Chapter CLII: The Dragon Prince
The halls of the palace buzzed with an energy that only came during grand occasions. The banners of black and crimson, adorned with the sigil of the dragon, hung from the high ceilings, and the air was thick with the anticipation of celebration. Ikkar stood at the window of his chamber, gazing out at the preparations in the courtyard below. Servants scurried back and forth, setting up tables and lanterns, while musicians tuned their instruments, their notes drifting up to him like an echo of the night to come.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. It was his mother, Queen Isabella, stepping into the room with an elegance that came as naturally to her as breathing. She wore a gown of deep burgundy, embroidered with gold threads that shimmered like fire.
“Seventeen,” she said, her voice a blend of pride and something more subtle, something only a mother would understand. “The years pass quickly.”
Ikkar offered her a half-smile. “You think so, Mother?"
She studied him for a moment, then reached out to adjust the collar of his tunic, fingers lingering for a beat. “Ikkar, you know tonight isn’t just for celebration..."
He quirked an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting there’s more to tonight than being suffocated by my aunts’ embraces and listening to Lord Wendell boast about allendorian vineyards?”
Isabella’s eyes narrowed with an affectionate glare. “There is always more. You’re nearing the age where you’ll need to consider your future way more seriously. Your father and I agree it’s time you start thinking about choosing a bride.”
The notion wasn’t surprising, but hearing it said aloud still struck him. Ikkar ran a hand through his dark hair and shrugged, trying to mask the sudden weight of expectation. “A bride, already? What if I wish for a harem first?" He smirked, the familiar glint of mischief in his eyes.
Isabella raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk playing on her lips. “Do you want to be disowned?”
“Not particularly.”
“Then no fucking harem,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Before Ikkar could respond, Alaric entered the room, his presence commanding and warm. He caught the tail end of the conversation, his brows lifting with amusement. “Listen to your mother,” he said, pointing a finger at Ikkar. “You’ll be lucky to find even one woman willing to put up with your bullshit. Imagine more than one.”
Laughter warmed the room, but the reality of his parents’ words sank in. Ikkar had always known what was expected of him—he was the crown prince, heir of the Dragon. His life was destined for duty, leadership, sacrifice. A small part of him, though, wondered if he’d ever have a choice that was truly his.
Isabella took a step closer, her eyes softening. “Now, go get ready for the ball,” she instructed. “And don’t have too much fun. Your future wife doesn’t need to see you passed out drunk in the garden like your mother had to."
Ikkar straightened, a mock salute accompanying his response. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
Isabella’s eyes narrowed with playful warning, and Ikkar relented, his tone shifting. “As you wish, Mother.”
Another look from her, and he raised his hands in defeat. “Yes, Mama.”
She smiled, reaching up to kiss his cheek. Her touch was warm, a reminder that beneath the layers of expectation, there was a lot of love.
Alaric moved beside him, placing a hand on Ikkar’s shoulder and squeezing it firmly. “Happy birthday, son,” he said, the gruff affection in his voice, a sound Ikkar would remember long after childhood faded into responsibility.
As Ikkar watched his parents leave the room together, their closeness and silent understanding, he felt a flicker of longing. He thought of all the girls he’d meet tonight, the nobles’ daughters who would curtsy and vie for his attention. None of them had sparked anything real in him, not yet. But his parents' epic story had set an unspoken standard. If he was to choose, it would have to be for more than just duty.
When night fell, the great hall was bathed in golden light, the chandeliers dripping with diamonds, catching the gleam of the candles. The crowd was vast, filled with noblemen and women dressed in their finest silks, jewels glinting at their necks and wrists. The air was heavy with perfume and the soft hum of chatter.
Ikkar entered the room to a murmur of approval, eyes turning to him as if he were the fire at the heart of the palace. He exchanged pleasantries with lords and ladies, the young women curtsying with smiles that spoke of hopes and expectations. They were all beautiful, each one a testament to nobility, yet their words felt practiced, their glances calculated.
He danced with several ladies, their laughter filling the air as they twirled under the glow of the chandeliers. Yet, as the night unfolded, he found himself searching for something else, something unsaid.
When the fireworks began, crackling in the sky with bursts of crimson and gold, Ikkar stepped outside for a breath of cool air. The gardens were bathed in the glow of the explosions, and for a moment, he felt free from the weight of duty. As he scanned the area, he noticed a girl standing by the edge of the stone balustrade, her blonde hair catching the light. She was not adorned in jewels or silk gowns, but a simple dress that whispered of modesty. She seemed out of place, her eyes wide and captivated by the display above.
He felt a strange pull, a curiosity that edged him forward. Who was she? There was something about her stance, the quiet way she held herself, that made her different from the rehearsed perfection inside.
Before he could approach her, his mother’s voice called from the doorway, cutting through the spell of the moment. “Talia! Kira isn’t feeling well. Would you see her to bed?”
The girl turned, eyes darting to Isabella before she curtsied quickly and slipped away, the moment dissipating like the last embers of the fireworks.
Talia. The name clung to Ikkar as he watched her disappear into the palace, a servant girl who had no place in the games of lords and ladies. Yet, for a brief moment, she had captured him more wholly than any of the noble daughters who sought his favor.
As he turned back to the crowd, the thrum of celebration in his ears, Ikkar felt the stirrings of something unfamiliar—a longing not for what was expected, but for what could be.
Log in with Google Account
Chapters
Favorite
Settings
