through to Grey who still looked panicked.

“Primus, this is insane.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“You’ve got to explain everything to me, right now.”

“Okay, sit down,” You patted the ledge.

D-16 did so, and you jumped back into his lap.

“What’re you doing? You can’t sit there now. You’re not an animal.”

“Hey,” You pushed against his servo, staying stubbornly in place, “I’m not going back on that ledge, I could fall.” “Fine,” D-16 relented. He went to pet your head again then stopped himself, keeping his servos stiffly by his sides. “As long as you explain yourself, you can sit wherever you want.”

Having told D-16 everything and had him explain a few things in return, things thankfully changed. Initially, things between you and all of the mining bots were awkward, with haunted comments from some of the bots like, ‘It saw me in the wash racks,’ or ‘I can’t believe I tried to rub its belly… No wonder it slapped me. Oh. Oh no.’

Once everyone got used to the idea, your life improved. You were still kept secret since none of the miners knew how the higher-ups would react to an alien species, but with some ingenuity and a few favours exchanged for information about your species and planet, they all came together to transform your locker into a proper living space, complete with all the amenities they could manage to scrape together. They even began forming a plan to try and have you off-planet and en-route somewhere you could survive before your supplies would run out.

After D-16 and Orion were over the weirdness, you still had them take you on your daily excursions, sans the lead since you were no longer their pet. Orion managed to laugh about the whole thing, but D-16 grew to be even more strained around you. However, you didn’t get to ask him about it till you were next alone with him, which was a long time afterwards.

“So… Do you hate me now?” You asked him one day while he walked a few paces ahead of you, keeping an eye out for anyone who he would need to hide you from.

“What?” D-16 sputtered. “I- I don’t-”

“It’s okay,” You smiled easily. “It’s a strange situation.”

D-16 felt his insides squeeze. He had held onto you while you slept. At the time, he thought you were cute. Now though… You were still cute when you slept, but it was a different kind of cute – Softer, somehow.

“I told you everything,” He sighed, defeatedly. “My life, my dreams, my fears.” He shook his head, continuing mournfully, “And you didn’t understand any of it.”

“Not true,” You contradicted, running to stand in front of him.

He watched you warily.

“I might not have known what you were saying, but I did understand you. Your tone, expressions, the sound of your voice. I understood more than you think.”

D-16’s spark pulsed.

“Let’s go home,” He said quickly, turning on his heel and walking away from you.

The two of you had to go where you wouldn’t be alone or things would change again.

D-16 was falling in love with you and he couldn’t let that happen. There were too many unknowns and he had his planet to think about. He was a miner – the life force of his planet. That’s what Sentinel Prime always said, and work came first.

Besides, you weren’t going to be on Cybertron forever. You couldn’t be. Once your supplies ran out, that would be it for you.

D-16 couldn’t get attached. It wasn’t like you were a pet anymore. You didn’t belong to him, even if he wanted you to.

You ran through the destruction of Iacon City, terrified by everything that was happening. Honestly, you had missed most of the events leading up to it, having been stuck in Sentinel’s tower, but you had seen the so-called Prime torture and brand D-16.

Afterwards, you tried to find him or Orion, but you were small and Iacon was big and the city was collapsing around you.

You screamed as you were grabbed seemingly from nowhere and looked up to see D-16, though he looked slightly different thanks to the new infusion of Megatronus’ T-Cog which you hadn’t seen him take from Sentinel’s corpse. Also, there was one other change – his angry red optics, which bore into you.

“D-16,” You shouted, “What’s going on? Where’s Orion?”

“Orion is dead,” He growled. Though he had made a promise that nobody else would be deceived, you needed to hear that lest you side with Orion over him. Besides, it wasn’t a lie. Orion was dead – Dead, and replaced by Optimus Prime. “And my name is Megatron.”

“Orion- Orion’s dead,” You repeated, too shell-shocked to even cry at the moment.

“Yes,” Megatron glossed over your emotions, far too focused on his rage as he transformed around you, keeping you safe inside his alt-mode. “And we’re leaving.”

“Where are we going?”

“To war!”

Yet, even as Megatron burned with hatred and his desire to bring down the corruption that fuelled his planet, he was already reading the intel sent by the disgraced High Guard, informing him of several nearby planets where you would be able to get the organic fuel you required to stay online.

Megatron had lost everything. He was not about to lose his beloved pet too. You were his, and you always would be.

Six days after someone tried to put a blade between your ribs, the High Council gathered beneath the emerald banners of House Avelor to decide whether your greatest danger was the assassin, the dragon, or the fact that you remained unmarried.

The council chamber had been built to impress visiting kings.

It succeeded.

Sunlight poured through the tall arched windows in clean, silver sheets, catching on the polished stone floor and the banners hung between pillars carved with dragon wings. Beyond the glass, Crownreach Palace dropped in pale terraces toward the Silvermere, where the lake flashed bright enough to make grief look holy.

You did not look at the reeds.

You kept your hands folded on the council table instead, one thumb resting lightly over the other. The movement pulled at the healing cut beneath your ribs, a thin line of pain sharp enough to remind you that the assassin’s blade had missed your lung by less than two fingers. The gown chosen for you was Avelor emerald, the neckline stitched with silver thread fine enough to look like frost. Crown colors. Heir colors. A reminder and an argument.

Beside your place at the table, your brother’s chair sat empty. No one had removed it. No one knew how.

Across the chamber, High Chancellor Oren Veyre inclined his silver-gray head with all the grace of a man placing a knife exactly where he wanted it.

“No one questions Her Highness’s claim,” Oren said.

That was the trouble with Oren Veyre. He never lied when a careful truth would do more damage. King Aldren sat at the head of the table, one hand resting against the carved arm of his chair. He looked thinner in the morning light than you liked. Grief had not weakened your father so much as narrowed him, carving quiet hollows beneath his eyes.

Oren continued, “We question only the wisdom of leaving her unsupported.”

There it was. Unsupported. You let the word pass over your face without touching it. Unsupported meant unmarried. Unmarried meant uncertain. Uncertain meant vulnerable. Vulnerable meant manageable. And manageable, in the mouths of men like Oren Veyre, meant Cassius.

Vaela’s attention stirred beneath your ribs. Not words. Never words. A heat instead. A pressure. A deep, ancient irritation blooming through the fresh bond as if the dragon had turned one gold eye toward the council chamber from the eastern terraces and found every man inside it wanting.

You breathed in slowly.

Calm, you pressed back, though you were still learning the shape of sending anything through the bond without feeling foolish for trying. Somewhere beyond the high windows, stone scraped under talons. Several councilmen went still. Oren did not so much as blink.

“Six months is not long enough to settle a realm shaken by old magic,” Lord Alaric of the western holdings said, his gaze flicking toward the windows before returning to the king. “The Crownfire’s appearance has inspired awe, yes, but awe is not the same as confidence.”

You wondered how many times a man could call you a blessing before he admitted he meant a problem.

“My daughter is not old magic’s inconvenience,” Aldren said.

The room quieted at once. He had not raised his voice. He never needed to. Even grief-thinned, even tired, Aldren Avelor was still king. He looked down the length of the table, silvering hair catching the light. “The princess is my heir by royal decree. Every man in this chamber witnessed the oath.”

Oren bowed his head. “Of course, Your Majesty. Law is not in dispute.”

You almost smiled. Beside you, Queen Isolde did not move. Your mother sat with the kind of stillness people mistook for peace if they had never known a woman who survived by mastering every inch of herself. Isolde wore dark green silk, nearly black where the shadows touched it, her hair twisted into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes gave nothing away.

Oren lifted his gaze again. “Confidence is.”

Aldren’s jaw tightened.

At Oren’s right, Cassius Veyre shifted as if the conversation had only now become worthy of him. He was beautiful in the way court liked men to be beautiful: tall, lean, and polished into something almost decorative. His light brown hair had been combed back from a face too symmetrical to be trusted, and his hazel eyes held the soft gleam of a man who had never entered a room without knowing how it should receive him. Wine-red velvet framed his shoulders. Gold thread glinted at his cuffs. The Veyre signet sat heavy on one elegant hand.

A portrait of reassurance. A cage dressed for a wedding.

“Her Highness has carried an impossible burden with admirable grace,” Cassius said.

His voice was warm enough to sound kind if one did not listen closely. You listened closely. Cassius looked at you then, and the corner of his mouth softened by a practiced degree. “But the realm does not need only a crowned heir. It needs the reassurance of unity.”

“Unity,” you repeated.

Cassius dipped his chin. “Between crown and council. Between old blood and present need. Between houses strong enough to hold Eldara steady.”

Beside him, Oren let the silence breathe. Then Lord Alaric said what everyone had been herded toward saying.

“A marriage alliance between House Avelor and House Veyre would quite much of the uncertainty.”

There it was at last, placed gently on the table like a gift. You looked at Cassius. He did not look triumphant. That would have been too honest. He looked patient. That was worse. You unfolded your hands. Across the chamber, a councilman inhaled as if even the movement of your fingers required interpretation.

“And after the wedding, Lord Veyre,” you asked, “which of my duties would you expect me to keep?”

The room went very still. Aldren’s eyes flicked to you, and something in them warmed with the briefest spark of pride. Isolde’s face did not change. Cassius smiled. Not widely. Not enough for anyone to call it condescension. Just enough for you to hate him.

“All of them, Your Highness,” he said. “I would only hope to make them easier to bear.”

Your mouth curved, though nothing in you softened. “How generous.”

Cassius’s smile held. “I would call it loyal.”

You let your gaze drop briefly to the Veyre signet on his hand. “I’m sure you would.”

A faint shift moved through the council. A few men glanced down at their papers. One cleared his throat and thought better of speaking. Cassius’s smile held. Then he leaned forward, just slightly. “You need not stand alone in this.”

And then he said your name. Not your title. Your name. In the High Council chamber, with your father’s crown at the head of the table and your brother’s empty chair still close enough to haunt the room. The sound of it landed like a hand set at the small of your back without permission. Aldren’s fingers tightened on the arm of his chair. Isolde’s gaze sharpened.

You did not look away from Cassius. “In this room, Lord Veyre,” you said, “I am Your Highness.”

For one breath, the polish cracked. Only a little. Enough. Cassius inclined his head. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Vaela’s satisfaction moved through you like a low curl of smoke. You nearly laughed. You did not. 

Oren spoke before the silence could favor you. “No one here means disrespect. But a realm is not steadied by pride alone.”

“No,” you said. “It is steadied by roads that remain open, grain that reaches the villages before frost, and lords who do not dress their own interests as public concern.”

Another silence. This one had teeth.

Lord Alaric’s expression tightened. “Your Highness, those matters are being handled.”

You arched a brow, “Are they?”

Oren watched you carefully. You turned to Alaric. “The lower road through Wrenford has been washed out since spring. The temporary crossing cannot hold more than one grain cart at a time, and the river has already risen twice this month. If northern stores are sent that way, half the wagons will be waiting at the ford when the first snow hits.”

Alaric’s mouth opened. You did not give him space to use it. “The eastern toll road would be faster,” you continued. “But Graymere Post sits close enough to Veyre-held routes that any delay there becomes less a problem of weather and more a problem of permission.”

Cassius’s expression did not change. Oren’s did not either. That was how you knew you had touched the right nerve. You looked from one Veyre to the other. “If grain is delayed at Graymere, the lower settlements will not care which lord’s ledger slowed it. They will only know their children are hungry while the capital debates whether I require a husband to read a map.”

Aldren’s gaze stayed fixed on you. Queen Isolde’s hands rested motionless in her lap, but one finger pressed into the other hard.

Lord Alaric cleared his throat. “No one suggests Her Highness is incapable of understanding the realm’s needs.”

“How strange,” you said. “When I know too little, I am unprepared. When I know too much, I am overburdened.”

Cassius exhaled softly, almost like regret. Almost. “No one doubts your mind, Your Highness,” he said. “We only question how long one person can bear so much without breaking.”

Vaela’s heat flashed beneath your ribs. Sharp. Immediate. Threat. Outside, talons dragged hard against stone. Every man in the room heard it. This time, even Cassius’s eyes flicked toward the windows. 

You breathed through Vaela’s anger. Calm, you pressed. The dragon did not understand tables. Or councils. Or the delicate art of letting men talk long enough to reveal where they were weakest. Vaela understood threats. She did not understand letting them finish speaking.

Oren turned fear into opportunity before it had finished crossing the room. “This is precisely the concern, Your Majesty,” he said. “The Crownfire is magnificent. No loyal servant of Eldara would claim otherwise. But magnificence unsettles men who must sleep beneath its shadow.”

Aldren’s voice cooled. “Careful, Chancellor.”

Oren bowed his head. “Always.”

No, you thought. Never.

“There are practical measures to consider,” Lord Alaric said, with the eager caution of a man stepping onto a bridge someone else had built. “Temporary measures. Until the realm steadies.”

You looked at him. “Temporary.”

“Your Highness’s movements,” Alaric said. “Her public appearances. Her flights.”

The chamber seemed to narrow around that last word. Vaela went still inside you. Not calm. Still. There was a difference.

Cassius folded his hands on the table. “No one would dream of severing Her Highness from the Crownfire.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself. Coldly. “No,” you said. “I imagine you would prefer a prettier word than severing.” 

Cassius’s mouth tightened. Oren’s eyes sharpened. Lord Alaric pressed forward. “No one is suggesting harm to the bond. Only that Vaela’s flights be limited to ceremonial appearances and crown-approved routes until the investigation into the attempt on your life is complete.”

Your healing wound pulled as you sat straighter. “Vaela is not a carriage to be scheduled.”

“No,” Oren said smoothly. “She is a dragon powerful enough to unsettle an entire kingdom.”

“She is bonded to me.” You said. 

“And that,” Oren said, “is exactly why your safety is not merely personal.”

The room settled around the sentence. There it was. The shape of it. Your body was not your body. Your grief was not your grief. Your dragon was not your dragon. Your life was not your life. You were the last heir of House Avelor. Therefore, everyone in the room believed they had a claim to the space around your ribs. You laid one hand flat against the council table. “There is no version of my bond that belongs to this council.”

Vaela’s presence opened beneath the words. Heat. Gold. Ancient, pleased fury. Outside, stone cracked. A line of pale dust sifted from the edge of the nearest window arch. No one moved.

Queen Isolde spoke into the stillness. “A measured response is not surrender.”

You turned to your mother. The words had been offered calmly. Carefully. With no direct support of Veyre, no plain betrayal to name. That almost made it worse.

“And how measured must I become,” you asked, “before I disappear entirely?”

Something moved behind Isolde’s eyes. Fear, perhaps. Or grief. Then it was gone, folded back beneath the queen’s perfect composure.

 Aldren rose. Every chair in the room shifted back at once. “The matter of my daughter’s hand will not be decided by fear, rumor, or trade pressure.” His gaze moved from Oren to Cassius and then over every councilman seated before him. “Nor will her bond be made subject to men who speak of dragons as if they are troublesome horses.”

No one spoke. Not even Oren. Aldren placed one hand flat on the table. “As for her safety, I have not left the protection of my only living child to this council’s appetite for caution.”

Your eyes went to him. Aldren did not look away from you, and that was how you knew. Whatever he had done, he had already done it. Something tight and cold moved beneath your breastbone. Not Vaela.

You.

“Captain Marek will retain command of Crown Patrol and the outer rider rotations,” Aldren said. “He will continue to answer to the crown.”

At the far side of the room, Marek’s jaw shifted once. He stood near the eastern wall, crown leathers dark against the pale stone, his hands clasped behind his back. He had said little all morning, which was one of the things you trusted about him. Marek did not waste words where action would do. Now, however, even he looked as though he had only recently been told the next sentence.

Aldren continued, “But the princess’s personal guard has been reassigned.”

Your fingers curled once against the table before you stilled them. Isolde’s eyes lowered. She had known.

Oren Veyre’s brows lifted with careful interest. “Your Majesty?”

“The attempt on my daughter’s life proved there are weaknesses in this palace that cannot be mended by adding more men to the same doors.” Aldren looked toward the chamber entrance. “So I have recalled a man who knows the difference between a locked room and a defended one.”

The council chamber doors opened. The man who entered wore no court velvet. Dark riding leathers. Weathered steel. A sword at his hip. Broad shoulders dusted faintly with ash, as if he had come from the dragon terraces instead of the palace corridors. Silver threaded the hair at his temples, catching briefly in the morning light before he stepped beyond it. He moved like someone who had long ago stopped asking rooms for permission to occupy them. Not hurried. Not arrogant.

Certain.

The chamber shifted around him. Marek straightened against the wall. Tovan had once told you that old war dragons did not need to bare their teeth to make lesser creatures remember their own throats. You understood him better now.

The man stopped before the king and bowed. “Your Majesty.”

His voice was low, roughened by smoke and command. Then, after one measured breath, he turned. He bowed to you. Not as deeply as he had bowed to the king.

Deeper.

“Your Highness,” he said.

Vaela went very still beneath your ribs. You hated, immediately, that you noticed.

“Sir Jack Abbot,” Oren Veyre said.

He spoke the name as if it had entered the room armed. Perhaps it had. Jack did not look at the chancellor. Not at first. His gaze remained on you for one measured breath after he bowed, steady and dark and unreadable. Close enough now, you could see the faint scar cutting through one eyebrow, the smoke-darkened edge of his riding coat, the silver at his temples catching in the chamber light like steel beneath water. Then Jack straightened and turned to the king.

“Your Majesty,” Jack said.

Aldren inclined his head. “Sir Jack.”

The room adjusted itself around him. You saw it in the councilmen first. Small things. Spines lengthening. Hands settling. Eyes measuring the distance between Jack and the nearest door, Jack and the windows, Jack and the table where the king sat with his only living child beside him. Marek remained near the eastern wall, but something in his posture had changed. Not deference, exactly. Recognition.

You knew of Jack Abbot. Everyone did. Former commander of the Ashwing Riders. Siege-breaker of Valen’s Pass. The man who had flown through black stormfire over the northern border and came back with half his unit, a dead enemy prince, and a dragon so scarred that stablehands still spoke of Bramor in lowered voices.

Then, three years ago, Jack Abbot had stepped away from command. Not retired. Men like him did not retire. They simply stopped offering kingdoms convenient access to their violence. He had been training riders at the western aerie ever since, until now.

Vaela’s attention moved through you with a cool, sharp focus. Not approval. Not threat. Observation.

Oren folded his hands before him. “Your Majesty has chosen a formidable answer to a delicate concern.”

Jack looked at him then. Nothing in his expression changed, and still the air seemed to tighten. “An assassin coming within arm’s reach of the heir is not a delicate concern,” Jack said.

The room went still. You felt the words land beneath your own skin. Assassin. Not an incident. Not an attempt. Not unrest. Not a concern. Assassin. You had heard the softer versions for six days. The careful versions. The court versions that rounded the blade until people could pretend it had not been meant for your body.

Jack Abbot did not round it.

Oren’s smile remained smooth. “No one intends to diminish the severity of what occurred.”

Jack held his gaze. “Good. Then we may stop speaking as if severity is the same as surprise.”

Lord Alaric’s brows drew together. “Sir Jack?”

Jack’s gaze moved once around the council chamber. Windows. Doors. Servant entrance. Guard placements. Balcony access. Then, finally, Jack looked back at the table. “Her Highness was not attacked because she lacked guards,” Jack said. “She was attacked because too many people knew where the guards would be.”

Marek’s mouth tightened. Not with offense, you thought. With agreement. Aldren’s face had gone very still.

Oren’s fingers rested lightly against the table. “That is a grave accusation.”

Jack did not blink. “It is an assessment.”

Oren tilted his head. “Of the palace guard?”

Jack’s voice stayed even. “Of the palace.”

Another silence followed. This one was colder. Jack did not seem to mind. “The royal wing has four servant corridors, two old guard passages, balcony access from the eastern terraces, and inherited rotations that have not changed meaningfully in eight years,” Jack said. “Her Highness’s appearances are announced before breakfast. Her chapel hours are known by every maid who carries linen through the west hall. Her route to council has been the same since she was sixteen.”

Your fingers stilled against the table. Since she was sixteen. Not since you became heir. Not since the assassin. Not since Vaela chose you. Since you were sixteen. Jack had been in the palace for less than an hour, and he had already learned how long you had been predictable. The thought should have irritated you. It did. It also unsettled you.

Alaric cleared his throat. “Then you agree Her Highness’s movements must be limited.”

Jack turned his head toward him. “Changed.”

Alaric paused. “Changed?”

Jack’s eyes did not leave him. “Not limited.”

Your gaze lifted to Jack. He did not look at you. Oren did. The chancellor’s voice softened. “And Vaela?”

Jack’s gaze moved toward the windows. Beyond the glass and the carved stone arches, somewhere on the eastern terrace, your dragon waited. You felt the shape of her attention turn toward the room like sunlight catching on a blade.

Jack was quiet for half a breath. Then he said, “Grounding Vaela would be a mistake.”

The chamber seemed to inhale. You did not. You were afraid that if you did, someone would hear how much those words had shifted inside you.

Alaric leaned forward. “Sir Jack, surely until the threat is known—”

Jack cut him off. “The threat is known.”

Oren’s eyes sharpened. “Is it?”

Jack looked back at the chancellor. “Yes. Someone wants the princess dead and has had enough access to nearly manage it. That is the threat. The name can come later.”

Cassius, who had been silent since Jack entered, leaned back slightly in his chair. “A practical man.” Jack’s gaze moved to him. Cassius smiled. “I mean that as a compliment.”

Jack’s expression did not change. “I did not ask.”

The corner of Aldren’s mouth moved. Only slightly. You looked down at your hands before anyone could see your own reaction. Vaela’s satisfaction curled through the bond, warm and dark. Jack continued before Cassius could decide whether offense would serve him. “If the assassin has access to the palace, then stone is not safety. Familiar corridors are not safety. Locked doors are not safety. The air may be the only route Her Highness has that has not already been mapped by whoever wants her dead.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. Jack was not watching your father. Not Oren. Not Cassius. He was watching the room, as if every man in it was both a person and a possible opening for a knife. You had spent six days hearing people discuss whether you should be kept from Vaela for your own protection. Jack Abbot had been in the chamber less than ten minutes and had understood that taking Vaela from you would not make you safer. It would make it easier to trap you. Vaela’s attention pressed beneath your breastbone. A cool, ancient flicker moved through the bond. Not trust. Not approval. But the first sharp edge of interest.  Jack’s eyes moved to you at once. You stilled. His gaze dropped, only briefly, to your mouth. Then away. So fast you might have imagined it. You did not think you had.

Jack turned back to the council. “Captain Marek will retain command of Crown Patrol and the outer rider rotations. He will answer to the crown as he has always done. On matters concerning Her Highness’s personal protection, he will answer to me.”

Marek gave one short nod from the wall. No hesitation. No surprise. So he had known. Jack continued, “Kael Ardent and Liora Venn will be reassigned to the inner watch. No other rider approaches Her Highness’s chambers, Vaela’s saddle, her feed, or her flight routes without my approval.”

Alaric’s brows rose. “Her feed?”

Jack looked at him. “Tack can be cut. Buckles can be weakened. Feed can be poisoned. Fire glands can be irritated. A dragon does not need to be killed to make her rider vulnerable.”

The words struck harder than you expected. Not because you had not known them. Because you had. Because some part of you had been trying not to.

Jack looked toward the eastern wall. “Tovan remains in charge of Vaela’s terrace stores and saddle checks.”

Marek nodded once. “He has already been informed.”

You turned slightly. “Has he?”

Marek met your eyes with the grim steadiness of a man who knew there would be consequences and had chosen them anyway. “Yes, Your Highness.”

You looked back at your father. Aldren held your gaze. No apology. Not yet. That stung more than if he had looked away.

Jack’s voice drew you back. “Your private chambers will be re-secured by sundown. The old guard passage between the captain’s room and the princess’s suite will be reopened.”

Your attention snapped to him. “The captain’s room,” you said.

Jack faced you fully. “Yes, Your Highness.”

You kept your voice even. “And who, exactly, will be occupying it?”

Jack answered without hesitation. “I will.”

The chamber went quiet in a different way. Not political. Personal. Your mother’s stillness sharpened. Cassius’s eyes flicked between you and Jack, something almost amused touching his mouth. You hated him for seeing anything at all. You kept your gaze on Jack. “You intend to sleep beside my rooms?”

Jack’s voice remained steady. “Near them.”

Your brows lifted. “That is not much better.”

Jack held your gaze. “It is faster.”

The answer was so blunt that, for one dangerous second, you had no reply. Jack did not look pleased with himself. He did not look embarrassed either. He looked like a man who had given you the relevant fact and did not understand why the room had tried to make something else of it. Or perhaps he understood perfectly and refused to help them. You had not decided which possibility was more irritating.

Jack looked back at the council. “At night, watch will rotate between Marek, Kael, and Liora. No one else.”

Alaric shifted in his chair. “Surely the existing palace guard—”

Jack turned to him. “No.”

The single word cut cleanly through the chamber. Jack kept his gaze on Alaric. “Until I know where the breach came from, I trust the existing palace guard to remain exactly where I can see them.”

A muscle feathered in Alaric’s jaw.

Oren leaned back slightly. “And during the day?”

Jack’s answer came without pause. “I remain with Her Highness from the moment she leaves her chambers until she retires.”

Your pulse moved once, hard. All day. Every day. You thought of council chambers and corridors. Of Vaela’s terrace. Of the library steps where you read reports, no one knew you had requested. Of the chapel alcove where Elias’s memorial candle burned low in blue glass. Of the bathing chamber door, the private sitting room, the balcony where you stood when the palace became too small to breathe inside. You thought of this man in every doorway. This voice behind you. Those eyes watching.

You forced your hands to remain still. “And was I meant to be consulted before my life was rearranged, Sir Jack?”

The title came out cool. Sharper than courtesy. Jack accepted it without flinching. “I was summoned to keep you alive, Your Highness. Not comfortable.”

Aldren’s eyes cut to him. Marek went very still. Your eyebrows lifted. Jack held your gaze. The room waited for you to take offense. You did.

Then Jack added, quieter, “When I can give you both, I will.”

Something in your chest shifted. Not softened. Shifted. You looked at him for a long moment.

“How generous,” you said.

Jack’s expression did not change. “No. Necessary.”

Infuriating man.

Oren’s voice slid in before the silence could become anything with a shape. “As Your Highness can see, Sir Jack understands the difficulties involved in protecting such a valuable life.”

Jack turned his head. “No.”

Oren paused. “No?”

Jack’s gaze did not move from him. “Her Highness will be briefed on every change to her guard. She will know the names of the men and women outside her doors. She will know every route I close and why I close it.”

Your anger, which had been moving cleanly through you a moment before, faltered.

Jack continued, “A protected ruler who does not understand her own cage has not been protected. She has been contained.”

The word moved through the chamber like a struck bell. Cage. You felt your mother look at you. You did not look back. Vaela’s presence opened under your ribs, slow and watchful. Not pleased. Not yet. But listening.

Oren’s mouth had gone flat. “An interesting philosophy for a guard.”

Jack’s eyes hardened. “I am not a guard.”

The room chilled. Jack stepped forward once. “I was commander of the Ashwing Riders for twelve years,” Jack said. “I have taken orders from kings, fools, dying boys with better instincts than their generals, and dragons who knew a storm was coming before any man looked up.”

His voice stayed even.

“I know the difference between protection and possession,” Jack said.

Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack did not look at you. Somehow, that made it worse. Aldren rose from his chair. Every man in the chamber straightened.

“Then make the oath,” Aldren said.

Jack turned back to the king and bowed his head once. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

He removed his right glove. The motion should not have mattered. It did. His hands were broad and scarred, the knuckles marked pale in places where old wounds had healed badly. Not court hands. Not soft hands. Hands that had held reins in war winds, blades in blood, a dragon’s saddle straps through smoke and stormfire. You noticed.

Gods help you, you noticed.

Jack stepped toward you. For the first time that morning, the council table felt like too little space between your body and anything else. He stopped three paces away. Then he lowered himself to one knee. Not before Aldren.

Before you.

The entire chamber seemed to hold its breath. Jack laid his bare hand over the hilt of his sword. His head bowed, but not enough to hide his face from you. Not enough to turn the oath into performance.

When he spoke, his voice was low. “I swear my blade, my wings, and my life to your protection,” Jack said.

The words settled over the room.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “I will guard your body, honor your command, and abide your will until death releases me from service.”

Vaela went utterly still. You did too. Jack looked up at you. Dark. Steady. Unsoftened by ceremony.

Then he said, “If you will have me, Your Highness.”

No one moved. Not your father. Not your mother. Not Oren, whose silence had gone sharp enough to draw blood. The choice was not real. You knew that. Jack knew that. Every person in the room knew the king had already summoned him, already arranged the passage beside your chambers, already spoken to Marek and Tovan and whatever trusted riders Jack had brought back with him from the edges of war.

And yet Jack waited.

On one knee. In front of the entire High Council. As if your answer mattered.

Your throat tightened once. You hated that too. “You may rise, Sir Jack,” you said.

Something unreadable moved through his eyes. Jack stood. The motion was smooth, controlled, and too close to graceful for a man built like a fortress wall. 

You tipped your chin up, refusing to step back. “And do not mistake my acceptance for obedience.”

For the first time, his mouth almost changed. Almost. Not a smile. Not quite.

“I would not dare,” Jack said.

Vaela’s attention sharpened inside you. Heat bloomed beneath your ribs before you could catch it. Jack’s eyes flicked, just once, to the windows as if he felt the dragon stir. As if he knew. Then his gaze returned to yours, and whatever had almost been in his expression vanished behind discipline.

Aldren’s hand settled against the arm of his chair. “The council is dismissed.”

Chairs scraped at once. Papers were gathered. Men stood too quickly or too slowly, depending on what they wished to prove. Alaric bowed first to the king, then to your mother, then to you. Oren Veyre moved with more care, his expression returned to its usual polished calm. Cassius lingered. He approached with the softness of a man who knew how to make intrusion look like concern.

“Your Highness,” Cassius said. Perfectly correct. Perfectly performed.

You held his gaze. “Lord Veyre.”

Cassius’s eyes moved briefly to Jack, who had stepped back to your right, not close enough to crowd you, not far enough to be ignored. Cassius looked back at you. “How fortunate that the crown has found a man so eager to stand at your side.”

Jack said nothing. You did not look at him. You smiled at Cassius with every lesson your mother had ever taught you sharpened behind your teeth. “Yes. Fortunate men are so rare.”

Cassius’s smile held. Barely. He bowed. Beautifully. Like a man who believed time itself had been raised to favor him. Then Cassius turned and followed Oren from the chamber. 

Outside, Vaela’s claws dragged once against stone. Slow. Deliberate. Every man leaving the room pretended not to hear it. When the doors closed behind the last of them, the chamber felt larger and more dangerous for being nearly empty. Your mother remained seated. Your father stood at the head of the table. Marek waited by the wall. Jack stood beside you, silent as a drawn blade.

You looked at Aldren first. “You should have told me.”

The words were quiet. They landed anyway. Your father’s expression did not soften. That would have been easier to resent.

“Yes,” Aldren said. “I should have.”

The honesty hurt more than an excuse.

Isolde rose then, dark skirts whispering against stone. “Your father did what was necessary.”

You looked at her. “Everyone is very fond of that word today.”

Her mouth tightened. Jack did not speak. You noticed that too.

Aldren’s gaze moved between you and the man he had placed in your shadow. “Sir Jack will inspect your chambers and the eastern approaches before the next bell.”

You turned toward your father. “Now?”

Jack answered before Aldren could. “Yes, Your Highness.”

You turned to him. His face gave nothing away. Of course, it did not.

“You have only just arrived,” you said.

Jack met your eyes. “Yes.”

You narrowed yours. “And you intend to begin by entering my rooms.”

Jack’s jaw shifted once. Marek looked down. Aldren closed his eyes briefly, as if asking patience from every god who had ever ignored him.

Jack said, very evenly, “I intend to begin by inspecting your exits.”

Something about the correction should not have warmed your face. It did. You hated him for that, too.

“How reassuring,” you said.

Jack inclined his head. “It is meant to be.”

You studied him. The broad set of his shoulders. The ash still clinging to one sleeve. The scar through his brow. The silver in his hair. The bare hand still ungloved at his side, fingers relaxed now, but ready. Always ready, you thought.

Vaela shifted somewhere outside. You felt the faintest pulse of interest through the bond. Not warmth. Not welcome. Assessment. As if the ancient thing bound to your soul had finally found one man in the chamber worth watching.

You drew a slow breath. “Very well,” you said. “Inspect my exits, Sir Jack.”

Jack bowed his head. “Your Highness.”

You turned toward the council chamber doors. For most of your life, guards had followed you through Crownreach Palace. Their boots had sounded behind you in corridors, outside chapels, across terraces, beside gardens where you had not been alone since childhood. You knew the weight of being watched. You knew the shape of being protected. But when Jack Abbot fell into step behind you, not too close, not too far, something in the air changed. Not because he crowded you. 

Because somehow, he knew exactly how far away to stay.

The corridor outside the High Council chamber was colder than it had any right to be. Crownreach Palace had always held its chill well. Stone kept memory better than warmth, and this wing of the palace had been built from pale northern marble veined with silver. Sunlight spilled through the arched windows, bright across the floor, but it did little to soften the air. You walked through it anyway, spine straight, hands loose at your sides, every inch of you arranged into the shape of a princess who had not just had her life rearranged in front of half the realm’s most dangerous men. Behind you, Jack Abbot followed. Not too close. Never too far.

That irritated you more than it should have.

You had expected him to crowd you. To loom. To make his new authority known with the weight of his boots and the angle of his shoulders. Instead, he moved like a shadow that understood doors. At your chambers, the guards outside straightened.

Jack looked at the first one. “Name.”

The guard swallowed. “Brennan, sir.”

Jack’s gaze moved over him once. “Rotation?”

Brennan clasped his hands behind his back. “Second bell to fourth, sir.”

Jack glanced toward the second guard. “Who relieves him?”

The woman lifted her chin. “Darron and me, sir. Elise.”

Jack nodded once. “You and Brennan remain until Marek sends replacements. No one enters without Her Highness’s leave or mine.”

Elise bowed. “Yes, sir.”

You glanced at Jack. “Mine or yours?”

Jack opened the door and stepped aside. “Yours first.”

That should not have pleased you. You entered your sitting room before your face could betray you. Inside, Minka stood near the hearth with a tray of untouched tea. Her eyes widened the moment she saw Jack behind you. Then her cheeks went pink. Nessa, who usually managed your bath linens and riding leathers, paused beside the inner door with a stack of fresh cloth folded over one arm. Her gaze moved from Jack to Minka, and her mouth curved before she politely pressed it flat again. Elowen, older than your other attendants and far better at hiding what she noticed, stood near the writing desk with a folded shawl in her hands.

You looked at them, and the tightness in your chest eased by a fraction. “Elowen. Minka. Nessa.”

Elowen’s gaze moved once to Jack before returning to you. “Your Highness.”

Minka dipped into a quick curtsy. “Your Highness.” Her voice came out softer than usual.

Nessa lowered her head. “Your Highness.”

Jack’s attention sharpened at the names. You felt it. 

You looked at him. “Is knowing the names of the women who dress me also a security concern?”

Jack’s eyes remained on the room. “It is useful.”

Elowen’s brows lifted slightly. Minka looked at the floor as if it had become deeply interesting. Nessa looked at Minka as if the floor had not been interesting at all until Jack entered the room.

You folded your arms. “Useful.”

Jack looked at Elowen first. “How long have you served Her Highness?”

Elowen’s spine straightened. “Since she was eleven, sir.”

Jack nodded once, then looked toward Minka. “And you?”

Minka lifted her eyes too quickly. Jack’s expression softened by the smallest degree. Not a smile, exactly. Close enough to make Minka’s blush deepen.

Minka swallowed. “Two years, sir.”

Jack inclined his head. “Thank you, Minka.”

Minka nearly forgot the tea tray in her hands. Nessa’s mouth twitched. You looked at Jack. Jack looked back at you with perfect innocence. Infuriating man.

Jack turned to Nessa. “And you?”

Nessa adjusted the linens in her arms. “Four years, sir. I attend Her Highness’s baths and riding changes.”

Jack’s gaze did not flicker at the word baths. “No one outside these rooms is to enter with garments, linens, water, food, or correspondence until I have reviewed the access list.”

Elowen’s mouth tightened. “Sir Jack, Her Highness’s household has its own order.”

Jack looked back at her. “Good. Write it down for me.”

You blinked. Elowen did too.

Jack continued, “Names. Duties. Hours. Who enters which rooms and why. I will not replace women Her Highness trusts unless I am given cause.”

Something in Elowen’s expression shifted. Not approval. But consideration. You hated that Jack had earned even that much.

You turned away from him. “You may go for now. All of you.”

Elowen looked to you, not Jack. “Your Highness?”

You softened your voice. “I am all right.”

Minka’s gaze flicked toward the bandage hidden beneath your gown. “Should I bring fresh tea later, Your Highness?”

You nodded. “Please. And eat something before you do. You look pale.”

Nessa murmured, “She has been pale since Sir Jack entered, Your Highness.”

Minka’s eyes went wide. “Nessa.”

Elowen gave Nessa a look. “Enough.”

Nessa lowered her eyes with entirely false innocence. “Yes, Elowen.”

Jack turned his face toward the balcony doors. It was the closest thing to mercy he had offered anyone since entering your chambers. You stared at Nessa until her mouth stopped twitching.

Then you looked back at Minka. “Eat something.”

Minka’s cheeks remained bright. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Nessa looked toward the bathing chamber, then back to you. “Should I prepare the afternoon bath?”

You glanced at Jack before you could stop yourself. Jack continued studying the balcony doors as if they had become the only thing in the room worth knowing.

You faced Nessa again. “Not yet.”

Nessa curtsied. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Elowen guided the younger women toward the door with a small motion of her hand. Before she left, she looked at Jack. Elowen’s voice stayed perfectly even. “Sir Jack.”

Jack inclined his head. “Elowen.”

Minka curtsied again, far too quickly. “Sir Jack.”

Jack’s voice was gentle. “Minka.”

Minka fled. Nessa followed her with a look of profound entertainment. Elowen paused at the door and gave you the smallest look. These young women, it seemed to say. Then her gaze flicked once toward Jack. You narrowed your eyes at her. Elowen’s expression did not change.

The door closed behind them.

Your private chambers seemed to grow quieter at once. Jack did not move for a moment. Then his gaze went to the balcony doors, the servant entrance, the inner bedchamber, the bathing chamber, and finally the folded maps half-hidden beneath a book of trade law on your desk. He saw all of it.

You folded your arms. “Do you intend to interrogate my curtains?”

Jack checked the balcony latch. “If they begin letting assassins through, yes.”

You hated the laugh that tried to rise in your throat. You swallowed it.

Jack tested the frame. “This lock is decorative.”

You watched his hands on the latch. “It locks.”

Jack looked at the metal. “It suggests locking.”

You narrowed your eyes at his back. “You have a gift for comfort.”

Jack kept his attention on the balcony. “No. I have a gift for noticing how people die.”

The air changed. You looked away first.

Jack moved to the servant's entrance. “Who uses this?”

You kept your voice even. “Elowen, Minka, Nessa, and occasionally Tovan when Vaela’s saddle needs adjusting from the terrace side.”

Jack turned his head. “Tovan enters your private chambers?”

You gave him a look. “Only as far as the terrace doors, and only because Vaela dislikes waiting.”

Jack absorbed that. “Vaela seems to dislike many things.”

You felt the faintest pulse beneath your ribs. Warm. Dry. Anciently offended.

You almost smiled. “Yes. She does.”

Jack looked back toward the bathing chamber door. Your skin warmed before he said a word. Jack’s expression did not change. “Who has access when you bathe?”

You lifted your chin. “Nessa and Elowen. Minka, if I need something fetched. Two water carriers bring the filled pails to the outer door and leave them there.”

Jack kept his gaze on the latch. “Always the same carriers?”

You stared at him. “You intend to inspect my bathwater now?”

Jack did not look at you. “I intend to know who can reach you when you have no blade within arm’s length.”

The answer landed too cleanly to argue with. That irritated you, too. Vaela stirred beneath your ribs. Not angry now. Attentive.

Jack moved toward the tapestry along the far wall. “This covers the old guard passage?”

You looked at the embroidered scene: the first Avelor king kneeling beside the Silvermere, one hand lifted toward a dragon made of gold thread. “It has not been used in years.”

Jack pulled the tapestry aside. “That is rarely the same as unusable.”

Behind the fabric, a narrow door sat half-hidden in the stone. Jack tested the handle. It opened with a groan of old iron and colder air. You stepped closer despite yourself. Beyond the door, a dim passage stretched between the walls, narrow enough that Jack’s shoulders nearly brushed both sides when he leaned in.

He looked back at you. “This leads to the captain’s room.”

You held his gaze. “You truly mean to sleep there.”

Jack answered quietly. “Yes.”

You folded your hands together before they could betray you. “Lightly, I assume.”

Jack’s mouth almost moved. “Very.”

You exhaled once. “That was not the reassurance you think it was.”

Jack released the door. “It was not meant to reassure you. It was meant to tell you the truth.”

You studied him in the pale light. “That is your habit, then?”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “When I can afford it.”

Your voice lowered. “And when you cannot?”

Jack did not look away. “I try to make the lie useful.”

That should have sounded worse than it did. You stepped away from the passage. “I have been watched my entire life, Sir Jack. I also know the difference between protection and possession.”

Jack let the tapestry fall back into place. “Good.”

Your brows lifted. “Good?”

Jack faced you. “Then you’ll know if I cross the line.”

You held his stare. “And if you do?”

Jack’s answer came without hesitation. “Tell me.”

You laughed softly, without humor. “And you’ll listen?”

Jack’s gaze did not move from yours. “I swore to abide you.”

You tipped your chin up. “Men swear many things in public.”

Something in his expression stilled.

Then Jack said, low and even, “Then test me in private.”

The room went quiet. Not empty, quiet. Not safe, quiet. The kind of quiet that had a pulse. Vaela’s attention sharpened beneath your ribs, a sudden gold-edged pressure that made your next breath feel too warm. Jack seemed to realize the shape his words had taken a moment after they left his mouth. His jaw tightened. Yours did too. You looked away first, furious that you had to. Jack turned toward your desk as if the maps had personally saved him.

His gaze caught on the folded reports. “Graymere.”

You followed his eyes. “Yes.”

Jack stepped closer to the desk but did not touch the papers. “Wrenford crossing. Western stores. Veyre toll routes.”

You looked at the reports. “You read quickly.”

Jack kept his attention on the map. “I recognize roads.”

You glanced at him. “Most men in that council recognize borders. They still manage to forget the people living inside them.”

Jack looked at you then. For once, he had no immediate answer. You lifted one shoulder, and the healing cut beneath your ribs pulled hard enough to make your breath catch. Jack noticed. His eyes dropped to your side.

You straightened before he could speak. “Do not.”

Jack’s gaze returned to your face. “I wasn’t going to.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You were.”

Jack held your stare. “I was going to ask how deep the wound was.”

You gave him a flat look. “That is not better.”

Jack’s voice stayed calm. “No. But it is relevant.”

You held his stare. He did not soften. He did not look away either.

Finally, Jack turned back to the maps. “These should be copied and kept somewhere secure.”

You blinked. “You are not going to tell me I should not have them?”

Jack looked at the notes again. “No.”

You waited. “Why?”

Jack’s fingers rested near the edge of the desk, close to your ink-stained notes but not touching them. “Because ignorance is not safer.”

Something in your chest shifted again. You were beginning to dislike that feeling.

Jack looked from the maps to you. “Lock the drawer.”

You stared at him. That was all. Not a warning. Not a lecture. Not a demand that you hand over your reports and let wiser men decide what you were allowed to know. Lock the drawer.

“I want to see Vaela,” you said.

Jack’s gaze moved from the closed door to you. “Then we go to Vaela.”

You hated the steadiness of that answer. You hated more that some part of you had expected resistance.

You crossed the room toward the terrace doors. “You are not going to tell me I should rest?”

Jack followed at a careful distance. “Should you?”

You set your hand on the latch and looked back at him. “That is not an answer.”

Jack’s mouth did not move, but something in his eyes almost did. “It is if you already know yours.”

You opened the doors before he could say anything else. The afternoon air met you at once, cool from Silvermere and sharp with the mineral scent of sun-warmed stone. It carried ash, leather, lake wind, and the faint copper-sweet trace of dragonfire. The tightness beneath your ribs eased before you meant to let it.

Jack noticed. He said nothing.

That, somehow, made it worse. The eastern terrace stretched wide beyond your chambers, built into the palace’s outer face with enough space for a Crownfire dragon to land, turn, and launch without scraping the carved balustrades. Beyond it, Crownreach fell away in green terraces and silver roofs until the city met the lake.

Vaela waited near the far edge. She was not pacing. She never paced. Your dragon stood as if the terrace had been built for the sole purpose of holding her, dark emerald scales catching the afternoon light in shifting flashes of green and black. Her horns swept back from her head like a crown grown from shadowed bone, and her gold eyes fixed on you the moment you stepped outside.

The bond opened. Heat moved under your breastbone. Recognition. Possession. Relief, though Vaela would have turned the palace to glass before admitting anything so vulnerable. You crossed the terrace before you remembered Jack was behind you. Vaela lowered her head, not in submission. She lowered it because she allowed you near. You pressed your palm to the smooth plane between her eye and jaw, and the breath you had been holding since the council chamber finally left you.

“There you are,” you murmured.

Vaela exhaled through her nose, warm enough to stir your hair back from your face. The bond pressed close around you. Gold heat. Old anger. The remembered flash of council voices, Cassius’s polished smile, Oren Veyre’s careful hands folded on the table.

You closed your eyes. “I know.”

Vaela’s talons shifted against the stone.

You opened your eyes again. “No burning anyone today.”

Behind you, Jack went very still.

You looked over your shoulder. “That was not for you.”

Jack’s gaze remained on Vaela. “Comforting.”

You almost smiled. Almost. Vaela’s attention moved past you and settled on him. The change in the bond was immediate. Cooler. Sharper. Assessing.

Jack stopped several paces away without being asked. He did not reach for his sword. He did not bow too deeply. He did not do what most men did with Vaela, which was either step back in fear or step forward with the arrogant hope that old magic could be impressed by posture.

He simply stood still and let her look at him.

Vaela lowered her head another fraction, bringing one molten-gold eye level with his face. Jack held her gaze. The air tightened. You felt Vaela’s judgment move through you with the slow patience of a blade deciding whether it needed to be drawn. Not welcome. Not threat.

Evaluation.

You watched Jack’s hands. They remained open at his sides. Vaela breathed once. Smoke curled thin and dark from her nostrils, drifting across the stones between them. Jack did not move. Something in the bond shifted. Not approval. Not yet. But you felt, with sudden and inconvenient certainty, that Vaela had expected to dislike him more.

Jack glanced at you. “Something amusing, Your Highness?”

You faced Vaela again before your mouth could betray you. “No.”

Jack’s voice stayed even. “No?”

You stroked your thumb along one emerald scale. “She is only deciding whether you are tolerable.”

Jack looked back at Vaela. “And?”

Vaela’s eye narrowed. You pressed your lips together. “Unclear.”

A sound came from near the covered archway leading to the lower aerie steps. It might have been a cough. It was not a cough. Tovan stood beside a low stone table with a basket hooked over one arm and amusement tucked very poorly behind his eyes.

“Tovan,” you said, grateful for the interruption.

Tovan bowed his head. “Your Highness.”

Jack inclined his head once. “Tovan.”

Tovan looked from Jack to Vaela, then back again. “Sir Jack.”

You looked between them. “You know each other.”

Tovan set the basket on the stone table. “Most men who command dragons learn who keeps them fed, saddled, and less inclined to eat the wrong person.”

Jack’s gaze moved briefly to the basket. “A lesson too few men retain.”

Tovan’s mouth twitched. “He remembers me fondly.”

Jack looked at him. “Bramor remembers your left sleeve.”

Tovan lifted his left arm, where the cuff sat shorter than fashion required. “A misunderstanding.”

You turned toward Jack. “Your dragon ate his sleeve?”

Jack’s face remained unreadable. “He disliked the stitching.”

Tovan nodded solemnly. “A known critic of embroidery.”

Vaela’s attention flicked toward Tovan with clear impatience.

Tovan lifted both hands. “Yes, yes. I brought them.”

He reached into the basket and drew out a strip of ironroot, dark red and fibrous, cut into neat lengths the way Vaela preferred. Your chest softened.

“You remembered,” you said.

Tovan gave you a look as if the idea of forgetting offended him. “You give her one after council sessions.”

Jack’s attention moved to you. You felt it like a touch. You ignored him and held out the ironroot. Vaela accepted it from your palm with imperial delicacy, crushing it once between her teeth before swallowing. 

Tovan watched her with satisfaction. “Her stores were checked this morning. No rot in the western sacks, no damp in the inner bins.”

Jack looked at Tovan. “Who has access?”

“Myself,” Tovan said. “Two senior handlers, four lower aerie hands, the feed clerk, and whoever I assign to water and ash sweep under watch. Kael and Liora check saddle security when Her Highness flies, but they are riders, not stable hands.” 

Jack’s expression sharpened. “Names.”

Tovan reached into his tunic and produced a folded scrap of parchment. “Already written.”

Jack looked at him.

Tovan’s expression did not change. “You were always going to ask.”

Jack took the parchment. “Good.”

Tovan glanced at you. “He says that when he means thank you.”

Jack did not look up. “I say thank you when I mean thank you.”

Tovan’s brows lifted. “There. Growth.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Jack folded the parchment and tucked it away. “Where is Bramor?”

Tovan nodded toward the far end of the terrace. You followed the motion. At first, you thought the shadow beneath the eastern arch belonged to the palace itself.

Then the shadow breathed.

A black-bronze dragon lay stretched along the sun-warmed stones, massive enough that the terrace seemed suddenly smaller for having to hold him. Scars broke the dark plates of his hide in pale, jagged seams. One horn bore an old crack near its base. His wings were folded tight, but even folded, they looked like things made to blot out fields.

Bramor.

War dragon. Siege-breaker. The kind of creature soldiers lowered their voices to discuss because speaking too boldly of death felt like inviting it to turn its head. He turned his head now. One ember-dark eye opened and fixed on you. Vaela did not move. That was what you noticed first. Your dragon did not bristle. She did not step between you and him. She watched Bramor with cool familiarity, as though the ancient war beast was an unfortunate but tolerated fixture of the stonework. Jack, however, shifted half a step closer to you. Not enough to block you. Enough to reach you. You noticed. So did Vaela. So did Bramor.

You looked at Jack. “May I greet him?”

Jack did not answer at once. His gaze moved to Bramor, and something wordless passed between rider and dragon, too old and private for anyone else to read. Bramor watched you. Still, Alert. 

Jack’s shoulders eased by a fraction. “You may.”

You stepped forward slowly. Jack moved with you, close enough to intervene and far enough not to insult either dragon. You stopped several paces from Bramor and lowered your hand at your side, palm visible but not offered.

“I will not touch him unless he permits it,” you said.

Jack’s gaze flicked to you. Something in his expression changed. Not softness. Not surprise, exactly. Recognition, perhaps. Bramor’s enormous head lowered. The motion was slow enough to make the terrace feel silent around it. You held still. Warm breath rolled over your hand, dry and faintly smoky.

“Hello, Bramor,” you said.

The dragon’s eye narrowed. Not in threat. In focus. Jack felt the bond shift. You saw it in the sudden stillness of his face, though you did not know what Bramor had given him. Bramor lowered his head another inch. You lifted your hand only when his snout came close enough to invite it, and you rested your fingertips against the hard ridge above his nostril. His scales were warmer than Vaela’s. Rougher. Scarred in places where old wounds had healed thick and uneven. You touched him carefully. Not like a weapon. Not like a monster. Like something alive.

Bramor exhaled.

The sound rolled low through the terrace stones. Tovan went very quiet. Jack stared at his dragon.

You glanced back at him. “Is this all right?”

Jack’s eyes remained on Bramor. “Apparently.”

You looked at Bramor again. “Apparently?”

Jack’s mouth flattened. “He has opinions.”

Tovan murmured, “Usually louder ones.”

Bramor’s eye shifted toward Tovan.

Tovan immediately looked into the basket. “Ironroot, Your Highness?”

You withdrew your hand from Bramor slowly and returned to Vaela’s side. Bramor’s attention followed the basket. The movement was slight. You noticed it anyway. Jack noticed you noticing.

You lifted your brows. “May I give him one?”

Jack hesitated. It was the first true hesitation you had seen from him. Not uncertainty in the face of council politics. Not discomfort in your chambers. This was practical. Immediate. Born from knowing exactly what Bramor was.

Jack looked from the ironroot to your hand. “People have lost fingers offering Bramor less.”

Tovan’s head tilted. “Only once.”

Jack did not look at him. “Twice.”

Tovan considered that. “The second man was warned.”

You kept the ironroot in your palm. “Is that a no?”

Jack’s gaze returned to Bramor. Bramor stared at the ironroot with an intensity that did very little for his dignity.

Jack said, “That is a warning.”

You looked at the black-bronze dragon, then back at Jack. “Then warn me properly.”

Jack stepped closer. Not close enough to touch you. Close enough that his voice dropped between you like something meant only for your ears.

“Flat palm,” Jack said. “Fingers together. Do not curl them. Do not pull back when he lowers his head.”

You followed each instruction exactly. Jack’s attention moved over your hand, checking. Then his eyes lifted to your face. You hated that your pulse noticed.

You held your palm steady. “Like this?”

Jack’s voice lowered. “Yes.”

Bramor moved. Jack’s hand flexed once at his side. Steel would have done nothing if Bramor truly meant harm, but the instinct was there anyway. Protect. Intervene. Put himself between teeth and skin. Bramor lowered his scarred head to your palm. His mouth opened. His teeth closed around the strip of ironroot. Delicately. Absurdly delicately. He did not so much as brush your skin. The ironroot vanished between his teeth with a sharp crack. Jack went still.

You looked up at him. “Was that acceptable?”

Bramor chewed once. Then his massive head lowered again, and he nudged your palm with the blunt ridge of his snout. Not hard. Not demanding. Almost careful.

Your surprise softened into delight before you could stop it. “Oh.”

Jack stared at his dragon. Bramor nudged your hand again. Through the bond came something Jack did not expect. Not hunger. Not warning. Not the iron-hard focus Bramor carried into battle. Warmth struck behind Jack’s ribs with enough force to steal half a breath. Satisfaction. The memory of your hand, steady and gentle. The shape of your voice around Bramor’s name.

A deep, ancient certainty that had nothing to do with ironroot at all.

Jack’s fingers flexed again. Bramor did not know court law. He did not care for vows spoken under painted ceilings, bloodlines recorded by trembling scribes, or the fine architecture of restraint. Bramor knew fire. Fear. Loyalty. The difference between a hand that took and a hand that offered. And apparently, with the full force of his inconvenient soul, Bramor knew you. Jack looked at his dragon as if Bramor had just betrayed twelve years of military discipline for a strip of ironroot and a kind voice.

“Bramor,” Jack said, low.

Bramor ignored him. That was also new.

You glanced at Jack. “Is he asking for more?”

Jack looked at the ancient war dragon who had once torn the roof from a siege tower and was now presenting his scarred jaw to you like a cat in the sun.

“No,” Jack said.

Bramor rumbled.

Jack’s jaw tightened. “He is asking for that.”

You followed Jack’s gaze to the place beneath Bramor’s jaw, where scarred scales overlapped in rough bronze-black ridges.

You smiled. “May I?”

Jack should have said no. He knew that. He had no reason to know it, but he knew it anyway.

Instead, he said, “Carefully.”

You lifted your hand beneath Bramor’s jaw and scratched along the rough edge of a scarred scale. Bramor’s eyes slid half-closed. The rumble that moved through him shook dust from the terrace stones. Tovan made another sound that was absolutely not a cough. Vaela’s attention brushed through you, cool and gold-edged. Judgment. Satisfaction. Perhaps, if a dragon could be smug, that too.

You looked toward Vaela. “Do not be rude.”

Jack’s eyes moved to you. “Was that to me?”

You kept scratching beneath Bramor’s jaw. “No.”

Bramor leaned into your hand. Jack stared.

“He does not do this,” Jack said.

You looked down at the enormous head resting close enough to your hand to ask without words. “He seems to.”

Tovan folded his arms. “I have never seen him do this.”

Jack’s gaze cut to him. “Helpful.”

Tovan’s expression remained bland. “I thought so.”

Bramor nudged your hand again. You laughed softly and gave him another careful scratch. The sound of it moved across the terrace, small and unguarded. Jack looked at you before he could stop himself. The sun had caught in your hair. Your wound still troubled the line of your breathing, and your face was too pale from council rooms and blood loss and stubbornness, but your hand was gentle beneath a war dragon’s jaw. Gentle, not foolish. Kind, not weak.

Bramor felt it too.

The bond surged again. Warm. Certain. Fierce enough now that Jack almost stepped back from it. Not command. Not request. Recognition. A claim older than language and more dangerous than either of you understood.

Jack swallowed once.

 Vaela watched him over your shoulder. Her golden eyes were steady. Assessing. The cool pressure of her attention seemed to say she had seen exactly where his gaze had gone and had not yet decided what to do about it. Jack looked away from you and back to Bramor. The traitorous beast looked blissful.

“Enough,” Jack said.

Bramor’s eyes did not open.

You looked at Jack. “Is that for him or for you?”

Tovan turned away sharply. Jack’s gaze returned to you. For one breath, the terrace seemed to narrow around the space between you.

Jack answered, “Him.”

Your mouth curved as if you did not believe him. Vaela exhaled smoke. Bramor rumbled again, lower this time, pleased past all dignity. Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them, he found Bramor still leaning into your hand. Still sending warmth through the bond. Still certain.

Jack had known Bramor’s loyalty in battle. He had known his rage, his discipline, his grief, his stubborn refusal to fall from the sky even when stormfire burned black across his wings. He had never known this. He had never stood on a royal terrace and watched his war dragon choose softness. You scratched once more beneath Bramor’s jaw, then slowly lowered your hand.

Bramor followed it.

Jack stared at him. “You are not helping.”

You glanced up. “Was that to me?”

Jack held Bramor’s gaze. “No.”

Your smile widened.

Tovan reached into the basket and held out another strip of ironroot toward you. “For Vaela, Your Highness.”

You took it from him. “Thank you, Tovan.”

Tovan’s eyes flicked toward Bramor. “I will bring something else next time.”

Jack turned his head slowly. “Next time?”

Tovan looked perfectly innocent. “Ironroot is Vaela’s preference. Bramor has his own.”

Bramor’s eyes opened. Jack felt the interest flare through the bond. Immediate. Shameless.

You looked at Bramor, then at Tovan. “He does?”

Tovan nodded. “He does.”

Jack said, “Tovan.”

Tovan ignored him with the ease of long practice. “I will see that it is prepared.”

You gave Vaela her ironroot, but your eyes flicked once more to Bramor. “Then I will thank him properly when I know what he likes best.”

Bramor’s rumble deepened. Jack looked at his dragon. Bramor looked back with no remorse at all. 

Vaela’s attention warmed behind your ribs. Not laughter. Not quite. But something old and satisfied, watching two armed men, one ancient war dragon, and one princess all pretend something important had not just happened.

Jack’s voice came dry and low. “This has become a very poorly disciplined terrace.”

Tovan nodded. “Dragons are known for respecting rules.”

Jack looked at Bramor, who was still angled toward your hand as if waiting for the universe to correct itself and return your touch to him. Vaela’s tail curved along the stone behind you, elegant and possessive. Bramor lowered his massive head near your feet, not touching, only near. Jack watched him. Then he watched you. For the first time since he had entered the council chamber, Sir Jack Abbot looked as if he did not know what came next.

Jack walked you back through the terrace doors in silence. Not the same silence as before. Before, he had been unreadable because he meant to be. Controlled. Measuring exits, locks, servants’ doors, and weak points as if every room had already confessed its failures to him. Now, he was quiet because Bramor had unsettled him. You should not have enjoyed that. You did anyway.

Behind you, Vaela settled along the terrace stones with a slow scrape of talons and scale, her satisfaction moving through the bond like a curl of gold smoke. You did not look back at her. You did not need to. She was pleased with herself. That was rarely good for anyone.

Bramor rumbled once more before the doors closed, low and deep enough that the glass trembled faintly in its frame. Jack’s jaw tightened.

You glanced at him. “He is very expressive.”

Jack shut the terrace doors with more care than necessary. “He is usually more disciplined.”

You moved farther into the sitting room, fighting the urge to smile. “Perhaps he was bribed.”

Jack turned the latch and tested it once. “With ironroot?”

You looked back at him. “And manners, apparently.”

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For one breath, his expression shifted. Not a smile. Not quite. But something close enough to make your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the wound beneath your ribs. Then he looked away first. You hated that you noticed. You hated that you liked noticing.

Jack crossed to the balcony-side window and checked the latch again. “Tovan will need to revise the feed access list.”

You folded your arms. “Because your dragon has developed a preference for being hand-fed by princesses?”

Jack glanced at you. “Because Bramor’s attention has changed.”

Your amusement faded by a fraction. “Changed how?”

Jack did not answer immediately. He looked toward the terrace as if the door were not thick enough to keep the dragon’s certainty from reaching him.

“Clearly,” Jack said at last.

You studied the side of his face. “That is not an answer.”

Jack’s mouth flattened. “No.”

You waited. Jack turned from the window. “Bramor does not offer softness to strangers.”

The words landed more carefully than you expected. You looked down at your hand, the same hand that had rested beneath Bramor’s scarred jaw. You could still feel the rough warmth of his scales against your palm.

“He did not feel like a stranger,” you said.

Jack went still. You regretted the words as soon as they left your mouth. Not because they were untrue. Because they were.

Jack’s gaze stayed on you, steady and intent. “No?”

You closed your fingers against your palm. “No.”

The sitting room felt too quiet. Too small after the open terrace. Too full of things neither of you had permission to say.

Jack looked away again, this time toward the inner door. “Then he knew something before I did.”

You searched his face. “What does that mean?”

Jack’s attention returned to you. For a moment, you thought he might answer plainly. Then his shoulders settled back into discipline.

“It means,” Jack said, “that I will account for it.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Of course you will.”

Jack’s brows drew faintly. “That displeases you?”

You looked toward the writing desk, where Elowen’s shawl still lay neatly folded. “Everything becomes a security concern with you.”

Jack’s voice stayed even. “Not everything.”

You looked back at him. “No?”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “Some things are only important.”

Something warm and dangerous moved beneath your ribs. Vaela stirred through the bond, sharp and interested. You ignored her. You did not do so successfully. Jack’s gaze flicked toward the terrace doors, as if he could somehow feel the dragon’s attention through the stone and glass. Perhaps he could.

You cleared your throat. “Were you frightened of her?”

Jack looked at you. “Vaela?”

You nodded once. “Most men are.”

Jack’s answer came without hesitation. “No.”

You studied him. He did not sound proud of it. He did not sound like a man making himself larger for the sake of being believed. He sounded as if he had simply been asked whether the sky was blue and saw no use in dressing the truth.

You asked, “Why not?”

Jack looked toward the terrace again. “She did not threaten me.”

You almost laughed. “She considered it.”

Jack’s mouth moved by a fraction. “I noticed.”

You stepped closer without meaning to. “And that did not frighten you?”

Jack’s gaze returned to yours. “It made me respectful.”

The answer was so simple that it stripped something raw inside you. Respectful. Not afraid. Not enthralled. Not suspicious. Respectful.

You looked toward the terrace doors, where Vaela’s dark green shape moved faintly beyond the glass. “Most men call that fear.”

Jack’s voice softened by the smallest degree. “Most men need better words.”

You did not know what to do with him when he said things like that. It would have been easier if he had been arrogant. It would have been easier if he had treated Vaela as a threat to manage or a weapon to wield or a crown symbol to display under prettier lighting. It would have been easier if he had looked at your dragon and seen only danger. Instead, he stood still and let her judge him. Instead, he had waited. Instead, he had not reached for his sword. You hated the gratitude that tried to rise in you. You hated more that it felt deserved.

“You understand bonds,” you said.

Jack’s expression changed again. A shuttered thing. Old, perhaps. Or wounded. “I understand mine,” Jack said.

You tilted your head. “Only yours?”

Jack’s eyes moved briefly to the bandage hidden beneath your gown, then back to your face. “Enough to know yours is not ornamental.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. The words struck too close to council chambers. To polished men and careful arguments. To all the ways they had spoken of Vaela as if she were a problem of optics, succession, and public confidence. You turned away first. Jack did not follow. That was what undid you a little. He did not step closer when you needed space. He did not fill the silence because it made him uncomfortable. He simply let you stand inside your own chambers and decide whether to speak.

You touched the back of the nearest chair. “The council thinks she unsettles people.”

Jack said, “She does.”

You looked back sharply.

Jack held your gaze. “That does not make them right.”

Your fingers tightened on the chair.

Jack continued, “Power unsettles people most when they cannot control it.”

The words moved through you with a strange, aching precision. You wondered if he knew how cleanly he had cut. You wondered if he had meant to. You suspected he had.

You turned back toward the room. “And you?”

Jack’s eyes did not leave you. “Me?”

You kept your voice steady. “Do I unsettle you, Sir Jack?”

Silence followed. Not empty. Not safe. Jack looked at you as if every answer available to him was dangerous. Then he said, “Yes.”

Your pulse jumped. Jack’s jaw tightened, as if he had not meant to give you the word so plainly. You should have left it there. You did not.

You lifted your chin. “Because of Vaela?”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “No,” he said.

The room changed. Or perhaps you did. For a moment, there was no council. No assassination attempt. No old guard passage behind the wall. No Crownfire dragon beyond the terrace doors, watching through gold patience. There was only Jack Abbot standing in your sitting room, sworn to your protection, far too close and nowhere near close enough. Vaela pressed through the bond. Cool. Interested. Judgemental.

You swallowed once. “That sounds like the sort of thing a man says before remembering himself.”

Jack’s expression closed by degrees. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Yes,” Jack said.

The honesty should have made it easier. It did not.

You looked away. “Then perhaps you should.”

Jack inclined his head. “Your Highness.”

There it was again. Distance restored with two words and a title. You should have been relieved. You were not.

Jack turned toward the writing desk, where he had left the list Elowen would complete by morning. “I will have Marek place the first watch outside the outer corridor before sunset.”

You let him change the subject for now. “And the old guard passage?” you asked.

Jack looked toward the hidden panel. “I will inspect it myself before nightfall.”

You folded your arms. “Alone?”

Jack’s gaze returned to you. “With Tovan, if the lower hinge route is still open.”

You frowned. “Tovan knows the old passage?”

Jack said, “Tovan knows most things that are inconvenient for other people to forget.”

You could not argue with that. Jack moved toward the inner door, then stopped before opening it.

He looked back at you. “I will send Elowen back first.”

You lifted your brows. “You are announcing my own attendants to me now?”

Jack’s face remained composed. “I am asking whether you want them.”

That quieted you. He was not ordering. He was not assuming. He was asking. You looked at the empty room, at the tea tray Minka had nearly forgotten, at the bath linens Nessa had abandoned, at Elowen’s folded shawl on the desk. You were suddenly tired. Not weak. Not fragile.

Tired.

Your wound ached beneath your ribs. Your head felt full of council voices and dragonfire and the low, impossible rumble Bramor had made beneath your hand.

“Yes,” you said. “Elowen first.”

Jack nodded once. “Then Elowen first.”

You watched him reach for the door. A thought caught in your chest before he could open it.

“Sir Jack.”

He stopped immediately. “Your Highness?”

You drew yourself straighter. “If I object to one of your changes, what happens?”

Jack turned fully back to you. “You tell me.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And then?”

Jack said, “Then we discuss it.”

You stared at him. The answer was too clean. Too simple. Too unlike the men downstairs who wrapped cages in velvet and called them policy.

“You make that sound easy,” you said.

Jack’s eyes did not soften, but his voice did. “It rarely is.”

You studied him. The dark riding leathers. The silver at his temples. The scarred hands held still at his sides. The sword he had not touched when Vaela judged him. The man who had knelt before you in a council chamber and sworn to abide you until death released him from service.

“And if discussion does not change your mind?” you asked.

Jack answered, “Then I'll tell you why.”

You lifted your chin. “And if it does change your mind?”

Jack held your gaze. “Then I change it.”

You did not speak. Jack did not look away.

Your voice came quieter when you found it. “Because you swore to abide me?”

Jack’s answer was immediate. “Because I meant it.”

The words settled between you. No flourish. No performance. No velvet. You could distrust a speech. You knew how. You had been raised inside speeches. You did not know what to do with a man who made his vow sound like a fact.

Jack opened the door. Elowen stood beyond it, one hand lifted as if she had been about to knock. Minka hovered several steps behind her with fresh tea and cheeks that pinked the moment she saw Jack. Nessa leaned against the corridor wall with her arms full of folded linen and an expression that said she had already guessed more than anyone had told her.

Jack stepped aside at once. “Elowen.”

Elowen’s gaze moved from Jack to you. “Your Highness?”

You nodded. “Come in.”

Elowen entered first. Minka followed, clutching the tea tray with both hands. Jack’s eyes flicked to the tray, then to Minka’s pale face.

His voice gentled. “Careful with the step.”

Minka looked down at the perfectly flat threshold as if it had personally betrayed her. “Yes, sir.”

Nessa made a small sound behind her. Elowen gave Nessa one look. Nessa immediately became very interested in the linens. You looked at Jack. Jack looked back at you with that same infuriating innocence he had worn earlier. You should not have found it charming. You absolutely did.

Jack inclined his head. “Rest, Your Highness.”

It was almost an order. Almost. But then he stepped back, leaving the choice in your hands. That was the trouble with Sir Jack Abbot, you were beginning to realize. He looked like every man sent to stand between you and your own life.

And yet, so far, he kept leaving doors open.