Vaelor POV
I’ve never trusted peace.
Not the kind that settles too neatly—torches burning steady, patrols marching like clockwork, the city pretending it isn’t built on secrets and teeth. Peace in a kingdom like this is curated. Maintained by fear and spectacle. It’s the hush before a blade slides between ribs.
That illusion is exactly why I’m here.
I move along the upper walkways near the eastern keep, cloak drawn close, wings folded tight beneath it. My magic is pressed inward until it’s barely a pulse in my bones. I don’t shine out here. I don’t announce myself. In exile you learn quickly that visibility is a luxury, and pride is a quick way to die.
Dragons raised in courts are taught dominance first—how to be seen, how to be feared.
Dragons cast out learn something more useful.
