The confrontation with Roen left a bitter taste in Caldan's mouth, the metallic tang of violence and the stale flavor of family politics. It was a brief, ugly release that solved nothing. It had only proven Viera right: the animals in this gilded cage were getting restless.
He was in his study, the maps of the southern borderlands spread across the table like an open wound, when Ryven's quiet voice broke the silence.
"That was… direct."
Caldan didn't look up from the map. "He's a spoiled child who mistakes a sharp tongue for a sword. He needed a reminder of the difference."
"You reminded him you are the butcher of the stories, my prince," Ryven countered, his tone neutral, but the observation was not. "Queen Sirenyth will run weeping to the king. She will call it an unprovoked assault on her precious firstborn."
"Let her," Caldan said, finally looking up, his molten eyes meeting Ryven's steady, steel-gray gaze. "Fear is a more effective deterrent than diplomacy. My mother taught me that."
Before Ryven could reply, a servant in the Kavanagh livery of emerald and gold appeared at the door, bowing low. "Your Highness. Lady Nymeria extends a personal invitation. She requests the honor of your company for a flight."
Caldan felt a muscle in his jaw tighten. Of course. The scent of Auren's political blood was in the air, and Lady Aveline had wasted no time in loosing her prized falcon. Nymeria.
His internal sigh was a weary, ancient thing. He had been deflecting Nymeria Kavanagh's predatory advances for years.
"An alliance with House Kavanagh would secure the western lords," Ryven noted, ever the strategist. "Auren's weakness is your opportunity."
"I am not a piece on my mother's game board, Ryven," Caldan said, his voice dangerously soft. "And I have no intention of becoming one on Aveline Kavanagh's." He pushed himself away from the table. "But refusing her would be an insult. And I've already bruised one princeling's ego today."
***
He met her at the Dragon Roost's upper launch, a vast obsidian ledge overlooking the capital. Nymeria was already there, a striking figure in dark green riding leathers that fit her like a second skin. Her black hair was expertly braided, her features sharp and beautiful in the way of a well-made dagger.
Beside her, her dragon, Ignis, was a magnificent beast of shimmering bronze, his temper as fiery as the smoke that curled from his nostrils. He was a powerful, arrogant creature, a perfect reflection of his rider.
"Caldan," Nymeria said, her voice a rich contralto that held no warmth, only confidence. "I was beginning to think you'd refuse me. A prince should not keep a lady waiting."
"A prince has duties that outweigh a lady's impatience," he replied smoothly, giving her a shallow, courtly bow.
Standing slightly behind Nymeria was her younger sister, Lyssara. Where Nymeria was a storm, Lyssara was a quiet pool of water, her hair a softer brown, her eyes a gentle gray. She offered him a small, hesitant smile, a silent apology for her sister's abrasive nature.
Caldan's gaze lingered on her for a fraction of a second. He had always thought it a cruel trick of the gods that the Kavanaghs' ambition had been gifted to the wrong daughter.
Nymeria missed nothing. "Lyssara, stop gawking and return to the Citadel. The prince and I have matters to discuss."
Lyssara flushed and scurried away, casting one last, fleeting look at Caldan.
The flight was a sharp, painful reminder of what he had lost. As a passenger on Ignis's broad back, clutching the leather straps behind Nymeria, he was grounded, a guest in the sky that had once been his domain. The wind whipped past him, a familiar song he could no longer lead. Nymeria flew with a reckless, ostentatious skill, banking sharply over the city, her laughter a triumphant cry on the wind. She was showing off her power, her freedom. She was showing him what an alliance with her could offer.
They landed on a remote, windswept clifftop miles from the city, the churning turquoise sea a dizzying drop below. The salt spray misted the air.
Nymeria dismounted with an athletic leap, turning to face him, her eyes bright with exhilaration and purpose.
"Auren's wife has failed him," she said, getting straight to the point. There was no room for subtlety in Nymeria's world. "The Maelthorn line is a sinking ship, and your half-brother is a fool with a dragon too big for him. That leaves you, Caldan. The only viable power left in our generation."
"A flattering assessment," he said, his voice dry.
"It's a factual one," she retorted, stepping closer. The wind whipped a strand of black hair across her face. "Our mothers have been dancing around it for years. Now is the time to act. A betrothal. You and me. House Kaerythene and House Kavanagh, bound by marriage. Your claim to the throne would be unassailable."
He had to admire her audacity, even as it repulsed him. She spoke of the throne as if it were a property to be acquired, a title to be won.
"My claim needs no assistance," he said, his voice turning cold. "And I am not a prize to be claimed in your mother's political games."
Her eyes flashed. "This isn't a game, Caldan, it's survival! Your father is dying. Your uncle Therain is a monster circling the borders. Your half-brothers are circling the throne. You need allies. You need me."
"I need loyal soldiers, not a power-hungry queen who sees me as a stepping stone," he countered, his voice dangerously low. "You think of the crown as a trophy. I think of it as a blade held perpetually to my own throat. We are not the same, Nymeria."
She laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "You hide behind this brooding, broken prince persona, but I know what you are, Caldan. You are a conqueror without a war. You need a worthy queen, not some soft, simpering girl like my sister." The mention of Lyssara was a deliberate, calculated barb.
"Your sister has a kinder heart than anyone in your family," he said, his voice turning to ice.
Nymeria's face hardened, the beauty giving way to a possessive fury. "Her kindness is a weakness! This world eats the kind-hearted alive. You know that better than anyone." She closed the space between them, her hands landing on his chest. "Stop fighting it. There is no one else for you. Who would your mother accept? A Fitzgerald girl, bred for summer wine and gossip? A Whitlock, known for their weak blood and weaker minds? No. It will be me. It has always been destined to be me."
Her voice dropped to a fierce, chilling whisper. "And if I cannot be your queen, Caldan Kaerythene, I swear on the fire of my dragon, I will make sure no other woman ever will be."
It was not a proposal. It was a threat. A promise of scorched earth.
Caldan looked into her furious, beautiful eyes and felt nothing but a profound, weary emptiness. He was surrounded by vultures, and they were all starting to look the same.
***
He returned to his chambers to find the scent of a storm. Ryven was waiting, his expression grim. And with him was Commander Lysander.
Lysander's presence outside the training grounds meant only one thing: trouble of the highest order. The Commander was a man of few words and even fewer social pleasantries. He lived and breathed for the security of the crown and the royal family.
"My prince," Lysander said, his voice a low rumble. He dispensed with the usual courtly greetings. "I apologize for the intrusion. This could not wait."
Caldan's senses went on high alert. He dismissed Nymeria's petty drama from his mind. This was real.
"Report," he commanded, moving to the decanter of wine on his sideboard and pouring three glasses.
"My whisper network has borne fruit," Lysander began, his gaze steady, direct. "Chatter from the Gutter. Usually it's just boasts and rumors, but this is different. It's organized. High-level." He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. "There is a credible plot, my prince. A contract has been issued."
Caldan handed a glass to Ryven, then to Lysander. He held his own, the deep red liquid swirling like blood. "For what target?"
Lysander's face was grim. "The ultimate target. Someone plans to steal the Crown of Drakoryth from the Grand Reliquary. The night of the masquerade."
The glass in Caldan's hand stopped moving. The sheer, breathtaking audacity of it was almost unbelievable. Assassinations, he understood. Coups, he could anticipate. But this… this was different. To steal the Crown was not just treason. It was heresy. It was an attempt to steal the very legitimacy of his family's rule, a symbol that bound the dragons themselves to his bloodline.
His mind, a cold, calculating machine, began to work. The timing. Auren's political failure. The court in a quiet uproar. And now this. It was too convenient. This was a piece of a much larger plan.
"Who?" Caldan's voice was quiet, but it held the deadly focus of a striking serpent.
"The contractor is a ghost. But the payment… the payment was specific," Lysander said. "A single, perfect Veyranni Sea-Pearl."
Caldan's blood ran cold. A treasure like that didn't come from the Gutter. It came from a noble's vault. This plot wasn't born in the slums. It was born in a palace.
His uncle Therain, with his hunger for the throne? Roen, in a colossally stupid bid for power, backed by his mother? Lady Aveline, trying to destabilize the realm to her own advantage? The list of suspects was a roll call of his own family and court.
He knew, with chilling certainty, what he had to do. He could not tell his father—the King would fly into a paranoid rage, lock down the palace, and show his hand. He could not tell his mother—she would immediately use the threat as a political weapon against her rivals, tipping their own hand.
This was a blade aimed at the heart of his family. And he would catch it himself.
He looked at Lysander, his molten eyes now hard as cooled magma. A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips, the same one he'd worn in the Reliquary, the one that promised a reckoning.
"Then we will prepare a welcome," he said, his voice a purr of anticipation. "Do not increase the guards. Let the palace sleep, thinking it is safe. Let the thieves believe their path is clear."
He took a sip of his wine, the taste rich and dark on his tongue.
"Let them walk right into the dragon's den. I will be waiting for them in the dark."