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Drakonians are very proud. I met princess Aithne recently as I travelled with the Council to the Kingdom of Fire.

It was a series of awkward meetings because the drakonians only wished to talk to the warlocks on the Council.

It is infuriating how vile they treat their drakonian women.

Princess Aithne was a sweetheart but she would do absolutely anything her father asks.

It frightens me how much she is willing to sacrifice for the crown.

I have heard rumours that she is trying to convince her father to propose a marriage oath between her and prince Sorin from the Kingdom of Light.

Everyone expects it, of course. Both kingdoms have been marrying each other for centuries when the alliance is needed or they want something.

Somehow I do not think her father is interested in marrying his only daughter off to the phoenixian prince.

It wouldn’t make sense. He does not need anything from them right now.

Tabitha Wysteria

Mal awoke in the familiar embrace of her own bed, her mind clouded with confusion, her breath still unsteady.

The remnants of her ordeal lay beside her—a corset, violently split apart, its delicate seams torn asunder by the blade of a dagger.

Memory rushed back like a tide: Ash, his movements precise and swift, drawing the hidden weapon from his boot and slicing through the suffocating fabric, granting her lungs the freedom they so desperately craved.

He had carried her—through the dark, through the fire—cradled in his arms, back to the castle and into the safety of her chambers.

And now, he was here.

The drakonian prince sat in one of her chairs, poised like a predator at rest, his head tilted slightly as he watched her stir. His golden eyes flickered in the dim light, unreadable, assessing.

‘Were you watching me while I slept?’

‘Unconscious.’

‘Were you watching me while I was unconscious?’

He nodded, unbothered by the accusation. Mal swallowed against the peculiar warmth rising in her chest, choosing to ignore the strange mixture of embarrassment and reluctant delight curling inside her. Instead, she gestured towards the discarded corset. ‘Thank you, for cutting it off.’

Another nod.

‘Do all drakonian women wear such tight devil-makers?’ she asked, her voice laced with amusement.

Again, he nodded.

Mal cast her gaze downward, only now realising her change in attire. The opulent red wedding gown was gone, replaced by nothing but the thin silk slip that had lain beneath it. A fresh surge of heat—not from the sweltering kingdom, but from something far more personal—rose in her cheeks.

‘Who undressed me?’

‘Maids.’ His voice was flat, but his expression was not.

There was a sharp edge to his golden stare, a silent rebuke against whatever insinuation he thought she might be making.

He lifted his hand in a vague gesture towards a gown draped across the curtain that divided the chamber from the bathing area.

Mal’s lips curled in dismay.

‘It’s red,’ she grumbled.

‘It’s for…’ He hesitated, se arching for the right words. ‘Party dress.’

‘There’s a party?’

He nodded. Again.

With a sigh, Mal slipped out of bed, the cool air caressing her exposed skin as she padded towards the gown. Even as she moved, she could feel the weight of his stare, the slow, deliberate way his golden eyes traced the lines of her form. She pretended not to notice.

The dress was looser than the wedding gown, yet still fitted at the waist, its long sleeves and high neckline a stark contrast to the heat pressing in from every corner of this infernal kingdom. She scowled. ‘I will be too hot in this.’

The oppressive warmth wrapped around her like a smothering embrace, refusing to yield, no matter how many days she endured beneath its merciless rule.

‘Wear yours.’ He pointed to one of her trunks, his tone as indifferent as ever.

Mal shook her head. ‘That would disappoint your family.’ At this, he hesitated. For a moment, he seemed caught between words, struggling to shape them into something he could say aloud.

‘You are not married to my family,’ he said at last, his voice quieter now. ‘You are…’ He stopped, his gaze shifting away, as though the truth was something he could not face directly. ‘You are my wife.’

Mal stilled.

My wife.

The words hung between them, weighty and undeniable. A golden band gleamed on her finger, silent and immutable, an emblem of the bond now forged between them. And on his own hand, a silver ring—marking him as hers just as surely as hers marked her as his.

Her husband.

The realisation sent a strange dizziness through her, though this time it had nothing to do with heat or corsets.

‘Shall I start calling you husband?’ she teased, attempting to shake the tension from her shoulders.

He grunted in response, a sound both dismissive and irritated, before rising to his feet. ‘You are better now.’ His voice was clipped, businesslike. ‘I’ll leave you to…’ He gestured vaguely at the room, clearly unsure of what she was meant to be doing.

His eyes swept over her once more—just for a breath, just long enough for something unspoken to pass between them.

Then, clearing his throat, he turned sharply towards the door.

But just before stepping through it, he stopped.

Pivoted. His eyes locked onto her once more, and he pointed to the black trunk with something like finality.

‘Wear your own dresses, princess.’

Then he was gone.

Mal waited a beat before exhaling, then smirked to herself as she turned towards the trunk.

‘As you wish, husband.’

…

‘You are not wearing that ,’ Kai said, frowning.

‘And why not, brother?’

‘Because I can see your body as it was on the day of your birth, Mal.’

‘Naked, you mean?’ Mal smiled. ‘Since when have you become such a prude?’

‘Since there are too many males roaming this castle and a particular golden haired one that keeps staring at you as if you were food and he were starving.’

Mal rolled her eyes. ‘It’s a party. The prince said I should wear my own gown.’

‘I am sure the fire prick did. However, I doubt he meant for you to wear that .’

Mal twirled before the mirror, the heavy skirts of the gown swirling around her like storm clouds caught in a restless wind.

Gowns had never been her inclination, yet this one carried a weight beyond fabric and lace—it had once belonged to their mother.

It should have been Haven’s, a treasured heirloom meant for a wedding day that had never come, yet her sister had chosen to pass it to Mal instead.

The gown was a breathtaking relic of the past, a dusky shade of grey that whispered of twilight, its off-the-shoulder neckline adorned with delicate lace ruffles.

Black filigree trailed along the bodice and sleeves, winding down the skirt like creeping vines, the embroidery so intricate it seemed alive.

Yet, despite its beauty, the fabric was perilously sheer, revealing more than Mal would have liked.

Throughout the gardens, fountains sculpted in the likeness of dragons stood sentinel, their gaping mouths spouting tongues of flickering fire.

Stone benches lay nestled among the hedgerows, where noble guests lounged, murmuring over goblets of sweet wine.

At the farthest edge of the garden, Mal caught sight of a bridge arching over a languid river, its waters glimmering in the dying light of day.

She longed to slip away, to find solace in the hush of running water—but fate had other plans.

Before she could take a single step, she was swept up in a current of expectation, led towards the queen.

In a secluded corner of the garden, beneath the shade of an opulent canopy, Queen Cyra and her retinue of courtly women lounged, their laughter lilting through the air like the clinking of crystal.

A long table stretched before them, a decadent display of excess, goblets brimming with wine that shimmered like molten rubies in the setting sun.

The queen lifted a bejeweled hand, beckoning Mal forward with a smile as smooth as polished glass.

Yet even as her lips curved in feigned warmth, her eyes—sharp as a dagger poised at the throat—narrowed upon the dress.

The wyverian embroidery had not gone unnoticed.

‘Did they not bring to your room the dress I sent for you to wear this evening?’ the queen asked, gesturing at Mal to sit down with them.

‘They did, your majesty. But I am afraid drakonian material is too thick. The climate is too overpowering for me.’

‘Oh, yes. We were worried over your condition when you fainted, dear.’ She did not look at all worried. ‘But you did look beautiful in the wedding dress, did she not?’ All the court ladies nodded eagerly.

Mal’s cup was filled with sweet wine. She sipped it, trying not to pull a face at the sickening taste of it. How could they drink it? It was disgusting.

‘I was rather shocked when I received the dress. I do recall telling the tailor that the dress had to be black, not red.’ Mal smiled sweetly, tilting her head slightly towards the queen.

‘Black?’ Queen Cyra looked appalled. ‘Why would you want a black dress for your wedding?’

‘Because it is our colour. It is tradition for wyverians to dress in black.’

The queen’s laughter rang through the garden, airy and dismissive as she waved the thought away. ‘Black is for funerals, dear. I had the tailor change the petition immediately after hearing such nonsense. We wouldn’t want our guests mistaking your wedding for a funeral, would we?’

Mal’s anger flared, a wildfire igniting beneath her skin, impossible to tame.

She fought to hold it back, but it surged forth, an unstoppable force.

A sharp crack split the air—glasses, goblets, and plates shattered in unison, the destruction rippling across the garden like a sudden storm.

The silverware on every table fractured, splintering into jagged fragments.