Chapter CLIX: Fear not, my fair princess
The morning sun bathed the castle courtyard in a soft, golden light, illuminating the intricate stonework and the fluttering banners bearing the crest of the dragon. A gentle breeze carried the scent of early dew and distant pine, mingling with the murmured farewells of the gathered courtiers and servants. The royal children, Kai and Rya, stood at the center of it all, their dragons Pyrix and Emberlace poised with a restless grace, wings unfurling in anticipation.
Kai’s expression was steady, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if he could already see the spires of Rosehall in the distance. His dark hair caught the morning light, and his presence exuded the quiet confidence of someone who had been trained for greatness since birth. Rya, beside him, was a striking contrast—a whirl of energy barely contained beneath her poised exterior. Her emerald eyes, so like her mother’s, darted across the familiar faces before her, holding fast to the pride that fought to conceal the flutter of nerves in her chest.
Alaric and Isabella stood at the foot of the grand steps, their figures regal and statuesque against the rising sun. Alaric’s broad shoulders were framed by his dark cloak, embroidered with silver thread that glimmered with each slight movement. Isabella, radiant in a gown of deep blue that mirrored the early sky, had an air of quiet strength. Her eyes shone, betraying the mix of pride and worry only a mother could feel as she watched her children prepare for their first true journey into the unknown.
With a final nod from their parents, Kai mounted Pyrix, his dragon’s sleek scales rippling like liquid gold. Rya followed suit, settling onto Emberlace’s broad back, feeling the steady pulse of the beast beneath her. The dragons’ wings lifted, sending gusts of wind that rustled the cloaks and dresses of those gathered below. In unison, the dragons leapt, their powerful limbs pushing off from the stone, wings catching the air in a magnificent sweep that lifted them skyward. The crowd gazed in awe as the young royals soared higher, their figures melding into the vibrant expanse of morning light until they became little more than glimmers against the blue.
As the figures of her children disappeared into the horizon, Isabella felt a bittersweet ache settle deep within her chest. The courtyard, though filled with chatter and celebration, felt emptier now. Alaric’s hand, warm and firm on her arm, was both a comfort and a reminder of the duties waiting for them. They exchanged a look—unspoken understanding shared between rulers who were also parents.
***
The castle’s grand hall had been transformed into an impromptu stage, filled with the chatter of servants arranging props and the giggles of Princess Kira, who watched eagerly from her seat of embroidered cushions. This was not a formal production with a script and a polished performance; this was a playtime made grand, where Ikkar’s only mission was to bring to life whatever scene Kira demanded, with no rehearsal, just pure imagination.
Ikkar stood in the center, dressed in a hastily chosen tunic adorned with the colors of his house, a wooden sword in hand. The high-arched windows let in shafts of afternoon light, illuminating the scene in a warm glow. Servants, clad in costumes of dragons and mythical creatures hastily sewn and stuffed with straw, shuffled awkwardly around him, awaiting their cues with amused expressions.
Kira, with her auburn hair framing her tiny face, clapped her hands with excitement. “Ikkar! Now fight the three-headed beast!” she called out, her voice ringing with the authority only a beloved younger sister could wield.
He had impulsively agreed to Kira’s request, driven more by the prospect of spending time with Talia than by any desire to act. Now, as he glanced at the props scattered around—wooden swords, painted shields, and grotesque masks of mythical beasts—reality set in. He hadn’t realized that most of the performance would involve him fighting off servants dressed as dragons and monsters, while Talia stood in the background, playing the captive princess with that usual grace that stole his breath.
The play told the tale of Alistair, one of the legendary Dragon Kings, their ancestor, and his bride, Princess Hzel. It was a story of epic proportions, filled with ferocious beasts, wild landscapes, and the hero’s relentless pursuit of love. Alistair’s journey across untamed lands, where he fought three-headed creatures, ogres, and giants, had been immortalized in tapestries and songs, especially because he did all that to rescue his bride, who was kidnapped by his enemies. Of course, Hzel was his third bride by the time the story happened, but Kira didn’t have to know that.
The “three-headed beast” stumbled forward—a clumsy construction of three servants draped under a blanket painted with scales, each head wobbling atop sticks. Ikkar raised his wooden sword with an exaggerated flourish, lunging forward with playful roars that sent Kira into fits of laughter. He pretended to struggle, letting one of the beast’s “heads” nudge him back dramatically before leaping and “slaying” it with a gentle tap.
“Now, save the princess!” Kira commanded, her eyes wide with anticipation. She pointed at Talia, who was reluctantly playing the role of Princess Hzel, standing with mock helplessness at the edge of the stage. Ikkar’s heart thudded as he approached, trying to remain composed despite the laughter bubbling inside him. Talia curtsied lightly, her smile betraying how much she was enjoying the absurdity of it all.
Ikkar dispatched the last “head” of the makeshift beast with a triumphant sweep of his wooden sword. The hall erupted in Kira’s delighted applause, but his attention was fixed on Talia, who stood poised at the edge of the stage. Her eyes met his before she stepped forward to play her part as Princess Hzel.
He extended his hand toward her, his fingers steady despite the flutter in his chest. “Come with me, my lady,” he said, the playful tone masking the longing woven into his voice.
Talia hesitated. Slowly, she placed her hand in his, and the warmth of her touch sent a surge through him that he fought to hide. The brief contact anchored him, yet it wasn’t enough. He wanted to hold her hand longer, to let the pretense fall away and acknowledge what simmered beneath. But he couldn’t, not here… Maybe not anywhere.
Ikkar knelt before her, sword poised theatrically, and said with a grin, “Fear not, my fair princess. No man nor beast shall ever harm you while I stand guard.”
She curtsied lightly, eyes averted as she withdrew her hand, her touch vanishing like a breeze. Her expression turned distant, a mask of composure that chilled the air between them. The way she adjusted the folds of her skirt, her gaze fixed anywhere but on him, made it clear she was retreating behind the safety of decorum.
Ikkar stood, forcing a smile as he straightened. The absence of her touch left his hand empty, and he curled his fingers into a fist, willing the moment to pass. Around them, the sounds of Kira’s laughter and the shuffling servants filled the hall, but to him, they were muted, inconsequential.
Talia stepped back, her features set with an unreadable calm. The connection, fleeting and fragile, was gone, replaced by a cold distance that stung more than he cared to admit.
Before he could linger in the moment, Kira’s delighted squeal pierced the air, drawing their attention back. “Again!” she cheered, clapping her hands as if she could never tire of the game.
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