Page 36 of Song of the Heart Scale (The Dragon’s Ballad #3)

DAMIEN

T he Gilded Serpent always smelled like perfume and power.

Even now, cloaked in shadow, I felt the undercurrent of tension and indulgence that made this place what it was: a den of secrets wrapped in silk and soaked in wine.

Music filtered through the walls, a slow, sensual rhythm plucked by nimble fingers and breathy flutes.

Every note echoed the careful seduction the house offered—not just of the body, but of information.

I kept to the far side of the hall with the hood of my cloak pulled low. Lysandra had promised discretion, but this meeting was a risk. Not just for me, but for the war I was trying to win before it began. If Lord Mercer saw through the game, if Thorne caught wind of this—

No. I couldn’t afford to think like that.

I passed through a beaded curtain into the upper-level lounge, where the favored patrons lounged like kings in a den of sumptuous velvet. From my vantage point, I spotted Lord Mercer immediately.

The man was every bit the legend whispered about in Dragon Valley.

Broad and compact, with the build of a man who still trained daily, even if his hair had silvered at the temples.

He was dressed plainly for someone of his status – black trousers and a high-collared tunic – but his midnight leather coat lined with Nightwing insignias in silver thread unmistakably marked him for who he was.

A scar bisected his chin at an angle, giving his otherwise stately face a crooked finish.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.

The girl beside him was laughing, draped over his arm like a warm shawl, but Lord Mercer barely blinked at her. His eyes were elsewhere, scanning the room with the calm of a man used to battlefields.

Lysandra appeared beside me like a wraith, her perfume preceding her. “He’s more punctual than usual,” she whispered. “That’s either a good sign or a very bad one.”

“Let’s hope it’s the former.”

She arched a brow. “I’ve done what you asked, Your Highness. But from here, you’re on your own.” With that, she disappeared again into the haze.

I slowly approached, letting Lord Mercer catch sight of me before I spoke. No sudden movements. No threats. Just the exiled prince in the flesh.

Lord Mercer stiffened. The girl stopped laughing.

I pulled back my hood.

“Prince Damien,” he said flatly. His voice was low, gravelly but clear. “This is either incredibly brave or astoundingly stupid.”

“Both,” I admitted. “But necessary.”

He waved the girl off with a flick of his fingers. She slipped away without question, though her wide eyes lingered on me. Lord Mercer gestured to the seat across from him. “You have five minutes. Use them wisely.”

I perched on the chair, every instinct on edge. “You command the most elite force in Elaria. The Nightwing battalion doesn’t take sides lightly, but neutrality in times like these is no better than complicity.”

His brow twitched. “I’m not fond of speeches.”

“Good. I’m not fond of giving them.”

A beat passed.

“Thorne crowned himself through the blood of our father, and now he’s consolidating power with fear and fire. The people are already turning against him—songs are being sung, stories are spreading. The Immortals gave a sign and he ignored it. You know what’s coming.”

Lord Mercer took a sip of wine. “I also know what came before, and what you were. An exiled boy whose own father cast him off. You carry no titles. No court. No army. Why should I wager my men on you?”

“Because I’m not asking you to wager them. I’m asking you to listen and decide for yourself if Elaria’s future deserves the boots of tyrants or the spine of resistance.”

He stared at me, hard and unflinching. “You speak like a man who’s tasted battle.”

“I’ve lived it. In exile. Alone, without the luxury of pageantry or shield of nobility. Every inch I’ve taken back, I earned. And I won’t stop now.”

Lord Mercer leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, his eyes sharp as cut obsidian. “Do you want the throne?”

The question cut to the bone.

“No. But I won’t let Thorne keep it.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, Lord Mercer nodded. “Suppose I did consider your offer. What would you ask of the Nightwing?”

“Surveillance. Intelligence. Tactical placement. You control the lands and the skies. If I can guarantee that the fae will join us—”

He cut me off. “The fae?”

“Lady Arya has been negotiating with Klaus, the grandson of the last fae king. The wards are weakening. If we free them—”

Lord Mercer’s expression finally shifted to mild surprise. “If you get the fae involved, we stand a chance. But if they turn on you...”

“They won’t,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

“How can you be so sure?” He raised a questioning brow.

How was I so sure?

“I trust Lady Arya and she trusts Klaus. They have a… bond.”

He considered me. “And what does your Shadow Prince heart want in return?”

I met his gaze. “Justice. For my father. For Elaria. And for every soul Thorne burns trying to keep the throne he stole.”

Lord Mercer stood.

I did, too.

When he held out a hand, I clasped it.

“We’re not allies yet,” he warned. “But I’ll listen again. Tomorrow. Same time.”

“I’ll be here.”

He walked away, leaving me standing there, heart pounding.

I hadn’t won the Nightwing. Not yet.

But it wasn’t a no.

And in this war, even a maybe was worth bleeding for.

It was late when I returned to my uncle’s estate.

Cat had long ago gone to sleep, and I didn’t want to disturb her by climbing into bed with the smell of the pleasure house clinging to my skin.

I was about to go bathe when the lights to my uncle’s study illuminated and I went to see if he was still awake.

I knocked on the door. “Uncle?”

“Enter,” he said. I pushed the door wider, revealing my uncle seated behind his desk, reading a book. “Why are you out so late?”

I cleared my throat. “I met with Lord Mercer.”

He furrowed his brows. “Didn’t I say I would feel him out first before we approached him?”

I nodded. “I know, but an opportunity arose and I couldn’t miss it.”

Uncle Bai closed his book and placed it on the desk. “Damien, you cannot make these rash decisions! We do not know who Lord Mercer is. He’s been stationed at the border for years. We don’t know where his alliances stand!”

“Haven’t they always been with my father?” I asked as if it was obvious.

Uncle Bai tilted his head. “Have they? We don’t know.”

“But the Nightwing was my father’s favorite unit—”

“Because they were the deadliest,” he interrupted.

“But Lord Mercer wasn’t someone my brother could easily control, and he knew it.

It was the main reason why he commanded him back to Dragon Valley.

” Uncle Bai removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Lord Mercer is an unknown variable. We must be careful.”

“He asked me to meet him again tomorrow.” I ran a hand through my hair, suddenly anxious. “Do you think it’s a trap?”

Uncle Bai shrugged. “Possibly. The only way to find out is to go.”

“By the Immortals…” I sighed.

“What is it, Damien?”

“I told him about the fae,” I muttered. “I’d hoped it would be a selling point for him, but now I feel like I just gave away secret intel.”

Uncle Bai softly exhaled. “Let me come with you tomorrow night. I’ll talk to Lord Mercer. Let’s see what his true intentions are.”

The corridor outside Uncle Bai's study was dim, with sconces flickering against the deep red and gold wallpaper like dying fireflies.

I closed the door behind me and leaned my back against the wood, inhaling deeply as though I could breathe out the weight that was slowly tightening around my chest. The echo of hushed voices and the crackle of candlelight were the only sounds that followed me up the stairs.

I moved quietly, each step measured. At the top of the landing, I paused at the door to our bedroom. The door was cracked open an inch, and through that slim space, I caught sight of her.

Cat lay curled in the bed with the sheets tangled around her legs and one arm thrown carelessly above her head.

A sliver of moonlight illuminated her face.

Peaceful. Serene. Her chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm, and a soft sigh escaped her lips.

I watched her for a long moment, my throat tightening with a surge of something too big to name.

Relief. Love. Awe.

She had a way of disarming me without even trying.

I quietly closed the door, the click muffled by the thick carpet beneath my feet. There was no sense in waking her. She needed rest. We both did.

Turning down the corridor, I made my way to the guest bath and nodded to the two servants stationed nearby. “Draw the tub. Hot. Oils, something floral and calming. I want the stench of The Gilded Serpent off me.”

They bowed in silence and quickly slipped into action. Within moments, I heard the gush of water, the clinking of glass as they poured in fragrant oils, and the faint rustle of dried petals being scattered across the surface.

I stepped inside once they’d finished and dismissed them with quiet thanks. Alone, I closed the door behind me.

The room was dim but warm, steam already fogging the mirror above the basin.

The tub was massive, carved from polished black marble veined with silver.

The water inside shimmered gold and rose in the light of the shimmering wall sconces.

The scent of lavender, bergamot, and something deeper—myrrh, perhaps—rose with the steam.

I peeled away the layers of my clothes, wincing as I caught sight of a bruise blooming along my ribs. A souvenir from the altercation at Saltspire Wharf. Another mark in a long list of many.

Lowering my body into the water, I groaned softly at the heat seeping into my skin.

It enveloped me like a living thing, drawing the ache from my muscles, the sting from my bones.

Flower petals lazily floated around me, some catching in the ridges of my collarbones, others swirling past like driftwood.