The throne room was quiet, save for the rustle of silks and the distant murmur of a desperate city. Lucien stood before the great sunlit windows, the light gilding his figure in gold and green. Behind him, his council waited in stiff silence.

“She is our best chance,” Lord Tharos said. “The Queen of Aerakai commands no army, but she commands fear. And dragons do not attack her lands.”

Lucien’s jaw tensed. “So you would have me wed a stranger because her skies are clear?”

“Because your people are dying,” Tharos replied.

He dismissed them with a sharp gesture. Their bowed heads vanished behind the heavy doors, leaving only silence once more.

When the Queen arrived, she wore no crown, only a long cloak of shadow-black velvet. Her silver-white hair flowed freely, a shimmering river against the deep folds of her gown. She did not bow when presented. Instead, she held Lucien’s gaze with a quiet boldness that irritated and intrigued him in equal measure.

“I see the rumors are true,” he said as he led her through the stone corridors of Solus Keep. “You fear nothing.”

“I fear plenty,” she replied. “But not you.”

He glanced at her sidelong. “Do you think me a threat?”

“No,” she said simply. “But I think you don’t know who you are yet. And that makes you dangerous.”

They reached the balcony overlooking the sunken valley below. The marble was veined with silver, once a testament to wealth, now cracked by tremors from the recent dragon strike. Snow clung stubbornly to the balustrade.

Lucien leaned against the edge, silent for a long moment. “Why would a queen be spared by dragons?”

She joined him.

Before she could answer, the wind screamed.

It was not the wind. It was the sky tearing open.

A shadow fell over them, vast and sudden. Soldiers below shouted. Servants screamed and scattered. The air pulsed with the deep beat of wings.

Lucien turned, drawing the short blade at his hip—not for defense, only defiance. From the clouds descended a monster of black iron and fire. Horns like twisted obsidian crowned its head. Its wings tore the fog apart. Its golden eyes blazed like twin suns.

The balcony shook violently as the dragon landed before them. Its sheer weight cracked stone and shattered part of the edge. Lucien stepped in front of the queen without thinking, arm outstretched, teeth clenched.

The dragon lowered its head.

Smoke curled from its nostrils. The heat rolled off its body in waves.

Lucien tightened his grip on the blade.

But then the queen moved. Calmly. Silently.

She stepped past him.

“What are you—”

Her black dress trailed behind like a shadow given flesh as she approached the dragon’s massive snout. Her silver hair shimmered in the smoke-diffused light. She lifted one hand—slow, gentle—and placed it against the beast’s nose.

Time halted.

The dragon did not strike.

It closed its eyes.

A breath escaped it, long and low. Not a threat. A sigh.

Lucien stood frozen, his heart hammering. The stone cracked beneath their feet, yet the queen remained still—her palm resting on the face of death, and death bending to her like a servant.

She turned her head, just slightly, and looked back at him.

“Your people want safety,” she said softly, over the breath of the dragon. “So do mine. But safety doesn’t always come from swords and shields. Sometimes, it comes from being the only one who can speak to the fire.”

The dragon’s eye opened again, fixing Lucien with a look that was almost human in its comprehension. Then it lifted its head and leapt from the broken balcony in a single beat of wings, vanishing into the clouds above.

Only the silence remained—and the queen standing before the shattered edge, a faint smile on her lips.

Lucien stepped forward slowly, the hilt of his blade still in his hand, though now it felt absurdly small.

“You knew it would come.”

“I hoped,” she said. “It follows me when it wants to. I never command it. I only listen.”

Lucien looked out across the valley. His city, bruised and burning, sprawled below. His people needed protection.