A dragon stole all the cheese

  as if each one were the last piece.

  I sat there, being polite

  while he was on his knees,

  begging for my mercy.

  How weird.

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 Unpublished manuscript, Summer.

  Steam curled off the teapot, catching the morning light that spilt through the glass ceiling. The table stretched between them, gleaming with silver trays of eggs and toast, pies cooling beside folded napkins, a cake untouched beneath a sugared frost. The air smelled of oranges and black tea. But, no apple pie.

  Only the maid moved, pouring water into crystal glasses.

  Belmond sat at one end, his bulky posture evident, fingers tapping the rim of his cup. Across the long white linen, Eura mirrored him in stillness. Between them, the breakfast cooled.

  She folded her arms, chin tipping away as if the sight of him didn’t matter. But her gaze kept drifting back. His shape was wrong in all the right ways—too broad at the shoulders, too delicate in the eyes. And those pockets… they bulged with little pieces of cheese like some secret stash of treasure. The faint scent of it followed him, absurdly, tugging at her restraint, until her mouth opened despite herself.

  “What are you doing?” The question slipped out before she could stop it.

  He froze, one hand halfway to his robe, a few more crumbs of cheese balanced between his fingers. “What?”

  She pointed at the tray, now more empty. “You’re clearing everything. Where is it all going?”

  “Oh, that.” He fished into his pocket, producing a handful of crushed cubes like contraband. “You want some?”

  Her nose wrinkled. “No.”

  “Then what’s wrong? You want me to save some for someone else who liked cheese?”

  “No!”

  He blinked at her, genuinely lost, bits of cheese still clinging to his sleeve. “I don’t understand.”

  Eura’s brow tightened. “How old are you?”

  He blinked, caught off guard. “Why does it matter?”

  “You look ancient but act like a toddler.”

  He glanced down at his hands as if the answer might be written there, counting slowly along the tips of his fingers, then starting over when he lost track. “I’m… well, older than Levithon.”

  “Who’s Levithon?”

  “My little brother. Spends most of his time swimming in the Red Sea. He and Tally—well, they’re not talking right now.” He looked up, serious again. “How old are you?”

  “Ten.”

  “Centuries?”

  “Summers.”

  He tilted his head, looking more confused than before.

  “Ten Summers,” she said with a fake smile, betraying her patience running thin.

  “Wow,” he said after a pause, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s… nothing.”

  She caught his discomfort as he straightened, spine stiffening like he’d just remembered how posture worked.

  “You’re—”

  “A child,” she finished for him.

  He nodded quickly. “Right. That explains why you’re so… short. And, uh, flat.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Flat?”

  “I—uh—well…” His hand dove for safety in his pocket. “Cheese?” he offered weakly.

  “I don’t want to marry you!” The words came out sharp, cracking his demeanour. “I haven’t even been anywhere! I’ve never met boys, never had my own Dois-Trae, I still have to dress like a damned cupcake!”

  Her voice rose with each confession. “I don’t even bleed yet! What the hell do you dragons want with me?”

  Wind stirred around the table, rattling the silverware. The teacups trembled.

  Eura was feeling threatened.

  “We need territory,” Belmond said, carefully. Hoping his gentleness alone might steady her.

  Eura’s fists unclenched only slightly.

  “We can only nest in Cragua as per the law of Whitestone,” he went on. “Tally—Talathon—believes that if she could lay elsewhere, she might hatch more eggs.”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “That doesn’t make sense.” Her words came clipped, and the wind stirred slightly around her hair. “As a Dame, I could grant you new land. Ormgrund has valleys no one even breathes in—”

  “It has to be near an Ormsaat.” His interruption was soft but final, the kind of tone that made explanations sound like apologies.

  She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Then let me study the Map. I will find a new place for the dragons. Marrying me or not, won’t change the fact that as a Dame I must serve the Dragons as well.”

  The greenhouse seemed to shrink around them—sunlight dimming against glass, the scent of tea turning bitter. He said nothing, but the silence itself felt like an argument he refused to voice.

  Belmond rose so abruptly that his chair scraped against the floor. He crossed the distance in three strides, caught the edge of her chair, and turned it toward him. The sudden movement made her flinch.

  Then he dropped to one knee.

  “I beg you,” he said, voice raw, eyes fixed on hers. “Marry me.”

  The words hung there, ridiculous and heavy all at once.

  “What? Did you not listen to me?”

  “If you don’t…” His throat worked around the rest. “If you don’t, I’ll have to mate with my own mother.”

  He looked up, and whatever pride he’d had cracked open. “Please. I’ll do anything you ask. I’ll fight for you, die for you—just don’t make me go back empty-handed. I don’t want to end up like Levithon.”

  Eura stared at him. The room felt too small for the weight of what she didn’t understand.

  “How is that even possible?” she whispered, the question trembling somewhere between disbelief and pity.

  “It's like the bees or ants. There are four of us,” Belmond said quietly. “One is the mother. The rest… her sons. I don’t want this. I can't do this... I don't know how Cassion does it...”

  Eura’s breath caught. She said nothing, just stared at him until her arms fell from their defensive fold, hands resting on her knees, and the breeze died as it came.

  “I don’t want to marry you,” she said at last.

  His mouth twitched—half relief, half ache. “We agree on that. But—”

  “And you can’t marry a child. That’s—no.”

  Belmond’s gaze dropped to the floor, then he straightened, slowly, as if standing took too much effort. “Would you help the dragons anyway?” he asked. “Even without the marriage?”

  “Of course,” Eura said, chin lifting. “I am the Sun that burns over land, sea, and sky. Must I marry every creature just to serve them? That would be a lot of pies.”

  Belmond’s mouth curved faintly. “I heard you’ll need a Dois-Trae to come of age... for a Blue-One.”

  “That’s Menschen tradition.”

  “Then we can pretend ignorance until then.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And after?”

  He hesitated, a ghost of mischief crossing his face. “A Mouse told me I’d never marry you. So perhaps we’ll have our answer before that day comes. Who knows. Don't Menschen have an expression for that?”

  "Do they?"

  "Mir Fado."

  Before she could reply, he sank to one knee again, head bowed, voice gentler this time. “Until then… If you don't want to marry me, would you at least play pretend? Be my bride in name, if not in bond?”

  Eura’s lips curved. She held out her hand with the theatrics that the elven court so much enjoyed. “I do.”

  Belmond took it carefully, his palm warm against hers as if the world itself paused to listen.

  “If you ever need me,” he said, eyes steady on hers, “or any dragon—friend or foe—I swear you’ll have only to summon me. No questions. No hesitation.”

  “That’s a heavy promise.”

  He squeezed her hand once, the hint of a grin breaking through. “I’m a dragon,” he said. “We don’t do light ones. Go big or go home.”

  "I think both of us made a new friend." She said with the biggest smile that Summer could have.

  Lolth stepped onto the training grounds; the air tasted of dust and sweat. Spells cracked in the distance, flashes of blue and white lighting the field as apprentices shouted their magic.

  But not all eyes were on the drills. One Magi crouched half-hidden behind a hedge, pretending to tie his boot. The rustle of leaves gave him away.

  Eura was missing again. Of course, she was.

  Lamar was waiting for the princess to bloom from those bushes—with the patience of someone long past the lesson. His posture was too controlled, his magic too steady. He should’ve been sent to Ormgrund by now, faced his Trial, earned his title. Instead, he lingered, waiting to teach the one who never came.

  Lolth crossed the grounds, boots brushing through the dust until she reached him. She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Magi?”

  Lamar didn’t turn. His gaze stayed glued on the empty spot where Eura should have stood training. “She’s not here again.” His voice was aching with the effort gone to waste.

  Lolth leaned closer, her breath brushing his ear. “Maybe it’s time.”

  He faced her then, defiance and weariness colliding in his eyes. “I still have to teach her. She’s not ready, she’s—”

  “Ten,” Lolth said quietly. “She’s only ten.”

  He looked down, jaw tightening.

  “One day she’ll stand on the ground of the Trial of Elements,” she continued. “And when that day comes, she’ll need you ready. But she won’t grow if you’re here waiting for her to do it overnight. You need to teach the woman, not the child.”

  Lamar said nothing. His jaw set, and he turned, the crunch of his boots cutting through the hum of the field.

  Lolth watched him go, the sun dying off to the black fabric of his robe until he disappeared past the gates.

  A flicker of light darted across her vision—wings beating too fast to focus. A fairy swooped toward her, breathless, half-flying, half-running.

  “Captain! My Lord!” Lolth straightened. “What is it?”

  “Lord Jaer sent us—” The words stumbled out between gasps. “The princess… she’s unwell. Very unwell.”

  Lolth reached the end of the corridor, her boots stepping on the stone in a rush. The air smelled faintly of incense and medicine.

  Jaer stood by the door, one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the floor as though guarding the chambers itself.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, striding closer.

  He lifted a hand, motioning her to lower her voice. “She’s… sick.”

  Lolth’s brow knit. “Sick? She’s a Menschen. They don’t get sick.”

  Jaer hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well—sort of sick.”

  “What kind of ‘sort of’?”

  He gestured vaguely from his stomach upward. “Bellyache and… you know.”

  She gave him a look sharp enough to cut. “Man, speak. I don’t understand you.”

  He exhaled through his nose. “I think she’s about to stop being a child.” The words came heavy, almost mournful. “Maybe you should go in. Talk to her. Teach her.”

  Lolth’s eyes drifted to the door. The faintest sound came from inside—a restless shuffle, a sigh.

  “Why is it,” she murmured, “that everyone and everything seems set against her being a kid? As if the world were too small to let her simply… stay small.”

  

  Fairies do not bleed. Not in the way mammalian species do. Their reproduction is seed-bound: placed near an Ormsaat, and left for nature to tend. I did not grow up with the notion that bleeding marked anything at all.

  When I was taken into the Dargustea household, Muna and Zora had already passed through their first changes. Whatever they endured, I was too self-absorbed to notice. It was simply something that had already happened. A chapter I never thought to read. Why would I?

  So I cannot claim to understand what it means for a little girl to bleed and suddenly be expected to be seen as a woman. I can only speak in clinical terms: human, Menschen, elf, fae—each body has its own cycle bleeding twice in a moon in its own clockwork of hormones and seasons.

  I could continue to catalogue the biology. I could quote the studies. I could recite the chemistry of adulthood. But I cannot tell you how it feels.

  And I realise now—too late—that this is the knowledge a parent needs most.

  I would have been a terrible father.

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