The Dragon Prince’s Consort

Snow drifted past the carriage windows in slow, steady flurries, the flakes catching in the lamplight like falling ash. The horses’ hooves struck the frozen cobblestones in a rhythmic clatter, the sound echoing through the narrow streets that led toward the palace gates. The city was alive tonight, with torches burning along the avenues, banners of crimson and gold hanging heavy with frost and the scent of pine and smoke carried on the winter wind. Inside the carriage, the air was thick with warmth and silence. The man seated by the window leaned against the glass, his breath fogging faintly against the cold pane. His reflection was ghostly pale—skin drawn thin, lips colorless, eyes bright and fevered beneath long, golden lashes. His hair, once the color of sunlight, now dulled with exhaustion, curled damply against his neck. He looked fragile in the flickering light, the collar of his dark coat too loose at his throat. The faint perfume he wore could not quite disguise the sharp, lingering trace of heat beneath—subtle, but unmistakable. Across from him, a woman watched quietly. She shared his fair hair and pale eyes, though her beauty carried warmth where his was wintry and austere. The flicker of the carriage lamp danced over the fine embroidery on her cloak; tracing patterns of frost and ivy stitched in silver thread. She sat with her gloved hands clasped in her lap, back straight and expression composed—but the slight tremor in her fingers betrayed her nerves. Outside, the noise grew louder, the muffled cheers of the crowd, the distant blare of trumpets, the thud of drums echoing from the palace walls. Through the carriage they could see people, young and old walking and bustling about in the lively streets. “It seems the whole capital has turned out,” she said softly “After all this time, he’s finally come home.” The man didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the window, on the snow thickening against the glass. His hand, resting on his knee, clenched slightly, the leather glove creaking. “Are you feeling any better?” she asked. He exhaled slowly, the fog of his breath blurring his reflection. “Better than before,” he said, though the rough edge in his voice made it sound like a lie. “You shouldn’t have come tonight,” she murmured. “The fever barely left you two days ago.” “I couldn’t refuse an invitation from the palace.” Her eyes flicked toward him—wary and thoughtful. “No. I suppose not.” The carriage rocked gently as it turned onto the main avenue, the palace coming into view through the storm. Its towers rose high above the snow-dusted rooftops, golden light spilling from its many windows, the banners of the six great houses rippling in the cold wind: Drakmir, Nyra, Cael, Varyn, Thalos and Solen. Together, they had ruled the kingdom of Varenhal, though lately, each house sought to protect itself rather than the people. The woman glanced toward the window, her breath catching faintly. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The way the snow catches the torches.” Her companion didn’t answer. His hand shifted, and the parchment in his lap crinkled softly. The broken wax seal glimmered faintly in the lamplight—a royal crest stamped in gold. He traced its edge with his thumb, eyes distant. He’d read the letter a dozen times already. The words didn’t change. A feast to celebrate his Highness Prince Cassian Drakmir’s triumphant return from the Northern Front and the formal announcement of his betrothal to Lady Lora Solen. The ink had smudged slightly the first time he opened it, as if his hands had been shaking. Lora’s voice broke the silence again, gentle but uncertain. “You’re quiet.” He finally turned from the window. His eyes were a startling shade of blue, too bright against his pallor. “What would you have me say?” “That you’re all right,” she said. “That you’re happy for me.” He smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course I’m happy for you.” Her gaze lingered on him, searching. “It doesn’t sound that way.” “I’m tired, Lora. That’s all.” “I just want tonight to go well,” Lora said, adjusting her gloves, her voice quiet now. “You and he have… not seen eye to eye in so long.” He let out a short, humourless breath. “That’s putting it kindly.” “Still,” she pressed gently, “I hope there won’t be any scene. After the argument before he left… and the council meetings during the war…” He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “You have my word; there will be no scene.” She looked away, exhaling softly, and for a moment, they both listened to the sound of the wheels crunching over snow, the creak of the carriage wood, the faint murmur of the crowd growing nearer. He leaned his head back against the seat, eyes half-lidded, exhaustion washing through him. The scent suppressants burned at the back of his throat. Beneath it, the ghost of his heat clung stubbornly to his skin. Heats were something omegas were accustomed to; they usually occurred two times in year like clockwork. Those with mates had them more frequently and more intensely, nature’s way of forcing them to keep reproducing. His heats… he didn’t have mate, not officially. Yet his heats had been intense from the moment they started and very common. They had suddenly dulled in the last two years, occurring once. The carriage slowed with a jolt as they entered the palace grounds. Trumpets blared faintly through the snowfall, and torchlight spilled in bright, flickering lines across the road. Lora straightened her cloak. “We’re here.” The man opened his eyes, the faintest tremor passing through his hands as he folded the letter neatly and tucked it into his coat. The door swung open. Cold air rushed in, sharp and clean, scattering the warmth. Snowflakes caught in their hair, on the fur trim of their cloaks and on the pale curve of his cheek as he stepped down beside her. The palace courtyard stretched before them—columns wrapped in garlands of evergreen, fountains frozen mid-splash, the banners of the six houses gleaming against the night. The crowd bowed and murmured their names as they passed. Lora Solen smiled, gracious and composed. Her brother—Elian—did not smile. He lifted his gaze to the steps, where a figure stood waiting beneath the arch of gold and frost. Cassian Drakmir. For a heartbeat, the world went silent as the pair of brother and sister approached the steps—only the snow crunching beneath their boot, the ghosts of breath in the cold, and the unspoken recognition in Cassian’s eyes as they met Elian’s. Elian’s pulse stuttered. The air itself seemed to strain between them. He bowed his head slightly. “Your Highness.” Cassian’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes flickered, lingering on Elian’s face, his pallor, the faint unsteady flush at his throat. And then his voice, calm and steady as ever cut through the winter air. “You should have stayed home to rest.” Elian’s jaw tightened. “I’m fine.” He gritted out, turning his head away. But his body betrayed him—the faint tremor in his hand, the too-quick breath, the way the cold couldn’t quite chase away the heat still coiled beneath his skin. Cassian looked at him for a long moment more, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he turned toward Lora, smiling faintly, and offered his arm leading her further into the palace. Elian followed them up the steps—his heart a drumbeat beneath the winter hush.