In Princess Elyra's chambers, Caelvoryn, Drakoryth.
The first rays of dawn, filtered through the heavy silk drapes, painted pale streaks across the chamber. Elyra lay on her back, staring at the canopy above, the silk a dizzying swirl of gold and ivory. Her body ached, a deep, persistent thrumming between her thighs. Auren. He was still there, a warm, heavy weight beside her. His breath stirred the loose tendrils of hair near her ear.
Last night had been… frantic. Twice. He used to be softer, more tender, worshipping her with slow, deliberate touches. Now, it was almost an assault, a desperate hunger that left her raw and weary. She knew why. The whispers in the court. The empty cradle. Her failure.
She shifted, careful not to disturb him, and pressed a light kiss to his forehead. His skin was warm, smooth. He stirred, a low groan escaping his lips, and then his golden eyes fluttered open. A smile, slow and sleepy, spread across his face, and for a moment, the old Auren was there, the one who looked at her as if she held the sun.
"Good morning, my rose," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He rolled onto his side, pulling her closer until her back was pressed against his chest. His hand, warm and strong, slid over her hip, then lower, cupping her mound. A spark, hot and familiar, leaped to life.
Elyra stiffened imperceptibly. She was still sore. Every muscle protested. But she couldn't say no. She had failed him in the one thing that mattered most to a prince. Bearing an heir. The least she could do was give him her body. Even if it felt like ashes.
"You're awake early," she whispered, her voice a little rough.
"Couldn't sleep," he mumbled, his lips brushing her neck, sending shivers down her spine. His fingers began to stroke, light and teasing at first, then firmer, finding the swollen flesh, seeking entry. "Too much on my mind."
His breath hitched as his fingers slipped inside her, pushing, pulling. Elyra gasped, a small sound. It was rough, yes, but familiar. And he was still touching her like she was precious, even with the desperation in his movements.
"Mmm," he hummed, his fingers moving faster. "Feels good, doesn't it?"
Elyra nodded, unable to speak, focusing on the sensations, trying to ignore the exhaustion. She didn't want to disappoint him. Not now. Not ever.
His thumb pressed against her clit, circling, pushing. A wave of heat rushed through her, despite herself. He knew how to touch her. He always had. Even when he was rough, he was thorough.
A loud, insistent knock echoed through the heavy chamber door. Auren froze, his fingers still buried inside her. He cursed, a low, frustrated growl.
"Your Highness! Forgive the intrusion, but the King's court awaits. You are already late!" a muffled voice called from outside.
Auren pulled his hand out with a wet slide, leaving her aching and half-finished. He leaned back against the headboard, his face a mask of annoyance. "Blast it all to the Crucible Pits! Cannot a man have a moment's peace?"
Elyra smoothed down her nightgown, her heart pounding. The moment was broken. She felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Relief at the reprieve, disappointment for him.
Auren swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretching. His back muscles flexed, a ripple of hard, tanned flesh. On his left shoulder, just below the curve of his neck, was the distinctive mark of his dragon, Nyrix: a swirling, obsidian-black scar, like a claw-mark of pure night. It was a dark, stark contrast to his golden skin. It was beautiful. And a constant reminder of his power, his lineage.
He moved to the bathing chamber, cursing under his breath. Elyra watched him go, a pang in her chest. He was beautiful, yes. But he was also a prince, burdened by duty, by legacy. And she was a barren wife.
He emerged quickly, steam clinging to his broad shoulders, droplets of water glistening on his chest. He reached for a fresh tunic, pulling it over his head, then began lacing his boots with swift, practiced movements.
"The King's humors are foul this morning," Auren said, his voice now crisp, professional. "He dismissed two courtiers before the sun was even fully up. And Lord Malrec is pressing his suit for the northern territories again. The old snake."
Elyra sat up, drawing the heavy furs around her. "And Prince Caldan? Has he returned from his... brooding?"
Auren scoffed, a wry smile touching his lips. "He was seen with Queen Armyra. No doubt a storm brewed in those chambers. Whatever they discussed, it was clearly meant to shake the foundations of Caelvoryn." He leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to her lips, then her forehead. "I must go. Be well, my rose. I shall return before nightfall."
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence returned, colder now, heavier. Elyra threw back the covers, her muscles protesting as she rose. She walked to the window, pulling aside the drapes. The morning mist still clung to the city, making the obsidian spires of Drakoryth look like ghostly fingers reaching for the sky.
A soft knock. Her chambermaid, Marilye, entered, bearing a tray with a steaming cup. Marilye was a plump, cheerful woman, her face always kind, her hands quick and efficient. She had been with Elyra since she arrived in Caelvoryn, a comfort in a cold, unfamiliar court.
"Good morning, my lady," Marilye chirped, her voice soft. "Your morning tea. Just as you like it. With a touch of moonpetal."
Elyra smiled faintly. Marilye always remembered the moonpetal, a subtle, fragrant herb that calmed her nerves. "Thank you, Marilye. You are too good to me."
Marilye curtsied, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "It is my duty, my lady. And my pleasure." She watched, her gaze unblinking, as Elyra brought the cup to her lips, urging her with a gentle nod.
Elyra took a slow sip, the warm liquid comforting. Marilye straightened, her eyes glancing towards the open door. "Forgive me, my lady, but the whispers are thick in the servant's hall this morning. About Prince Caldan."
Elyra raised a brow. "Oh? What new madness has he wrought?"
"They say... they say he smuggled a girl into his quarters," Marilye lowered her voice, a dramatic whisper. "A commoner. From the ash-fields, they say."
Elyra's hand stilled on the teacup. A commoner? In Caldan's private chambers? That was indeed a scandal. But Caldan had always been unconventional. Or desperate. "Indeed? How fascinating."
"And not just any commoner," Marilye continued, her eyes wide with shared gossip. "They say she's the one who... stabbed Prince Roen."
Elyra nearly choked on her tea. Roen? The arrogant, brutish boy? Stabbed? This "commoner" clearly had more than just ash in her veins. A viper, indeed.
"A bold choice, even for Caldan," Elyra murmured, her mind already turning over the implications. Caldan was unstable, but never truly reckless without reason. This girl, this commoner, must be more than she seemed.
"Some say she's a witch," Marilye added, crossing herself quickly. "Others say she's a distraction. A pretty bauble for the disgraced prince."
Elyra just nodded, feigning disinterest. But her mind raced. A commoner in Caldan's quarters. A girl who stabbed a prince. This was not a bauble. This was a catalyst.
After Marilye left, Elyra walked to the window again, the cold morning air kissing her skin. She looked out at the vast gardens, the neatly trimmed hedges, the sparring grounds where the younger princes and knights trained. Auren would be there soon.
She thought of the whispers again. Barren. A barren wife is as dangerous as a dull sword. Her mother-in-law, Lady Irevya, had said it to her just last week, her blue eyes cold and unfeeling. Irevya, Auren's mother, was a serpent in silk, her words dripping with honeyed poison. She often spoke of the King's failing health, of the need for a clear heir, of her own son's rightful claim.
"The King coughs blood now, my dear," Irevya had purred, her hand resting, cold and light, on Elyra's arm. "And still, no heir is named. Auren has his dragon, yes. But a throne needs a cradle. A legacy."
Elyra swallowed, the tea suddenly bitter in her mouth. She knew what Irevya wanted. Her son on the throne. And Elyra was the obstacle, the barren vessel. The court would whisper, and Auren… Auren would be forced to take a mistress. Or worse, to set her aside. The thought was a shard of ice in her heart.
She watched the sparring grounds, a knot of dread in her stomach. How long? How long before he chose another? Before he turned away from her, his love worn thin by her failure? She traced the condensation on the windowpane, her heart a leaden weight.
Auren appeared on the sparring grounds below, his golden hair catching the weak sunlight. He moved with grace, a whirlwind of muscle and steel, his sword a blur. He was a force, truly. And a magnet for attention.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from a garden path, walking slowly, head down, seemingly engrossed in something in her hands. A girl. Her dark hair was loose, unbound, a wild cascade around her shoulders. She was dressed simply, in clothes that were finer than a commoner's, but still not noble attire. And she was beautiful, in a fierce, untamed way. Her gaze, as she glanced up, was sharp, intelligent.
It was the commoner. Caldan's new acquisition.
Auren paused in his sparring, his sword raised, his gaze drawn to the girl in the garden. He watched her, a strange stillness coming over him. He was supposed to be training, his focus absolute. Yet, his eyes were fixed on her, on her easy stride, on the way she held her head.
Elyra watched, a cold dread washing over her. She knew that look. It was the look of a man seeing something new. Something compelling. Something he might soon desire.
A blur of motion. A sparring partner's sword flashed. Auren, distracted, didn't react quickly enough. The blunt edge of the blade caught him hard across the ribs. He grunted, stumbling back, clutching his side.
Elyra gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. He had been distracted. By her. The girl in the garden.
The commoner, still walking, paused, her head tilting almost imperceptibly. She hadn't looked at Auren. She hadn't even looked his way. Her gaze was fixed on something far beyond him, something Elyra couldn't quite see.
But Auren's eyes, even as he recovered, remained on her. And Elyra watched, her blood turning to ice. A raven's nest of hair. A fierce beauty. She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that the serpent had just slithered into her own garden.