the blood of serpents

i think for this to work (bc of drako's 'no dragon can or even has the desire to hurt him' cheat code) the dragon would have to specifically be a VERY volatile and aggressive dragon like im thinking it's been raised in illegal dragon fighting rings (i like the idea of these being called firefights) and was taken from its mama and its den as only a baby so as a result it is NOT a normal dragon it's capacity for violence is off the charts it has never been socialised properly etc etc. i think im going to make it that the only reasons dragons are not all-powerful beings ruling over burnos is because a renowned drawback of them is that once they give submission to someone it's v much a lifelong connection then. esp bc dragons live for a very long time a human life isn't a HUGE amount of time to them, so being forced into submission to a single human for their lifetime isn't the end of the world it's just not ideal. and obviously 99% of the population would never ever even attempt to get a dragon's submission it goes wrong 9 times out of 10 and ends in a very brutal death but IF you can get a dragon to submit to you then you have an insane weapon that has no choice to be loyal to you until you die.

this probably makes it sound like World's Most Overpowered Superpower is weirdly easily accessible in burnos so it's important to note a few things:

the morriga dragons are the biggest and most powerful dragons in burnos, and they left for kiren's hook back in isha's time

no one ever in the entire history of burnos managed to make a morriga dragon submit, which is why drako is so insane

majority of burnosian dragons aren't actually Stupidly Big and they all have limited amount of firepower, different breeds have more than others. like a single person can slay a dragon if they are very skilled, and certainly a large enough military force can, and they also have their fights with the western monsters that they don't always win. so dragons ARE NOT these unbeatable weapons. again, drako is just insane

i think for this to work (bc of drako's 'no dragon can or even has the desire to hurt him' cheat code) the dragon would have to specifically be a VERY volatile and aggressive dragon like im thinking it's been raised in illegal dragon fighting rings (i like the idea of these being called firefights) and was taken from its mama and its den as only a baby so as a result it is NOT a normal dragon it's capacity for violence is off the charts it has never been socialised properly etc etc. i think im going to make it that the only reasons dragons are not all-powerful beings ruling over burnos is because a renowned drawback of them is that once they give submission to someone it's v much a lifelong connection then. esp bc dragons live for a very long time a human life isn't a HUGE amount of time to them, so being forced into submission to a single human for their lifetime isn't the end of the world it's just not ideal. and obviously 99% of the population would never ever even attempt to get a dragon's submission it goes wrong 9 times out of 10 and ends in a very brutal death but IF you can get a dragon to submit to you then you have an insane weapon that has no choice to be loyal to you until you die.

this probably makes it sound like World's Most Overpowered Superpower is weirdly easily accessible in burnos so it's important to note a few things:

the morriga dragons are the biggest and most powerful dragons in burnos, and they left for kiren's hook back in isha's time

no one ever in the entire history of burnos managed to make a morriga dragon submit, which is why drako is so insane

majority of burnosian dragons aren't actually Stupidly Big and they all have limited amount of firepower, different breeds have more than others. like a single person can slay a dragon if they are very skilled, and certainly a large enough military force can, and they also have their fights with the western monsters that they don't always win. so dragons ARE NOT these unbeatable weapons. again, drako is just insane

---

Kiva had never been a good sleeper. Her late mother would often complain about the burden it had presented, trying to rule a kingdom with a newborn who wailed and wailed and wailed all through the night. It was Harasaeon tradition to be close, their private quarters consisting not as separate wings like in many noble homes, but as one grand wing of the palace where each of their personal quarters were next door to one another. When queens had their daughters, they would raise them themselves as much as possible, with cribs placed within their bedchambers and babies clinging to them during war councils. 

Lugalia, for all the tradition she epitomised in her iron rule of the kingdom, was a cold and distant mother, just as her own had been. It was not public knowledge and Kiva did not speak to her mother in a way that would allow such an intimate view into her upbringing, but the Harasaeons had their secrets, and Hammari’s slip from sanity was one of their biggest. She had not been well, when Lugalia was born, and had worsened as Lugalia grew. 

Kiva did not think Lugalia meant to be a poor mother, not at first. She was unfamiliar with how to be one, had not received it enough to emulate, and had never had anyone to support her. Hers was a learned distance, an inherited neglect, so when Kiva was born and even as a toddler would still not sleep more than an hour at a time, let alone through the night, Lugalia had stepped quickly away from her title of mother and deeper into the taloned embrace of her title as queen. She demanded staff when Kiva was just a newborn, and Kiva had ultimately been raised by a small army of nannies and wet nurses. They had been fond of her, but it was not love to hold a princess and revere her when all she’d ever wanted was a mother.  

Still, Lugalia found it in her to complain, checking in with her daughter’s progress with the same perfunctory disinterest with which she regarded tax forms. Kiva was a bad child. Kiva was disobedient. Kiva had been born as a series of divine challenges to Lugalia. And the first, always, comments flicked over a long dinner table or as they walked briskly between rooms, was that Kiva refused to sleep. 

It had always bothered Kiva. It seemed such a tiny thing, in the list of her mother’s complaints, but this was not an issue Lugalia could claim. Not once had she gone to Kiva’s crib when she cried. Not once had she sat sleepless with her. Not once had motherhood shaken her frozen core. 

Kiva had sworn to each insomniac star in the sky that she would never be the same, that her daughter would be loved, so wholly and so shamelessly that it could never be doubted. 

Things did not quite go to plan.  

An adult in a teenager’s body, Kiva had mastered her inability to sleep, functioning well on what little she got and tempting herself into more with hard-earned tricks and habits, but after she lost Lilla, sleep evaded her as it had in childhood. The time between losing her daughter – taken, Lilla had been taken from her – and Herines being born was vague for Kiva, recollected in shards. Willem had kept her sane, but only just, and then she had been pregnant again, and terrified. 

She kept Herines in a crib in her bedchambers, barely two paces from where she slept. On his very first night, Kiva wound up pulling him closer to dangle her hand over the edge, tracing his baby soft skin in a repeated mantra that her child was here, he was right here beside her, safe. Yet every time she drifted to sleep, she would jerk awake again thinking someone had taken him. Kiva did not think she got a full night’s sleep for the entire first two years of her son’s life. If she lost Herines, then all she had in the world would be lost with him, she was certain of it. She could not survive it again. She would not. It terrified her. 

So she brushed over him with her fingers, each night memorising this beautiful miracle of a boy who never should have been born but was hers in spite of it all, stroking the tiny bump of his nose, his chubby cheeks, his already formidable mop of dark hair, and each night, he would sleep soundly beneath her touch, blissfully unaware of her exhausted promise to watch over him. 

It was so similar, as she sat beside him now, feet tucked beneath her, a gentle breeze stirring both of their hair. She pushed his behind his ear, as she had done several times now, not wanting him to be uncomfortable when he was lying so peacefully.  

Herines had been an easy baby. Almost always quiet. Easy to feed. He did not fuss when put to bed. The only time he truly cried was when Kiva stayed away, until he learned not to. It made it easier for both of them. 

She wished, desperately, that he had made himself more difficult. She remembered a little boy with a stubborn pout, demanding he be allowed more books from the library when he could barely carry the ones already in his arms. She remembered a toddler whacking his baby brother over the head with a rattle. She remembered how catastrophic his sulks could be when he truly let himself sink into them, lured back out only when Kiva bumped their foreheads and pinched his cheek and tickled his ribs, and then he would laugh and he would be so cross about it that Kiva couldn’t help but laugh too. 

Her stubborn, particular Herines. Second child. First son. Always her heir. 

He lay now on a simple blanket with his mother at his side, and Kiva brushed her fingers over his face, memorising every detail. A soft jaw. Firm cheeks. Freckles all the way to his forehead. A smaller top lip than bottom. Thick eyebrows that she smoothed out with her thumbs. 

“Dumirnai,” she whispered into the air between them. “My Herines, sweet, clever boy, you need to wake up now.” 

Lugalia's distance was learned, her neglect was inherited, and the lesson sat in Kiva’s blood. She had stepped back from Herines and now, for the first time, she felt perhaps she understood her mother. Perhaps Lugalia had not been so cold as she had been frightened. Perhaps she knew she would be terrible, and had tried to protect Kiva with her absence.  

And Kiva knew, better than anyone, how hopeless such a thing was, how terrible Lugalia had been because of her coldness, and Kiva had sat at her mother’s side and watched her die for it. 

“You are the best of us.” Kiva tucked his hair back once more, the breeze twisting its fingers through the dark strands, and held his face. Once, he had been so small that he fit in her palms. “I forgive you for all of it. I have loved you every day I have known you. Won't you wake up?” 

“Ama.” Drako’s voice was hoarse from crying, and sounded hollow now as he spoke from behind her. 

“He’s okay,” Kiva said gently. “He’s okay.” 

“Ama,” Drako choked out, “he’s dead.” 

Beneath the halo of his black hair, it was hard to make out the puddle of blood that had lazily grown around Herines’ head. She had seen it for just a moment, just as Dea had placed him down to the rock with such agonising tenderness, but it would stay in her mind until the day she died. 

Her son’s head completely smashed at the back, his scalp hanging from the exposed white bone of his skull, concaved into itself. 

Kiva made a sound like an animal, a coughed-out sob, choked and suffocated past her denial. She had not stopped crying since she sat down, and her head throbbed with it, tears spilling over her nose and past her lips until salt seemed to invade each of her senses.  

She pushed it back, giving a wobbly smile as she looked at Herines and remembered a baby in a crib, her hand forever reaching for him. 

She has met him before, of course, in fact she has technically known him for years. Prince Herines, heir to the throne. Ornate and distant and royal, known by thousands. She has even met him personally before. When she was introduced to high society and had to be presented before the Harasaeons, she kissed his hand, eyes on the ground, and a year later, he had been a scowling thundercloud behind the larger frame of his younger brother as Adeunus chastised her and her sisters for picking on the Goldester girl.

But she has never truly met Herines. Not as someone real, not as someone tangible, not as someone mortal. The Harasaeons, even to a family as prestigious as the Abalaois, have always seemed too grand to be relatable, too divine to be human, but as he stands before her now tonelessly asking for her hand before the High Council in a practised speech, a deal finalised with her father days ago and told to her only once it had already been confirmed, Casi notices smudged kohl by the king's eyes, a natural slant to his mouth, an impatient tapping of fingers on his thigh. He is as uninterested and reluctant in this marriage as she is, and it would be amusing if she wasn't so fearful of him. Harasaeons are almighty and quick-tempered. Kiva had been kind, gentle, and Herines took her throne. It would be criminal to voice that thought, of course, but even her father knows it, is delighted by it, and worries not for the character he is selling his daughter to. And for what? More power. Dynasty. Legacy for the Abalaoi name.

It all seems so stupid now. She hasn't feared someone more than she fears Herines, studying every movement he makes and ignoring every word from his mouth. It is a business deal. A trade. If she pays attention it will sicken her, and she might faint on the king's pretty marble floor, and then where would they be?

She realises she might hate him, and wonders if he considers her enough to even feel the same.

----

The first real reaction Casi gets from Herines is when her father suggests the king show her the gardens, causing a startled noise to leave Herines as he takes a half-aborted step back from her like she might bite him. The High Council departs with varying mirth towards the newly betrothed couple, and Casi finally feels some kinship with her husband-to-be, throwing a pleading look at her father. They cannot truly be alone, of course - the Head of the Queen's- King's? Guard notoriously refuses to leave his side and will act as their main chaperone until they are married - but the intention is clear and Casi's father's quick glare before he leaves is an order.

The silence left behind is painful. Lady Zayda stands at the door with an expression of stone. The council chamber is not an overly large room, but Casi finds herself stood before Herines on the far side. If they speak lowly, they will be out of earshot, and somehow knowing that makes the silence even heavier. Casi is too scared to look up from her sandals for the first few tiks, but morbid curiosity wins out, and she flicks a glance up at the king to see a strange expression on his face. He looks... human, boyish in his awkward flush, eyes flickering from the walls to the collonade behind her, as if searching for a topic of conversation. Eventually, he lands on the uninspired,

"The weather is lovely," he says, seeming to cringe at his own words. "The gardens are... also lovely."

Nothing about this is lovely, Casi decides, and her frustration and fear at the situation as a whole collide with that childish bitterness. She will be proud about this if she cannot be in control.

Casi tips her nose up, glaring at him. "The weather is lovely in the Westlands too, and the orange orchards are in bloom. It is much hotter there."

She expects his temper here, or to be dismissed. She has only ever considered this marriage as being cruel or cold, and holds her breath as she awaits the final verdict.

Casi receives neither. Herines does the oddest thing, tipping his head as if confused, face scrunching up like he has tasted something sour.

"Of course it is hotter in the west," he says condescendingly. "It is the west."

"I-..." Casi falters, completely caught off guard. "Well, yes."

It goes quiet between them again, both entirely perplexed by the other, and finally, they are saved by a knock at the door, and the king's presence is needed elsewhere. Only once he has left the room does Casi take a full breath since being paraded in here by her father.

Just as she follows after him, Casi swears she hears Lady Zayda huff to herself.

----

They meet like that three more times, each time abandoned by those around them to the tune of immature laughter, like they are all teenagers again and she and Herines are the newest couple to ogle and gossip about. Casi doesn't abhor attention like some of her more self-conscious sisters, is even fond of it more often than not, but being the soon-to-be queen consort is more than she can handle, and she finds herself fleeing to one of the throne room's many beautiful balconies during an event. She had been told it would be a small affair, a gathering of Ataveres, Abalaois and Fidaris before the king to discuss and commend the strength of their alliance, and that she could stay with her sisters, but there are more than thirty people in the throne room, and Casi's parents keep telling her off whenever she dares stray from the king's side, as if he even wants her there. It's smothering and she grips the stone of the balcony firmly to keep her grounded, taking large gulps of the cool evening air.

She hears footsteps and has to bite back a groan, but the voice that speaks surprises her.

"My apologies," Herines says, sounding just as surprised to see her, "I thought the balcony was empty."

Casi turns to face him, bowing her head in respect and trying to keep the glare from her eyes.

"I only came out for a moment of air."

"And I am likely the last person you want interupting that," Herines observes. It feels condescending again, and the overwhelming evening combined with the interuption of her one moment of peace sees Casi snapping.

"Quite," she hisses, and immediately blanches. "Your Majesty, I'm sorry, I-."

"Herines," he says quietly. There is none of the rage people whisper about. He joins her at the balcony and stares out at Kusig, a sadness in his brown eyes, an exhaustion in the lines of his face. "If we are to be married, you could at least call me by my name."

Casi stares at him in disbelief.

"My parents weren't in love," Herines says, his voice still soft, eyes still on the city, "did you know that?"

Casi hardly remembers Prince Willem, but she knows how he and Queen Kiva had regarded one another, the easy way they moved beside each other, the way he made her laugh. If that was not love to Herines, then what hope do they have? He turns and must see the confusion on her face, because the king smiles a little.

"They loved each other a lot," he explains, "but they were not in love. She always described it as having married her most beloved friend, and it worked for them perfectly. They were happy like that." His expression turns serious, smile falling. "You are smart enough to know I do not love you, and I know you do not love me, and I'm not sure if that's something either of us even wants to try and foster. Our marriage is purely political... But must we keep doing this? Avoiding one another, stuttering through painful small talk, existing as strangers? Can there not be some compromise?"

He is less demanding her and more genuinely asking if she thinks it to be possible, and that sudden surrender of power in their dynamic leaves her breathless and unblinking, staring at the King of Burnos who suddenly seems simply like a young man left alone in a palace too big, handed a war by his anscestors, and Casi realises that she has an understanding here that her father and the other counsellors, in being older, probably lack. She knows the social circles and dynamics of her age group, and knows for a fact that everyone Herines truly liked, truly cared for, is gone now, away from Kusig, abandoning him to fight for the wisers.

She hadn't considered it before, but thinks now as she longs for her sisters and her home that she understands like no one else how terribly lonely Herines Harasaeon must be.

Casi swallows, looking out at the city, and offers a piece of herself back to him.

"Tell me about Nebetta," she says. "I know you were close, you amagi, and she could hardly speak to us once she was married because Father kept chasing her away, but I miss her."

At the mention of Nebetta, Herines looks delighted and sad at once. That, too, Casi understands.

They talk until the sun has set entirely, uncaring of their rudeness towards the nobility waiting for them in the throne room, and it is the first real conversation Casi has had in weeks. It is still a little awkward, a clumsy reintroduction, but they stumble through, and at one point, Herines even makes a joke about the insufferable Darius Fidari, and Casi is both so startled by the attempt at humour and the simple admittance that the great King of Burnos still holds onto teenage grudges that she snorts. Her mother would throw herself from the balcony if she witnessed the natural laugh she had spent years training out of Casi now emerging before a Harasaeon, and Casi slaps a hand to her mouth, but Herines grins at her, victorious, and she slowly lowers her hand again.

They don't get much time together after that. Herines has a war to fight and a kingdom to run, neither of which really interest Casi, but when one of them has a worse day than normal, they tend to find one another. Sometimes, they don't even say anything. They just exist in silent companionship knowing that for a few moments, when it's just them, that someone understands.

Casi Abalaoi meets Herines Harasaeon in a burning building with the certain knowledge that neither of them can put out the fire. They both have other people they would certainly prefer for company, but that is not a choice they are offered, so they reach across the flames and grasp onto one another. It is an understanding borne from desperation. Herines went on to do terrible things, but he was not terrible to Casi, and as she stands at his funeral, she knows she is the only one there who truly knew him as he was in his final weeks. His mother weeps before the pyre, his brother remembers his childhood, his friends mourn an innocent past, but Casi knew only King Herines, who butchered and fought and died.

---

As queen, although not entirely the highest ranked member of their forces despite what the title suggested, now that she was sharing leadership with Nathairan, Kiva ought to have left the tent first so that her people were seen following her, and not the other way around. But as their side gathered themselves from the impromptu war meeting and made to leave, Kiva hesitated at the table. No one questioned her on it, and no one waited, not even Drako, who threw her one last, cautious glance before following Nathairan. On his own side, Herines sat and waited in a perfect reflection of her, impervious to the uncertain stares and wordless urges to let sleeping dogs lie that Kiva knew his council wanted to prod him with. Neither said a word until the tent was empty, and it was just them left. Kiva and Herines. Mother and son. Two leaders on opposing sides of a war she never wanted.

She was so angry with him, so hurt, so betrayed. Here was the man who poisoned her and usurped her throne, who enacted orders that went against everything her own politics stood for, who had led with such cruelty and violence that she wondered if she had ever known him at all, but sat across from him now, she looked into the same brown eyes she saw in the mirror, and knew intrinsically that this was her little boy. He had always been her little boy, and always would be.

He watched her almost skittishly, like he was frightened of what she might say, and for all her anger and hurt and betrayal, Kiva couldn't find it in herself to fight. There was a battle coming, one that would be terrible, and they would both suffer in it. She knew that. There was no point arguing what was inevitable, and no time. So she reached her hand across the table, expression pinching when Herines flinched, and left it palm-up in reach of him.

Rin stared for a moment, but only for a moment, before all the breath left him and he clasped her hand in both of his, bowing his head to where he held her so tightly, his forehead pressing to her knuckles.

"I'm so sorry, ama," he choked out.

Kiva couldn't stop the tears welling in her eyes, the lump in her throat, but forced herself to smile, a small, shaky thing, trying for warmth, for reassurance, still falling back on an old instinct to comfort her baby, when she had failed to do so every time it mattered.

"Do you know that when you were born, I refused to leave you?" she asked quietly. "I carried you with me everywhere, attended my duties with you, moved your crib right beside my bed and woke up gasping with terror that someone had taken you in the night. I worry that I only ever told you stories like this when discussing your sister, and the absence left in me when she was taken away, but it was about you just as much, Herines. You were my most precious thing. I would not have parted from you for all of the kingdom." She couldn't stop her tears now, the way her voice broke, the way her hand tightened on his. "They would have had to physically drag you from my arms, would have had to cut my very hands off before I ever let go of any of my children again. You are my son, Herines. My first son, how could I ever let you go?"

And she knew, in the silent truth of that tent, pitched on lush fields they had shared so many happy memories on that would soon become a battlefield, that these words meant nothing now. She could not fix what had been done, or stop what he had started.