POV: Ravenna
I hate parties.
Well, that's not entirely true. I usually love parties. Love the music and the dancing and being the center of attention in a pretty dress while everyone tells me how beautiful I look.
But tonight, standing in the great hall wearing a gown that cost more than most people make in a year, I want to be anywhere else.
"Smile, Princess," Father murmurs beside me. "You look like you're attending a funeral."
"Maybe I am," I mutter back.
His hand tightens on my arm. Warning. We're being watched. Always watched. The court sees everything, judges everything, and right now they're judging whether their princess is pleased with her potential husbands.
Spoiler: I'm not.
Although that's not entirely accurate anymore either, is it?
The musicians start playing. Some court dance I've known since I was six. Couples move onto the floor in practiced formation.
"The candidates will expect a dance," Father says.
"Again?"
"It's tradition."
"Tradition is stupid."
"Ravenna—"
"Fine. FINE." I pull away from him. Smooth my skirts. Plaster on a smile that probably looks deranged. "I'll dance with them. I'll be perfectly charming. I'll play the good little princess."
"That's all I ask."
He asks for so much more than that. But I don't say it. Just descend the dais steps toward where the candidates stand, drinks in hand, pretending they're not watching my every move like hawks.
Lucien reaches me first.
Of course he does. He's been working the court all week, positioning himself, making sure everyone knows he's the obvious choice. Handsome, charming, politically connected.
And cold as winter ice beneath it all.
"Princess." He bows. Perfect courtly manners. "You look radiant tonight."
"I look tired," I correct. "But thank you."
"Would you honor me with a dance?"
No. "Of course."
He leads me onto the floor. One hand at my waist, the other holding mine. The proper distance between us. Nothing scandalous.
And yet I want to crawl out of my skin.
"The Trial of Mind goes well for you," I say, because silence would be worse.
"I'm accustomed to strategy." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. Never does. "One must be willing to sacrifice to achieve victory."
"Those weren't just pieces on a board. They were meant to represent real people."
"Were they?" He spins me. "I find it easier to win when you don't think of them as people. Just—resources. To be used or discarded as needed."
My stomach turns.
"How practical," I manage.
"How necessary." He leans closer. Whispers: "You don't like me."
"I don't know you."
"Yes, you do. You're clever, Princess. You see exactly what I am." His smile sharpens. "And you're afraid of it."
"I'm not—"
"You should be. But you should also consider that a man who can make hard choices, who won't be swayed by sentiment—that's the kind of man who can protect a kingdom." His hand tightens on my waist. "Protect a queen."
The song ends.
I pull away too quickly. Probably obvious to everyone watching.
"Thank you for the dance."
"The pleasure was mine." Another bow. "I look forward to our next one."
I flee.
Well, not flee. Princesses don't flee. We make strategic retreats.
I grab a wine glass from a passing servant. Down it. Immediately regret it—the room spins slightly.
"Easy there, Princess. The night's still young."
I turn. Edmund. Kind-faced, sad-eyed Edmund, with his dead wife's ghost hanging between us.
"Lord Edmund," I say. "Enjoying the celebration?"
"As much as one can." He glances around the room. "These events are—loud. My daughter thinks I should be out more. Socializing. Moving on."
"Your daughter is here?" I look around.
"Brynn. She insisted on coming on the Dragon Choosing." He smiles. Soft. Sad. "She worries about me."
Guilt twists in my chest. Here's a man who lost his wife, who's trying to honor his daughter's wishes by entering a competition he clearly doesn't want to win, and I've been planning to humiliate him.
"I’m sure she is sweet," I offer.
"She is. Too sweet for this world sometimes." He says back to me. "Would you dance, Princess? I promise I won't step on your feet. Probably."
Despite everything, I laugh. "Alright."
This dance is different.
Edmund keeps proper distance, but there's no calculation in it. No hidden agenda. Just a tired man trying to remember the steps.
"You don't want to be here," I say quietly.
"No," he admits. "But Brynn thought—she thought it would help. That maybe I could—" He stops. "I apologize. This is inappropriate conversation."
"It's honest conversation. I prefer that."
"Do you?" He sounds genuinely curious. "I've noticed you're quite good at saying what's expected rather than what's true."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"You don't want this competition any more than I do." Not an accusation. Just observation. "But you're playing the role. The dutiful daughter. The available princess. Even now, dancing with me, you're thinking about how to escape."
"I—"
Am I that transparent?
"Your mother would be proud of who you're becoming, you know."
I stop moving. Have to remember to start again. "You knew my mother?"
"Briefly. Years ago. She came to my village once—there was a fever. People were dying." His eyes go distant. "She saved dozens. Including my wife."
My throat closes.
"She was kind," he continues. "Genuine. Saw people, not positions. I think—I think you have that in you too, Princess. Under all the walls you've built."
"I don't—I'm not—"
"You sat vigil over a wounded warrior." He says it gently. "That's not something a heartless person does."
How does he know about that?
The song ends. Edmund bows.
"Thank you for the dance, Princess. And—" He hesitates. "Whatever you're planning, whatever scheme you're running—I hope you find what you're looking for. Peace, if nothing else."
He walks away. I stand on the dance floor like an idiot, blinking back tears I don't understand.
"Princess?"
Roland. Golden-haired, empty-headed Roland with his hero's name and coward's heart.
"Yes?"
"May I—"
"No." I brush past him. Hear his wounded protest behind me. Don't care.
I need air. Need space. Need to stop feeling like the walls are closing in. But before I can escape, Brock intercepts me.
"Princess." He doesn't bow. Just looks me up and down in a way that makes my skin crawl. "You owe me a dance."
"I don't owe you anything."
"It's tradition. You danced with Lucien and Edmund. My turn." He reaches for my hand.
I step back. "I said no."
His eyes narrow. "Playing hard to get?"
"Playing I-don't-want-to-touch-you-with-a-ten-foot-pole."
His face darkens. He takes a step toward me. Looms. Uses his size to intimidate.
"I don't think you understand how this works, Princess. You're supposed to—"
"She's supposed to dance with me."
Theron.
He appears beside me like a shadow. Doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't have to. His presence alone makes Brock take a step back.
"The warrior," Brock sneers. "Shouldn't you be resting that arm?"
"Shouldn't you be learning manners?"
Oh. Did Theron just—was that an insult?
Brock's face goes red. "You think because she kept vigil over you that means something? You're nothing. Common-born trash with a big dragon. She'll never—"
"That's enough." My voice cuts through his. Princess voice. The one that makes servants jump. "Lord Brock, you're excused from the celebration."
"You can't—"
"I can. Leave. Now."
He looks between Theron and me. Sees something in our faces that makes him back down.
"This isn't over," he mutters, and stalks away.
Silence.
I turn to Theron. "Thank you."
"You didn't need my help."
"I know. But—thank you anyway."
The musicians start a new song. Slower. More intimate.
"Dance with me," he says.
Not a question. Not quite a command. Something in between.
I should say no. Should make an excuse. Should run away from this man who sees too much, who makes me feel too much.
Instead, I place my hand in his.
The hum explodes.
It's been there all night—that constant vibration between us—but the moment we touch, it becomes everything. Warmth floods through me. My breath catches.
His good hand settles at my waist. The other, still in a sling, hangs between us. We're closer than proper. Closer than I danced with anyone else.
And I can't bring myself to care.
"You're staring," I whisper.
"Yes."
"People will talk."
"They already are."
True. I can feel the court's eyes on us. Can imagine the whispers. The princess and the scarred warrior. The bond no one can deny.
I look up at him. Really look. His face is so close. That scar cutting through it. Those amber eyes that hold so much pain and still—somehow—hope.
"Do you—" I shouldn't ask. "Do you ever wish you'd never felt the bond? That you could just—not hope anymore?"
"Every day." His hand tightens on my waist. "And then I see you. And I think—maybe one more time. Maybe this time will be different."
"Theron—"
"I'm not asking you to love me, Ravenna. I'm not even asking you to choose me." His voice drops lower. Intimate. "I'm just asking you to stop trying to make me leave. Let this play out. Whatever happens, happens."
"And if I reject you? If I choose someone else?"
"Then I'll survive. Again." A pause. "Will you?"
What kind of question is that?
But looking into his eyes, feeling the hum between us, I think—I think maybe he's asking if I can survive rejecting him. If I can walk away from this bond and live with myself after.
And the terrifying part is—I don't know. The song ends. We stand there, still touching, still close.
"I should—" I don't know what I should do.
"Go," he finishes. "I know."
But his hand lingers on my waist. And mine stays in his.
"This doesn't mean anything," I say desperately. "One dance doesn't mean—"
"I know."
"Stop saying that!"
"What should I say?"
"I don't know! Something—something that makes this easier!"
"There's nothing easy about any of this, Princess."
He's right. Of course he's right.
I pull away. Step back. Feel cold where he'd been warm.
"Goodnight, Theron, The Warrior."
"Goodnight, Princess Ravenna."
I flee. Actually flee this time. Out of the great hall, down corridors, up stairs, until I'm in my chambers with the door locked and my back pressed against it.
Morgana looks up from the book she's reading in my chair.
"Well?"
"I'm in so much trouble."
"Because you're falling for him."
"I'm not—" But the protest dies. "Maybe. I don't know. This is awful. Make it stop."
"Can't stop feelings, love. Already tried to tell you that."
I slide down the door. Sit on the floor in my expensive gown. Drop my head into my hands.
"What am I going to do?"
Morgana sets down her book. Comes to sit beside me.
"You're going to figure it out. One way or another. But Rav—" She takes my hand. "Whatever you decide, decide honestly. Don't sabotage. Don't manipulate. Just—be honest. For once in your life, be honest about what you want."
"What if I don't know what I want?"
"Then figure it out. You've got time."
I lean against her shoulder. Feel her arm come around me.
"I'm scared," I whisper.
"I know."
"What if I'm not enough for him? What if—"
"Stop. Just stop." She squeezes my shoulder. "That man took an arrow for you. He knows exactly who you are. And he's still here. Still hoping. So maybe—just maybe—you should stop trying to convince him you're not worth it and let him decide that for himself."
From somewhere deep in my chest, Solace stirs. A warm pulse of agreement.
"My dragon likes him," I say miserably.
"Of course she does. Dragons don't lie."
"This is a disaster."
"Probably. But at least it's an interesting disaster."
Despite everything, I laugh.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I think—maybe Morgana's right.
Maybe it's time to stop fighting.