The morning light filtered weakly through the heavy mist that clung to the Northern Kingdom's spires. Elara awoke in her chamber, the fur cloak Draven had given her draped over the chair, its warmth a lingering echo of his touch. Her body still ached from the demon hunt, a dull throb in her arm where the beast's flames had singed her sleeve, but the memory of Draven's praise—"You held your ground"—fueled a fragile hope. The dragon-scale ring on her finger glinted as she flexed her hand, a symbol of her lie and her growing bond. She had to make him love her, to secure her family's safety, but each step deepened the guilt gnawing at her soul.
A knock roused her from her thoughts. Sylvi entered, her cat-like eyes assessing Elara with an unreadable expression. "The king awaits you in the Hall of Ancestors," she said, laying out a gown of deep green, its hem embroidered with silver thread. "He insists you join him at noon."
Elara dressed, the fabric soft against her skin, a stark contrast to the rough wool of Thornwick. The castle's corridors were quieter today, the roars of harpies muffled by the mist, but the air thrummed with an undercurrent of tension. She reached the Hall, a vast chamber carved from the mountain's heart, its walls adorned with murals of stone and gold. Draven stood at the center, his dark hair loose, scales faintly visible along his neck as he traced a carving of a dragon entwined with a human figure.
"Elara," he said, his voice a warm rumble that seemed to resonate in the stone. "You're here." His golden eyes met hers, a mix of curiosity and something softer, a crack in his stoic facade.
"I wouldn't miss it," she replied, forcing a smile. The hunt had earned his trust, and she needed to build on it. "You promised to show me your history."
He nodded, leading her to the mural. "This is my grandmother, Lirien," he said, his finger outlining the human woman's form, her hand clasped with a dragon's claw. "A southern noble who loved my grandfather, a shifter. Their bond saved this kingdom from a demon uprising. She gave her life to seal the pact that binds our creatures."
Elara's breath caught, the parallel to her own task striking her. "A sacrifice for love," she murmured, her voice tinged with awe. She leaned closer, studying the carving's detail—the woman's determined gaze, the dragon's protective wing. "It's beautiful."
Draven's expression softened. "Most see it as a fairy tale. But it's our truth." He moved to another wall, where a tapestry depicted a battle—dragons clashing with shadowy demons, human warriors falling. "My line has ruled through strength, but love has been a weakness. I've never sought it—until now."
Her heart raced, his words a lifeline she hadn't expected. "Why me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, testing the waters of his affection.
He turned, his gaze intense. "You're different. Your courage in the hunt, your mind for strategy—it's not what I expected from a southern princess. You see me, not just the king." His hand brushed her arm, the heat of his scales seeping through her sleeve, sending a shiver up her spine.
She swallowed, leaning into the contact, her mind scrambling for a response that would bind him closer. "I see a man who carries a burden," she said, drawing on a tale from Tales of the Eld. "A guardian, not a monster. I want to share that burden." It was a gamble, but his eyes flickered with something—recognition, perhaps longing.
They explored further, Draven recounting battles and pacts, his voice growing more animated as he shared memories of his youth—training with his father, the first time he shifted. Elara listened, weaving in questions to draw him out, her own stories of "princessly" lessons adapted from village life. The hall's air grew thick with dust and magic, the murals seeming to watch them, and she felt a pull toward him—a dangerous, intoxicating draw.
As they reached a secluded alcove, Draven paused, pulling a small chest from a niche. Inside lay a pendant, its chain woven with dragon scales, a gem glowing with inner fire. "This was Lirien's," he said, holding it up. "I'd give it to my mate, if I had one." His eyes met hers, a question unspoken.
Elara's breath hitched. This was a step toward love, a gift that could seal her role. "It's stunning," she said, her voice trembling with feigned emotion. "I'd be honored—if you deem me worthy."
He hesitated, then fastened it around her neck, his fingers lingering at her nape. "Worthy," he murmured, his touch sending heat through her. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her, his face inches from hers, his breath warm. But he stepped back, the moment broken by a distant roar—Kael, perhaps, alerting them.
"We should return," he said, his voice rougher. "But this isn't the end, Elara."
That evening, in her chamber, she studied the pendant in the torchlight, its glow a beacon of her deception. The hunt and the hall had woven a thread of trust, but love required vulnerability she couldn't offer. A shadow moved outside—Sylvi, or a spy?—and Elara's mind raced. The court's division Torin had hinted at could be leverage, but it also risked exposure. She needed to learn more, to solidify Draven's affection before the truth emerged.
A knock sounded—Draven again, his presence filling the doorway. "I couldn't sleep," he admitted, holding a book. "Thought you might like this—chronicles of my line." He set it on her table, his hand brushing hers. "Good night, Elara."
As he left, she opened the book, its pages yellowed with age, and found a pressed flower—Lirien's, perhaps. Tears stung her eyes, guilt and hope warring within her. The northern winds howled, and she wondered if she could make him love her fully, or if her common roots would destroy them when revealed.