Page 29 of Song of the Heart Scale (The Dragon’s Ballad #3)

He leaned forward, pitching his voice low. “Thorne’s been on a tour all day, from Northern District to Southern District. Parading like some gilded Immortal.”

“I saw,” I said bitterly. “We had a front-row seat this morning.”

“Yeah, well, it’s worse now,” he said. “More people are dying.”

My stomach flipped. “What?”

“Executions. Quiet ones. Loud ones. Doesn't matter. He’s making examples of anyone who doesn’t bend the knee fast enough. Or anyone who dares to mention the enthronement.”

I stared at him. “You’re still laying low, aren’t you?”

“I have to!” he snapped. “You think I want to? They still call me Garrick the Betrayer , remember? I survived the late emperor once. I won’t be lucky again.”

I reached across the table and gripped his hand. “You’re not alone. We’re going to stop him. We just need time.”

He laughed hollowly. “Time? That’s one thing we’re running out of.”

I looked at the rolled parchment in my hand. Cold certainty settled in my bones.

If we didn’t act soon, there wouldn’t be a realm left to save.

And no storm to carry me home.

“You’re not wrong about that…” I murmured. “Damien saw the seer and he said some… things.”

“So what did Malachar say?” Garrick’s one good eye narrowed with a nervous tick, the candlelight reflecting off his patchwork robes like firelight on rippling water.

I glanced around the quiet interior of The Gilded Serpent. Daylight streamed through high stained-glass windows, filtering in gentle hues of gold and crimson, bouncing off velvet walls and glinting off polished brass. For a brothel, the place felt oddly reverent.

Leaning in, I lowered my voice. “He said Thorne's rise would bring famine to Elaria. That with him on the throne, the skies would dry up, the rains would cease, and the land would wither. No crops. No trade. No portal.”

Garrick's expression darkened. “Damnation.”

I arched a brow. “Strong word from a man who drinks wine before noon.”

He didn’t laugh. “That’s not just some spooky vision, my lady. That’s a death sentence. For all of us. You know what happens if the rains don’t come for just one season? Entire regions go hungry. Two seasons? The realm tears itself apart.”

“I know.” My fingers curled around the rolled-up parchment he'd given me. I still hadn’t opened it. I didn’t need to. The truth wasn’t in the ink—it was in the blood soaking the streets.

Garrick slumped back in his chair, his fingers tugging nervously at the edge of his leather eye patch. “Some people—still don’t know. They still think Thorne is some blessed savior. That the thunder at his crowning was a fluke.”

I tilted my head. “No one thinks thunder without rain is a good sign, Garrick. Not even here.”

“True, but fear keeps mouths shut. He has the guards. He has the throne.”

“And I have a big mouth and nothing to lose.”

He huffed out a chuckle, then sobered. “What are you and Damien planning?”

“Something. Anything. A spark. We need one. We just haven’t figured out how to ignite it yet.”

He went quiet, rubbing a thumb against the side of his five o’clock shadow. Then he looked up, his eye sharp. “Whatever happened to that rumor? The one about the dragon rider. That she was Damien's mate. That she was the real future queen. You know… you .”

I snorted. “Damien had that shut down quicker than I could say 'royal scandal.' He knew if Thorne found out I was his twin flame, it would put a giant target on my back. But, well... you see how well that worked out.”

Garrick whistled. “And now Thorne knows.”

“Yep.”

He tapped his fingers against the table, his brow furrowing. “If only we could use that against him.”

I blinked. Then blinked again. Then practically jumped out of my chair. “Oh my God!”

Garrick flinched. “Oh my what?”

“Figure of speech,” I said, waving him off. “Focus. You just gave me an idea.”

He looked skeptical. “That never ends well.”

“No, seriously. What's the best way to defeat an opponent?”

“Kill him?”

“Okay, yes, but like... aside from the obvious. Strategically.”

He shrugged. “Outnumber him?”

I snapped my fingers. “No. You destroy his image. Propaganda.”

He frowned. “Prop-a-what?”

“Propaganda.” I offered a wicked grin. “In my world, leaders have risen and fallen over it. It’s basically... public manipulation. Using media to sway the masses. You want to be loved? Plant stories. Want to be feared? Spread threats. Want to ruin your enemy? Discredit him.”

Garrick blinked. “You want to... plant stories?”

“Not just stories. Songs. Rhymes. Theater. Art. People in this world love a good tale, right? Especially one sung at the tavern over mugs of ale. Imagine it: a forbidden love between a prince and his twin flame, torn apart by a tyrant brother who defied the Immortals.”

His eye widened. “You want to make Thorne out to be a villain.”

“He already is,” I said. “I just want everyone else to see it. Not just fear him—hate him.”

“But how would you spread it?”

“You're connected. You know half the performers in Elaria. We write a song. Or better yet, a ballad. Catchy. Tragic. The kind of thing that sticks in your head long after the lute player’s packed up and gone.”

Garrick leaned back, slowly nodding. “Like an earworm. A melody you can't shake.”

“Exactly,” I said. “And before he can crush it, it's already everywhere. A dozen variations. A hundred singers. All of them telling the same truth, whether he likes it or not.”

He let out a long whistle. “That's dangerous, my lady.”

“So is doing nothing.”

“He'll retaliate. Hard.”

“Then we give them something worth singing about.”

We sat in silence for a moment, the air between us vibrating with shared resolve.

Then Garrick grinned. A slow, sharp thing that crinkled the edge of his eye patch.

“Do you want verses or a chorus first?”

I grinned back. “Start with the part where the Immortals curse him. That’ll get their attention.”

Garrick chuckled. “Let’s get to work.”