Page 23 of Between Flames and Deceit (Dragon’s Heart Duology #1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Nienna

T allon was missing. His seat to my left remained empty, yet Kallias led the dinner as though nothing was amiss. I couldn’t decide which unsettled me more—the absence of my betrothed or the cold indifference radiating from the king after the council debacle. Alone beside Egath, the tension gnawed at me.

The Velli ambassador behaved impeccably, his manners and etiquette intact. For once, his arm hadn’t strayed to my chair, nor had he invaded my space with insincere closeness. His polished demeanor made his presence tolerable, though no less unsettling.

“I hear it will be a spring wedding.” He cut into his thin-sliced beef, his tone casual yet probing.

When I met his clear green gaze, I struggled to mask my unease. Egath was handsome, the kind of man whose charm cloaked a venomous bite. I’d seen the predator beneath his affable facade, glimpsed his smile sharpened into a weapon. Tonight, his eyes danced with feigned curiosity, tempting me to let my guard slip.

“You heard correctly.” I pushed the potatoes around my plate, too nervous to eat. My voice came out steady, though my nerves frayed under Kallias’ silence and Egath’s chatter. “New life comes with spring—flora, fauna, and, of course, the royal house.”

The implication struck me like ice water. New life. I would have to consummate my marriage. My hand trembled as I set down my fork and dabbed at my lips, hoping the motion would disguise my disgust. How could I endure that duty while Kallias still dominated my thoughts?

Egath’s voice broke my spiral. “I’ve heard dragons will arrive before then. Though I’m sure they won’t be used until the union?” He carved another piece of beef, his tone almost careless. “After all, Radaan wouldn’t own them until afterwards.”

My spine stiffened as I turned to him, forcing my expression into a mask of polite confusion. “Radaan? Own dragons?”

With a condescending smile, he replied, “The beasts would belong to the kingdom. They’d answer to the king, would they not?”

“They will answer to me.” The steel in my voice surprised even me. “The Dragon Riders serve Draconia—a Draconis queen and no one else.”

“Ah,” he murmured, his nod slow and calculating. “That explains why you couldn’t negotiate for them.”

“There is no negotiating for dragons,” I snapped, though I tried to temper the sharpness in my tone. “They aren’t commodities, but the lifeblood of my people, as sacred as the land itself. They belong to Draconia, now and forever.”

The mere thought that he believed a Dragon Rider would obey a foreign king was laughable.

Draconis were born of pride. Our island was the cradle of our existence; the Spire loomed over us, its jagged silhouette etched into the soul of every newborn. It was as intrinsic as breath itself. The roar of dragons resonated in our blood, their calls echoing in our hearts. Even my father, with all his power, could not command the riders to bend to a foreign throne. They answered only to the Dragon King or the Dragon’s Heart.

He paused, humming a low, thoughtful sound, but I noticed the subtle twitch of his cheek. Was that annoyance I glimpsed in his forest-green eyes? He was calculating something, and when he leaned back and dropped his chin, I knew he had reached his decision.

“I meant no insult, Princess,” he said. “Vellos knows little of the Draconis—rumors, legends, nothing more.”

“Likewise,” I replied, taking a sip of my wine. “Perhaps I’ll visit the library.” Memories intruded, unbidden: rough hands on my waist, strong thighs nestled between mine.

Egath’s voice yanked me back. “You’d have to imagine any books Radaan holds would be tainted by their hatred for my people.”

I steadied my breathing, suppressing the heat that rose to my cheeks. “And where would you suggest I learn of Vellos?”

His grin widened, flashing his sharpened teeth. “I’d be happy to educate you. ”

Kallias’ voice rumbled like distant thunder. “Ambassador, diplomacy requires tact. If you’re suggesting you educate a princess, you have much to learn.”

Egath nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty. Due to Prince Tallon’s state, I only meant to–”

“You know nothing of the prince’s state,” Kallias cut in, his jaw tightening. He rose from his seat, shoving his chair with his knees, his glacial gaze locking onto mine.

I leaned back on instinct, suspecting that glare was directed for Egath. I glanced his way as the rest of us pushed to stand, joining the king.

“Your Majesty?” My voice cracked, betraying my nerves. I had been raised for court, taught to control my every word, but this man—this moment—shattered all my composure. “What is Tallon’s condition?”

If it was possible, he stood a little straighter. “He is unwell,” he said.

Without saying more, he turned on his heel and strode from the dining hall, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

I watched him go, noting the rigid set of his shoulders, the tension coiled in every step. He didn’t pause to speak to the nobles; he moved like a storm, barely contained.

“Unwell,” Egath muttered under his breath.

I snapped toward him, catching the smirk curling his lips. “Is it a plague?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not quite. Though I’ll leave that for the king to elaborate.”

The untouched food on my plate mocked me. Four courses remained, each one promising more forced smiles and veiled barbs. I couldn’t endure it.

Rising from my seat, I followed Kallias down the dais, the guards trailing close behind. At the main corridor, I hesitated, my gaze drawn to the path I knew led to the roof. He would be there, taking refuge from the suffocating pretense of court.

I exhaled, letting the tension drain from my shoulders, and turned the opposite way.

“The shoulder looks lopsided.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

“What, is he standing with his hand on his hip like some sassy wench?” Scythe’s words came muffled, her mouth full of pastry .

I snorted. She choked, spraying powdered sugar across the bed. I yelped and fanned at the sugary cloud, shoving the sheet higher over our heads. Her laughter turned into a cackle as she struggled to swallow, flinging her book aside.

“I can just see him!” She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “‘Now, Nienna, don’t look at me that way, or we’ll do something improper.’”

“He doesn’t talk like that!” I whacked her arm with my sketch pad and she giggled.

Earlier, when I retreated to my room, Scythe left to forage for food and returned with two bowls of stew and a plate piled high with pastries. We ate by the fire until the shadows stretched long, then set up a makeshift tent of thin linen over my bed. Moonlight filtered through, faint and silvery, making the space seem private and safe.

She read while I sketched, the cool glow illuminating my work. I shifted on the pillows, tracing lines across his chest with my pencil, smudging edges with the side of my finger. I focused on his scars from the foothills.

“How does a king talk before he kisses you?” she teased, peeking over her book with a smirk.

“I’m not telling you,” I said, laughing as I worked faster, lines dancing under my fingers.

“Better than, ‘Kiss me or I’ll dump milk on you,’ I hope.”

I cast her a sideways glare. “Aye. Who told you such nonsense?”

“Gregor.” She sighed, snapping her book shut and staring at the swaying sheet. “The milkman’s boy doesn’t know how to woo a Draconis woman.”

“And how did he react to your refusal?”

“I kneed him in the balls.”

I threw my head back, laughing until my ribs ached. Edith would scrub her mouth with soap for a week if she overheard that.

“He’ll walk like a reformed man for days,” I said, grinning as the last sweet bread disappeared into her hands. “Don’t let Edith catch wind of it. She’ll put you on chamber pot duty.”

“She already has.” With a groan, she shook her finger at me. “You’d best avoid the blasted bean soup these people serve every other night.”

“I’ll avoid the soup when you keep your hands off the pastries. I swear you’ve doubled in size since we arrived.”

Her mouth fell open. A pillow flew at my head, and I squealed, returning fire with one of my own.

A clatter stopped us. We froze mid-motion, clutching pillows, our gazes locking.

Holding our breath, we waited. And waited .

Edith wouldn’t intrude—not during Scythe’s shift—unless something serious had happened. Rumors about Kallias or, gods forbid, Tallon hadn’t reached her, had they?

Scythe peered down at the plate. It tipped and tapped the bedframe. She grabbed it with a quiet laugh, then set it on the floor.

“Thought we were done for,” she whispered, curling beside me with her book. “If Edith catches me ‘being a rascal’ again, she’ll send me back to Draconia.”

“She doesn’t have that power,” I said, shifting to hold the sheet aloft with my knees. “But I could.”

“Aye, but she could write to your mother. If the Dragon Queen demands my return, I’m as good as gone.”

“Mother wouldn’t. You’re my only friend here.”

“Besides Fyrn.”

“She’s different.” I sighed, shading the curve of his thigh. “I need noble friends in court. You? You’ve been at my side since we were babes. No noblewoman could replace that.”

“I’m irreplaceable.” She grinned and flipped her page with a flourish.

“Oh, hush and read.” I smoothed bold strokes across his legs, scowling. Kallias and his blasted thighs—they’d haunt me for eternity. Couldn’t he find larger trousers? They were enough to drive a woman mad.

The quiet filled with soft scratching and the rustle of pages until her voice returned, low and uncertain. “Do you think he loves you?”

My pencil paused mid-stroke, hovering over his hand. Did Kallias love me? The thought sent my pulse stumbling. I drew short, sharp lines for his fingers, my words subdued. “He loves the idea of me. He needs someone who can secure Radaan’s future. Brains for the lack of Tallon’s.”

“But now you’re more to him than that.”

“They don’t know me. Not him, not Tallon. They knew Ronan in passing. What they wanted and what they got are different things.”

The plate rattled again.

We both stilled, staring at the shadowed outline beyond the sheet. A figure loomed—too gaunt for Edith.

A knife ripped through the linen.

Scythe screamed as I dove off the bed, hitting the floor hard and rolling to my feet. I ran for the door, but froze. Light from the corridor spilled in, revealing guards crumpled in crimson pools.

Scythe’s shriek snapped me back. She kicked, tangling the attacker in the sheet. I spun to help her, but halted in horror. A sword pierced her chest, its tip shining wet with blood.

“No! ”

She clutched the figure’s neck, fingers digging into flesh as they locked together in a violent tangle. A guttural grunt escaped the attacker as my pencil jutted from their throat, Scythe’s trembling hand gripping it tight.

“Go!” she gasped, choking on blood as she held them fast.

Instead, I charged. My hands found the pencil, and I yanked it free, warmth spurting across my knuckles. I plunged it back into their neck. Again. Again. My arm jerked with frantic, brutal motions, my only thought a primal demand to end this monster. Crimson spattered my face, hot and metallic, the reek of iron choking me as the figure buckled beneath the assault, his body falling limp against the floorboards with a sickening thud.

Scythe wasn’t moving.

I dropped to her side, pressing shaking hands against her crimson-soaked nightdress. Too much blood. Too fast.

“No, no, no!”

Not her. Not Scythe.

Her unseeing eyes stared past me, their light extinguished. My breath hitched, my chest heaving as the world blurred.

Behind me, a crash tore through the suffocating silence. My head snapped up. Another assassin loomed, closing the distance with terrifying speed.

I stumbled to my feet and bolted for the hidden passage. The dresser, still shoved aside, offered my only escape. My heart hammered as I clawed at the narrow door, yanking it open, then throwing myself into the pitch-black tunnel.

It slammed shut behind me, but a gloved hand wedged into the gap. I kicked, my heel connecting with the wood in desperate, jarring blows. I hurled the latch down, and a sharp cry followed the brittle snap of bones. Dust coated my bloodied fingers, filling my nostrils with the scent of must and old timber.

The door shuddered as if something heavy rammed against it.

Fear choked me as I scrambled on hands and knees into the suffocating darkness. My palms slid over uneven planks, splinters biting into my skin. My breaths came fast and shallow, each one laced with the coppery taste of blood and panic.

I had no light. Only memory guided me through the twisting black void.

A sudden stab of pain lanced through my palm. I cried out, pitching forward as my head struck the wall with a hollow thud. Stars burst behind my eyes, but I shoved off the ground, feeling along the rough wooden walls.

Panic gripped me, tightening its hold as I edged toward what I prayed was the right turn.

The door crashed open .

I bit my tongue, muffling a whimper as I clawed forward. Please, please, please . My nails caught on the small splintered frame. I shoved it, my mind racing, my body quaking.

“Gods!” I hissed, thrusting my shoulder into it.

It didn’t move.

I rammed it harder, but it stayed in place.

A scuffle of footsteps sounded behind me.

“Please—just— help! ” I screamed, pounding my fist against the wood. “Help me!”

When it jerked free, a firm hand grabbed mine, yanking me through. The ragged doorframe scraped my nightgown, tearing it with a sickening rip. I spun, scrambling back on my rear, eyes glued to the opening.

“Greaves, now!” came a sharp order.

A muscular man, wearing only underbreeches, clutching a sword, darted into the darkened passage. My breaths rushed in desperate gasps, but I stumbled forward to follow. He had no light. He didn’t know the way.

Rough hands seized my waist, lifting me off the ground. A half-naked stranger dragged me through a maze of shadowed rooms. I clawed at his arm, my body thrashing to break free.

“Let me go!” I screamed, twisting, thrashing.

He grunted at my resistance, then kicked open a door. “Assassin! Lock Reem down! Guards!”

Chaos exploded. Metal clanked as men poured in, fanning out through the rooms. Lanterns flared to life, casting harsh beams over the earth-toned walls.

The man stepped back, and recognition slammed into me. Kallias stood there, his large hand settling on my shoulder. His eyes, sharp as steel, followed every movement of the soldiers.

I made it to his rooms.

My knees buckled. The world tilted, and I stumbled. Shouts echoed down the corridors.

He caught my arm, his gaze scanning me in a cold, quick sweep. “Fetch a healer!”

“I’m fine,” I snapped, pulling away. I wasn’t hurt.

Not physically.

But my heart pounded, too loud, too fast, threatening to burst. I looked down at my nightgown, stained dark with blood, threads of web and debris clinging to the lace. A ragged tear split the fabric from my hip to the hem, and I tugged at it, trying to hold it together.

“Rooms are cleared, Your Majesty!” A guard called, jogging over to us. “We’ll station two in each room while we search the palace.”

Kallias’ gaze locked on me. “How many were there? ”

I stared at my toes, blood splattered across the fair skin. Was it Scythe’s? Or the assassin’s?

“Nienna, how many?”

The panic in my chest made my breath catch. I crossed my arms over myself, fighting the tremors. “At least two. One we killed. The other was in the passages. I don’t know if there were others.”

“I want a report of the palace in fifteen minutes, and Reem within the hour.” His command cracked the air, and the guard saluted before darting out.

I shivered, my vision swimming with tears. My knee buckled again. I reached for something—anything to steady myself—but found nothing.

Kallias grabbed my arm, steadying me, but I pulled away with a whimper. He couldn’t touch me. Not now. Not with the guards here.

A cold surge of instinct swept over, screaming that I had to create distance between us. I was in a shredded nightgown, thin as a spider’s web. He stood beside the door, only linen trousers clinging to his hips, exposing too much of his skin.

Scythe was dead. But I couldn’t face it. As a princess, I was meant to accept these threats to my life.

I forced down a sob, lifting my chin, standing taller. His jaw clenched, his hand curling into a fist as his eyes swept over me. They lingered, cataloging every drop of blood.

Scythe was gone.

My shoulders shook. My arms tightened around me, nails digging into flesh. I could feel the pain. This wasn’t a dream—it was a waking nightmare.

She was dead.

I collapsed in on myself, crumbling into the grief, my breath hitching. Guards charged through the palace, hunting the assassins, oblivious to the fact that I lost my best friend.

“Nienna, tell me what you need.” Kallias’ voice cracked, worn thin by the late hour.

“Nothing.” The word burned as I forced it out.

My back stiffened, but the effort to straighten crumbled beneath the pressure of another sob. My teeth sank into the flesh of my cheek. Nails bit into my arms, leaving crescents in tender skin. I was a princess. I was trained for this. It didn’t matter that I wanted to crumble, that I was desperate to be anything but the strong one.

Tallon wouldn’t be here when the next attempt came.

I had to do this alone.

“Tell me how to help you! ”

“You can’t!” I shrieked, my gaze snapping to his. Though my vision blurred with tears, I saw his body tense. “You can’t,” I repeated, hissing through my teeth.

I longed for my brother and Gyrak, for my father and Argos. The Nest, the smell of sunshine and sea, was a thousand times better than this palace. The stench of rot lingered here, choking every breath.

Kallias closed the distance between us, his grip seizing my chin, forcing me to hold his gaze. “I am the king of Radaan. You do not get to tell me what I cannot do.”

My body chose that moment to collapse. The world spun as my legs gave way.

Then—I wasn’t falling anymore.

Kallias lifted me. His arm cradled me beneath the knees, the other holding me tight against his chest. Then he strode through his rooms until we reached his bedchambers.

“No one comes in except Greaves.” He ordered, and the guards bowed, retreating with quick steps.

The two beds made the space feel even smaller than mine. Both were mussed as though they had only just roused. A desk sat in the corner, a washbasin nearby. Several small dressers and trunks rounded out the sparse furnishings.

He set me on my feet near the bed furthest from the door. I shuddered, clinging to his arms for balance, the wave of helplessness crashing over me.

Scythe was killed. An assassin tried to kill me. And now, here I was, in the king’s rooms, drenched in blood.

He stood half-dressed, his expression hardening as if he wanted to murder someone. “Your handmaiden?”

“Dead.” I choked on the word, dropping my gaze. I couldn’t meet the fire in his stare.

I tracked the scars crisscrossing his body, a map of battles etched in pale white and angry pink against his skin. Thin lines and jagged edges streaked his chest and stomach, but one scar stood out—thick and gnarled, carving through the dark hair over his heart like a cruel brand.

A wave of shame surged through me, sharp and suffocating. It pressed against my ribs, stealing air as my thoughts spiraled. This shouldn’t have happened. None of it. She wasn’t meant to die. He wasn’t supposed to be the one holding me.

“Sit.” The word was a command, low and quiet, but unrelenting.

My legs moved before I could think, folding beneath me as I sank onto the bed. My eyes stayed rooted to the floor, the worn grain of the wood blurring under my focus. I refused to look at him—not now. Regret already coiled in my stomach, cold and heavy. This was a mistake, a reckless misstep we’d both carry .

My breath faltered, a shallow hitch I couldn’t smother. The questions would come. They always did. He’d demand to know how I found the passages, what secrets I stumbled on, what truths I overheard. And I had no answers—none I was ready to give.

“The escape routes connect to the royals’ chambers and a few dignitaries’ quarters. They’re sealed.” The slosh of water punctuated his words, rippling through the tense air. “Greaves will find them.”

“What about you?” My chest tightened as my gaze flicked to the open door leading to the passages. Shadows pooled there, an endless void. “What if they double back?”

Kallias drew a sharp breath, stepping between me and the doorway, his frame blocking my view. A scabbard and belt dangled from one hand, the other clutching a damp cloth that dripped along the floor.

“I wish they would.” His voice was a low growl, thick with menace.

I watched a bead of water fall onto my lap, staining the delicate lace in an inky bloom.

“I am the king of Radaan,” he said, his rage palpable. His gaze locked with mine, cold, fierce. “I fought at the front for eighteen years. Faced countless attempts on my life.”

He knelt, leveling himself before me, his glacier-hued eyes aflame with conviction. “Let them come. Let them try to reach you.”

He pressed the chilled cloth into my hand. The coolness seeped into my skin, grounding me as my fingers curled around it, trembling against its rough weave.

“Now,” his tone hardened, controlled but barely, “do me a favor and assure me that isn’t your blood before I lose what little sanity I have left.”

I dragged in a ragged breath, the air catching in my chest. He didn’t flinch. His gaze burned with a brutal intensity, sharp and unrelenting, demanding my truth.

“It’s not mine,” I managed, my voice breaking.

No, it was Scythe’s. The assassin’s. My palms, still stained with the evidence, trembled as guilt and horror clashed inside me.

“Prove it,” he growled, the calm veneer shattering, exposing the fury simmering beneath. “Or I shall have to take matters into my own hands.”

Frantic, I scrubbed at my skin with jerky strokes. Red streaks mixed with water, smearing the story of my survival. His gaze bore into me, no longer cold but searing, the assassin’s attack leaving cracks in the mask of indifference he had worn so well.

The cloth dragged over the cut on my palm, and pain flared. I flinched. Kallias’ fingers closed over mine. His thumb grazed the edge of the wound, rough yet steady, anchoring me to the moment. A shiver ran through me at the contact. When his grip on his sword tightened, I yanked my hand back, but his focus never wavered from the door, every muscle poised for an attack.

I resumed scrubbing the grime from my hands, each stroke harsh. Kallias stood unmoving, a dark silhouette framed by the dim corridor beyond. He was a barrier of steel and resolve, planted between me and whatever threat lurked in the shadows.

The cloth, once pristine, now carried the night’s horrors—its white fibers streaked with ash-gray smudges and dull red stains. The scent of iron clung to it, bitter and metallic. Scythe’s lifeless face burst into my mind: her gaze empty, her body crumpled. The sensation of the pencil driving into flesh resurfaced, the primal terror of survival clawing at my chest.

Grief coiled around me, crushing, suffocating. Tears stung the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Her vacant stare wouldn’t leave me. A ghost scorched into memory.

We weren’t in Draconia. There would be no burial at sea, no dragonfire to carry her soul skyward. Here, her body would be buried or burned on a pyre—both choices felt like a desecration.

The decision rested on me. A princess was supposed to have answers, a spine unbent by grief. But as her friend, neither path was enough.

Worm food or funeral pyre. Dragonfire left no trace behind, its heat erasing everything. I wasn’t sure I could watch her soul drift in a haze of ashes and smoke.

Silent sobs tore through me, ripping at the fragile barriers I’d tried to build. My teeth sank into my lip until the metallic tang of blood spread over my tongue. The air around me felt hollow, stripped of her laughter and the sly edge of her teasing. I could almost hear her sharp wit, the echo of her voice under the stars during stolen moments of rebellion. All of it was gone.

She was gone .

Kallias dropped onto the bed beside me, his weight tilting me toward him. I buried my face in his shoulder, the tears breaking free in an uncontrolled torrent. His arm wrapped around me, anchoring me as my body quaked with grief.

“This is your first,” he murmured.

I couldn’t answer. My throat constricted, blocking my attempts to speak. “Assassins don’t–” My voice broke. “Draconis don’t get attacked.”

I wanted him to pull me closer, to shield me from the reality crushing down on me. But I clung to myself instead, keeping some fragile barrier between us, even as my sobs consumed me.

His hand pressed to my waist, his grip firm, fingers digging in as if to keep me grounded. “Because of the dragons,” he said.

“Because of our magic,” I spat, the bitterness sharp on my tongue .

Magic defined Draconis—ours to wield for weeks, months, even years. My father held it like an unyielding fortress. I couldn’t hold it for a day.

“And yours?” His tone softened, curiosity threading through his words, void of judgment.

“Gone,” I whispered. “I gave it to you.”

Kallias turned, his face unreadable, but I didn’t meet his gaze. My focus stayed on the tears streaking his skin, slipping down to stain his clothes.

“When I bestowed the Dragon’s Kiss, that was all I had left.”

I couldn’t tell him how hollow I felt, how unworthy. Let him believe I gave him all I could and held nothing back—that if I’d kept my power, Scythe might still be alive. That it wasn’t my fault.

But it was.

He shifted, his hand moving to cradle my head. The steady pressure broke what little resolve I had left. My arms encircled him, clinging as my cries burst free, muffled against his chest. His fingers tangled in my hair, the motion gentle, the only movement in his unyielding frame.

This wouldn’t have happened in Draconia. Not if my father or brother were here. Not if I’d been stronger.

It shouldn’t have happened.

But it had.

And it wouldn’t be the last attempt.