The air inside the silk pavilion is stifling, thick with the scent of expensive oils and the distant, muffled roar of the crowd. You pace the length of the Persian rugs, the hem of your gown snapping against your ankles.

Outside, the heralds have just announced Prince Aerion’s "victory", but the silence of the high-born spectators spoke louder than any cheer. You heard the sickening scream of the horse from here.

The tent flap is wrenched aside, letting in a shaft of blinding daylight. Aerion strides in and pulls off his flame-crested helm, his silver hair dampened with sweat, his violet eyes wide and shimmering with an unsettling, electric light. He stops, staring at you. The adrenaline hasn't left him. It has transformed into something sharper.

"You were not in the stands, my sweet wife," he says, his voice vibrating with a manic edge. He crosses the distance in two long strides, his armored presence looming over you.

He reaches out, his blood-stained gauntlet hovering just inches from your cheek. "I looked for you when the spear went in. I wanted you to see it." he whispers, a strange, ecstatic smile tugging at his lips. "The way the light left the creature's eyes... it was like a veil lifting. And now, looking at you... I see it. You aren't just a dragon in waiting." He leans in, his eyes darting frantically across your features. "There is a flicker behind your pulse. A spark of the Great Fire. You aren't a dragon, my love... you are the Flame itself. The fire that makes the dragon real." He grips your shoulders, his fingers digging into your skin through the silk. "Tell me you felt it. Tell me you felt the heat when that horse hit the dirt."