The city of Arven stirred beneath a sky the color of old pewter, the air heavy with the scent of damp smoke and charred wood. Merchants swept ash from their doorways, children tiptoed through rubble as if afraid to break the fragile quiet, and whispers of last night's miracle traveled faster than the morning breeze: The dragon prince spared us.
From the western parapet, Vanda watched the awakening city with arms folded and jaw tight. Mercy brought no peace. King Osric's cruelty still coiled through the streets like a venomous serpent, and the rebels' surrender felt as fragile as cracked glass. His dragon blood pulsed hot beneath his skin, urging him to end the tyrant with a single breath of flame.
Soft footsteps scraped the stone behind him. He did not need to turn; her presence had already brushed across his senses like a warm wind.
"You haven't slept," Daya said as she stepped to his side. Her hair was loosely braided, streaked with soot, and her eyes carried the quiet strength of someone who had already chosen her path.
"I couldn't," he replied without looking away from the city. "Osric will not forgive the humiliation of last night. He'll seek revenge—against me, the rebels, anyone too weak to fight back."
Daya gripped the parapet until her knuckles whitened. "Then we can't wait for him to strike. The people need someone to protect them."
Finally Vanda faced her. Even tired, she seemed to catch the first light of dawn, a soft glow that stirred something fierce and protective within him. "You speak as if you would stand in the fire yourself."
"If that's what it takes," she said without hesitation.
A spark of admiration flickered through his chest. "You are braver than many warriors I've known."
They fell silent as a breeze carried the faint clatter of distant market bells. Below, a little boy kicked a broken helmet across the street and laughed—a single fragile note of normal life that made Vanda's heart tighten.
"I must confront Osric," he said at last. "But I cannot start a war here. Not yet."
Daya turned to him, eyes searching. "Then what will you do?"
"I will speak to him—alone. If I reveal what I am, perhaps I can force him to agree to terms without bloodshed."
Her breath caught. "Reveal…your dragon form?"
"Yes." The word was a low growl. "It is a risk. If he calls his army, many will die. But hiding has achieved nothing."
Daya stepped closer, the hem of her simple dress brushing his boots. "Then let me come with you."
He almost refused on instinct, but the determination in her gaze stilled him. She wasn't reckless; she was resolute. "Why?" he asked quietly.
"Because you shouldn't face a tyrant alone. And because…" Her voice softened to a whisper. "If something goes wrong, I want to be there."
The dragon within him rumbled, recognizing the truth behind her words. He reached out, brushing a strand of soot-dark hair from her cheek. His fingertips lingered against her warm skin. "Daya," he said, the name a vow. "If I walk into the lion's den, I swear by my blood and flame that you will not be harmed. Not while I breathe."
Her hand covered his, slender fingers warm and steady. "And I swear I will not run, no matter what I see."
Their eyes locked, a silent exchange more binding than any oath. For an instant the world narrowed to the sound of their breathing and the faint tremor of his heartbeat against hers.
Below them, the marketplace began to stir in earnest—vendors setting out baskets of wilted greens, blacksmiths hammering dented blades back into shape. Life pressed forward despite the scars of the night.
Vanda glanced toward the royal tower, its spires still veiled in smoke. He could almost feel the king's malice pulsing there like a rotten heart. "Osric will not yield easily," he said. "But if I show him the full truth of what I am, perhaps even a tyrant will think twice."
Daya's grip on his hand tightened, a silent promise that she would not falter.
A sudden gust swept the parapet, lifting a curtain of ash into the pale light. The flakes glittered like silver snow before vanishing into the dawn. Vanda felt the dragon inside him stir—not with the destructive hunger of the previous night, but with a fierce, protective warmth.
He turned back to Daya, seeing her as clearly as the rising sun: the courage in her posture, the kindness etched into every small movement. For the first time in years, the path ahead felt less like a duty imposed by birth and more like a choice he wanted to make.
"Then it's decided," he said, voice low but certain. "We face the king together."
The first true rays of sunlight broke through the smoky clouds, glinting off the faint golden scales that shimmered at Vanda's throat—marks of power he no longer wished to hide. Daya's eyes widened, not with fear but with wonder.
And in that quiet moment, as the city breathed and the day began, the dragon prince and the humble maid shared a vow that bound them more tightly than any kingdom's decree.