The battlefield still smoked.
Ash drifted on the night breeze like black snow, settling over corpses and shattered steel. The cries of the wounded carried faintly across the scorched plains, a broken chorus beneath the hush of silence that followed war.
Daya remained on the hill, frozen, her body stiff and trembling. She had seen battles before from a distance—had seen soldiers return maimed or broken—but never had she stood so close, never had she witnessed such carnage with her own eyes.
Her prince—her master—had been at the heart of it.
Vanda.
Even now, he stood among his men, issuing commands with clipped authority. His golden eyes glowed faintly in the smoke, sharp and commanding. He moved as though the battle had cost him nothing, though his armor was scorched and bloodied, though his body carried wounds that would have killed any other man.
Yet all she could see was the dragon.
The memory of his transformation burned itself into her mind. Scales darker than midnight, wings that blotted out the sky, fire pouring from his throat like the wrath of the gods. She had thought she feared him before—but now, she realized, she had not known fear at all.
Her knees threatened to give way, but she forced herself to stand. She could not crumble. Not here. Not before him.
"Daya."
The sound of his voice pulled her from her thoughts. He was climbing the hill toward her, each step deliberate, powerful, unstoppable. His men bowed their heads as he passed, even the wounded lowering their gazes, for none dared look too long into the dragon prince's face.
When he reached her, she almost stepped back. His presence was overwhelming, his heat still radiating like an ember barely contained. His golden eyes scanned her face, searching, questioning, unreadable.
"You saw." His voice was low, heavy.
Daya swallowed hard, her lips parting, but no sound emerged. She wanted to speak, to tell him something—anything—but the words stuck in her throat.
"I warned you," Vanda continued, his jaw tightening. "This is who I am. This is what I was born to be. Does it frighten you, little maid?"
Her chest tightened painfully. She should lie. She should bow her head and tell him no, that she was honored to serve him, that she was loyal. That was what any sensible maid would say.
But the truth burst from her before she could stop it.
"Yes."
The word trembled on her lips, carried on a ragged breath. Her hands clutched the fabric of her gown as if it were the only thing keeping her standing. "Yes, you frighten me. More than anything I have ever known."
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
His golden eyes narrowed. "Good. Fear is wisdom. Those who forget to fear me die screaming." His tone was cold, but beneath it lay something else—a flicker of bitterness, of weariness.
Her heart ached. She wanted to look away, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. "But…" She swallowed, summoning strength she didn't know she possessed. "But I saw more than fear."
His brow lifted slightly. "Oh?"
"I saw pain," she whispered. Her voice was soft, yet in the silence, it carried. "I saw loneliness. You burn everything in your path, Prince Vanda. But who is left to stand beside you when the fire dies?"
The air seemed to still.
Vanda's expression darkened, his lips pressing into a hard line. For a long moment, he said nothing. The crackle of fires below, the groans of dying men, the faint neighing of horses—all filled the silence where his reply should have been.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a growl. "Do not presume to read me, maid. You know nothing of what I carry."
Her courage wavered, but she stood firm. "Then let me," she said, her voice barely audible, yet steady. "Let me try."
His jaw clenched, his gaze boring into hers. The golden fire in his eyes flickered—not with anger this time, but with something far more dangerous. Something she could not name.
For an instant, Daya thought he might strike her down for her insolence. Instead, he turned abruptly, his cloak snapping behind him.
"Come," he ordered. "We return to the palace before dawn. Rosa will not rest after tonight. And neither will I."
Daya let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her heart pounded, her body still trembling, but she followed.
As they descended the hill together, she glanced at his broad back, at the way the firelight played across his figure.
Yes, he terrified her. He was wrath and power and fire incarnate. But for the first time, she wondered if beneath the dragon's rage, there was a man—lonely, wounded, longing for something even he could not name.
And for reasons she could not explain, she wanted to find it.