Page 2 of Between Flames and Deceit (Dragon’s Heart Duology #1)

Chapter One

Nienna

I burned with the need to kiss my betrothed.

Quite literally.

Heat bloomed within, forming beads of sweat at my temples. Scythe leaned over, her fingertips brushing my skin as she dabbed at the perspiration along my brow. A sharp breath caught in my throat, my body fighting to wrangle the internal raging blaze. It was as if Argos, my father’s dragon, bathed me in his flames.

“Not much longer now,” Edith murmured, the lady’s maid my mother insisted I bring, her voice meant to soothe.

I pressed a hand to my ribs, struggling to swallow the dryness that clung to my throat. The weight of it all sank deep within me. I’d never been a decent Vessel. In years past, my father humored my attempts to carry magic, to bear it like our people who used the magic from the Dragon Riders. But I always failed. The dragon’s power slipped through my fingers, scattering like ashes on the breeze.

My lack of control marked me as weak, a flaw we worked hard to conceal.

Gyrak crooned from above, his wings cutting through the sky. He sensed my discomfort and circled, his call soft yet insistent, as though trying to ease my pain. I forced a smile, ignoring the ache that gnawed at me, and turned my gaze out the window. My brother Ronan and his dragon Gyrak accompanied us. Their presence served as more than a royal escort, but as a deterrent against the Velli.

I studied the vibrant city as we neared. Rolling plains stretched wide, quilted with golden and emerald fields, the sunlight glinting off ripe wheat as waves rippled through the crops. Sturdy, quaint houses lined the cobblestone road, bluebirds flitting about around them. Laughter filled the air as commoners grinned, their joy as bright as the day itself. They had reason for joy—the treaty with Vellos had been sealed just a fortnight ago. The war was over, and my father’s final demand regarding my marriage was met. He was no different from any other king, willing to use his daughter to secure alliances. But he drew a line when it came to my safety.

My journey began the day the dove arrived. When I spotted the bird clutching the news, a heady mix of dread and relief warred within. The uncertainty of my future faded—the guessing game of who I’d marry put to an end. However, the knot in my stomach remained, knowing I would wed a stranger.

Ronan knew Prince Tallon. He called him immature—hardly the verdict I expected from my younger brother.

But I could do worse.

The flames inside surged, desperate to break free. A gasp slipped from my lips, and I ducked my head, eyes squeezed shut against the pain. The magic clawed at me, a torrent of fire waiting to burst. I clenched my fists, focused on maintaining an iron hold.

Scythe pressed a cool cloth to my brow, her touch a fleeting relief. My gown strangled me, the fabric a silken cage. The air thickened, each breath harder than the last. I couldn’t breathe—couldn’t escape the stifling pressure.

Each bump and jolt brought on waves of agony. A whimper tore out as the carriage lurched over the bridge, and I clutched the padded seat to keep from combusting.

“Almost there—loosen her hair,” Edith said, voice sharp. Scythe moved with haste as the older maid focused on lacing up my boots with practiced hands.

I envied Radaanian style of dress. Their garments were modest, yet far freer than ours. As a Draconis, the rules were strict—trousers for men, breeches for women. To be caught without them was to be shunned. And anyone daring to wear sandals would put a stain on their family name.

After all, every Draconis aspired to be a Dragon Rider, and riders wore sturdy coverings over their legs and boots—regardless if magic was melting their insides.

The fine leather squeezed my calves as Edith drew the laces tight. Scythe leaned over, yanking hairpins from my hair, letting golden waves cascade to my hips. The pressure built, suffocating and unbearable—yet I was born for this.

I forced my irritation down, drawing in a steadying breath as the carriage slowed to a halt. My fingers drummed against the seat, waiting for Ronan or one of the guards to open the door. I ached for the cool breeze, craved fresh air. Sweat slicked my palms, while heat flushed my cheeks .

When the door finally opened, a draft swept past me. It carried the faint scent of jasmine and earth, lifting tendrils of my hair and cooling my feverish skin. I forced my legs to move with purpose. No rushing, no stumbling. I would not make a fool of myself in front of my betrothed. I was a princess, and I would carry myself as one.

A Radaanian soldier bedecked in hues of gold and green lowered the carriage steps, the metal groaning with age. He extended a gloved hand, the scent of flowers faint in the air. I placed my clammy palm in his, the cool material a brief reprieve. With care, I lifted the hem of my dress and stepped out.

Gyrak clicked, his concern evident as my boots hit the uneven cobblestones with a solid thud. I smiled at the massive beast as his wings unfurled, casting a shadow across the courtyard. With soft eyes filled with quiet affection, he was more puppy than apex predator—a perfect match to his rider.

Ronan dismounted in one fluid motion, yanking his flight goggles down to his neck. The scent of wind and leather clung to him as he scanned the courtyard, his gaze sharp and calculating before he flashed me a roguish smile. He had faith in me.

With shoulders squared, I drew in another breath, bracing myself, then faced the High Court of Radaan.

The agonizing burn within blazed outward as I stood before the throng of nobles and soldiers. Their bright, extravagant garb clashed in a garish assault on my senses. As I lifted my chin, I recalled Draconia’s meager count of noblemen and knew from the palace’s sheer sprawl before me that this crowd was only a fraction of what they could muster.

The men’s hair, shorn close, contrasted with the women’s, left to flow down their backs like rivers. Tanned skin spoke of a heritage rooted in hard fieldwork. The women’s gowns swept the ground, while the men’s sleeves billowed in absurdly wide folds, an obscene waste of cloth—frivolous in a way that would have drawn scorn back in Draconia.

But this was to be my country now.

My gaze danced over the crowd as women whispered behind painted fans, their eyes drifting over my frame. Men openly appraised me as if I were some trophy waiting to be claimed. I shifted my focus to the palace entrance, expecting to find Tallon walking down to meet me.

Instead, a man stood tall above the crowd, his hard gaze fixed and unwavering. An aura of command clung to him, one that demanded attention. With shoulders squared and hands clasped firmly behind him, he radiated unprecedented pride. Guards perched like sentinels at his side, and despite having no crown on his brow, I needed no introduction. I knew exactly who he was.

King Kallias .

In Radaan, royalty bore a mantle in place of a crown—a reminder of their duty to their kingdom. The gilded adornment weighed heavy on his shoulders, yet he towered as if burdened by nothing more than a featherweight. It draped over layers of green and gold, the colors of his realm.

Pain clawed its way through my chest, spilling down my arms in waves as if the fire within sought freedom. My body jerked, betraying me with a flinch I struggled to restrain.

Weakness had no place here.

“Where is Tallon?” Ronan hissed, offering his arm to me.

My hand quivered as I rested it on the crook of his elbow, allowing him to lead me through the crowd. Blood roared in my veins, each pulse demanding me to release the chaos clawing within. I forced down a gulp, feeling small. Radaan had no Vessels, held no magic—they wouldn’t understand my struggles. Fainting here would mark me as weak, unworthy of marriage to the prince.

“Please tell me he’s here,” I murmured under my breath. My sweeping gaze found no other with a mantle or yoke among the masses. If I remembered correctly, Prince Tallon would be wearing a silver yoke, signifying his station.

Bystanders stared, their scrutiny roving over my clothes, scrutinizing every detail of my appearance.

“He’s not—the flaming son of a–”

“Ronan, I can’t hold it.” My jaw clenched as I wrestled to contain the blaze searing my core. If I didn’t release it soon, it would devour me.

Gyrak let out a low snarl and took a ground-shaking step toward us. My brother shook his head at his dragon and pressed his lips together, guiding me up the stone steps. I gathered my dress, the silk clinging and useless against my fevered skin, and heard the heavy thud of Gyrak’s retreat in response to Ronan’s silent rebuke.

“He can’t be far.” His voice held a note of forced calm—an attempt to bolster me.

Surely there were only a handful of steps, yet each stare pressed in on me, and the raging magic within made each one feel like scaling a tower. Heat flared, scorching me beneath the surface, and my skin flushed crimson.

“Princess Nienna of Draconia.” The voice of authority, the voice of a king , called out in greeting. His words sliced through the murmurs, silencing them with a tone that commanded regard.

I glanced up, meeting the cool, assessing gaze of King Kallias. Strands of silver threaded through his dark hair, swept back from his face, framing his stark features. His skin, bronzed from years under an open sky, contrasted with the slight shadow along his jaw, lending him a roguish air that hinted at something sharp, almost dangerous, beneath his nobility .

I expected the king to be clean-shaven, draped in one of those ridiculous puffed-sleeve shirts.

Instead, he met my gaze with a faint nod, his voice smooth as he spoke my title. “The Dragon’s Heart,” he intoned, dipping his head in a show of respect. “Welcome to Radaan.”

Magic crackled, flaring sharp and raw. My eyes clamped shut, bracing against the surge of pain.

My brother stepped forward, willing to speak for me. “King Kallias Sunspear of Radaan, Lord of the Plentiful Plains, Warrior of Sun and Flame, I present my sister, Nienna Draconis—the Heart of all Dragonkind.”

At the top of the dais, my nails dug into Ronan’s arm.

“Where is Prince Tallon, her betrothed?” My brother’s question cut through the silence, an intense demand that made me wince.

“The prince is… away. Regrettably.”

My gaze shot to the king, fury igniting alongside the inferno within. His steady, unblinking eyes held mine, an eerie calm that challenged my rage.

“I will see to the princess’ welcome,” he continued. His tone was secure and unshaken, as if nothing could unsettle him.

It became glaringly obvious that this man did not react. Every movement deliberate, every word measured. Broad shoulders held the yoke with effortless grace. He’d worn it so long, the weight no longer seemed to register. His posture remained rigid, commanding, and the intensity of his gaze sent a chill down my spine.

“There are traditions,” Ronan bit out.

A muscle twitched in Kallias’ jaw, the only sign of his irritation. I wanted to silence my brother—if I stepped into the palace without releasing the magic, I’d ignite the stone beneath our feet.

There were some things more mortifying than saying a few phrases out of turn.

“Yes, and they will be addressed,” the king said.

“She must surrender her pact.”

“Princess Nienna may deliver her seal when Tallon returns.”

“It cannot wait,” I gasped, each word scraping from my throat, barely above a whisper. I held the king’s stare, the world falling away until only the two of us remained. His presence was distant, implacable, while the fire inside me raged. He, as a Radaanian, was devoid of magical abilities. And much like his people, he couldn’t fathom what was happening, what I endured. Even as poor a Vessel as I was, I still had more ability than his entire court.

He had a choice—let me release the magic, or turn us away. Ronan would gladly allow me to unleash it in any way that suited me. Perhaps I’d set fire to the nobles while we skipped off into the sunset. He never wanted this marriage for me to begin with. The thought of his sister being traded like property gnawed at him, regardless that I embraced my fate.

Kallias’ shoulders rose with a deep breath as he stepped forward. I recoiled, horrified by his curt approach.

“Deliver your seal,” he said.

Not a request, nor a demand. His voice held only the weight of inevitability as he pressed into my space. I craned my head back, and his harsh blue eyes flared with irritation at my sharp intake of breath.

“It’s the Dragon’s Kiss,” I whispered, words trembling with a silent plea—make someone else take it.

It was one thing for my betrothed to claim the seal. We would marry—become equals. If I faltered, Tallon would accept it.

But to bestow my Dragon’s Kiss to King Kallias? Unthinkable.

If something went wrong, he would be far less receptive. He’d never forgive me. He wasn’t my equal, but the father of my betrothed—the one who bartered for my hand.

“Yes. And your presence, your duty, is to seal this kingdom with Draconia. I sired the blood that flows through Prince Tallon’s veins. To bequeath your pact on me is the same as delivering it to my son.”

Except it wasn’t.

His gaze flicked over my face, then softened, as if he could read my hesitation. His tone lowered, a quiet command. “Let’s not keep the masses in suspense.”

Ronan growled, squeezing my hand once before stepping back. He threw out his arms, warning the guards to maintain their distance.

This couldn’t be happening. I was supposed to kiss Prince Tallon. My lips had touched no one but family. I would have kissed any noble or servant present—anyone—not the king of Radaan.

But here he stood, waiting, his face open, resigned to whatever came next. He wouldn’t force me. I caught something in the depths of his eyes—uncertainty? Was he wondering if I’d walk away? Abandon the blood oath?

No. Draconia was starving. We needed this.

My hand trembled as I reached out to cup his face. Every instinct screamed that this was wrong—this wasn’t how it should be. I wasn’t supposed to kiss him.

I couldn’t .

His stubble scraped against my damp palms. A rush of shame crawled up my neck—he’d sense how nervous I was.

My gaze dropped to the king’s lips, pressed into a tight line, and a knot of panic twisted my stomach. My heart slammed against my ribs, each beat a thud of protest .

I drew a shaky breath, and rose onto my toes, fingers trembling as they cradled his head. Gently, I tugged him lower, the heat of my touch seeping into him. My body trembled as I leaned in, eyes closing, then pressed my lips to his forehead, the embrace soft and hesitant, as if the very act might tear me apart.

Gyrak’s magic exploded from me in a firestorm. Flares shot into the sky, spiraled our bodies, a twisting pillar of fire. The heat seared, blistering as real crackling flames flickered into the shapes of dragons, their ember wings brushing against my flesh.

The Dragon’s Kiss was the seal of Draconia—binding—a mark of engagement, a pledge of peace. It was the promise of shared days, a lifetime entwined with another.

It was my first kiss.

And I had given it to the wrong man.