Page 30 of Song of the Heart Scale (The Dragon’s Ballad #3)

DAMIEN

T he air in the Southern District reeked of brine and coal smoke.

Far from the polished streets of the Northern District, the alleys here were narrow, damp, and lit by flickering lanterns that precariously clung to crooked beams. The location for our meeting was chosen with care—a forgotten wine cellar beneath an abandoned distillery on the edge of Saltspire Wharf. A place steeped in shadow. Fitting.

I pulled the hood of my cloak lower as Uncle Bai and I descended the slick stone steps. The pungent scent of mildew clung to the walls like rot. A single door stood at the bottom, iron-bound and covered in old rune marks.

Uncle Bai knocked in a rhythm only those from the palace would know—three short, one long, one short. It creaked open.

Inside, a table had been set. Crates and barrels formed makeshift chairs. The two lords and a lady were already waiting. I’d met them all before, but this was the first time we’d all formally met.

Lord Rolen, the Minister of Finance, was a thin, angular man with a hawkish nose and the greying hair of someone who had long stopped trying to hide his age. His robes were deep burgundy, embroidered with gold coins and scales. Cold, calculating eyes appraised me the moment I stepped inside.

“Prince Damien,” he greeted with a stiff nod. “I must admit, I never thought I’d see you outside the shadow of exile.”

“There are many things people never thought I’d do,” I replied. “Yet here I am.”

Lord Vauren, the Minister of Defense, was built like a fortress.

Square shoulders, a blunt jaw covered in white stubble, and a scar running down his left cheek.

He didn’t speak at first, merely studied me with narrowed, gray eyes.

His hands, thick with calluses, rested on the hilt of a short blade strapped to his hip.

Lady Mirena of Ships sat relaxed, lounging on an upturned cask. Her auburn hair was braided with seashells and her robe, stitched from deep blue silk, rippled like ocean water. Mischief danced in her eyes as she lifted a goblet of spiced wine to her lips.

“So this is the infamous Shadow Prince,” she drawled. “I expected someone broodier.”

“Give it time,” I said, taking a seat opposite her. “The night is young.”

Uncle Bai remained standing, his arms crossed behind me like a sentinel. “We don’t have long,” he said. “The emperor’s imperial guards are watching the docks. They suspect the Southern District will be a problem.”

“Because it is,” Lord Vauren grunted.

Lord Rolen raised a brow. “We are not here to discuss why it is. We’re here to decide what to do about it.”

I leaned forward. “You want Thorne gone. So do I. But make no mistake—I will not trade one tyrant for another.”

“And yet you're the third prince,” Lady Mirena said, arching a brow. “One would assume you have a vested stake in the throne.”

“I never wanted the crown,” I said flatly. “Only to see justice done.”

Lord Rolen gave a dry chuckle. “Justice. Spoken like a man with no power.”

Uncle Bai stepped in. “You’ve seen what Thorne has become. The enthronement was a disaster. Nature itself rejected him.”

“The storm that never came,” Lord Vauren muttered. “The crops are already withering in Dragon Valley.”

Lady Mirena set her goblet down. “My sailors say the tides have changed. Fish have vanished. Sea beasts swim near the surface like something's driven them from the depths.”

Lord Rolen rubbed his chin, likely thinking through the financial implications. “So, the question is not if we move against him, but how .”

I placed a rolled parchment on the table. “We intercepted this from one of his inner couriers. It's a list of targets. Names. Merchants, nobles, even priests. People he's planning to eliminate or bribe.”

Lord Vauren scowled, irritated his defense officers hadn’t intercepted it first. “And you're certain it's real?”

“We don’t know. But the famine? Malachar confirmed it.”

The room fell silent.

“You spoke to the seer?” Lord Rolen asked, his startled voice barely a whisper.

I nodded. “He said Thorne's reign would bring famine and the skies would remain dry as long as he sits on the throne. That the Immortals have turned their backs on us.”

“Then we’re already too late,” Lady Mirena whispered.

“No,” I said. “We still have time. But we need to act. Not just with blades, but with influence. With unity.”

Lord Vauren leaned back. “You want a rebellion.”

My stare hardened. “I want a reckoning. One the people will follow.”

Lord Rolen sneered. “And if they don’t?”

I met his gaze. “Then I'll burn the lies down myself.”

Lady Mirena chuckled. “Broody after all. I like him.”

Uncle Bai stepped forward. “We’ll need access to the docks, control of the city guard in the districts, and funds to start moving supplies away from Thorne’s reach.”

“My ships can be yours,” Lady Mirena said. “But I want my name off any manifest. If Thorne finds out, I’m fish food.”

Lord Vauren grunted. “I can move some of the guard. Loyal men. But not all.”

Lord Rolen hesitated. “Gold moves mountains. I can freeze some of his reserves through tax levies and royal audits, but he’ll notice. Quickly.”

I nodded. “That’s enough. A start.”

Lord Vauren sighed. “This all sounds great, but without an army, you will fail.”

He was right. We could maneuver these little things all we wanted, but to fight Thorne and take him down, we needed an army.

“You need the Nightwing battalion,” Lord Vauren said.

My brows shot up and I looked over at the Minister of Defense. “They would never…”

“They just might.” He looked around the cellar at each of us. “Lord Mercer is the Nightwing commander. If you could convince him—”

“He’s also in-laws with Lord Zacharia, who is a staunch supporter of Thorne,” Uncle Bai chimed in.

“They’re not in-laws yet,” Lord Vauren stated. “Zacharia has been trying to arrange a marriage alliance between his son and Lord Mercer’s daughter for years now, to no avail.”

I frowned. “How come? Jacob is part of the Nightwing. He’s a good kid.”

Lord Vauren shrugged. “Maybe so, but is Lord Zacharia?”

That was a fair question. How good was Lord Zacharia? If Lord Mercer was stalling because he didn’t agree with Lord Zacharia’s politics, that might be beneficial for us.

“Uncle?” I turned and peered up at him.

He nodded. “I’ll reach out,” he offered casually. “I’ll feel him out before saying anything. If we can get the Nightwing army on our side… Thorne won’t stand a chance.”

The two lords and lady nodded in agreement, but our plan would only work if Lord Mercer agreed.

Either way, Thorne was in for a rude awakening.

Lady Mirena rose, stretching. “Well, Shadow Prince. You have a smirk that says you’ve got more planned than you let on. Care to share the real game?”

I stood too, casting a glance to Uncle Bai. “Let’s just say that Elaria is about to remember what happens when you cast a shadow into the fire.”

The lords exchanged wary glances. But no one walked away.

Not yet.

The Saltspire Wharf slept under a shroud of fog and moonlight, the sea lapping against ancient wooden piers like the steady breath of some great sleeping beast. Lanterns swayed in the salty breeze, flicking long, distorted shadows on the slick cobblestones.

I kept my hood low and my steps even as I moved beside Uncle Bai, both of us wrapped in thick traveling cloaks that made us blend into the night like smudges of ink.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. The meeting with the ministers still weighed heavily on our minds. Each of them was powerful, yet each was cautious about siding with a prince who’d been branded a disgrace since birth. But they listened. And sometimes, that was the first step toward rebellion.

We passed rusty anchor chains and empty crates reeking of brine, slipping between fishermen’s stalls and shuttered harbormaster shops. Saltspire Wharf was a place forgotten by the nobility unless it needed something smuggled in or out. Perfect for secrecy. Dangerous by design.

Uncle Bai softly cleared his throat. “We shouldn’t linger. This district has eyes, and Thorne’s men don’t sleep.”

I nodded and quickened my pace.

We were nearly past the last stack of fishing barrels when I felt it—a shift in the air, like a drop in barometric pressure before a lightning strike. Then came the clink of armored boots. Four of them. Too coordinated to be dockhands.

A group of imperial guards emerged from the mist like specters, cloaks flaring, silver-scaled armor glinting with residual moisture. One held a torch, the flames spitting sparks as the wind buffeted the wick.

“Hold there!” the lead guard barked.

Uncle Bai tensed beside me, just a flicker. My hand brushed the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath my cloak.

“Late night for a stroll, don’t you think?” the guard asked, his voice oily with suspicion. “State your business!”

“We’re fishermen,” I said quickly, deepening my voice into something rougher. “Missed the tide and got caught in the fog.”

“Fishermen don’t wear boots that fine,” one of the guards observed, nodding toward my leather soles.

Another stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “And they don’t smell like Northern District cologne.”

Uncle Bai subtly shifted, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet.

“Show your faces!” the lead guard commanded.

“We’d rather not,” I replied. “We’re disfigured. The sight might offend you.”

A beat. Tension thickened.

“Arrest them!”

The order dropped like a blade.

I stepped in front of Uncle Bai. “Shift. Now .”

He hesitated, his voice tight. “Damien—”

“I’ll hold them off. Go!”

My uncle’s eyes flickered with concern. “You don’t have your heart scale.”

“I’ve survived worse. Go!”

He cursed under his breath, and then the air around him shimmered.

The guards stumbled back, shouting as Uncle Bai exploded into his dragon form—a sleek beast with wings like folded storm clouds. The dock groaned beneath his weight just before he leapt into the air, wings beating the fog into spirals.

“Bring it down!” a guard screamed, aiming a crossbow.

But they were too late. Uncle Bai vanished into the night, leaving me alone to face their wrath.

The first guard lunged, his blade slicing through the mist toward me. I ducked, pivoted, and slammed the pommel of my dagger into his ribs. He wheezed and crumpled to the docks.

Two more flanked me. I parried one’s sword with a shriek of metal and barely sidestepped the second’s spear thrust. My dagger found flesh. Blood sprayed. He screamed and dropped.

Pain bloomed across my shoulder where a third guard’s blade grazed me. I spun, caught him with a boot to the knee, and drove my elbow into his jaw. He staggered.

I was bleeding, but at least I was still standing.

Unfortunately, not for long.

The fourth came from behind. I barely turned in time to catch his strike. The blow sent me reeling as the edge bit deep into my side.

I tasted iron.

I hit the ground, rolled, and came up crouching.

They were on me.

But I wasn’t done.

The pain sharpened my focus like a whetstone to steel.

I clenched my jaw and shifted my stance, adjusting for the wound in my side.

Warm blood seeped through my tunic, sticky and pulsing with each heartbeat, but I forced myself to ignore it.

Pain was just another form of information that told me I was still alive. Still in the fight.

The three remaining guards circled like wolves, their blades drawn and hungry. One of them muttered something to the others—a strategy, most likely.

Good. Let them think. Let them plan. Personally, I thrived in chaos.

I surged forward before they were ready. My dagger flashed upward, aiming for the soft flesh under the chin of the nearest guard. He reacted just in time, twisting to deflect my strike, but my follow-up elbow crashed into his helmet with enough force to send him stumbling.

The second one rushed me, his sword held high. I dropped low and rolled beneath his swing, slashing across his thigh as I passed. He howled and collapsed to one knee. I grabbed the edge of a crate for leverage and launched myself upward, landing a solid kick to his chest that sent him sprawling.

The third guard was smarter. He waited and watched.

I faced him now, blood dripping down my side, my breath ragged but steady. He adjusted his grip on his curved saber and advanced, his eyes cold and glittering beneath his helm.

“You're outnumbered,” he said. “Surrender, and we'll make it quick.”

I grinned, feral and sharp. “That's a generous offer. Now, allow me to return the favor. Run now, and I'll forget your face.”

He lunged.

I sidestepped, barely avoiding the blade, and brought my knee into his gut. He doubled over with a grunt and I drove my dagger into his shoulder, twisting as he screamed.

He fell.

I turned back to the others. One was trying to crawl away, dragging his wounded leg through the mud. The other was unconscious, slumped against a pile of netting.

The air reeked of blood and salt.

I staggered to the edge of the dock and leaned heavily on a post, scanning the skies for any sign of Uncle Bai. Nothing but fog and stars. The wind off the water chilled the sweat on my brow. My side burned.

I needed to move. Reinforcements wouldn’t be far behind. Thorne didn’t send patrols without redundancy.

I stumbled down a side alley, pressing a hand to my wound, and vanished into the shadows.

I didn’t stop until I reached the edge of the Southern District and slipped into an abandoned sailmaker’s loft just off the harbor. The place reeked of oil and old canvas, but it was dry and empty.

I collapsed against a barrel and finally let the pain catch up.

“By the Immortals,” I muttered, pulling back my tunic to examine the wound. Deep, but not fatal. I’d had worse.

Still, I needed to stop the bleeding.

I tore a strip of cloth from my cloak and wound it around my torso, gritting my teeth as the pressure sent fire lancing through my ribs.

Voices echoed outside. I froze.

Footsteps passed. Then faded.

I was safe for now.

I leaned back and slowly exhaled, the fog of my breath visible in the cold night air.

Thorne was tightening his grip on Elaria. Patrols. Executions. Parades of power.

But he was still afraid.

That was why he needed the guards. Why he silenced dissenters.

Because somewhere deep down, he knew his reign was built on lies.

And I was going to be the shadow that dragged those lies into the light.

Even if it killed me.