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I should not fall for Hadrian Blackburn.

He is a wyverian prince that one day will become the King of Darkness.

I am daughter of a Council witch. We both have important duties to our lands and our people.

He will have to marry a princess to strengthen his kingdom in a moment in which no one seems safe any more.

I will take my mother’s position on the Council. We could never be together.

And yet…

Tabitha Wysteria

The royal wedding festivities would stretch across an entire week, each day marked by an event designed for the entertainment of noble guests.

Yet, amidst all the grand celebrations, the most anticipated affair was undoubtedly the Champions’ Battle.

In this contest, both bride and groom would select a champion to fight on their behalf, a symbolic display of their House’s strength.

What was traditionally a mere formality for good fortune carried an entirely different weight this time—two Houses would stand against one another, and the victor would prove which bloodline was truly the stronger.

Tonight, however, was the first step in this intricate dance of power and union—the formal introduction of the betrothed, signaling the official start of the festivities .

Mal had been wrestled into one of her most extravagant gowns, a flowing cascade of black fabric so layered and delicate it moved like a storm cloud in motion, swelling and shifting with every breath she took.

‘Stop pulling at the hem,’ Haven chided, coming to stand beside her.

‘I’m uncomfortable,’ Mal muttered, tugging at her sleeve.

She despised the restriction, the weight of the gown against her limbs.

Her usual attire left her legs and arms bare—free to run, to fight, to move as she pleased.

But this dress, with its elegant suffocation, was clearly meant to restrain her.

The Grand Hall was divided, as if by unseen lines of tension.

The wyverians stood to one side, drakonians to the other, while the twin thrones of fire and flames remained the focal point between them.

One by one, ambassadors of each House would ascend the two steps leading to the thrones, offering their blessings—first to Mal, then to Ash.

Once the formalities were complete, the real revelry would begin.

Music, feasting, dancing. A kingdom’s joy, carefully orchestrated.

Yet Mal’s focus was elsewhere.

She had seen it—the silent exchange between Queen Cyra and the young drakonian servant.

And even though she didn’t know what it meant, an invisible noose tightened around her throat, a creeping sensation of unease coiling like a snake.

Her gaze drifted away, desperate for something else to anchor herself to.

It landed on the Fire Prince.

Ash stood on the opposite side of the throne, his sister Alina beside him, swathed in a resplendent gown of crimson and gold.

The dress was nearly comical in its excess, adorned with so many gemstones that Mal wondered if the princess could move at all beneath their weight.

Alina’s face was a portrait of irritation, her annoyance barely concealed.

The prince, however, was unreadable.

His expression was a perfect void, betraying nothing. Did nothing trouble him? Did he feel no weight, no burden, in the knowledge that within the week, they would be bound in marriage? They had exchanged few words since her arrival—did he not wish to know the woman who was to be his wife?

Clearly not.

And it should not have bothered Mal, for she would not remain his wife forever. Eventually, she would end his life.

‘Mal, pay attention,’ Haven murmured, discreetly elbowing her ribs just as the first House approached.

‘House of Wild, Princess Flora Hawthorne and her sisters, Sierra and Meadow Hawthorne,’ Kage announced softly, standing at her other side.

Mal had never seen the Fae up close before. The stories of their beauty had not done them justice—they were not merely striking; they were otherworldly.

Princess Flora moved like wind through summer fields, the gossamer folds of her green gown whispering with every step, woven from leaves that trailed behind her, shedding delicate petals upon the stone floor.

She wore no slippers, her feet bare upon the cold marble, untouched by its chill.

A crown of wildflowers rested atop her head, placed securely around her magnificent antlers, their slender arches adorned with daisies in a vision of natural splendour.

‘Be prepared,’ Kage whispered, ‘they always kiss four times on the cheeks.’

True to his warning, Flora leaned in, pressing a delicate kiss against Mal’s cheek four times before retreating. The princess’s gaze flitted across the wyverians with unmistakable intrigue.

‘I had heard all kinds of tales about your folk,’ Flora said, her voice lilting with amusement. ‘So dark and mysterious… and yet, you are not as frightening as I had hoped.’

Mal’s brow lifted slightly. ‘The Fae tell stories about us?’

Flora’s lips curved into an indulgent smile. ‘Oh yes. Tales to frighten naughty Fae children into obedience. They are quick to behave when we tell them that wyverians will steal them from their nests and feast upon them.’

‘We do not—’

Flora dismissed Mal’s protest with a lazy wave of her hand. ‘I am quite sure, Princess, that your people have their own stories as well.’

And they did.

Mal had grown up on whispered warnings of the cruelty of drakonians—beasts who delighted in the hunt, who tortured for pleasure. Yet, thus far, Ash had shown her no cruelty.

There was still time.

Flora drifted onward, her attention shifting to the Fire Prince as she stepped towards him.

Mal watched the interaction with growing amusement, her lips curling slightly at the sight of the ever-silent prince offering nothing but the occasional nod in response.

As if sensing the awkward silence, his sister Alina eagerly filled it, answering with enthusiasm where he would not.

Then, just for a moment, Ash’s golden eyes met Mal’s.

A flicker, a heartbeat.

She looked away first.

…

The drakonians delighted in the dance. It was a time-honoured excuse to watch the young make shy advances towards their admirers, to see flirtations bloom between twirls and stolen glances.

The elder drakonians lingered at the edges of the Grand Hall, whispering, observing, while the music swelled into a rhythm so fast-paced that it sent the younger dancers into fits of laughter as they stumbled to keep up.

Mal watched as her brother Kai all but flung himself onto the dance floor, his joy infectious, his laughter the loudest in the room. She envied him. How easily he threw himself into the moment, without hesitation, without restraint.

Haven was lost in conversation, Kage had long since sought the solace of a quiet corner with a book, leaving Mal alone.

She fidgeted with the fabric of her gown, trying to smother the part of her that longed—desperately—to join the others.

She loved to dance. It called to her, a siren’s pull, but she remained rooted in place.

This was not her home, and here, there would be consequences for indulging in what she wanted.

So she stood still, watching a dance that was meant to be hers.

Then, movement. A shift in the air.

The Fire Prince was walking towards her.

Mal stiffened, her hands curling into her skirts as he approached with the quiet confidence of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. Yet, he did not face her. He stopped just a few steps away, angling himself towards the dancers, his expression unreadable.

The silence stretched between them, brittle as glass. He said nothing.

The longer he waited, the more Mal’s impatience burnt.

‘Do you want something, prince?’ she asked, forcing her irritation into something smooth, something detached.

‘Dance?’

Mal blinked. ‘Excuse me?’

Finally, she turned to look at him—truly look at him.

He was tall, impossibly so, his form carved from something powerful, something regal.

For a drakonian, he was undeniably handsome.

She had seen the way people glanced at him as he passed, how they stole glimpses of his golden hair, the way the candlelight wove itself through the strands as though it, too, wished to touch him.

A thought crept into her mind, unbidden and unwelcomed—was his hair as soft as it looked?

Mortified by the direction of her own musings, she looked away sharply, heat crawling up her neck.

‘Would you…’ He swallowed, as if the next words pained him. ‘Dance with… me?’

She frowned, her forehead creasing. Was this some kind of game?

The last time they had danced, he had been insufferable.

Why would she accept now, only to be insulted once more?

And yet, a small part of her—treacherous and yearning—wanted to.

Wanted to take his hand, to feel his strength beneath her fingertips, to move with him.

‘Are you sure you want to dance with such a demanding princess?’ she asked, her voice dipping into something sharp, something dangerous.

His golden eyes darkened.

‘Very well, princess.’

He turned without another word, vanishing into the crowd without so much as a backward glance. A strange, unwanted tightness twisted in Mal’s chest. It was not anger. It was not victory. It was something far more insidious. Why did she feel as though she had lost something?

Her gaze followed him against her will, her breath hitching when she saw Flora Hawthorne step into view, her smile a thing of sunlight and stolen hearts.

Ash extended his hand, and she accepted it without hesitation, slipping into his arms with a grace that sent a sharp, irrational ache through Mal’s stomach .

She watched them move together, the way he guided Flora across the dance floor with effortless precision. Mal had never given much thought to how he would look while dancing, but now she could not look away.

Her fingers tingled. Her chest tightened. Her stomach twisted.

What was this?

Flora leaned in, her lips brushing dangerously close to his ear, whispering something that made Ash chuckle—actually chuckle. The sound sent something sharp and jagged through Mal’s veins.

Before she could stop herself, she was moving.

Her feet carried her forward, one in front of the other, without thought, without hesitation. Only when she was standing before them, awkward and uninvited, did she realise what she had done.

Flora’s smile was knowing, dangerous. It whispered of things Mal did not yet understand.

Ash raised a single brow, amusement curling at the corner of his lips. He was mocking her. He knew exactly what she had done.

The three of them stood in silence, the music swelling around them, distant and blurred. Mal focused on his hands—one resting at Flora’s waist, the other enclosed within the Fae princess’s delicate fingers.

She imagined them kissing.

The thought slammed into her like a physical thing, startling and unwanted. Why should she care who the prince kissed? It was irrelevant. It meant nothing.

She stepped forward.

‘I wish to dance now,’ she announced.

Ash’s eyes narrowed. ‘Can’t you wait?’

‘No. It’s important.’ She glanced between him and Flora, then tilted her chin up, her words deliberate, cutting. ‘We are to be married in a few days. Wouldn’t want the court thinking you prefer another, would we?’

Flora laughed, stepping away as though this were all some grand amusement. ‘The princess is right.’ She curtsied, slipping back into the crowd, leaving Mal standing there with a prince who looked moments away from setting something on fire.

Mal bit her lip, realising for the first time how close he was, how the heat of his breath fanned against her skin. She could almost feel the restrained fury humming beneath his composure.

‘Why are you… smiling?’ he asked, his voice low, suspicious.

Mal schooled her features, her smirk fading as she realised how childish she had been. But there was no undoing what had been done.

Then, without warning, Ash grabbed her.

Her breath hitched.

She had been so lost in her thoughts, in the chaos of her own mind, that she had not anticipated the feel of his hand against hers, the firm but careful grip of his fingers.

She should tell him she didn’t want to dance anymore.

That she had changed her mind. But then he looked at her and she forgot how to speak.

‘You were rude,’ he grumbled, his voice too close, too intimate.

‘I am never rude,’ she countered.

‘You didn’t want this.’

She frowned. ‘Didn’t want what?’

‘To dance.’

‘I’m allowed to change my mind, am I not?’

Ash exhaled sharply, as if she exhausted him. He almost rolled his eyes—almost. But before he could, Mal tugged him closer.

‘Naughty,’ he whispered, and his voice sent a shiver curling through her toes.

Something clenched deep within her, something that felt too much like anticipation.

‘Do you only speak in one-word sentences?’ she teased.

His body went still.

In an instant, the warmth between them disappeared. His expression shifted, hardening into something unreadable, something distant.

Then he let go.

Mal barely had time to process the loss before he stepped away, his hands no longer on her skin, no longer grounding her. She wanted to stop him, to demand to know why. But she could only watch as his golden eyes—once bright, once playful—became guarded, shadowed by something unreadable.

‘Ash—’

She had never called him by his name before. It slipped from her lips without thought, driven by something she could not explain. But it was too late.

He turned and walked away, vanishing into the crowd, leaving her standing in the centre of the dance floor, alone, under the weight of too many watching eyes.

Mal’s hands curled into fists. The worry, the strange ache in her chest, turned to something colder, something sharp and bitter. Why did he always have to make everything so damn complicated?

She swore then and there she would never speak to him again.

He’d be dead within the week anyway.