Moments after Lord Trevor leaves, Sir Vester Tyrell approaches where I’m sitting and bends down on one knee, with no warning whatsoever. Anyone watching might mistake this for a proposal, so I urge him to stand—
“No, my lady, I must apologize first,” he says with his head bowed. “I have behaved most egregiously. By insulting you, I have also insulted the LaVelle Duchy. Though the matter has officially been settled between our fathers, it weighs upon me still. I beg of you to issue a fitting punishment for my misdeed.”
I am astonished. Gone is the cocky drunkard who had grabbed at my head with no warning. At my feet, Sir Vester appears almost…defeated. Spent. As if this matter truly has weighed on him for the past few months.
Perhaps it has.
Well, that makes two of us.
“First, please rise.”
“No, my lady. I mustn’t. Not until you issue a punishment, in accordance with the Dorandian Code of Honor all knights must follow.”
“I see.” Darn. At this rate, people will start to gather and seriously misunderstand what’s going on.
Think, Florence, think!
“What’s this?” Lord Trevor says.
My head snaps up. I hadn’t heard him approach, but I do hear an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. He stands a few paces behind Sir Vester with his hands at his sides. For a moment, he appears familiar, but then the sun shines on his silver silk suit with emerald accents, and I realize I have not met anyone like him in recent months. I couldn’t have—surely I would remember somebody so handsome.
Handsome? I find him...handsome?? I have no time to think about my realization before Lord Trevor speaks.
“I can’t leave you for a moment, Lady Florence, can I?” he says, clenching and unclenching his gloved fists. Is he…agitated?
“It’s not what it looks like, Lord Trevor,” I reply, tucking away my thoughts for later. “You recall my debut, no doubt—Sir Vester here is merely awaiting the punishment I am to issue him for his insulting behavior that night.”
“It is none of your concern, Rowanward,” Sir Vester says, face toward the ground.
Lord Trevor takes his seat across from me, and a flush breaks out on the back of Sir Vester’s neck. I see—he’s embarrassed to be doing this in front of his friend. Psh! It was his decision to choose here and now, so he can deal with the consequences, too.
“Do you need some ideas, Lady Florence?” Lord Trevor offers.
I glance at him, but there is no hint of amusement on his face. Perhaps his offer is genuine.
“I am at a bit of a loss, I admit,” I reply.
“Well, then! You could have him perform a small feat—for example, he could acquire something that would be difficult for you to obtain, or, if there is a task requiring great strength, you could put him to work for you, or perhaps—”
“Lord Trevor,” Sir Vester interrupts, “please let Lady Florence decide for herself.”
Difficult to obtain…
“You said the matter had been settled between our fathers. I did not hear anything about it, so tell me, what do you mean?”
“I meant, my father paid yours a handsome sum as a fine, and I was punished for my misdeed.”
Did he go pale at the mention of his punishment? Never mind that—payment! There might be a way to wrangle a handsome sum of my own out of this…
“Ah, I see. Well, Sir Vester, I think I’ve decided. I happen to need funds of my own for a…project of sorts. I am raising funds discreetly, if you understand my meaning. However, I have no idea what a fair sum would be. Lord Trevor, Sir Vester? Would you barter on my behalf? How much is my honor worth?”
Lord Trevor turns his head toward Sir Vester so quickly, his dark glasses slide down his nose just enough for me to catch a glimpse of his amused, sage-colored eyes.
Beautiful—then he hastily pushes the dark glasses back in place. He names an outrageously high sum, one I would nix myself if Sir Vester hadn’t successfully countered.
In the end, it is decided that Sir Vester will raise and bestow upon me ?50,000 Ducat for damages within the month—a quarter of a year’s worth of earnings for a Royal Knight, such as Sir Vester.
“Now, will you get off your knees?” Lord Trevor asks.
“Only at the lady’s request,” Sir Vester replied. “You know the code, Lord Trevor. Why are you adding salt to the wound?” He speaks to the gravel, his head still bowed.
“You may rise, Sir Vester,” I hastily add. “Please do.”
Lord Trevor helps him to his feet and eases him into the open chair at our little table. Sure enough, the people in the distance are staring at us.
More gossip.
“May I add on a fine of ?10,000 Ducat for doing this here, uninvited?” I ask, letting my displeasure show on my face. “Unless you purposely planned to harm my reputation further?”
Sir Vester has the grace to flush.
“N-no my lady, that was not my intention,” he stutters. “I simply wasn’t able to call upon you at your residence in order to apologize. Your father forbade me to write to you, as well. I wasn’t aware…I didn’t think my actions would trouble you.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Well, you can see for yourself,” I retort, gesturing in a semi-circle around us with my closed fan.
Sure enough, all eyes in the vicinity are on our little table, mouths busy behind unfurled fans or carefully posed teacups.
“Prepare yourselves, gentlemen,” I say to Lord Trevor and Sir Vester, my voice steely. “I’m used to such slander—but this next round of gossip might be rather brutal now that the two of you are involved. I wonder what strange stories they’ll think of next?”
I glance back at Sir Vester to see him staring into his teacup, dazed. Lord Trevor, however, is the very picture of contemplation—his brows are drawn, and his chin rests on his gloved hand.
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~Raius
Anguish. Claws dig into his heart—squeezing, squeezing, squeezing!—until the tender tissue gives way and his heart rips open. It feels real—it feels so real.
He pants, unsure how to ride through the waves of heartbreak he's feeling for the first time. Feeling things rather than knowing them with his mind. Not seeing through Aurora, but feeling through her—the other one. The small, fragile one.
There is only one human he's connected to through the ?ther—her. It has to be coming from her.
He roars, but the sound is muffled, contained within the rock shell that houses him. He cannot spread his wings, he cannot fight this feeling, defeat it, and force it submit to him.
It is not yet time, young one, Aurora whispers, running a soothing, comforting caress down his consciousness. Rest, child of mine.
He wants to. He wants his heart to be free of this pain that grips him like jaws locked on for the kill. Teeth sunk deeply into him, tearing his hide…
Who is she!? he asked Aurora. Who is this human who holds so much suffering?
You will know her when you meet her, soon enough, young one.
Against his will, he feels Aurora brush his consciousness once more with her giant presence, soothing away the pain, the paralyzing heartache, and lulling him back to sleep.
To grow stronger.
And to wait.
How long has he been waiting...for her?
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~King Roark deh Doran
In his five-and-a-half decades alive in this realm, King Roark Aurelius deh Doran, had only ever spoken about ‘the legend’ with four people—his father (now deceased), his eldest son, and the two clerics he trusted almost as much, if not more than, his own two sons, bringing the current total number with this knowledge to four. It would stay that way until he decided otherwise, for there was nothing worse than giving people false hope. Especially when it meant dragons might once more grace the skies over Dorandia.
The legend, which had originally been known as the ‘Or?kle o’ t’Eklipse,’ had been watered down several times over the past millennia, which is to be expected. After all, the future at the time of the oracle must have felt so far away, and dragons were alive and well back then. But, now that the time was drawing near, King Roark wished he knew more. He wished his forefathers hadn’t dismissed it as redundant—not redundant—rather, at the time, the dragons had been nowhere near dying off, so the oracle of an egg hatching on an eclipse a thousand years in the future likely hadn’t seemed nearly as…as consequential as other oracles at the time.
Still, the temple had done their duty and recorded the oracle, and ensured it was passed down through the relevant parties so it would arrive to the present-day—
‘Lo, ain Eag soo pre??s / Behold, an egg so precious
darke an’ hardt as t’stonne / dark and hard as stone
‘neath oour Peake he rests / beneath our peake (presumed to be Mt. Dorandia) he rests
‘til Sunn an’ Moone ?r onne / until the sun and moon are one
Skales ?s nite, winge ?s smokke / Scales like night, wings like smoke
ey?s ?s t’Sunn hath sett / eyes like the setting sun (~the color of the sun that has set)
tunge o’ Mann nary spokke / he cannot speak in the tongue of man (never spoke)
t’Dragonn-speak?r shall b? mett / (he and) the Dragonspeaker shall meet (shall be met)
Parts of it hadn’t made sense to him until recently—who and what could possibly be a “dragonspeaker” when dragons hadn’t flown in any of the continent’s skies the past four centuries? Many, many theories and notes were included in the records with the oracle. But as soon as the king had learned about Lady Florence and her experience in the Hellscape with the shade of the last known dragon, called ‘Aurora,’ he knew she would be the closest thing to a “dragonspeaker” they would ever get.
The solar eclipse foretold in the oracle was less than two years away. The royal astronomers still calculated it to take place on the summer solstice, just as the oracle predicted. Nothing had changed. The main reason the king wanted Lady Florence to graduate from the Royal Academy by then was so he could officially enroll her in the Royal Knightage, which would only be possible after she passed her mage courses and proved her proficiency. He’d been prepared to push the paperwork through himself, if need be, but according to her teacher, the girl actually had talent.
“Why go through all this trouble?” Lancelot, his eldest and the Crown Prince, had asked him only weeks prior. “Why not just make her swear to serve you now and be done with it?”
“Think about why that is not the best choice,” he’d told his son in return. “When you find the answer, return to me.”
Lance had been absolutely right—he could force Lady Florence to pledge her allegiance and force her to serve him and the country now and forevermore. But it was not necessary, nor did it sit right with him. Eventually, Lance had returned to him in agreement: it was neither fair nor smart to force Lady Florence to assume a role she had not sought, especially if she was ignorant of its significance. It was far better for her to learn and grow as a mage so that when the time came, she would be able to fulfill the role of Dragonspeaker as capably as possible and naturally accept her induction into the Royal Knightage.
Therefore, King Roark sat in his office, surrounded by papers ranging from old to ancient, a glass of sourfruit scotch in hand. He’d been there for hours, deep into the night, simply thinking about the future. Thinking what it would mean for Dorandia if a dragon were to hatch beneath the mountain. Wondering if Lady Florence would be able to communicate with the young drake, since it would have no adult dragon to look after it.
His eyes were pointed at the far stone wall, but they were focused far beyond—on a future where the Royal Family could once again make a covenant with the dragons, an exchange of peace for protection. Dragons were intelligent beings, some scholars would argue more intelligent than humans, but their large size made them capable of immense destruction should they so choose. It had made sense to the forebears of Dorandia to form a pact with the beings who shared the land, one that would benefit both.
Would he be the king to restore that covenant? Would he be the king to bring dragons back to Dorandia?
"Do not hope," he told himself, draining the remnants of his glass. "Do not let yourself hope."
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Lots of love,
??kb