I couldn't stand another second on that balcony with him.
The night wind still tasted like blossoms and ash, but the air around Raiden had started to hum again—quiet, charged, the way the sky sometimes holds its breath before a strike of lightning. I turned on my heel and strode back inside, violet silk whispering around my legs, bare feet slamming over polished black stone. Candles guttered low along the walls, their smoke sketching thin shadows into the high vaults of the dining hall. The room felt too large, too quiet, and the silence pressed on my ears until it hurt.
His steps followed—measured, unhurried. Of course they were.
I made it halfway down the long table before the words boiled over.
"I need to understand something."
He didn't rush to fill the quiet. He only lifted one dark brow, an invitation and a dare.
"How can I possibly be a dragon?" I demanded. "Every story says the same thing—one dragon per nation, and always royal. That's the rule. That's the belief. So explain to me how I sprouted wings instead of falling to the ground like a normal idiot?."
He studied me like he was cataloging every twitch of my face. Then, evenly, "You're right. Normally, only one dragon exists per nation at a time. And they are always royal."
"Then explain me," I pushed, sharper.
His gaze darkened. "You're not like us."
I folded my arms. "Vague and ominous. Try again."
"You're not a dragon of a single nation," he said, voice lowering in that way that made the hall lean in. "You're something older."
A chill pricked down my spine. "Older than what?"
"Older than legends," he said. His silver-blue eyes didn't blink. "You are a Primal Dragon, Lyra."
The word landed like a stone in my chest—sank—kept sinking. "Primal?" I echoed. "That's just a dramatic word. You're going to have to do better than that."
He stepped closer to the table but didn't sit, bracing his hands on the carved edge. "The rest of us are bound—Fire, Water, Air, Earth. Each nation with its single dragon. Each dragon with a single element. We are crowns with one jewel." His gaze flicked over me, as if he could see something in my skin I couldn't. "You are not bound."
A short, sharp laugh snapped out of me. "So what, I get to pick? Fire on Mondays, water on Wednesdays? Sounds convenient."
"Not pick," he said. "All."
I stared. He didn't look away.
"You can wield them all," he continued after a beat, as if dragging the words through something reluctant. "And more than that…" He hesitated—actually hesitated. I felt my breath catch without permission. "…there are objects tied to each element. Old. Dangerous. You could take them in."
"Take them in," I repeated flatly. "You mean steal them? Swallow them? What—like candy?"
His mouth twitched, not amusement so much as a warning he didn't speak. "They're called Primal Stones. Relics that hold the essence of each element. They change whoever touches them—break most. You're the exception."
My skin went cold and hot in the same moment. "And why would I ever want to do that?"
"Because only you can." he said softly.
For one heartbeat, something inside me lurched toward the idea—the way a freezing child might lurch toward a light and call it warmth. To be more than a thief. To be more than hunger and running. To be something else.
Dangerous, that wanting. I slapped it down.
I barked a laugh—louder than I meant to, sharp enough to sting my throat. It echoed in the big room, bright and ugly. "You're joking, right? Me? An orphan? A nobody from the slums? A Primal Dragon." Another laugh tumbled out, bitter. "That's rich. Really, Sparky. What a sick, twisted joke. Is this entertainment for you? Parade the urchin in a pretty dress, tell her she's some sort of god, see if she bows?"
His face didn't move. Not a twitch. Not a hint of a smile.
The laughter faltered. My stomach twisted on itself.
"Fuck off," I said, softer, hoarse with a feeling I didn't want to name. "How am I supposed to do any of that? I don't even know what I did out there. I didn't mean to shift. It just—" The memory knifed through me: falling, burning, bones breaking and remaking, the scream that wasn't mine and was. "It was an accident."
He leaned back a fraction, breath leaving him slow, controlled. "Shock is reasonable. Refusal is expected." The corner of his mouth lifted, not kind, not cruel. "As for shifting again… you're in luck. You have a dragon shifter right here. I'd be more than happy to teach you control."
I narrowed my eyes. "And what do you want in exchange? No one offers help without a hook."
"Beauty and brains," he murmured. "I like that."
"Answer."
His gaze gleamed in candlelight. "I want you to end the war—by fighting at my side. For a world that doesn't send its children to war. For a world that keeps its promises."
The words were a blade wrapped in velvet. My mouth had just started to shape a reply when the doors blew open.
The slam cracked across the vaulting like a struck drum. Cold air knifed in, bending the flames. Boots on stone—fast, sure. Revik surged through first, cloak flaring, copper hair wind-ruffled. Behind him, farther down the corridor, I heard the distant toll of a bell—two beats, pause, three—whatever that meant to men who counted danger for a living.
"Raiden," Revik said, voice stripped to iron. "Water Nation force at the southeast border. Scouts say two banners—river wolves and glass tide." His eyes cut to me and away, quick as a blade. "They didn't bother hiding. They want to be seen."
"They're making their move," Raiden said. No surprise. Only the slide of a piece into place.
My heart kicked hard enough to hurt. I didn't need a legend to translate that look. I knew what they were after.
Me.
Raiden rose in one clean motion, the chair's legs scraping a protest against stone. His hand was on my wrist before I thought to flinch. Firm. Final. Not cruel.
"Take her to her room," he told Revik without looking away from me. "I'll join you when I have what we need."
Revik's brow arched in that way that meant he already knew he'd obey and wanted to look like he was choosing. "And what exactly are we doing?"
Raiden's mouth curved, sharp and bright. "Muir just handed us a distraction."
Then he was gone—truly gone, the way lightning is gone after its strike.
Too fast, my mind said, uselessly late. He could have caught me on those rooftops sooner. He was playing with me the whole time. Bastard.
Revik tugged once on my arm. "Come on, lovey."
We moved. The hall had changed in minutes; it was organized chaos now, and we were running with it. Servants darted like startled fish, hands full of shutters and lamps. Somewhere above, a shout traveled the spine of the palace and multiplied. Guards thundered past in formation, obsidian armor swallowing candlelight, faces set to the work of war. The bell tolled again, pattern repeating—a language I didn't speak and didn't want to learn.
"Bet you're glad I'm not wearing those ridiculous shoes," I said, breathless.
"Aye," Revik said, amused despite the sprint. "Though I hope that dress doesn't swallow you whole if we have to run."
We cut through a gallery lined with dragon carvings, shadows climbing up their carved wings. My feet slapped stone—soft, then sharp. Every step sent a small shock up my spine. The palace seemed to tilt toward some center I couldn't see.
At my door, Revik palmed it open and hustled me inside. The room swallowed sound as he shirt the door behind him.
I lifted a brow. "A gentleman would wait outside."
He flashed a smirk over his shoulder. "Last I checked, you were a prisoner, not a lady."
Annoyingly true. Rage flared, thin and bright, at the word prisoner. I crossed my arms to cage it. "What in the hells is going on?"
He sighed, running a hand through his hair, the gold ring on his finger glinting. "Not the full picture. But enough: movement at the border, too loud to be subtle. Either they're stupid, or they want us looking southeast while they try something worse somewhere else." He tipped his chin toward the wardrobe. "If we end up moving you, do it in something you can run in."
I stared at the wardrobe stuffed with gowns that cost more than the market made in a month. "That closet is full of tents remember."
He nodded toward the bed. My old clothes—patched trousers, torn shirt, the cloak that had tried and failed to hide me—lay folded like a joke. "Lucky you."
"Turn around."
He did, facing the door, hands braced on the frame. I bent my arms behind my back to reach the ribbons of the corset and found a spiderweb that someone-meaning me-had decided to tie the ribbons into. I pulled one; three others tightened out of spite.
"Bloody hells," I muttered, arms straining. "Who designed this torture device?"
"Someone who hates women," Revik offered, voice mild. "And shoulders."
The knots bit my fingers. Of course I bled on silk the first chance I got. "I swear this thing is conspiring against me."
"Sounds like you're wrestling a dragon back there, lovey." He didn't turn, but I could hear the grin. "Need help?"
I hesitated, hating that I needed anything. Pride had kept me warm on too many cold nights to surrender it easily. But we didn't have time, and I'd choose useful over stubborn if it meant keeping my skin.
"Fine," I gritted out. "But don't make it weird."
"No promises."
He turned and crossed the room in three easy strides, hands already reaching for the snarl of ribbons. His fingers were warm, surprisingly deft, calloused like mine. He worked the knots, muttering curses at whoever had thought twenty-seven loops and triple knotting was a good idea. "Who tied this? A sailor? A mad man?"
"It's not like I've worn one of these before," I said, heat prickling my face for absolutely no reason. I stared hard at the window where cherry petals ghosted past the glass. "Or had someone to tie me into one."
He yanked harder—too hard. The world tilted and suddenly I was pitched forward, tumbling into an undignified heap.
We hit the floor hard. His groan muffled under me.
And then—
"What the fuck is going on?"
My blood went to ice.
Raiden's voice. Sharp. Dangerous.
I turned my head. There he was in the doorway, eyes blazing silver, fists clenched.
Revik, the bastard, smirked from under me. "Not what it looks like, Your Highness."
I scrambled up, face hot enough to roast bread. "Corset. Evil. He was trying to help—badly."
"Come now lovey, at least I tired to help." He chuckled
Raiden didn't say a word. He just crossed the room in two strides, spun me around by the waist, and—rip. The laces shredded like they'd been paper. I gasped, clutching the bodice to my chest.
"You—!"
"You're welcome," he said flatly.
"We're out of time," he said without looking away from me. "They came for you."
I swallowed. My throat felt raw. "Then you should probably stop staring and start explaining what the fuck to do."
Something almost like a smile cut through that iron expression and was gone. "Put these on. Change. Bathroom. Now." he said. "Then we run."
I stomped off, muttering something about manners.
Behind me, Revik said cheerfully, "Didn't know you were the jealous type."
Raiden's low growl followed. "I'm not."
"Sure," Revik replied, smug as ever.
Raiden tossed something small and heavy; Revik caught it one-handed. A key? A coin? It flashed in the light before vanishing into Revik's palm.
"Three minutes," he told me. "No more."
I slammed the bathroom door and yanked the new clothes on: black trousers, white shirt, waist-guard, cloak, boots. My reflection looked more like me again.
"One minute," Raiden called, voice cool through the door.
"Keep your crown on, sparky." I muttered as I braided my hair, then I yanked the door open and stepped back out.
And stopped dead.
Raiden was standing by the wardrobe. Shirtless.
My breath stalled.
His back was broad, muscles shifting as he pulled a belt tight. When he turned, I nearly forgot how to swallow.
The scar that started at his right wrist, jagged as lightning was on full display. It climbed his forearm, slashed across his collarbone, then crawled down diagonally across his chest, and stopped just before his heart.
It wasn't ugly. It was… arresting.
Heat curled low in my stomach. My thighs pressed together before I even realized. Gods, get it together, Lyra.
"Why," I blurted, "are you shirtless?"
He looked up, and of course he was smirking. "Because shirts don't put themselves on."
I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. "You're insufferable."
"Mm." He pulled the black shirt over his head, covering the scar, though the image was already burned into my mind. "Caught you staring, little thief."
My cheeks flamed. "I was just sizing you up."
"Of course you were," he said smoothly, fastening his cloak.
Infuriating. Absolutely insufferable. And unfairly attractive.
When he finally turned, fully dressed—black leather pants, fitted shirt, cloak draped at his shoulders—he looked untouchable again. Controlled. Maddening.
He opened his arms slightly. "We leave now. Stables."
I crossed my arms. "We running all the way there?"
"No I'm carry you," he said, like it was nothing more than fact.
My heart gave an inconvenient lurch. Bastard.
Still, when he stepped closer and scooped me into his arms, I didn't fight. My cloak brushed his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath.
"Don't drop me, Sparky," I muttered, forcing my voice steady.
He leaned in, voice warm at my ear. "Only if you ask, Little thief ."
And then we were airborne, the palace falling away beneath us.