They placed me in a dress and called me a cute princess.

  They seated me at the table, voiceless,

  with fork, plate, and one spoon less.

  I am the sweetness. i am the cupcake jest.

  They eat the frost, the crust, and whatever is left of me—

  Their wingless princess.

  —Berdorf, E. Poems of a Wingless Princess. Unpublished manuscript, Summer.

  The double doors groaned open, and light from the throne room flooded over her. Eura flinched—but only slightly—before stepping forward as the music spilt into the corridor. Strings and flutes wound together in a slow, elegant waltz, choreographing the nobles in their practised rotations.

  The dancers moved like chess pieces on polished marble. Rooks glided. Knights spun. Bishops bowed.

  She was not part of the game yet. She was about to be placed on the board.

  Her breath caught beneath the corset, laced so tight it felt like it might crush her ribs from the inside. Her hair, curled and coiled with pearls and flickers of gemstone, pulled at her scalp. A fine veil of lace softened the world in front of her, but couldn’t blur the stares.

  And the ears—by the stars, the ears. The silver prosthetics hugged too tightly, like clamps made to punish rather than disguise. She could already feel the itch where skin would soon tear.

  Still, her steps never faltered.

  The music dipped, as if the room itself had inhaled.

  A clerk at the far end of the hall stood from his bench:

  “Eura Berdorf, Princess of Sorgenstein, and Heiress to Whitestone.”

  Heads turned. Gowns shimmered.

  Eura stepped into the light, the lace veil barely hiding the unnamed colour of her iris.

  Than those eyes following her. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. But it wasn’t the murmuring court that made her spine stiffen.

  It was the sight of her father, seated in his throne, cold, composed, unreadable, and the two strangers at his side. Not Jaer. Not Lolth.

  The woman stood like a figure carved from still water. Her hair fell in obsidian waves over her shoulders, and her almond-shaped eyes, heavy-lidded, gleamed with golden irises that never seemed to blink. A silk-green robe clung to her like breath, revealing more than it concealed.

  Beside her, the man shared the same bone-deep grace in his black silk robe. His features echoed hers, softened perhaps—like polished stone under water. They might have been kin. But the way his hand rested at her lower back, possessive, controlling and to domineering, told another story entirely.

  Eura’s throat tightened. The corset didn’t help.

  The music swelled again, and somewhere in the distance, a pawn spun across the floor.

  She stepped forward, even as the floor beneath her seemed to tilt.

  “My sweet child,” the Elven King said, his tone laced with theatre. “Please meet Talathon and Cassion Drach.”

  Eura dipped her head in a bow, though something in her chest clenched. Why was she bowing? They were dragons, and she—she was to become Dame. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

  Talathon offered a smile too smooth to trust, her golden eyes watching without blinking. Beside her, Cassion inclined his head, his posture relaxed—but his hand never left the hilt at his side, nor Talathon’s waist.

  Eura straightened her shoulders, resisting the urge to adjust her veil. “How may I help you?” she asked, voice even. Her eyes scanned the crowd, weaving through gowns and masks in search of Jaer… or Lolth. Someone familiar. Someone hers.

  Then came the sound she hated most.

  Finnegan’s laugh—light, easy, grating—rippled through the space as he stepped forward, laying a hand far too casually on Cassion’s broad shoulder.

  “These,” he said, grin curling like smoke, “are your future in-laws.”

  “In-laws?” Eura echoed, the word catching in her throat like a bone.

  She stood in lace and pearls and silver-tipped ears—poised on the board like a queen, but feeling more like a sacrificed pawn.

  “You will marry our son, Belmond,” Talathon said smoothly, her voice barely rising above the music. “As was agreed with your ancestors, many seasons ago and sealed contract with your mother.”

  The dancers turned, gowns sweeping like waves, their steps in perfect sync—oblivious or indifferent.

  “Marry?” Eura blinked. The word didn’t settle right in her mouth. “But I’m only ten. I’m a child.”

  “And almost eleven.” Cassion’s smile was slow and polished, but his eyes held something colder. “And you already look in your prime.”

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  The hairs on her neck stood on end. She wanted to step back, but the corset kept her upright like a frame.

  “Shouldn’t the Dame choose her husband?” she asked, voice taut. “Someone she loves?”

  Finnegan’s chuckle returned. “Forgive her,” he said to no one in particular. “She’s already beautiful, but still thinks love is the reward for simply being alive.”

  Eura opened her mouth to protest, but her words were drowned out by courtiers clapping politely—as if applauding the idea of her wedding.

  “I won’t marry some—some random reptilian boy!” she snapped, but her voice slid off them like rain on stone. No one turned. No one answered.

  Instead, talk shifted—locations, dates, ceremonies. The scent of rose oil and spiced wine thickened the air.

  She stood in the centre of it all—corseted, veiled, wrapped in lace and obligation—and realised with hollow certainty: she was alone.

  Not a single chess piece had moved on the floor in her favour. She had already been played.

  The music swelled, violins climbing in arpeggios like laughter rising from a throat that didn’t belong to her. The dancers continued their slow spiral across the marble—turn, bow, glide. Every step matched to the beat. Every smile choreographed.

  And then, like lightning cracking across a clear sky, it struck her.

  Hex was right.

  It didn’t matter how many generals filled her war room, how many ministers lined her halls, how many advisors surrounded her like armour.

  None of them could prepare her.

  Not for this. Not for the way power slipped from her hands without a sound. Not for the quiet weight of betrayal dressed in silk and protocol.

  Her eyes darted across the throne room, searching for Jaer, for Lolth—for anyone and anything familiar.

  But all she saw were masks. Painted smiles. Whispered toasts.

  A storm gathered behind her ribs, just shy of breaking.

  “And where is our groom-to-be?”

  Her father’s voice cut through the rising silence like a bell through fog.

  Talathon turned with her usual velvet elegance, unbothered. “He was exploring your gardens,” she said with a placid smile. “Belmond is… a romantic. He’ll show soon enough.”

  Another turn of the dancers. Another move on the board.

  Eura didn’t know who held the next piece.

  But it wasn’t her. This was her first lesson about power.

  The gardens of Pollux gleamed in the late light, each leaf catching the sun like a polished emerald. The hedges breathed in neat spirals. The flowers sighed open in colours too rich to be real.

  And there he was—wandering through all that green like a flame drawn from a dream.

  His robe, a soft and silken red, trailed behind him with the drama of a storybook prince. Black hair spilt past his shoulders in gentle waves, brushing the fabric as he walked, half-swallowed by the weight of petals and perfume.

  But he didn’t move like royalty.

  He knelt often, examining leaves with quiet reverence. His fingers—long and careful—plucked seeds from under trumpet vines and tucked them into his pocket. Then another. Then another. His pockets were nearly full of borrowed tokens for a garden he didn’t yet have, but one he whispered to in daydreams when allowed.

  He hummed to himself, a tune no court ever taught him, until a sound cut through the green.

  Not the rustle of wind. Not bees. Something softer. A breath. A shift.

  He straightened slowly.

  Between the rose arches, where moss grew thickest, perched a figure of a girl no taller than his shoulder.

  It wasn't a girl, but a mouse.

  Or perhaps, something in between.

  Tucked between two clusters of waxy green, just visible through the shimmer of sunlight, was a flash of white. Fur. Tiny paws. But not quite ordinary. Not quite real.

  “Hi there,” he said, rising onto the balls of his feet, reaching gently.

  The mouse flinched.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Belmond added, withdrawing his hand.

  “Yeah, sure,” the mouse muttered, voice crisp and unimpressed. “And I don’t like cheese.”

  Belmond grinned—wide, crooked, curious. “You’re not a mouse. What are you?”

  Her nose twitched. “And you’re not a dragon. What are you?”

  He laughed. It faded quickly into wonder. “I am a dragon.”

  “And I’m the Spirit Dreamer. So here we are.”

  His brow arched. “What does the Dreamer do in Pollux?”

  “Business.” She flicked a whisker. “And none of your business.”

  “You’re grumpy.” He dropped his foot into the grass like he was claiming it. “I am too. We could use some cheese. Don't you agree?”

  “Aren’t dragons always grumpy?”

  “Well… not really.” He tilted his head. “But most times, yes. There isn't much cheese where I come from.”

  He stretched out his arm, palm open—offering not a trap, but a bridge.

  “Wouldn’t you like to come down?” he asked. “So we can be friends?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Why would I be friends with a dragon?”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m on a very important mission,” she said, nose twitching. “And I’ve seen this scene play out before. Not once. Not twice. But to many times.”

  She paused, her tail curling like a question mark.

  “I’ve read it like a book. Over and over. Same garden. Same red robe. Same dragon. Same ending.”

  Belmond blinked, thrown. “Did I… eat you?”

  “Worse.”

  She leapt. Light as breath, she landed in his hand—paws pressing against his skin like a spell.

  “You made me fall in love with you.”

  “I would never fall for such a tiny thing,” he said, though his hand didn’t move. “I’m a dragon. I’m promised to some... princess, a... she ... I... I forgot her name. But I have duties. Responsibilities.”

  “I’ve seen it happen,” she said softly. “Again and again. You never marry her.”

  “Oh?” His brow lifted. “Are you an oracle now?”

  “No.”

  She vanished.

  Not like mist or illusion. Just gone.

  Then, a breath behind him.

  He turned, too slow.

  She was already there.

  Not a mouse. Not a girl. Something else.

  A figure with skin pale as moon-bleached bone, hair like snowfall, and eyes red as fire. She stood just behind his shoulder. Close. Too close.

  Her lips brushed the curve of his ear.

  “You’ll marry me,” she whispered. “Late, but you’ll marry me.”

  Belmond froze.

  Something ancient changed inside him, like it was written in stone.

  He wasn't able to speak, not a word. He didn’t have to.

  Because Summers from now, or centuries, when his name was only whispered and The Spirit lore only half-believed, he would still remember this moment.

  Not as the beginning of a friendship.

  But as the moment the end began.

  Belmond Drach, the red dragon, had fallen for the Dreamer.

  

  Every princess is currency.

  A negotiation for power, fortune, or safety. I will not pretend to know which of these was the intended objective here. Understanding the logic behind a contract as old as the world is difficult; justifying it is impossible.

  I have written elsewhere on the legal reasoning of the agreement: what each side would gain, what each would surrender. But law is often only the polite mask of force. To me, it was simply a power move.

  From which side? The answer is less balanced than scholars like to suggest.

  Talathon Drach gained territory for the hatching of her brood, and access outside Cragua. She gained influence. She gained leverage. She gained the right to plant her heirs where she pleased.

  But they were children. Belmond Drach may have been older than myself ten times over, but for a dragon he was still a child. And so was Eura.

  The schemers knew she was a Sternach. They knew she was cursed. They knew there would be no gentle ending to this union. My father crafted a bond-spell that could not be broken, not even by death. What they did not understand was even worse: By forcing the union, they ensured the war.

  The War of Too Many Dragons — despite the jest of its name — was no joke. Four dragons equals an unending legion of golems, magis and you name it. Four dragons can unmake empires. Guess who won.

  —The Hexe – Book Three by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer.