***

  Tritetia tried to ignore the screams she heard, wishing that she could cover her ears as she listened to the blood pool in Seymour’s mouth. Not because she felt sorry for him; after all, he had been ready and excited to do far worse to her than what Cyran was doing to him. No, it was because the sound of the scalpel scraping against flesh, the wet crunch of muscle being severed, reminded her too vividly of her own dreams. The memories weren’t clear—more like flashes of sensation than images—but the sharpness of it was the same.

  That thin, metallic tang in the air.

  The clatter of metal on stone.

  The splash as she was thrown into the ocean.

  Tritetia closed her eyes tightly, trying to block it out, trying to pretend it wasn’t happening. She pressed her head back against the table, every muscle in her neck tense beneath the strap that kept her still. Her fingers twitched, curled slightly from where her hands had been bound to the stone, and she focused on that instead; the pressure against her skin, the way the runes pulsed faintly against her wrists. Focus on the present. Not the sounds.

  She didn’t sob, didn’t cry, didn’t beg Cyran to stop. Not because she wasn’t shaken, she was, but because Seymour deserved it. If Cyran didn’t silence him now, he would come back again, would try again. Still, she had to clench her jaw to keep her stomach from twisting.

  Then hands, warm and steady, against her arms moved to undo the straps. She flinched at first, but didn’t resist as Cyran worked to free her, his hands still slick with Seymour’s blood. He saved the strap around her next for last, and only when it fell away did Tritetia finally allow herself to breathe deeply. Her chest expanded in a sharp inhale, lungs seizing from how long she had held the air in. Her head tipped slightly as she sat up, but the room tilted with it, and the world felt a few degrees off-kilter.

  Tritetia was surprised as Cyran scooped her into his arms with ease, like she weighed nothing at all. There was no strain in the motion, no hesitation in his grip, just the solid strength of someone who had made his decision and would not be changing his mind. Tritetia stiffened instinctively at first, but as they left the room, she let her body relax into his hold. His chest was warm through his shirt, and she pressed her cheek faintly against it, her fingers curling in the fabric near his shoulder.

  Cyran said nothing as they moved through the hidden corridor, but his anger had not faded. She could feel it radiating off of him, simmering just beneath the surface in the way his arms were too tense, his steps too measured. When they emerged from the hidden door and into the sunlight again, he finally stopped, shifting her weight slightly so she could stand on her own. It wasn’t long after that his hand slammed into the wall behind her, and Tritetia kept her eyes on the grass around their feet.

  “Why did you stop me?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut like a blade. “He is a risk every minute he still breathes.”

  “Cyran–”

  “No.” Tritetia flinched as Cyran cut her off, and the heat that radiated off him was no longer comforting, but reminded her of the dragon she still saw when she looked into his future. “Why did you stop me from killing my mother’s tormentor?”

  Tritetia swallowed hard, her mind racing as she fought with the words she didn’t know how to say. After all, it wasn’t the first time Tritetia had tried to use the knowledge from her dreams to stop something from happening, but she also knew she couldn't talk about it. Even if she tried, her throat would feel tight, like a hand had wrapped around it from the inside, squeezing each syllable back into her lungs before it could escape.

  Tritetia didn’t have to look up to know Cyran was staring at her, breathing heavily, golden eyes alive with fury and the flickering light of what he was. She could feel her legs start to shake and she knew she needed to answer before she lost control over her transformation, before her fear cost them both her human form.

  “If… If you killed Seymour, then… Amalia…” Tritetia paused, surprised by the words escaping her. She… could talk about it?

  “What about that brat?”

  “Amalia would blame it on the royal family,” Tritetia finally looked up as she spoke, both surprised and emboldened by the fact she could actually speak. Her throat wasn’t closing up, she didn’t feel like she was suffocating. She could speak! “Think about it. If he’s dead, killed by a magic blade while a prince is visiting, Amalia could twist that however she wants.”

  Cyran tilted his head slightly, clearly considering her words as Tritetia looked away again. They were still about the same height, but it was clear that Cyran would likely outgrow her, especially since she was using magic to suppress her own body. She just needed more time, time to–

  “How do you know?” Cyran’s voice was still angry, but there was a new thread woven into it—cautious, sharp curiosity. He was listening now, and Tritetia took another deep breath, praying that the words would continue to be heard.

  “I know Amalia,” she whispered, eyes fixed on a patch of trampled grass. “I know how she thinks. What she’s capable of. If she thought killing Seymour would win her something, she’d do it herself and paint herself as the grieving fiancée. Don’t underestimate how much she wants to be Empress.”

  Cyran remained quiet, but Tritetia let out a sigh of relief when Cyran finally leaned back, no longer pinning her. She glanced up as Cyran took a deep breath, his horns retreating back into his forehead as the scales rippled away to reveal his skin. Once all hints of his draconid nature was hidden, Tritetia yelped as he picked her up again, quickly walking straight into the lake.

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  “Cyran!”

  “We need to leave. Seymour should be found before he bleeds out and we can’t be seen covered in blood,” Cyran spoke and Tritetia nodded, thankful for the warm day and Cyran’s high body heat as he carried them out of the water. “Falling into the lake accidentally while looking for Seymour is good reason to leave.”

  “Uh huh,” Tritetia agreed quietly, gather her skirt into her lap as Cyran headed for the estate. It was the best she could do to try and hide her body through the sheer fabric, and Tritetia was thankful for Cyran’s disinterest in her. He wasn’t the type to pay attention to anatomy, and certainly not now, not when his attention was still half-anchored in that cold, underground room and the man bleeding out inside it. Tritetia could feel the tension still in his arms, though it had dulled now, coiled into something heavier. Not rage anymore—something like calculation, or weariness but she didn’t press him. The silence between them felt strangely safe, and she didn’t want to break it.

  ***

  The knock on my door was sharp but not frantic and I shrugged as the door opened, not bothering to move from the armchair. I had expected my mother and Isadora to check on us as soon as we got back, but I guess Tavian and Nyssara hadn’t thought to mention the trip until the rumors reached the palace.

  As soon as the guards saw me carrying Tritetia, they hurried us back and I chose to keep Tritetia in my palace instead of sending her back to Isadora. Seeing how more withdrawn Tritetia was on the ride back to the palace, I started to feel… wrong for using her as bait. Her shoulder had already healed, but she still absently stroked it, as if some part of her body still remembered the pain. I don’t think she blamed me, but the guilt was there, dull and persistent, chewing at the back of my thoughts like a whisper I couldn’t ignore.

  My mother beat Isadora to me, frantically checking me over as I did my best to curl up more in the chair.

  “Are you hurt? Tell me that boy didn’t touch you!”

  “I’m fine, Ma,” I huffed, although I didn’t try to make her stop fussing over me. Isadora remained silent, her gaze fixed on me in that way she always did when she was trying to figure out what wasn’t being said. I didn’t meet her eyes, just let my mother smooth her hand over my hair and check me for bruises I didn’t have. Something about the tension in her shoulders told me that if I stopped her, she’d spiral.

  “And Tritetia?” Isadora stepped forward after a moment, giving my mother a reassuring pat on the arm before crouching in front of me, eyes scanning my face. “Is she fine?”

  “She’s fine, just shaken. I figured she didn’t want to deal with Valaine,” I admitted, not going into anymore detail. I didn’t doubt that Isadora was smart enough to put together that the “wild magical beast” that had attacked Seymour was either me or Tritetia, but of course, Seymour’s father was likely doing everything to suppress the fact we had been there. If it came out that Seymour had been attempting to dissect a foreign princess, the rumors would quickly change from feigned sympathy and disgust, to full blown outrage. “He pulled a few of her scales.”

  “I see,” Isadora stood, her hands folding behind her back, and I watched her mouth twitch. Not with hesitation, but with something harder; disgust or maybe guilt. My mother was less restrained in her reaction, her lips parting in a sharp gasp as her fingers curled tighter against my shoulder.

  “Scales? He actually—”

  “Yeah. He knew what he was doing,” I said quietly, doing my best to seem reluctant to talk about it. My own feelings were a mess after seeing how much the encounter bothered Tritetia, and I didn’t want to think about it more than I had to. Isadora didn’t ask any more questions, instead looking toward the nearest window, toward the golden light filtering in through the glass, like she was watching something else entirely.

  “You are not allowed to leave the palace without my permission first,” she said finally. Her voice wasn’t dramatic or over-wrought, just tired. Tired in the way that so often came with responsibility. “I know you merely wanted to spend time with Amalia, but you put yourself and Tritetia in danger.”

  “I–”

  “And I am sorry you two were ever in danger,” Isadora didn’t allow me to speak, her tone dropping as she turned fully toward me, something close to regret darkening her expression. “I never bothered to look too closely into Seymour since Amalia is only my cousin, but I… suppose we’ll need to be more careful. I can promise he’ll never be allowed anywhere near the Imperial Palace outside of formal events.”

  Her voice was quiet, but I could feel the weight of it settle over the room while my mother hovered nearby, arms still lightly wrapped around my shoulders. I didn’t say anything; there wasn’t much I could say without risking the truth, and I didn’t trust the walls of my own palace enough to speak it out loud.

  “What about their engagement?” I eventually asked, keeping my tone soft even as I watched Isadora’s face closely. I didn’t care about the engagement itself, but I wanted to know how far she would go. How much she meant her apology.

  “It’s complicated.” Isadora sighed, dropping her face into her hands. “Since we can’t acknowledge that it was Tritetia he attacked, I have no right to interfere with a non-imperial engagement. On top of that, Amalia is insisting on marrying him if he survives. He may only be a duke’s son, but it seems she’s willing to overlook everything else.”

  I frowned with Isadora’s answer, thinking back to what Tritetia had said. It was clear she definitely understood Amalia better than I did, and I was starting to believe her when she said not to underestimate her. Amalia wasn’t loyal to Seymour because of love or principle; she was loyal to what he represented. If Seymour survived and she chose to marry him, while few would look down on him because of his hobby, she could always twist it to be that he was doing it for the greater good. She then becomes the empathic Grand Duchess, so in love with her betrothed that she married him even after such a tragic accident.

  After all, Seymour could no longer talk or see, so there was no one to argue against her words, not unless I wanted to put Isadora and Caspian on the spot for allowing Tritetia to be hurt. I sighed heavily, choosing to stare at the fireplace to hide my annoyance. Just like how I had overlooked how my trap would hurt Tritetia, I hadn’t even considered how it could help Amalia. I was lucky Tritetia stopped me from killing him.

  “I’ll leave you two to get some rest,” Isadora finally offered and I glanced up my at my mother. She smiled at me gently, stroking the hair from my face one more time.

  “I won’t sleep in your room, but I’ll feel better if I’m here with you tonight,” my mother said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. There was something in her eyes I didn’t want to push against; as if she was imagining that it was me on that table instead of Tritetia. Whatever it was, it wrapped around her like armor softened by time, and I didn’t have the heart to make her take it off.

  “All right,” I murmured, leaning back into the chair and pulling the blanket closer around my shoulders. “You can stay.”