The Dragon Prince’s Consort

In the dragon's den, the phoenix awakes

He lay still on the bed, limbs heavy beneath thick blankets. The firelight danced across the walls, casting flickering shadows that softened the edges of the room. Warmth pressed against his skin, gentle and insistent, seeping into his bones—the kind of warmth that could almost trick him into believing he was home.

The faint crackle of fire reached his ears—a soft whisper of flames licking at logs—and a muted glow bled through his closed eyelids, painting the world in gold. He inhaled slowly, tentatively. The scent of smoke and sandalwood drifted faintly in the air, underscored by something subtler—clean linen, and the barest trace of something else. It was warm and smoky, like smoldering embers and charred wood, with something underneath, like molten rock cooled too quickly. There was heat in it, deep and lingering, a trace of smoke that clung to his skin and hair.

It was terribly familiar.

He stirred, a soft sound escaping him, somewhere between a groan and a sigh. He shifted beneath the blankets, sluggish and heavy, his fevered skin pressing against the cool layers. For a moment, his mind drifted—weightless, caught between sleep and waking. He pressed his face against the pillow, chasing that familiar scent, before the realization hit like a bolt of lightning.

Elian’s eyes blinked open.

The world swam briefly before focusing—golden light from the fireplace painting the edges of a vast chamber in shades of amber and shadow. The bed beneath him was too large, the sheets fine, and the cold stone floor sat too distant from the soft furs draped near the hearth.

He pushed himself up on trembling arms. His hair, short and slightly curled, was a tumble of golden blonde that caught the firelight with every movement. He realized with a start that his outer garments were gone—he was dressed only in light, linen sleepwear, the fabric soft and almost indecent against his skin. The neckline gaped slightly, baring the delicate column of his throat and the fine edges of his collarbones.

The moonlight that filtered through the tall arched window was faint, blue-silver and distant against the dark sky outside. But even that small hint of light was enough to confirm what his gut already knew.

Even if he hadn't been there in years, he still recognized Cassian's room.

A sound—barely a shift, a breath—made him turn sharply.

By the fire, sitting in one of the carved wooden chairs, was the prince himself. Cassian was half engolfed in the shadows, one arm resting on the armrest, his posture was relaxed but his gaze sharp. He’d shed the heavy military jacket and now wore a light cotton shirt, the top buttons open at the throat, its sleeves rolled up. The fire cast long, slow flickers across his skin, catching the faint sheen of sweat at his temple.

Neither spoke.

For a long, suspended moment, they simply looked at each other. The silence between them was heavy and fragile, as if a single wrong breath might shatter it. In that glow, the masks they both wore in the daylight seemed to have fallen away—no titles, no decorum. Just two men staring across years of things left unsaid.

Elian’s throat worked. He found his voice, it was low and hoarse.

“Why did you bring me here?”

Cassian’s expression barely shifted. “You fainted.”

“You could’ve taken me to a guest room,” Elian said quietly.

“I could have,” Cassian agreed, but didn’t explain further. He rose from the chair, slow and measured, the motion effortless despite the faint tightness in his shoulders. His boots made no sound on the rug as he crossed the distance between them.

Elian didn’t move when he sat beside the bed.

For a while, the prince said nothing, his gaze fixed on the flames dancing in the hearth. Then, as if deciding against his better judgment, he asked softly, “Do they still hurt a lot? Your heats.”

The question struck him off guard. Elian blinked, eyes flickering away to the sheets. The question was so absurd he had to take a moment to think about how to answer it. Of course, they hurt, those long nights felt endless, how own body would rebel against him, burning slowly from within. Demanding something from him, he couldn't give him. He thought the intensity wouldn't be so different from what Cassian felt when he was in a rut. So he pushed down the absurdity of such a question.

Cassian probably knew the answer, why he would waste his time asking Elian didn't even want to know.

.

“I’m used to it,” he said flatly.

Cassian’s jaw tightened, something flickering across his face, but he didn’t press. He only leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, his eyes distant.

“You shouldn’t have brought me here,” Elian said again, softer this time. “You know what will happen if—”

Cassian’s mouth quirked faintly, the curve of a self-mocking smile. “I’m used to my ruts too.”

Elian looked at him sharply, his chest twisting.

Cassian’s gaze dropped briefly before returning to him, steadier now, colder. “If you really wanted to spare me, Elian, you wouldn’t have come at all.”

The words landed like a slap.

Elian’s expression iced over. A k****e of anger igniting in his chest. “I wanted to congratulate you on your engagement.”

The prince looked away, exhaling hard. The sound was soft, but it carried years of weight.

Elian sat rigidly still, trying not to look at him. He wondered how they had come to be like this. There was once a time they didn't want to be away from each other, and now they don't even know what to say when they are together. It seemed the years had done nothing to ease their disagreements but had only increased the distance between them.

Then Cassian shifted besides him, and the faint sound of pain slipped through his teeth—a low, involuntary hiss.

Elian’s head snapped up, he blinked at the sound. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing.”

Without thinking, Elian leaned forward, reaching out before Cassian could stop him. He lifted the hem of the prince’s shirt, his fingers brushing against warm skin, and froze at the sight of the clean white bandages wrapped tight around Cassian’s abdomen.

“You shouldn’t be standing,” Elian said sharply. “Did your father even wait for you to heal before calling you back for this farce?”

Cassian’s laugh was soft and bitter. “You know how he is. Things are… dire.” He sighed, letting Elian ghost his fingers over the taut skin of his abdomin.

Elian frowned. “I know the corruption’s grown worse in the council, but it's nothing knew. Surely—”

Cassian shook his head, cutting him off. For a long moment, he was silent. The fire crackled, light flickering across his face, turning his eyes molten.

“It’s far worse than you think,” he said finally, voice low. “Do you truly believe I’d agree to this marriage otherwise?” Cassian's finger moved to grab the wrist of the hand lying on his abdomen. Stopping it's movements.

Elian’s breath caught. He didn’t answer.

Cassian looked into the fire, the shadows flickering over his expression. “Someone tried to poison my father. If not for that I wouldn't have returned so quickly.”

The words hit Elian like ice water. “Poison?”

“Yes. A bold move, even for our court. Whoever it was—they’re clever. And careful. The investigators have found nothing. Which means it was probably someone powerful, with access and influence. My father suspects Taren Nyra —The wolves has always destained us— but without any proof, his suspicions are useless.”

Elian blinked, his mind racing. “You think this marriage will fix that?”

“This isn't my idea,” Cassian said. “My father’s too weak to command much fear anymore. This marriage is meant to display a united front with your house. He's hoping it will buy enough time to root the traitor out.” His mouth twitched. "Ever since we started losing our magic, while the other noble houses have only lost their powers from generation to generation, my house has dwindled the most due to how difficult it is for us to reproduce. Dragons used to fill the sky and now so few of us remain. I fear my father wants to hold on to power for as long as we remain."

Elian’s jaw tightened. “A marriage won’t stop what’s coming. You know it won’t. Your father’s reign let rot fester for too long. Even if you play the loyal prince now, this kingdom is already caving in on itself—”

He stopped himself too late, realizing the edge in his tone, the insult to the king. His eyes flicked up to Cassian.

The prince was staring at him—but instead of anger, there was something else.

Cassian laughed softly. “Only you would say that to me.”

The sound was almost fond.

Elian’s lips parted, his words dying before he could speak. The warmth that passed between them was so old and familiar that Elian felt his heart squeeze. This conversation was heading in the same direction as the one they had two years back. He could feel that same helplessness now.

"Cassian, don't do this," his voice softened. "You have already risked your life once for your father and this kingdom. You can't keep it from falling apart."