The air in <mark>Styxis</mark> crackled with expectation, chatter from the people filling the streets, music from bands drifting like clouds, and sparks of magic shooting in colorful display. Nobility from across the known world had gathered within the great halls, murmuring <mark>amongst</mark> themselves, speculating about the unknown heir set to claim the throne. It had been a long time since anyone had visited, not since the unspeakable misfortune of their late queen. Among them, Haros and <mark>Lazroth</mark> stood draped in the finery of Edithir, their presence a necessity at such a historic moment. Only a fool would have missed it.


    Haros adjusted the cuffs of his royal suit, rolling his shoulders as he took in the grandeur of the <mark>Styxin</mark> court. The decorations and living troves of plants found nowhere but this island invited the guests to awe in their presence. And many did, but nerves were not so easily settled. The tension in the air was palpable, a mixture of curiosity and unease. Whispers floated through the chamber like drifting embers, each voice contributing to the growing intrigue surrounding the heir’s identity. A daughter, of course, but no one had ever seen her, and her name as unknowable as the wind.


    A smooth voice interrupted his thoughts. “Quite the spectacle, isn’t it?”


    Haros turned to see a young man standing beside him, dressed in the silks of <mark>Tallus</mark>, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. <mark>Shamine</mark>, the youngest heir to the <mark>Tallus</mark> throne.


    <mark>Shamine’s</mark> smirk widened as he continued, “One must wonder, with all the intrigue shrouding this so-called heir, if the <mark>Styxin</mark> hold is slipping. You remember Queen <mark>Madelena</mark>, don’t you? Saucy woman, met a tragic end in the forest of your lands. Isn’t that what it was, drowned?” He clucked an unspoken accusation. “And what a pitiful shame, her unborn child—well, surely it was stolen from her if we’re all here today.”


    Haros clenched his jaw.


    <mark>Shamine</mark> chuckled, feigning innocence. “Or perhaps you hadn’t come to that conclusion on your own. <mark>Madelena’s</mark> child was lost, and this heir is likely some second-best niece. Either way, even if the gods had chosen mercy for the unborn princess, today, she becomes queen. And if she is of a good age, perhaps I will win her over and break tradition. Wouldn’t that be something? The first king of <mark>Styxis</mark>.”


    Disgust curled in <mark>Haros’s</mark> stomach. <mark>Shamine</mark> was slimy and foul, never destined to take the throne of his own people and constantly wriggling after the high seats of every other royal. Worse, he’d set his sights on a girl no one knew anything about, which made his blood boil. An innocent girl, set to take a throne before her matured year. A child. Haros opened his mouth to retort, but <mark>Lazroth</mark> placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Diplomatic as always.


    “We have all wondered the fate of <mark>Styxis</mark> since the queen’s untimely fate, haven’t we, Haros? I can only imagine the sort of struggle she has lived with and the restraint she has had to keep for the sake of her safety and people. You’ve only just managed to control the Legacy. I’m sure you can empathize with the heir.” <mark>Lazroth</mark> smiled, clapping his brother’s shoulder again and leaning closer, “Perhaps a bottle or eight of wine will help you… relax.”


    Haros exhaled sharply, shaking off <mark>Shamine’s</mark> presence with <mark>Lazroth’s</mark> hand. “Politics aside, I’d rather keep company with the refreshments that keep the bitter taste in my mouth from not spitting on your face.”


    “An absolute disgrace as always,” <mark>Shamine</mark> called as Haros retreated, unbothered and refusing to dignify him by looking back.


    <mark>Lazroth</mark> sighed, watching his brother keep his thin composure as he skulked away, seeking the solace of intoxication. Haros snatched a bottle from the table and peeled around the corner and out the door to the garden terrace. He threw back the wine, gulping it down like water. Then he took another. The haze of <mark>Styxin</mark> drink dulled his simmering anger, and in his drunken wandering, it led him to an attractive servant girl with bright eyes and a teasing smile.


    A creeping smile spread over his lips, and his word spilled out in a slur. Did she care that he was falling over himself? Not really, and she’d shown her amicable spirit with how easily she dropped her dress and opened her legs for him. Haros delighted in pleasuring her, the sounds she made as he lapped up her heated core, and the way she squirmed when he entered her. Those sounds, the soft gasps and moans, were more intoxicating than the wine. Still, it was over too soon, and he slung and arm around her shoulders, lighting a cigarette dangling from his lips, and then pressed a kiss to her cheek in hopes she would stay long enough for another round.


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    She did.


    <hr>


    Mira stood within the sanctum, her heart steady, her expression composed and unreadable. The world was waiting for her, but she was not waiting for the world. Things had been so simple for years. No one knew her, and at the Academy she walked through the campus as ordinary as the day. There were gawking stares or whispers the way there had been in the temple. No one had any preconceived ideas of the sort of woman she was or was meant to be one day. But that paradise was only a dream.


    <mark>Ysara</mark> moved around her, fussing with ceremonial dress and all the intricate layers in entailed, listing expectations like a well-rehearsed litany. But Mira was barely listening. Her senses stretched beyond the room, reaching for something unseen. A call in the distance she nearly recognized and something… something felt off. A strange warmth coiled in her stomach, foreign and familiar. Her breath strained, a hum of pleasure and pain in her throat. She swallowed it down, not knowing where it should go, but it sank as deep as it could, and the sort of discomfort it created made her writhe back and forth before the mirror.


    <mark>Ysara</mark> stopped, watching her carefully. After years of attending ceremonial inheritances for lesser and partial dragons, she knew what she saw. The bond had taken between them, and it was by no measure thin. “You feel him, don’t you?”


    Mira swallowed, shifting her stance with stiff shoulders and rosy cheeks. She had tried to ignore it, but the bond between her and Haros was undeniable. He invaded her dreams, and flashes of a future she didn’t recognize came with him. There were whispers in the dark, the warmth of his breath on her skin, and the chill of cooling blood on her hands. Then in the day, flashes of indecencies haunted her. Drugs, booze, breasts, and the taste of something very specific that she was certain she knew but hoped against hope was not what he’d made into a feast. She knew it was, though. His reputation preceded him on that matter. Regardless of whatever he was doing, she was aware of it—an unbearable, intimate awareness that burned through her.


    And if the rumors were true, even half of them, then he was getting his fill of some pretty little thing he’d found in middle of the guests to occupy his time—a habit that had formed in her absence in the last few months. Guilt echoed through her. The Legacy, like all dragons, had its hunger, and if she’d been there, perhaps it would have been curbed. No, she told herself, it was in part Haros on his own. He’d developed a taste for the pleasures of the world early… the dragon had made it worse.


    <mark>Ysara</mark> took Mira by the arms, steadying her. “You need to focus. Whatever Haros is doing, whatever deals must be made with Edithir, will be addressed later. Arrangements have already been made with King <mark>Faliam</mark> and Queen <mark>Dynara</mark>. For now, the only concern is this coronation, your highness.”


    Mira’s lips parted. “Why is Haros not invited?”


    “To the meeting?” <mark>Ysara’s</mark> expression softened. “If you want him there, you may command it. This is your castle, your kingdom, your rule. The arrangements made were only in consideration of title and are as pliable as you so decide. We are at your service, my queen.”


    Mira drew in a breath, steadying herself. The warmth within her had not subsided, and her thoughts were growing increasingly clouded with sensations that were not her own. But she had no time for distractions. She was about to claim her throne. Mira turned her back to the mirror and High Priestess, a sudden gasp racing down to her stomach and a glorious unwinding and bursting tingle radiated through her. Panting and clutching her middle, she looked back at <mark>Ysara</mark>. The woman smiled, knowing exactly what it was that had happened.


    At least she didn’t feel nearly as tense, albeit tired.


    <hr>


    Haros stumbled out of the chamber, his shirt rumpled and <mark>untucked</mark>, his body heavy with the scent of sex and wine. He barely managed to straighten himself, ruffling his hair into a controlled mess, before stepping back into the grand hall, where silence had fallen like a guillotine.


    The doors at the far end, atop the grand dais, had opened. The curtains pulled back and the guards stepped out in straight rows carrying the banner of the <mark>Styxin</mark> Empire. First, after, were the noble women in lieu of ladies in waiting, and then came the priestess of the temple. Last with the High Priestess, <mark>Ysara</mark>.


    Haros stepped forward, craning to see above the crowds, his jaw dangling in his efforts. There, at the heart of the congregation, she appeared. The thin layers of her dress rippled and danced around her. The soft curls of her hair bobbed with her even step, and the light from enchanted candles reflected in her eyes like the magic she so easily wielded.


    Haros stopped in his tracks, the drunken fog in his mind evaporating in an instant. The feeling he had before—a faint attraction he dared to qualify as blossoming love—paled in comparison to the sheer force of what struck him now.


    Mira.


    Queen of <mark>Styxis</mark>.


    His breath hitched, and for the first time in his life, Haros felt truly, utterly <mark>unmoored</mark>.