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I have heard some rumours that princess Aithne is with child.

If so, I am certain her parents will want to rush her marriage to Hadrian to cover it up.

Everyone knows who the real father is—prince Sorin cannot hide his love for the princess, finding excuses to visit her kingdom every few months.

As soon as his family discovers that the princess is carrying a child, they will quickly send him off somewhere far away to be married too, so no one can point a finger at him.

I cannot stand the thought of Hadrian having to marry her and pretend that her baby is also his.

Princess Aithne told me once long ago that her child would start a war.

I did not truly understand in that moment.

I do now.

Tabitha Wysteria

The feast stretched on endlessly, as if the night itself refused to yield. Midnight had to be near, yet the music still surged through the hall, and the guests continued to drown themselves in wine, their laughter growing louder, looser.

Mal had spent the last half hour entertaining conversation after conversation, the drakonians finally shedding their hesitation and daring to approach her.

Curiosity burnt in their eyes, though they masked it well.

They wanted to know about the Kingdom of Darkness—what it was like to live beneath its shadowed skies, what strange foods they ate (their rotten black apple pie was unparalleled, of course), what dances they performed, and, inevitably, what she thought of witches.

No one asked about her eyes. But she saw the question lingering on their tongues, teetering at the edge of their restraint.

Haven, as always, moved through the crowd with effortless grace, her voice poised, her expression unreadable.

Mal envied her sister’s ability to maintain such composed conversations, to endure endless pleasantries without betraying a hint of boredom.

Haven had been trained since childhood to be a queen, to listen to all who spoke to her and leave them feeling heard, yet none the wiser about her true thoughts.

Mal, however, had never possessed such patience.

Her attention wavered as movement caught her eye—Ash Acheron, his golden hair a beacon even in the dim light, slipping through the doors of the Grand Hall.

Where was he going? Her blood simmered at the memory of his infuriating smirk, the way he had looked at her as if she were an insolent child in need of discipline.

She clenched her fists. That smug expression of his—she would wipe it clean off his face.

Without knowing why, she followed.

No one would notice her absence, not for a few minutes at least. Her legs ached from standing in the same spot, and if she had to endure one more drakonian gushing about their grand castle, their prized tarts, or the unmatched superiority of their fashion, she might very well lose her mind.

Mal glanced down at her own gown, an unspoken challenge curling at the edge of her thoughts.

Experts in fashion, were they? All she had seen were gowns with puffed sleeves, suffocating bodices, and skirts so long and heavy they seemed more suited for battle armour than elegance.

Then again, drakonian women weren’t permitted to fight, so what need had they for freedom of movement?

She pressed forward, trailing the prince as he wove through a narrow passageway. The air grew warmer, the walls pressing closer as the corridor descended in a winding spiral. Mal was beginning to wonder if this trek would ever end when—

She nearly gasped.

Before her stretched a vast, hidden oasis.

A pool, steaming in the heat, lay cradled by jagged rocks and lush vegetation.

The air was thick with warmth, almost stifling, painting Mal’s cheeks a feverish pink.

The water shimmered in the dim glow, a stunning shade of turquoise unlike anything she had ever seen.

It was unnatural, otherworldly. What was this place?

Then, to her utter bewilderment, the prince began to undress. Mal jerked back, retreating into the shadows, her body moving instinctively as she crouched between the rocks. Hidden from view, she carefully maneuvered higher, peering down through the gaps.

Ash pulled his golden armour from his frame with a sigh, his movements unhurried, as if shedding not just metal, but the weight of something unseen.

His shirt followed, slipping over his head to reveal lean muscle carved from years of training.

Then, without hesitation, he stepped into the water, sinking into its depths with a slow exhale.

His face—always sharp with scrutiny, always hardened with arrogance—softened. For the first time, he looked at peace.

Mal found herself momentarily stunned. This was not the same man who had sneered at her in the hall, who had regarded her with irritation and veiled mockery. The tension that always lined his features had melted away, leaving something she hadn’t expected.

Serenity.

The sound of a door opening broke her thoughts .

Another figure entered. Hagan . The Red Guard made no move to join the prince in the pool. Instead, he climbed onto one of the higher rocks, his red robes untouched, his presence looming as he settled into place.

Mal remained hidden, watching.

Waiting.

‘The feast is not yet over,’ Hagan remarked, his voice a low rumble in the dimly lit cavern. ‘Your mother will not be pleased to find you hiding away.’

The prince merely closed his eyes, letting the steam curl around his face as he rested his head against the smooth stone edge of the hot springs. ‘Not hiding. Just tired.’ His voice was sluggish, weighed down by something heavier than exhaustion.

Hagan snorted, folding his arms across his chest. ‘Your mother noticed the way the wyverian princess stormed off during your dance.’ He leaned against a carved pillar, watching the rippling water. ‘Care to explain?’

Ash exhaled, the sound almost lost in the gentle hiss of the springs. ‘She’s annoying.’

From the shadows beyond the mist, Mal tensed.

Hagan let out a sharp laugh. ‘Of course she’s annoying. She’s a princess. What did you expect?’

Ash shifted slightly, his fingers trailing absently through the water.

‘I…’ He hesitated, the words reluctant to leave his mouth, as if saying them aloud would solidify the chains already tightening around his throat.

‘I… have t-to marry her .’ He said it with such unfiltered loathing, his voice curling with revulsion as though even the thought of her was too distasteful to bear.

He could hardly stitch together a sentence in her presence, the weight of his disgust rendering his words brittle.

Mal felt her heart clench, a slow and merciless squeeze of sorrow.

She had known—oh, she had known—what she was agreeing to when she accepted this wretched marriage, had steeled herself for its cold, transactional nature.

And yet… hearing him struggle to accept even the mere thought of her, when he had never so much as tried to know her, was a cruelty she hadn’t braced for. He hadn’t even bothered.

A storm brewed within her, rage twisting in the pit of her stomach, coiling tighter and tighter like a cyclone waiting to be unleashed.

If she opened her mouth now, she feared it would tear through the room, leveling everything in its path.

What had she expected? The Fire Prince’s reputation was a thing of dark legend, whispered in corners and carried on fearful tongues.

She had prepared herself to meet a monster, yet when she’d first laid eyes on him, she had seen only a man—one without scales or claws, without the grotesque visage she had envisioned. And now? Now she wasn’t so sure.

‘It could be worse, Ash. She’s at least tolerable to look at.’

The prince said nothing.

Mal’s fingers curled into the jagged edge of the rock she clung to, her knuckles white with restraint.

Did he find her hideous? The answer shouldn’t have mattered—shouldn’t have wormed its way beneath her skin—but it did.

And the longer she held onto the thought, the stronger the temptation grew to drop down into the water below and send a scalding splash right into his arrogant face.

‘You just have to survive a week,’ Hagan continued, his voice smooth and unbothered. ‘Once the week is up and you’ve married, you can ignore her for the rest of your life. You’ll just have to endure her presence at formal events.’

So that was his grand plan. Marry her to appease the kingdoms, then cast her aside like an unwanted trinket.

Tuck her away in some forgotten wing of the castle, gathering dust like an abandoned relic.

The very thought made her blood burn hotter than the springs around her.

Mal clenched her teeth, fury simmering beneath the surface.

She had spent her entire life on the fringes, a living question mark, met with wary stares and hushed whispers because of her eyes—because of what her birth had signified.

Now, at last, she had been given a chance to rewrite her fate, and she would be damned if she let some self-important Fire Prince treat her as if she were nothing.

Not that it mattered.

In one week, the prince would wed her and then erase her from his life.

In one week, she would wed the prince and drive a blade straight into his heart, shattering the curse that bound them together.

From the shadows, a slow smile curled her lips, sharp as the dagger she would soon wield.

…

A gentle breeze curled through the night, carrying the lingering heat of the day like the breath of a slumbering dragon.

The air was thick with warmth, wrapping around the world in a soft embrace, coaxing the land into a state of quiet repose.

High above, two dragons soared effortlessly over the castle, their wings carving through the air, indifferent to the balmy night.