Page 1 of Dreams and Dragon Wings (Clean Fairytales for Adults #2)

Aurelia

Seventeen Years Ago

I met my first dragon the day I turned thirteen.

Sunlight spilled through the trees bordering our garden, painting the grass in patterns of gold and shadow. I traced my fingers over the silken petals of the roses my mother had planted when we first moved to this cottage.

Pink ones, sweet-smelling and delicate.

The clatter of plates floated toward me through the open window. My parents were inside preparing my birthday cake. Mother had promised me a rare treat this year—chocolate—and Father had been secretive for days, hiding something in his workshop that I wasn’t allowed to see.

I was certain it was a new dress, though. Father made the best dresses.

And soon, the fine ladies of Spindleton would surely realize that, too.

I twirled in the garden in my old dress, basking in the warmth of the early summer day. The faded pink fabric fanned out around my ankles, now too short for me.

But I didn’t mind. I was only a commoner. No one cared about the length of my skirts. And besides, I was alone.

Or so I thought.

The sensation of eyes burning against my back sent me whirling to face him—the strange boy standing at the edge of our garden. He looked ordinary enough and no older than I, but I knew at once that he was… different.

He had hair the color of moonlight and eyes of such a deep, crystalline blue that they reminded me of the sapphires Mother had shown me in the jeweler’s shop window on our last visit to the city.

He stood just where our hedge met the wild forest, watching me with a curious tilt to his head. His clothing was finer than anything I’d ever worn—purple silk with silver threading that Father would have loved to work with.

“Hello,” I shyly greeted him. Mother had taught me to be polite, even to strange boys rudely lingering at the edge of our garden. “Are you lost?”

But he didn’t answer me. Instead, he leapt over the hedge in a single, fluid motion like a large cat.

With a surprised squeak, I skittered backward until my back thumped against the trunk of the old apple tree. I had never seen a boy leap that high before.

I had never seen anyone leap that high before.

“Drae sol sha?” he whispered in a strange, musical language I had never heard before, cautiously closing the distance between us.

Bewildered, I frowned at him. “What did you say?”

He frowned right back, his brow furrowing. “I asked, ‘What are you?’” he repeated in heavily accented Common. “You do not speak Draconic?”

“Of course not,” I answered. I couldn’t think of anyone who did speak Draconic. “And I’m a girl, of course.”

“ Naei , you’re not.”

And suddenly, the strange boy was standing close.

Too close.

My heart hammered wildly against my ribs as he ducked his head toward my neck and breathed in deep before exhaling, “I’ve smelled plenty of girls before, and you’re no girl.” In that musical tongue again, he whispered, “Sha sol feyra.”

I peeled myself away from the tree and fled by several paces. Should I scream for Papa? Should I run indoors and warn my parents that there was a stranger in our garden claiming that I didn’t smell like a girl?

After a moment’s consideration, my curiosity and indignation won out over good sense.

Cheeks flushing hot, I crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t know who you think you are, but it’s terribly rude to wander into people’s gardens and talk about how they smell.”

Mama would have scolded me for talking to someone above my station with such a sharp tongue. This boy might very well be the son of someone Father hoped to one day have as a client.

But this boy was being strange. My sharpness was well-deserved.

In the wake of my words, he bowed to me, as if I were a lady visiting the royal court of King Aldemar rather than a common-born girl standing in my family’s garden.

“Forgive me, feyra ,” he apologized. “I am Benevolence of House Radiata. I meant no offense.”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed. “Benevolence? What sort of name is that?”

His posture stiffened. His chin lifted. Pride flashed in those impossibly blue eyes. “It’s a perfectly normal name for the Crown Prince of Drakara,” he said, carefully enunciating each word.

The rest of my laughter died in my throat.

“Drakara?” I whispered, scanning him from head to toe. “You’re teasing me,” I finally decided. “You’re a boy, not a dragon. And besides, why would a dragon be here?”

Dragons weren’t allowed in Briarhold. Not after the war thirteen years ago.

Everyone knew that.

“I am not teasing you,” he said, seeming genuinely offended now. “My father and mother, King Valor and Queen Serenity, were just visiting with your king at the palace there”—he tipped his head in the direction of Spindleton—“and now we are on our way back home for my birthday celebration.”

His birthday?

“It’s your birthday today, too?” I wondered aloud, marveling at the coincidence, before I latched back onto his wilder claim: that he was the Crown Prince of Drakara.

“Prove it,” I challenged him, a thrill running through me at my sudden boldness. What had come over me? “Prove to me that you’re a dragon, or I won’t believe you.”

The boy scoffed and looked around the garden while running a hand through his silvery hair. His eyes fixed on the open kitchen window for the span of a single heartbeat before he looked back my way and sighed.

“Very well. But you must promise me you won’t scream.”

Before I could promise anything at all, the air around him shimmered like waves of heat rippling off a forge, and his form wavered with it. Blue eyes shifted to gold. His limbs contorted. And where the silver-haired boy had stood, there was now a creature out of storybooks and dreams.

A dragon .

He was only the size of a small horse but utterly perfect all the same, with scales like polished pearls and wings that caught the sunlight and refracted it into a thousand iridescent colors.

His eyes, though now golden, even retained a hint of their humanity with rounded pupils rather than the reptilian slits I had expected.

I didn’t scream. I couldn’t have if I’d wanted to. All I could do was stare in wonder.

I should have been afraid—everyone was afraid of dragons—but for some odd reason, I wasn’t. Staring into the molten gaze of the Crown Prince of Drakara, I felt utterly at peace.

“You’re beautiful,” I whispered when I found my voice again.

The dragon rumbled. I took that to mean he was pleased with the compliment.

In the next moment, the boy stood before me again, a shy smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Thank you, miss. You’re rather pretty, too.”

My heart skipped a full beat. A dragon thought I was pretty.

The prince of all the dragons thought I was pretty.

I cleared my throat and fidgeted, no longer sure what to do with my hands.

“Can you breathe fire, then?” I asked, if only to break the awkward silence growing between us. “Can you keep your wings even when in your human form? Do you spend more time as a boy or a dragon back home in Drakara?”

Benevolence chuckled, his once again blue eyes dancing. “You ask a lot of questions for a girl whose name I don’t even know.”

“Oh!” Heat bloomed within my cheeks again as I dipped into a wobbly curtsy. “I’m Miss Weaver, Your Highness. Miss Aurelia Weaver.” Shyly, I added, “It’s my birthday today, too, actually. I’m thirteen.”

His smile died in an instant. “What did you say?”

I worked my too-dry mouth, wondering what I could possibly have said to offend him so suddenly. In my silence, he stared at me, his gaze burning, willing me to speak.

“Aurelia,” I breathed at last once my unruly tongue started working again. “I said my name is Aurelia Weaver and… and that it’s my birthday.”

A pair of voices suddenly called from somewhere beyond the trees. A man and a woman, both carrying the same strange accent as the prince before me.

“Benevolence!”

“Bene, na’velar, drah sol sha?”

He grabbed my hand and hissed, “Come. Quickly!”

Before I could react, he pulled me deeper into the garden, where the roses grew wild and tangled. Without a word, he shoved me behind a particularly dense section before swiveling to face me, his body blocking my sight of the forest beyond the hedge.

“What are we doing?” I whispered, confused by this latest strangeness. “What’s going on?”

“My father can’t know you’re here,” he explained, his voice little more than a whisper. For a moment, a hint of frustration flickered across his features. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging on the strands. “You shouldn’t be here, selira feyra .”

“Why not?” I asked, widening my eyes. “It’s my garden.”

Without explaining anything at all, he clamped his hand over my mouth, shushing me.

“Be quiet,” he whispered against my ear, making my heart race all the more. “You must stay hidden until I’m gone. I’ll lead them away. Don’t worry; you’ll be safe.”

Safe? Why was I unsafe now?

Why would the King and Queen of Drakara mean me harm?

When he pulled his hand free, I asked, “But when will I see you again?”

“Never,” he said. Abrupt. Final. “You’ll never see me again, Miss Weaver.”

A pang of disappointment lanced through me. Silly . I was being silly. I had only just met him. What did it matter if I never saw him again?

But for some reason, I so desperately wanted to see him again.

And the realization that I never would made me… sad.

The voices called again, and Benevolence twitched away from me. “I must go,” he declared. Yet still he lingered, his eyes scouring my face as if looking for something.

Drawing in a deep breath, he shook his head and turned away. “Goodbye.”

“Wait!” I blurted out, louder than I intended.

He froze, and I turned toward the rosebush behind me. Carefully, I plucked the most perfect bloom I could find—a pink rose just beginning to open, its petals still curled protectively around its heart. But I wasn’t careful enough.

I winced as one of the thorns pricked me, drawing blood.

“Here,” I whispered, ignoring the throb of pain pulsing through my finger. “For your birthday.” Extending the rose toward him, I shyly added, “And so you never forget me.”

Goodness, what had come over me?

Benevolence looked down at the rose, then back at me. His eyebrows drew together. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing—” I tried to say, but before I could, he captured my hand within the clasp of his and drew my fingers close to his face. I trembled, thinking he was about to kiss my knuckles as if I were a lady.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he exhaled against my wounded finger—a breath that brought with it a strange heat, like the warmth of the sun. Mesmerized, I watched as the skin around the small wound knitted itself back together in the very next moment.

With his breath alone, he had healed me.

“How wonderful you are,” I gasped, unable to stop myself.

Despite his previous urgency, he was no longer in such a great hurry that he couldn’t spare a moment to smile at me again.

I pressed the rose into his palm. “Do not forget your present, Your Highness.”

“But I have nothing to give you in return.”

“Just meeting you was gift enough,” I insisted, marveling again at my boldness. But perhaps it was easy to be bold when there was no danger of seeing the other person again.

The prince hesitated, looking suddenly lost as he gazed into my eyes. Then he bowed, his hand once more taking hold of mine—but this time, he did press a courtly kiss to the back of it.

Only the clasp of his fingers around mine kept me from floating away.

“Write to me,” he whispered against my knuckles. Not a request, but a command.

“Write to you?” I hardly dared to hope that the Crown Prince of Drakara truly wished to exchange letters with me—a mere tailor’s daughter. “But how?”

His demeanor turned urgent again as he swiftly explained, “There is a fairy circle in the woods bordering your cottage, beneath the old oak. Leave your letter within it, and the fairy magic will do the rest.”

“But will you write back?” I asked, clinging to his hand to hold him in place for just a moment longer.

“Of course.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise,” he vowed.

The voices were very close now, and Benevolence released my hand and again turned to leave. But then he hesitated and looked back at me with an uncertainty that made him suddenly seem like just a boy, despite all his talk of dragons and princes.

“Do you promise to write me back when I write you back?” He sounded so vulnerable in that moment that I couldn’t help but smile.

“Yes!” Stroking the smooth, shiny skin of my freshly healed finger, I promised, “I’ll write every week.”

A smile broke across his face like the rising dawn. Clutching my rose against his chest as if it were the most precious gift in the world, he launched himself back over the hedge and disappeared into the woods as swiftly as he had first arrived.

Like the most wonderful dream.

The sort of dream from which I never hoped to wake.