Chapter 1
The wind knifed across the high mountain pass, sharp enough to chap my cheeks and sting my eyes, but I kept my gaze fixed ahead. Let the elements try — I’d stopped bowing to anything that wanted to break me a long time ago. The weather was easy. People were harder. Councils? Impossible.
And kings? Unbearable.
My cloak snapped behind me like a war-banner in the gusts. Orevale’s escort riders tightened formation around me, their armor clinking in a steady rhythm that soothed me more than I wanted to admit. Something was comforting about their presence — loyal, disciplined, living proof that I wasn’t as alone as I sometimes felt.
I was the regent queen now.And regent queens didn’t flinch.
“You’re over-gripping the reins,” Barren said from my left. “At this rate, your hands are going to split open before we even reach the envoy.”
I didn’t look at him. “I climbed stone walls with knuckles scraped to bone. A blister won’t kill me.”
“Maybe not,” he said, rolling his shoulders lazily, “but it’ll make you grumpy. And the last thing we need is you bleeding onto the treaty documents. They might think it’s symbolic.”
“They’d be right.”
He huffed a laugh — warm, familiar, unbothered. Barren’s laugh always sounded like he’d survived something terrible and found it funny in hindsight.
“You know,” he mused, “there was a brief era of my life when you weren’t terrifying.”
I smirked. “That ended early.”
“Age nine,” he said. “You threatened to drown me in the well when I beat you at sparring.”
“You kicked me in the ribs.”
“You left them unguarded.”
“I was distracted.”
“You were furious.”
“I was nine.”
He shrugged. “Still your most violent era.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re dramatic.”
“And you’re still strangling the reins.”
I forced my grip to ease. “Happy?”
“No,” he said. “But it’ll do.”
The wind whipped my hair across my cheek. I pushed it back, lifting my chin as the jagged horizon unfolded into view — mountains sharp enough to slice the sky open, ridgelines shadowed like folded wings. The borderlands were beautiful in that rugged, unforgiving way that either made you stronger or killed you.
Honestly, I respected that.
The escort’s horses stepped carefully over patches of frost. The air smelled of pine resin, iron, and cold earth — the scent of all the battles fought on these mountains, hanging over the stones like ghosts.
“Scouts say we’ll reach the Veilstead envoy by sundown,” Barren said.
“Good,” I said. “Let’s get this over with.”
“You still hoping the Dragon King won’t bother showing up?”
“I’d prefer he didn’t.”
“You’d prefer breathing, too,” he said. “Yet here we are.”
“Barren.”
“I’m just saying.” He nudged his horse closer. “Most rulers would consider it an honor to negotiate directly with him.”
“I’d sooner kiss a swamp troll.”
He raised a brow. “Bold. Fragrant. On brand.”
“I’m serious,” I snapped. “His decisions nearly killed half my battalion. Forgive me if I’m not itching to shake his hand.”
“So,” he drawled, “you respect him.”
“No.”
“Cass.”
“I do not.”
“You do.” He shrugged. “Respect is just admiration wearing armor.”
I elbowed him hard. He absorbed the hit with an amused grunt.
“Stop reading strategy books,” I said. “It’s inflating your ego.”
He elbowed me back. “My ego died when Merrick handed me my first knife and told me my stance was ‘an offense to weaponry.’”
I snorted — loudly enough that two riders glanced over.
That quiets me.Just for a breath.
A passing cloud darkened the pass, and with it, something tightened under my ribs.
Barren noticed. He always did.
“Cass,” he said softly, “you don’t have to prove anything to me.”
I kept my voice steady. “I’m not trying to prove anything to you.”
“No,” he said gently, “you’re trying to prove everything to everyone else.”
My throat tightened. He wasn’t wrong. And I hated how easily he said it — not accusing, not pitying, just... seeing.
I straightened my spine. Queens don’t bend, not even under truths that hit too close.
“Enough sincerity,” I said. “We’re approaching the border. I need to look terrifying.”
“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “You always do. It’s very queenly.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“Absolutely not.”
I almost smile. Almost.
The trail narrowed as we descended, forcing the horses into a tight single file. The mountain winds funneled between the cliffs, shoving at us like impatient hands. A few of the younger riders muttered curses that were definitely not regulation-approved.
“Morale’s great,” Barren murmured.
“They’re cold,” I said.
“They’re afraid,” he countered.
“Of what?”
He gave me a look. “You’re joking.”
I wasn’t.And that was the problem.
He sighed. “Cass, we’re riding toward the border to negotiate with the man who commands dragons. The same man half our soldiers grew up hearing stories about. Scary ones. Fire-breathing ones. The kind with moral lessons like ‘obey or burn.’”
I grimaced. “My father’s council wasn’t much better.”
“No,” he said, “but your father didn’t have dragons.”
Fair.
Ahead, the path curved around an outcrop of black granite. The rock looked almost molten in places, as if dragon fire had once skimmed its surface.
I hated that Veilstead would love that.
A rider behind us cleared his throat. “Majesty? Signal flags ahead. Looks like the envoy set up early.”
Of course they did. Rhodes Harland probably arrived three days ago and slept sitting upright out of sheer discipline.
“Wonderful,” I muttered. “Overachievers.”
Barren snorted. “Sounds like someone else I know.”
“I’m not an overachiever,” I said. “I’m properly motivated.”
“I was there,” he said. “I remember.”
I shot him a warning look.
He held up a hand. “Not telling the well story again.”
“Good.”
“Just thinking about it loudly.”
I groaned.
The path widened again, and the wind finally gentled — enough for the cold to settle rather than stab. Pine trees clustered along the slopes, their branches heavy with frost. Ravens perched in the highest limbs, watching us with that unsettling intelligence creatures always seem to have when you least want witnesses.
One cawed as we passed.
An omen, one of the riders whispered.
“It’s a bird,” Barren said flatly.
“They’re said to carry messages from—”
“It’s a bird,” he repeated. “If we start treating every feathered nuisance like a prophecy, we’ll never get anything done.”
I bit back a laugh.
“Are you nervous?” he asked suddenly.
“No.”
“Lie better.”
I exhaled slowly. “I’m not nervous about the treaty.”
“Mmm.”
“I’m not.”
“Then what are you nervous about?”
I stayed silent.
He nudged his horse closer. “That’s not silence. That’s panic you dressed up as concentration.”
“Barren.”
“Cass.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
I clenched my jaw. “I don’t like how everyone looks at me.”
“They look at you because you’re their queen.”
“No,” I said quietly. “They look at me because they’re waiting for me to fail.”
Barren’s expression softened — not pity, never pity, but something that made my chest ache.
“You haven’t failed yet.”
“Yet.”
“Cass—”
“I know the council doubts me,” I said, surprising myself with the honesty spilling out. “They think I’m a placeholder until someone more ‘fitting’ arrives.”
“You are fitting.”
“I was trained to kill,” I hissed. “Not rule.”
“You were trained to survive,” he corrected. “And to read people. And to fight for what matters. You can lead because you understand how easily things break.”
I looked ahead at the thin plume of envoy smoke rising above the ridge.
“And how easily people break,” I murmured.
“Especially you,” he said softly. “You bend until you’re one breath from snapping.”
I swallowed hard.Because he wasn’t wrong.And because that terrified me.
A gust swept through the pass, carrying voices ahead — laughter, maybe, or an echo. It made my skin prickle.
Barren glanced sideways. “Picking up anything?”
He didn’t mean sound.
I shook my head, forcing the motion to be casual. “Nothing.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
A lie.One I told myself as much as him.
The magic pressed faintly against the choker — a pulse, a whisper, a wrongness under my skin, like an echo trying to form.
But I shoved it down.
I always shoved it down.
We rounded another bend, and the border marker came into view — two ancient stone pillars carved with runes so weather-worn they looked like scars.
Our horses slowed instinctively.
The air changed here. Thinner. Sharper. Charged.
Barren noticed the way I stiffened. “Hey.”
“I’m fine.”
“Lie—”
“I swear,” I snapped, “if you say ‘lie better’ one more time—”
He smirked. “Look at you. Already terrifying. You’re ready.”
I scoffed, but a reluctant warmth curled under my ribs — the kind that only ever showed up around him.
Another rider trotted up. “Majesty, the men are wondering if we should set camp before negotiations or go straight in.”
Straight in. If I stopped now, I’d overthink. Lose momentum. Start doubting.
“We go straight in,” I said. “Before the envoy gets antsy.”
Barren lifted a brow. “They won’t get antsy.”
“Yes,” I said dryly. “They’ll get arrogant.”
He grinned. “There she is.”
“What?”
“Regent Hawthorne. Ready to terrify.”
I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue.
The trail sloped downward, dark pines framing the dip in the valley where Veilstead’s envoy waited. Their banner — a coiled dragon in silver thread — fluttered in the wind, catching sunlight like a blade.
The sight punched something low in my stomach.
The Dragon King’s forces. Here. Real.
I exhaled through my nose, slow and sharp.
Barren nudged his horse closer again. “Cass?”
“I’m fine.”
He hummed. “Lie better.”
I glared at him.
He grinned wider.
And then — right as my heartbeat steadied —
The wind changed.
Cold. Damp. A faint scent of chalk dust and old stone.
My vision stuttered.
And suddenly, I’m not on a mountain pass anymore.
I’m back where everything began.
My skin still prickles from the cold wind of the mountain pass when the courtyard of Merrick’s training compound snaps into place behind my eyes. Dawnlight spills across the stone tiles, pale and sleepy, the air crisp enough to nip at my toes. The stones smell faintly of old rain and metal — a scent that would cling to my childhood like a bruise.
“Again, little hawk,” Merrick says.
His voice is warm, soft, patient — a tone made of honey and polished steel. Back then, that tone could make my heart leap. Back then, I didn’t know that gentleness could be a kind of cage.
I raise the practice blade and move through the sequence he drilled into me: Step, pivot, strike, retreat.
My arms ache. My shoulders burn. Sweat beads at my hairline even though the air is cold.
By the fifth repetition, my grip slips.By the sixth, my elbow shakes.
Merrick notices immediately.He always notices.
He steps closer, placing a cool hand on my forearm and guiding my elbow down. His fingers are cold — always cold, like he spent the night with his hands in water.
“Precision before speed,” he murmurs. “You move too quickly when you want to impress.”
I straighten — heat flooding my face, but not from embarrassment. “I wasn’t trying to impress.”
His smile is soft enough to feel like praise. “Of course you weren’t.”
I want to believe him.God help me, at ten, I do.
I reset my stance, biting down on my lip hard enough to taste copper, and swing again. The blade slices cleanly through the air. The sound is perfect. Sharp. True.
Merrick’s eyes brighten. “There it is. You learn beautifully.”
A warm ache blooms in my chest. I chase it instinctively, like a starving thing chasing heat.
I stumble on the next step, the pivot catching on the ball of my foot. Merrick steadies me with a hand on my shoulder. His thumb grazes the choker at my neck — barely a touch, light enough that I might convince myself I imagined it.
But it sends an unwelcome chill down my spine.
He clicks his tongue quietly. “Relax, Cassadee. Even hawks must rest their wings.”
I nod, swallowing the strange discomfort tugging at my throat.
Before I can reset my stance, the door at the far end of the courtyard screeches open.
Barren slips inside like he’s absolutely meant to be here — which, to be fair, he is — but also like he’s prepared to run if someone yells at him. His boots are unlaced. His sandy-brown hair sticks up at the crown like he used it as a pillow.
In one hand, he holds a knife.
In the other, a book.
“Ah,” Merrick says mildly. “Our second pupil graces us with his presence.”
“I’m not late,” Barren says, already sounding defensive. “The sun hasn’t fully risen.”
“It has,” Merrick replies, amused.
Barren looks up, squints at the sky, curses under his breath. “Traitor.”
I snort. He winks at me.
“What were you reading?” Merrick asks, folding his hands behind him again.
Barren brightens. “Treatise on destabilizing regimes. Surprisingly helpful diagrams.”
Merrick’s mouth twitches. “Of course.”
He gestures for Barren to join us. “Observe Cassadee’s form, then give her one critique.”
Barren walks to my side, flipping his knife once just to annoy Merrick — or impress me. Hard to tell with him.
He squints at my stance, head tilted like he’s analyzing a puzzle. “Weight’s too far forward. You’re easy to sweep.”
I blink. “How do you—”
“Books,” he says simply. “And because you fell last week and I’m still laughing about it.”
“Traitor,” I whisper.
He grins.
Merrick hums approvingly. “A perceptive correction.”
Barren shrugs, flipping to a new page in his book. “Fear keeps people alive.”
I don’t understand the heaviness under his tone.Not yet.
We train together. Merrick circles us like a quiet storm, offering praise in soft, deliberate doses. Barren offers dry corrections that somehow sting less than they should.
I want to be good.I want Merrick to call me exceptional again. I want him to look at me the way he did when I sliced the air clean.
So I push myself harder.
We run through footwork until my calves burn.We practice stances until my knees ache.We drill knife transitions until my fingers blister.
Merrick is tireless. I want to be tireless too.
After an hour — maybe more — he hands me a cup of water. The cool metal chills my palms.
“You’re improving quickly,” he says, low enough that Barren can’t hear. “Your mother would be proud.”
A bolt of warmth shoots through my chest.
My mother. The ghost I never talk about.
“I...” My voice wavers. “I hope so.”
His smile softens — too gentle, too knowing. “You have her fire.”
I stiffen.
Something flickers under my skin .A warmth. A spark. The faintest lick of heat rising in my ribcage.
I clamp down on it instinctively.
The choker tightens — barely.Just enough to remind me it’s there.
Barren wanders over, twirling his knife. “What did I miss? More praise? Should I leave you two alone?”
I elbow him.
Merrick chuckles, but his eyes stay on me. “Little hawk, tell me — what unsettles you during the pivot?”
My mouth dries.
Because there is something. A strange fluttering heat. A pressure under my skin that feels... too big for me.
I don’t have words for it. And even if I did — I would never say them aloud.
“I’m not unsettled,” I say quickly. “I just need more practice.”
“Of course,” Merrick says. “Practice shapes strength.”
He says it warmly. He always does.
Barren’s eyes narrow at me, sharp and knowing in a way Merrick’s never quite are.
“What did you learn today?” Merrick asks.
“That momentum hides mistakes,” I say as confidently as I can.
“And?” Barren lifts a brow. “Come on. There’s more.”
“And if I rely on it,” I sigh, “I’ll break my face.”
“There you go,” Barren says. “Self-preservation. Vital skill.”
Merrick clasps his hands. “This afternoon, you’ll join the knife masters.”
My breath catches. I nearly drop my cup.
“Me?” I choke out. “Really?”
“Some are born with eyes for precision,” Merrick says.
“Some are born with eyes for trouble,” Barren mutters.
I grin at him. Merrick smiles at me.
A long, heavy smile. Too heavy. Too possessive. Too proud.
“She will be exceptional,” he says.
At ten, the warmth his words ignite inside me is enough to drown out the warning bells I should have heard.
I don’t see Barren’s unease.I don’t see Merrick’s fingers graze the choker again. I don’t understand the way shadows cling to him.
I only see the first person who ever made me feel chosen.
If only I’d known the cost.
The memory dissolves like smoke pulled backward through a doorway. When I blink, the envoy clearing stands before us — towering stones arranged in a loose circle, old enough to predate our borders. Veilstead banners snap in the wind, dark blue and silver, and a line of armored soldiers waits stiffly in formation.
My pulse is still too fast.My throat still too tight.
Barren nudges my knee with his. “You went quiet.”
“I was thinking.”
“I know.” His voice lowers, steady as bedrock. “You alright?”
“I’m fine.”
He gives me a dry, unimpressed look. “Your version of ‘fine’ is usually two steps from punching someone.”
“Then let’s hope no one steps close enough.”
“Gods,” he mutters, “they’re not paying me enough for this.”
But he doesn’t push. He positions his horse a fraction closer, like a shield angled in my direction.
The envoy soldiers straighten the moment we cross the threshold of stones. Their boots hit the ground in unison, metal clanking like an iron heartbeat.
Commander Varrin steps forward. He’s built like a fortress left too long in battle — worn at the edges, but immovable. His face is a roadmap of scars, his beard streaked with steel-gray, his gaze sharp enough to assess forty things at once.
“Regent Queen Cassadee Hawthorne,” he greets, bowing with military precision.
I incline my head — regal, composed, collected. A queen forged in storms.
Barren dismounts smoothly behind me, posture relaxed in that dangerous way only very skilled assassins can manage. One hand rests lightly on the hilt at his hip. Not threatening. Just present.
“Commander Varrin,” I reply. “I trust Veilstead finds itself prepared for these negotiations.”
His jaw twitches — the smallest sign of discomfort. “His Majesty appreciates your willingness to meet.”
“Does he?” I ask lightly. “I assumed he appreciated punctuality more.”
Barren coughs so violently it startles one of the envoy soldiers. “Cass—”
Varrin clears his throat. “His Majesty was detained by urgent matters as King.”
“How fortunate,” I murmur. “Urgency is a convenient explanation.”
Varrin’s eyes sharpen. “Our king’s duty extends far beyond standing stones and parchment.”
“And mine extends beyond waiting for men who confuse theatrics with diplomacy.”
Barren inhales sharply. “Cass, be nice.”
“Iamnice,” I whisper back. “This is my nice voice.”
“No,” he whispers, “your nice voice has more threats in it.”
“That’s not—”
A horn splits the air.
Low.Commanding.A sound that feels like the world pausing to listen.
Even the envoy soldiers snap taller.
Barren mutters under his breath, “Oh excellent. Dramatic entrance. My favorite.”
The treeline shifts.Shadows ripple like something massive moving just beyond sight.
Varrin exhales, almost reverently. “His Majesty.”
I steel my shoulders. “Finally.”
Barren murmurs, “And here I thought you were hoping he wouldn’t show up...”
“I was,” I whisper back. “But if he’s going to be late, he should at least be ashamed of it.”
“Oh yes,” Barren says. “Kings are famously good at shame.”
I would grin if my stomach weren’t twisting like a live wire.
Branches split. The sound of bootsteps — heavy, deliberate — draws every eye.
And then he appears.
Rhodes Harland emerges from the shadows like they part for him alone.
The Dragon King.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. His dark hair swept by the wind, not a strand out of place despite the journey. His cloak — black stitched with silver dragon-scale patterns — snaps behind him with a movement that feels almost alive.
But it’s his eyes that catch the breath in my throat.
Silver. Striking. Cold as forged steel.
He doesn’t stride into the clearing. He claims it.
Every Veilstead soldier shifts subtly in his direction, as if pulled by gravity. His presence presses against the air — not crushing, but commanding. Intentional.
He walks like every step is calculated, each angle already mapped in his mind.
He stops across from me.
The air between us feels tight enough to fracture.
Rhodes Harland holds my gaze with a steadiness I didn’t expect — not the cold calculation of a man assessing an enemy, but something else. Something more discerning. As if he’s cataloging every movement, every breath, every twitch of muscle like a strategist parsing enemy formations.
For a heartbeat, neither of us speaks.
Not out of courtesy. Not out of intimidation.
But because the collision of two people who should never share a tables tops the world for just long enough to be noticeable.
My pulse kicks, sharp and unwelcome.
He’s just a man, I tell myself.
A very tall, broad, scarred man with silver eyes that look like they could cut through stone, but still. A man.
He doesn’t even blink.
What kind of person forgets to blink?
The choker at my throat cools again, a phantom tightening that sends a prickling tension down my spine. That’s what worries me more than anything — the way my magic stirs in his presence.
As if it recognizes something before I do.
No. Impossible.
I slam the sensation down, swallowing the tremor rising in my chest.
Queens do not flinch. Queens do not react. Queens do not let kings with unsettling eyes see the crack in the armor.
I approach the table in the middle of the clearing. My fingers brush the edge of the stone table, rough enough to anchor me back into myself.
Rhodes doesn’t miss it. His attention sharpens, silver eyes narrowing by the smallest degree.
Studying me. Always studying.
I hate it.
I also... feel the attention like a touch, which is worse.
Behind me, Barren shifts his stance, the soft scrape of his boots puncturing the silence. I can feel him staring between us — radiating disbelief, restrained commentary, and impending migraines.
Rhodes breaks the silence first.
“Shall we begin?” he asks, voice low and composed, a steel blade sheathed in civility.
The timbre of it moves through me like a vibration rather than a sound. I hate that too.
I force a smile — calm, dangerous, laced with more teeth than warmth. “Yes. Let’s.”
But neither of us glances toward the documents.
We just... watch each other.
Two predators are evaluating the perimeter before testing the boundary.
My heart thuds once — hard enough that I’m grateful for the layers of fabric between me and open perception. Does he hear it? Sense it? Dragon rulers have uncanny instincts, according to every political briefing I’ve read.
The thought irritates me further.
I shift my weight forward, elbows on the table, posture relaxed and ready — a soldier’s stance disguised beneath a queen’s silhouette.
Rhodes mirrors the movement exactly.
Of course he does.
“Your envoy greeted us politely,” I say evenly. “A good start.”
“A necessary one,” he replies. “Our kingdoms have danced around diplomacy long enough.”
A muscle in my jaw twitches. “Danced? That’s a delicate word for ten years of bloodshed.”
“Language shapes outcome.”
“Then choose better words.”
He tilts his head. “You prefer blunt ones.”
“I prefer honest ones.”
“And yet you disdain them when they touch a nerve.”
Heat flares through my chest — defensiveness, anger, the sharp sting of a truth I didn’t invite.
Barren mutters behind me, “And the disaster begins.”
I ignore him. Mostly.
Rhodes keeps his eyes on me — calm, unyielding, relentless. Not predatory. Not cruel. Just... anchored. The kind of gaze that refuses to be the first to waver.
“Tell me something, Regent,” he says quietly. “Do you always bristle before a conversation begins, or is that privilege reserved for me?”
I straighten. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“It wasn’t flattery. It was an observation.”
“Then observe something else.”
“I am.”
My breath catches.
Not because of what he says. But because of how he says it — like he’s peeling back layers without permission. Like he’s seeing too much, too fast.
The choker pulses cold again, biting into my skin.
Easy, Cass. Hold steady. He is a king, not a threat.
But my magic stirs again — faint, restless, like a creature waking in a cage it never agreed to be placed in.
“Cass?” Barren murmurs behind me.
I shake it off. “I’m fine.”
Rhodes’s eyes flicker — the smallest tell, as if he didn’t believe me but was cataloging how convincingly I tried to lie.
Before I can force my expression back into something neutral, Commander Varrin clears his throat.
“Your Majesties,” he says, stepping forward with diplomatic urgency, “shall we begin the terms of discourse? Our nations await your leadership.”
Rhodes doesn’t look away from me.I don’t look away from him.
It feels like a silent line is drawn between us — one that neither of us meant to step over, yet here we are, standing toe-to-toe on it.
Finally, Rhodes shifts his attention to the table, hands braced on the stone surface. “Very well. Let us proceed.”
My heartbeat stumbles once.
This is it. Ten years of war. Hundreds of lives lost. Two kingdoms held together by a fraying rope.
And the two of us — two rulers who would rather be anywhere else — are about to draft the first fragile attempt at peace.
Barren leans down just enough for only me to hear. “Deep breath. Don’t stab him.”
“No promises,” I whisper.
Rhodes pulls out his chair.I do the same.
The scraping of stone on stone echoes through the clearing — a small, simple sound that somehow carries the weight of the entire continent.
I rest my palms on the table. My fingertips feel cold. My magic feels awake. My pulse feels wrong. Everything feels on the edge of something I don’t have words for.
Rhodes watches me for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
Not a challenge.Not dominance.Just... recognition.
Then he speaks quietly, almost too evenly.
“Let’s begin, Regent.”
I lift my chin and meet his gaze with all the steel I have left.
“Yes,” I say. “Let’s.”
The wind shifts. The banners snap. The choker tightens once, like a warning.
And the treaty begins.
